Chapter Twenty-One Izantas, of the Storm and the Fury
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IZANTAS, OF THE STORM AND THE FURY
“L YTHLET ?” D ESIL CALLED , holding forth a piece of mail he’d collected from Faravind’s. “What’s this about a second Inejio arena?”
Lythlet, setting aside the thick woolen blankets she’d been folding, peered over his shoulder at the invitation card.
Your next match has been arranged for 11:00 a.m. on Septavind, the 2nd of Sotoye. It will be held in the second Inejio arena. Meet my servant at the headquarters at 9:30 a.m., and you shall be escorted there. Your timeliness is appreciated.
“I’m not sure,” she said, an unsettling feeling coming over her.
That feeling did not leave her, and it only worsened on their match day when they met with one of the match-master’s servants and asked about it.
“The match-master,” the servant said, avoiding their gazes as he ushered them down to the basement, “believes you two are adequately skilled for the river arena. We haven’t hosted matches there in a long time, but your successes of late have impelled him to open it once more.”
Desil stiffened. “River arena?”
“Is it by the river, you mean, or...” Lythlet was too nervous to finish.
The servant did not answer, his expression dark.
In Inejio, he led them along an unfamiliar path twisting and turning through the sprawling remnants of their ancestors’ homes, until the ivy-covered structures gave way to the river gashing through.
The water glimmered eerily in the pale baltascar light of the pillars, glimpses of shiny scales reflecting off it.
Dread rose in Lythlet with every step they took along the rock-laden bank.
It was not long before the river arena loomed before them. Its construction was identical to the usual one: a tall roofless circle decorated with glassless windows and flying buttresses. But there remained one notable difference, a single factor that made Lythlet’s stomach drop like a stone.
The arena was not landed in solid earth, but built to stretch across the waters, spread over the river’s surface like a bizarrely pompous bridge.
Desil hooked a hand around her elbow. There was a slight tremble in his grip, and her heart pounded in answer. There must be solid ground for us to fight on. Master Dothilos couldn’t be so unreasonable—could he?
She contemplated the answer to that with a sinking feeling.
“In we go,” said the servant solemnly, ushering them through the corridors to the armory. “Await Master Dothilos’s cue.”
“Desil,” Lythlet called in a shaky voice as he reached for his usual sword, “I think it best if you chose something else today. A long-reaching weapon. There’s a harpoon at the end of the wall. I’ll maintain my spear. And perhaps we should bring hatchets and knives, as many as we can carry.”
Desil pinched his lips together as he plucked two hatchets off the wall. He glanced uncertainly at her. “You don’t truly think we’re meant to go into the water, do you? There must be some sort of solid foundation built over the river, right?”
Neither of them could swim. The Ederi had never been fond of water, not with their history of sinking ships and ocean-swallowed islands. Her ancestors had survived tumultuous seas and an ocean with a will of its own to reach Edesvena, and they had no love of water to pass on to their descendants.
Desil took her silence grimly—then hope flickered in his eyes. “Did you ever look into the sea beasts in the bestiary?”
She buried her face in her hands in answer. Not once had she imagined the possibility of a river arena.
He sat down next to her, winded.
· · ·
T HERE MUST BE solid foundation, there must be.
They waited in the gated corridor, listening to the horde of spectators taking their seats, whooping excitedly with loud, shrill voices. Somehow, they took on a hollow quality, like wind blowing through an abandoned house.
The match-master called their names, echoes bouncing down to them as the gate lifted. Desil reached over to give her hand a tight squeeze, and out they strode into the bright arena.
Once her eyes had adjusted to the baltascar lights, Lythlet cursed, her worst fears realized in that single instant.
The gray cement bank they stood upon ended an arm-span out, giving way entirely to a massive pool of water.
For once, Desil did not partake in the prayer Master Dothilos now led, one to Izantas, He of the Storm and the Fury. “How are we supposed to fight here?” he hissed, eyes wide with fear.
She bit her lip, frantically scanning the rest of the arena.
No yutrela, none to scale, no hope of a familiar divine touchstone to even remotely alter the odds in their favor.
Small bamboo platforms floated around instead, drifting like lotus leaves growing in a pond.
As with the main arena, there were rising protrusions installed all around the walls, wooden shafts jutting out at haphazard angles.
She could rely on those, but it would be otherwise impossible to avoid going into the water.
She eyed the match-master up in the stands, half-hidden behind his pedestal.
His grin was on full display, lips drawn wide, teeth flashing in the light.
He bellowed into his speaking-trumpet, “Spectacular spectators, behold! Our rising legends stand before you! We haven’t had the pleasure of witnessing a river match in many a year—precisely twelve years, three months, and six days ago, if anyone’s keeping count.
None of us thought it’d ever happen again.
Too difficult! Too dangerous! Far too traumatic a struggle for Ederi conquessors!
But ladies and gentlemen, times have changed.
” He lowered his voice, leaning into the trumpet, words taking on a sweet quality.
Like flies drawn to a pot of honey, the spectators waited with bated breath.
“Not until today do I have conquessors worthy of a river match standing before you. Who else could triumph easily, swiftly, painlessly, but these invincible conquessors, the Rose and the Golden Thorn!”
The crowd cheered and stomped their feet.
She stared aghast at the match-master as he turned a sneer in her direction. Even without it, she would have known he had been mocking her. Her fear was tangible, and he relished every moment of it.
He’s orchestrated this whole impossible match to put me in my place—to remind me that I am beneath him, and that my success depends upon him.
The forfeit pendant was heavy on her chest, and her hand inched toward it.
“I do have something thrilling to announce,” said the match-master.
“Indeed, I am not the only one excited for the Rose and the Golden Thorn! Spectators, your bids have been gathered—and yes, some bearish naysayers still linger amongst you. But the Sunsmith Himself can testify that the bulls are out in full force today! For they have put on offer a tremendous reward for the Rose and the Golden Thorn should they win: a jackpot of no less than seventy-eight white valirs! ”
Her breath hitched and Desil startled. It was an enormous sum, edging closer and closer to the value of a full gold coin.
She lowered her hand from the baltascar pendant. Her heart hardened, fists clenching until her nails had driven deep grooves into her palms.
For the past seven matches, she had struggled and triumphed, building a momentum to earn the spectators’ love, their investments into her jackpots swelling as a result. Forfeiting would gain her nothing; she was bound to Master Dothilos either way. This was all she had left to fight for.
I cannot let the match-master destroy my momentum.
“By the blood of your ancestors, do you proud Ederi children vow to salt the river with the blood of the devils of the deep blue that once gave death upon your ancestors?” Master Dothilos’s voice loomed.
Desil looked hesitantly at her.
She sympathized with his worries, but she couldn’t give up that jackpot, nor could she succumb to the match-master’s ploy to destroy her in one fell swoop. “With me, Desil. Witness me, upon the blood of my ancestors! ”
Their shared cry reverberated against the waters, his voice a touch more reluctant than hers.
She took the first step, leaving the stone-gray embankment and leaping across to a bamboo platform. She wobbled for one precarious moment, but it seemed the platforms were weighed down from underneath, and she didn’t topple over.
Once she found her balance, she jumped to another, then another, making her way across the arena. Every leap emboldened her. This match would not be impossible, not as long as she kept her wits about her.
The creak of wooden platforms and the heavy thud of footsteps behind told her Desil had gathered his courage, following her closely.
Lythlet wondered what was waiting for them.
She thought of a sea dragon but pushed that out of mind; the arena was enormous, but even it could not hold a sea dragon.
A river-troll, perhaps, one of those devils who took pleasure in dragging people into deep waters and holding them until they had drowned.
What other devilries of the deep did she know? None, other than stories she had heard growing up, monsters she wasn’t certain truly existed or were merely folklore told to scare children into staying away from the water.
She chewed her bottom lip and braced herself. Desil joined her on a neighboring square of bamboo, and they stood still, waiting expectantly.
From her angle, Lythlet could just barely make out Master Dothilos. He leered down at her, his presence overwhelming; his remarkable ability to make her feel like an insect trapped by a child armed with a magnifying glass and too much time on a hot summer’s day had returned.
“We’ve a special beast today—it wasn’t easy bringing him all the way here, but it will be worth it for the Rose and the Golden Thorn! Bring out the beast!” Master Dothilos roared.
She heard the grinding of gears but could see nothing. No gates were visible; everything lay beneath the water’s surface.