Chapter Twelve Dirantas, of the Darkest Night and the Tricksters
CHAPTER TWELVE
DIRANTAS, OF THE DARKEST NIGHT AND THE TRICKSTERS
T HE FIRST WEEK of Andachi hosted their third match, dedicated to the warden Dirantas, He Who Mastered the Night and Dreams.
Lythlet had forced Desil to go to the arena earlier than usual, although they had little to do but wait in the armory as spectators filled the seats.
But she’d woken in a fit of fear, and sleep had been impossible to return to, so she’d dragged him awake and out the door, allowing him a brief shrine visit along the way.
The bestiary was at home; she couldn’t risk Master Dothilos spotting it and confiscating it. All she could do now was churn through the entries she had memorized, mentally recreating the lavishly colored drawings and detailed notes.
She had spent every minute she could studying.
There hadn’t been enough time between the demands of work and home to go through every single cataloged creature, but by ruling out the beasts unlikely to appear and prioritizing creatures native to the northern territory of Edesvena, she’d made her way through the bestiary, taking notes and reciting facts under her breath as she went about her day.
But was it enough?
It was the height of irony that she would feel most anxious when most prepared.
The past two matches had relied on luck and instinct.
What had she to prove then? She had only wanted to bring home the jackpots.
But today was an opportunity to prove her conviction was not misplaced, to determine if the newfound fire within her soul could light a path out of the desert.
Desil gently nudged her flame-blighted boot with the tip of his. “Deep breath, Lytha. In and out.”
“Is it obvious I’m worried?”
He laughed, loud and clear, and took a seat beside her. “When are you not? But you’re worse now than ever. Come, you’ve done all you could for today’s match. Now we take it one step at a time.”
She exhaled heavily, pulse pounding like a festival drum. She listened to the rising rumble of voices from the arena, wondering how many spectators had come to witness the match.
As if to distract her, Desil began slashing his sword at empty air, practicing. “This blade reminds me of all those stories Ma used to read us about those ancient warriors and their sacred swords. They always had special names, didn’t they? How about I call this one the Silent Stinger?”
“You haven’t half the wit of Malovis the Starlight Journeyer to steal the name of her blade.”
He clucked his tongue. “Let me have my fun. You mind your own weapon instead. Go on, name it.”
Lythlet appraised her spear. There was nothing special about it, no markings, no ornamentations on its sturdy shaft. But it served her well, and she had grown fond enough to treat the matter with gravity. “I shall call her Spear.”
“What?”
“It’s a good, uncomplicated name for a good, uncomplicated spear.”
“No, it’s n—oh, never mind. You’re happy enough, I can see that.
I dread the day you name your children, but I look forward to playing with little Son and Daughter whenever they come along.
Honestly, it’s a good thing I told you to name our lightning-bees at home after your favorite characters, otherwise Rentavos and Beracani would be Sassy Bee and Neurotic Bee. ”
She laughed at last, and it was like pressure being released from a valve. She turned to him, smiling. “Thank you, Desil.”
He smiled back.
· · ·
T HE SILENT PRAYER to Dirantas was underway, Master Dothilos having just finished reciting the Prayer of the Quick-Witted.
Nearly every Ederi spectator had their head bowed, their first two fingers brushing their lips, then their brow, while the Oraanu amongst the audience waited silently out of respect.
Though they shared a belief in the Sunsmith and the Moonmachinist, the latter being the much beloved Matron they worshipped at their moon-temples, the Oraanu diverged on the finer details of the religious canon, making no prayers to the wardens.
Lythlet scanned the seats, spotting Shunvi and Ilden, both waving when they got her attention. She hoped to see Saevem to offer a nod of gratitude but couldn’t find him in the thickening sea of strangers. There were more spectators than ever, and nearly half of all the seats were filled.
Many to disappoint if I fail to perform well , she thought nervously.
“May Dirantas witness us today,” Master Dothilos said, drawing the prayer to an end, his magnified baritone consuming all thought. “Spectators, we’re all familiar with Desil Demothi, darling of the brawlers, are we not?”
The crowd hoo-rah ed, stamping their feet. Desil gave a gracious bow, but his smile was tight, uneasy.
“But so little do we know of Lythlet Tairel! Well, spectators, it’s only fair she gets her story heard after proving herself a worthy conquessor the last two matches. And what a story it is—the story of a girl with nothing to her name!”
Lythlet’s head shot up, heart swerving from an anxious drumbeat to a thundering march. She grabbed Desil’s arm as a thousand stares attacked her, then hid behind him. She dropped her eyes from their penetrating gazes, counting the grains of sand before her, desperately hoping the moment would pass.
“It’s all right,” he soothed, though he, too, looked wary.
Despite her flagrant discomfort, Master Dothilos continued, “Born to a luckless pair in the slums of Southwest, she was given a name that belied her mother’s true fears: Lythlet , Candle-Flame, small, flickering, not long for this world.
“One glance, and we can all guess how difficult her life must have been. An ugly whelp of the slums, beaten and bruised into keeping her head down, scarred by a wretched world. Yet I’m not about to tell you the story of a girl defeated by life.
I’m here to tell you about a girl who refused to stay down.
Meek and unassuming she may seem, we who have witnessed her first and second matches know better now than to underestimate her!
Remember how she toppled the sentari, remember how she outfoxed the anzura!
Remember how she stood upon the yutrela and commanded the heavens to reveal the cosmoscape unto her!
She is by far the brightest, most perceptive mind we’ve seen in the arena in a long time, a thinker who worships the classics, a student of the scholars of yore.
Yet higher learning was never on the cards for her.
No schoolhouse for her, not for a slumdog whelp without even two pennies to rub together—but in her youth, she buried herself in books, scrounging together an education by her own means.
But hold on now! We’re talking about a girl with nothing to her name, nothing to her family’s!
How came she upon these books?” The match-master swiveled, finger stretched toward her, eyes condemning her where she stood. “THIEF!”
“ THIEF! ” the spectators echoed, obeying his cue.
She stared, dumbfounded, goose pimples rising.
“Yes, my dear spectators. Before us stands a girl so thirsty for knowledge she would pilfer tome after tome from the shelves of the rich and the poor and everything in between. Come, my girl. Tell us how many you stole in your life.”
What number had I given him? “Five,” she shouted nervously.
The match-master laughed, the majestic sound echoing around the arena. “A cunning answer from a girl wise enough to hide her youthful misdemeanors.” Then he raised his finger and jabbed it in her direction.
“LIAR!” he bellowed, a velvet baritone.
“ LIAR! ” the spectators echoed, a horde of delighted wildfolk spellbound by his story.
“She’s not fool enough to reveal all her secrets to us, not someone who unleashes surprise after surprise every match, but I know it.
Hundreds! Hundreds of tomes disappearing off shelves all over the city!
The watchmen were once sent after her, and they beat her blue and bloody in punishment.
But did she stop? No! Still, she persisted, the hunger to survive and prosper thrumming through her veins.
Here stands before you a girl determined to prove that who she is, is greater than where she hails from!
A girl who decided when young that she would not be held back by the circumstances of her birth—if she had to lie, cheat, or steal to better her standing in the world, damn the heavens and the chains binding her to the hellscape of the slums, she would . ”
Master Dothilos held his hands out with seraphic inspiration, trapping the spectators with the empyrean thunder of his voice.
“And come she now, spear in hand, with nothing more than an earnest wish: to prove her name wrong, to show that she cannot be so easily defeated by life itself. Not she, not a thief on a quest to claim her future! Not she, not a guileful liar with a hundred secrets up her sleeve! Not a girl who’s never been afraid of being BEATEN! ”
“ BEATEN! ”
“brUISED!”
“ brUISED! ”
“Not a girl who refuses to surrender! Not a girl who stands before you now as a CONQUESSOR!”
“ CONQUESSOR! ” The chorus of a thousand-strong rang like bells in her ears, deafening, overwhelming, making her tremble from her core.
With nothing but voice alone, the match-master had given birth to the energy thrumming in the arena.
It was not he who had stamped the first foot, nor he who had uttered the first hoo-rah , but it started nonetheless for him, for the transformative fiction he crafted that cast her as a wily protagonist seizing the reins of her life.
The stares of thousands on her had felt like a suffocating noose just moments prior—but now the knot strangling her neck loosened, and a swift flame rose in her.
I deserve to be here , a voice inside her spoke to the spectators with an even-keeled conviction. I deserve to be seen by you. I deserve to have you know my name.
“By the blood of your ancestors, do you proud Ederi children vow to salt the earth with the blood of the demons that once gave death upon your ancestors?”