Chapter Thirty The Final Match
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE FINAL MATCH
L YTHLET AND D ESIL had been in agreement since they were young that the month of Ilvita was clearly the loveliest time of the year, when the vestiges of a gloomy winter were beginning to fade into a sweet-skied spring.
It was the Month of Rebirth and keramila dothaya— early promises of a prosperous new year. Melting snow gave way to the flourishing warmth of the sun, flowers bloomed fiercely through cracks in the cobblestones, and a crisp blue sky could be seen for leagues around, not a cloud in sight.
Runt had grown even bigger, dwarfing Schwala completely.
Schwala, for his part, was positively smitten with his giantess companion and would refuse to let her out of his sight.
The Phantom had made off with yet another successful heist, their first in months, stealing the Chalice of Brunaria-Zavigo from the private collection of a wealthy magnate in Central.
Lythlet was grateful that the Phantom had gone on a brief hiatus before this heist—had the Phantom continued their streak during the unregistereds’ campaign against the Inejio riverside flats, they would have had to compete for gazette headlines.
But with the riverside flats dominating every single front page for the greater part of two months, the construction had ceased entirely.
Westiro Asa was now a bankrupt man under investigation by the Einveldi Court, and a number of low-tiered politicians had already been roped into his trial under claims of willful negligence, more being named as the weeks went by.
Valanti Winaro was diligently spearheading the case, which had progressed to the point the Court was looking into summoning the unregistered to share their testimonies.
During the preceding months of winter, Lythlet and Desil would frequently visit the Homely Home, where the winter winds did not reach, and Lythlet would work up a much-needed sweat sparring with Shunvi.
In preparation for her remaining matches, he obligingly taught her a few sleight-handed tricks of the spear that had made him popular back in his conquessing days.
Most of them were entirely for show, composed of elaborate twirling and rapid-fire jerks of the wrist, but she added them to her repertoire, and used them to roaring accolades during her tenth and eleventh matches, in which their jackpots showed signs of slow healing.
Both were a far cry from what they could have earned had Desil never forfeited, but they were proof nonetheless that the Rose and the Golden Thorn were slowly clambering back into the good graces of the spectators—right in time for their final match.
Yet as perfect as spring was shaping up to be, nothing could tear Lythlet away from the bestiary.
She turned almost manic with her obsession in reviewing the bestiary over and over again, letting her world shrink down into nothing but the possibilities of the final match.
She started forgoing anything that was unnecessary to her survival and preparation for the arena—visits to the Homely Home came to an abrupt halt, Hive-Master Winaro was left to helm the riverside flats case on his own, and thanks be to Kilinor that it seemed the rest of the world magically caught on to the fact that she had no time to care for anything but the final match.
The inn she kept the books at was going through a dreadful dry spell of minimal business, the slow travel season forecasted to last until mid-spring; she could covertly study during her shifts.
Ilden and Shunvi must’ve gotten busy with some personal matters, for they stopped popping by The Steam Dragon for chatter and food; she had Desil’s absolute attention and could force him to put her memory to trial whenever he went on break.
What were the two weaknesses of the hennisslei?
What was the one guaranteed way to distract a yentran?
What immediate effects did the venom of the ulura have?
She would journey to the arena to practice, dragging Desil along whenever he was free.
Spear and sword sparred with each other, and she’d nimbly scale the yutrela poles again and again, tapping into the gifts of the divine touchstone to feel the sheer otherworldly bliss of interfacing with the cosmoscape for eight seconds.
The heavenly string-driven leitmotif would thrum in her ears as she’d pluck at the meridians governing her gravitational field on the map of the cosmoscape that had unfurled within the confines of her skull.
Truthfully, it wasn’t a skill she needed to practice—it was just a joy she wanted to experience, a reminder that mortal she may be, there remained a way for her to transcend that for even a moment, to channel the sort of divine gifts her estranged Anvari brethren across the ocean could with their bloodrights.
She would wonder at how different their lives must be, with so many of them blessed with bizarre abilities that she was only getting a brief taste of thanks to the yutrela, their civilization never being hampered by the obstacles the Ederi had faced.
She would see Master Dothilos watching her practice from the stands, smiling, pale eyes flickering. Sometimes when she rested, he would come and sit by her if she were unaccompanied by Desil.
“Always a hard worker,” greeted Master Dothilos one day, crouching on the ground beside her.
“Your final match next week is already all anyone can talk about. New handbills are going up all around the city as we speak. We haven’t had a twelfth match in so long, half the city is talking about it, and the other half don’t matter.
The crowd you’ll draw just might break the record set by the Poet and the Ruffian years ago.
I’m hardly even certain if we can fit everyone into the stands.
Be sure to give a good show, dear girl.”
“You know I always do,” she said, fiddling with the laces of her Sayino boots.
“I do,” he said with a laugh. “Perhaps now’s the time to remind you of our prior agreement. I’ve been lenient on you the past matches, to give you time to focus on conquessing and to regulate your emotions. But our arrangement resumes after your final match.”
She turned pensive. “Another mission from the Eza?”
“Precisely. In fact, this one’s a perfect fit for you.”
She looked away, nodding grimly. The future was yet unmapped, but with the possibility that the Coalition of Hope might one day bring down Master Dothilos through their campaigns against Governor Matheranos, she no longer saw the match-master as the all-powerful keeper of her fate.
He was as mortal as she was, and the whims of the world would reveal soon who would triumph between the two.
After a moment, the match-master cleared his throat.
He spoke softly, “I really do hope you succeed. I think we’ll have a much happier partnership moving forward.
I know ours hasn’t been an easy relationship, but I do see a spark in you, and I want only to provide the kindling so that you may burn brighter. ”
What stung hardest was knowing he meant those words, that there was a part of him that recognized her talents in a way few others had.
He was a twisted man who’d done awful things, murdered countless innocents the moment they proved worthless to his mission, and she knew a life with him holding her chains would be utterly miserable.
He deserved every bit of punishment coming his way—but at least for that one moment, she wished he weren’t such a monster.
She turned to him, not meeting his eyes. “I know.”
He smiled.
· · ·
D AWN brOKE ON their final match, and Lythlet followed Desil to the nearest shrine for the first time in years.
The shrine was dedicated to Ashentoth, and hers was the largest of the statues there, her wild golden hair lancing about her bright stone visage, left palm extended upwards as if to cup the sun.
Behind Ashentoth, closed off to common visitors and only accessible by the tattooed monks, was the altar to the Sunsmith Pachiros, He Who Set Fire to the Sun and Navigates the Worlds, and his wife Vayatoth, the Moonmachinist and the Unbound Empress, She Who Engineered the Moon and Lights the Way, whom the Oraanu heralded as their Matron.
To Ashentoth’s left stood her twin brother Kilinor, and across him was her soulbound lover Shiratoth.
It had been a long time since Lythlet last paid a visit to a shrine, but she still remembered the rites, practiced from childhood.
She dipped the fingers of her right hand into an ash bowl, then dragged it across her forehead in one long swipe.
The monks burned dried labyrinth clovers overnight to supply the prayer ash; it was said to be the only plant that existed in both the realm of the divine unknown and the mortal world, Rathara, and spreading its ash over one’s brow allowed the wardens to hear their prayers uninhibited.
Lythlet held forth two ash-speckled fingers as she slowly approached the likeness of Ashentoth.
Standing beside Desil, she followed him, tapping her forefinger against her forehead twice and bowing.
“ Umera venturi, asigo venturi ,” they recited the opening prayer.
We live according to your whims, we die according to your whims .
They split up then, each retreating to their own patrons. Desil went toward Tazkar, whose mighty form was swathed in robes of stone, wielding a giant hammer in one hand and a long-stemmed hista flower in the other, representing peace amongst humanity.
Meanwhile, Lythlet stepped aside, turning to the plinth whereupon stood Kilinor, his white hair framing a face that was not unlike his twin sister’s.
Unlike most of the other wardens, he carried nothing, made no grand gestures—he simply wept, and stood with one hand stretched forth to an invisible supplicant below.
She bowed her head in respect, steepling her hands by her chest.