Chapter Thirty The Final Match #2
Grant me your favor today. Whatever beast I face, grant me the strength to defeat it.
I have labored for a year to reach this trial, I have poured spirit and mind into these fights, I have devoted my waking hours to memorizing the bestiary back and forth scores of times.
I have laid the stones in my path to happiness, and all I plead is that you grant me the chance to walk upon it.
Near the shrine gates was the ablution well, and once she’d rinsed her hands and dampened her brow, she waited for Desil.
“I’ve been too scared to visit a shrine for years,” she confessed to him as they departed. “I thought I wasn’t worthy to stand before the wardens and plead for anything, not when I had so much to ask for, yet so little to offer in return. But now, I feel myself deserving of their favor.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” he said slowly.
“But you can always come no matter how you feel. As it says in the third book of the Poetics, so long as your heart is true, nothing can separate you from the divine. As a friend shares your heart in joy or suffering, so do the divine. Be it in despair or shame, come as you are, that you may one day leave differently by the grace of the heavens. ”
“ Come as you are , that you may one day leave differently, ” she echoed, smiling. “Well, let’s go to the arena as we are, and return home as victors.”
· · ·
“L ADIES AND GENTLEMEN , spectacular spectators of our city of Setgad! Welcome, welcome, welcome to the twelfth and final match of the Rose and the Golden Thorn!”
Master Dothilos’s high baritone could be heard from leagues away. His voice echoed like a clap of thunder in the dead of night, rolling and rolling throughout the arena, bending around every corner, twisting its way through the halls to hit Lythlet’s ears where she stood waiting.
“Will the conquessors honor us with their presence?”
One last time , Lythlet thought, a burst of sentimentality making her nostalgic.
The spectators were deafening as Lythlet and Desil revealed themselves from the tunnel, stepping into the wide, open arena with sanded grounds.
The gate behind them stopped groaning, and they were locked under baltascar lights that seemed brighter today, bright enough to mimic the spring sun of high noon. She winced, blocking the light with a hand as she tilted her head up to the stands.
Lythlet stared in awe of how many spectators were present.
There were more people than seats, thousands forced to stand or squat in the aisles, while others had doubled up to share a seat.
Never before had she seen so many people squashed together in one spot, not even during the Harvest Holiday.
A far cry from their first match, when only a few hundred spectators had bothered attending.
Hoo-rah, hoo-rah, hoo-rah, a chant rose around them, cascading past her ears like a wild rush of water.
This was a moment not meant for mere mortals; this was glory reserved for legends and mythic heroes.
She turned giddy, adrenaline spiking, the sensation akin to drinking too deeply, too quickly, until it submerged one’s mortal sensibilities and lifted them up to the divine.
Lythlet tightened her grip around her spear, an irrepressible grin growing.
Master Dothilos waited patiently with a faint smile, tapping his speaking-trumpet as the cheers continued.
But the crowd would not quieten themselves, so caught up in the momentum of stomping feet and triumphant hoo-rahs .
So he gave them the moment, letting them roar like a hurricane, until he raised his hand, and his voice cleaved them all into reluctant silence.
“They need no introduction—”
The audience whooped in agreement.
“—but take my hand and join me on a walk down the road of memories, won’t you? How many of you witnessed their first match last Fethaya against the sentari, the beast of shadow?”
A surprising number of hands shot into the sky, accompanied by foot stomps. A mere fraction of the flood of spectators present, but nonetheless a heartening number of long-lasting supporters.
“And how many of you remember their second match, wrought in the name of Tazkar? Who remembers the breathtaking fight against the anzura, the beast of flame and ice? Who remembers Desil stricken by the unseen frost, his last breaths seizing in the cavern of his chest? Who remembers the Golden Thorn weeping as she tore through flesh and bone until she at last pierced the accursed heart? Who remembers? ”
The stadium shook from the stomping feet. Lythlet could imagine the very structure of the building cracking in half from the stress.
The match-master waited until they had calmed down.
He bent down to his speaking-trumpet again.
“We all loved Desil Demothi from first sight, did we not? A brawler of such pedigree, a face so fair—the Maker was being unfair the day he was created! Few warrant as much love, but the Rose swiftly claimed your devotion! But let’s all be honest: it took longer for the Golden Thorn to grow in our hearts, did it not? ”
Hushed murmurings, furtive nods.
“We all thought the Thorn a mere burden of having the Rose in our midst—yet have we not been proven wrong? Has she not earned your love? She who conquered the yutrela, she who traversed the cosmoscape, she who pierced the heart of flame and ice, she who drowned a shark, she who is a golden, surefire bet to make! She who was BEATEN! brUISED!”
“ BEATEN! brUISED! ” the audience echoed.
“Condemned by fate to be no more than A THIEF, A LIAR!”
“ A THIEF, A LIAR! ”
“Yet through nothing but her own sheer wit and wiles, she now stands before you as none other than THE GOLDEN THORN!”
“ THE GOLDEN THORN! ”
His next words were drowned out by sheer riotous noise.
A well of tears overtook Lythlet, and she blinked them back. To be so loved, to be so believed in by thousands—the urge to prostrate herself before the crowd in humble gratitude rose, but she kept still, only raising a goose-pimpled hand to wipe away her tears.
But the spectators were far from done. They cheered, and cheered, and cheered.
A trembling grew in her from her toes in her crisp leather Sayino boots to her lips until a violent laugh ripped from her.
She wished there were somebody who could paint this moment so she could reflect on it for years to come.
She had to win today of all days.
I will, she vowed. I swear it, I will.
“May the Sunsmith and the Moonmachinist witness us today,” Master Dothilos said, calming the crowd.
“At long last, the Rose and the Golden Thorn stand ready to fight their twelfth match—their final match. Ladies and gentlemen, how many of you were present during the days of the Poet and the Ruffian, our last champion conquessors?” He laughed heartily at the ensuing cheers.
“Do you remember the final match in which Shunvi Tanna and Ilden Highvind stood before us, spears raised to the heavens?
And what a jackpot they went home with. No less than four and twenty pieces of gold!
“But today, today, to day we have a new jackpot to look forward to. We thought we may never again see the furor that circled the Poet and the Ruffian, but you’ve outdone yourselves today, spectators.
I see your glee; I see your feverish zeal.
The bids have been gathered and settled, and I am proud to announce we have a record-breaking sum.
A sum that puts to shame the jackpot of the Poet and the Ruffian! ”
Excited murmurs ripped through the crowd, and Lythlet’s heart picked up the pace.
“Can anyone guess how much coin awaits the Rose and the Golden Thorn should they triumph? Twenty? Twenty-five? Thirty?” the match-master teased coyly.
He says these numbers as if they were paltry sums , she thought, winded. She would have been overjoyed with twenty pieces of gold, yet here was the match-master hinting at more.
The match-master raised a large white cloth bag. “To the Rose and the Golden Thorn, I am proud to announce that should we witness a victory today, you shall walk away with no less than two and forty pieces of gold .”
He dropped the bag onto the podium, and it landed with a thunderous clink of metal.
Lythlet’s spear nearly slipped. Her heart stopped, then quickened into a pace that left her hands trembling.
Two and forty. Gold. Gold!
A single piece of gold alone would have been life changing.
But forty-two, split between her and Desil—where could she not go, what could she not do with such a fortune?
All fears would vanish, all promises to her parents would be upheld.
Every road would unfurl before her, and she could stand proud with a fortune earned rightfully.
A hand curled on her shoulder, and she turned to see Desil give her a confident smile.
“Would you look at those faces!” the match-master bellowed.
“But who wouldn’t be thrilled at the thought of two and forty pieces of gold within reach?
They’ve made quite the comeback since their river match!
Now, spectators, as this is our last chance to enjoy these conquessors, we have a special event today to bid our final farewell.
A special match in honor of Astos, warden of the bonds between us all. ”
He read aloud the Prayer of the Steadfast:
O Faithful Astos
Make me an instrument of thy noble love
To live ever-weaving the steadfast strings that binds us all to one another
Desil bowed his head and muttered a prayer, tapping the rune assigned to Astos, that of fellowship, on his rosary.
Lythlet shut her eyes, drawing fingertips to her brow. I beg of all the Great Divine, grant me this one prayer: let us win.
The match-master continued once the audience had finished their prayers, “Now for the oath, one last time. 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?”
“Witness me, upon the blood of my ancestors!” Lythlet and Desil roared, drawn to their full heights, fingers crossed as they made their oaths.
“May the Sunsmith and the Moonmachinist witness your fight! Now, allow me to announce to all you good people that today need not—I repeat! need not —be a death match!”
A flurry of confusion ran around the ring of spectators.
Lythlet frowned. Yet another trick the match-master had up his sleeve.
“Fear not, for you will still receive your thrills,” he assured. “Today, we shall be witnesses to a once-in-a-lifetime match between strongest and strongest! Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, let us bring out the beasts! Open the gates!”
Lythlet had barely time to parse his words as the grinding of the gates in front of them began. Instinctively, she raised her spear, clutching the haft tightly. Desil remained poised alongside, sword glinting in the harsh light.
She stepped back nervously, eyes and ears peeled for any indication of what was to tumble from the darkness.
No heavy footsteps. It could not be so large a creature then.
No sounds at all, in fact, which made it hard to narrow down the possibilities.
No noxious smell; a relief, for dealing with a bogbear for the final match seemed rather anticlimactic.
Between strongest and strongest.
Her spear faltered, a flood of ideas running through her mind. What had Master Dothilos meant? She stole a brief glance at the match-master before returning her gaze to the gaping tunnel.
The baltascar lights flashed brighter, blinding her. She shut her eyes and blinked furiously, trying to force them open.
Her vision returned in garish patches.
The unblemished yellow sands. The raised black portcullis. The dark abyss beyond. Marching forth from it, two figures leaving boot prints, one by one, etching their mark on the world. Long jeweled spears with ornate hafts. Gleaming, reflecting the baltascar lights.
Advancing into the arena to a cresting wave of thrilled shrieks from the spectators were the Poet and the Ruffian, Shunvi Tanna and Ilden Highvind.