“Can anyone compete?” she wondered idly.
“Sure,” said Tav, “if they’re good enough to get a spot.”
Lila stopped drawing her finger through the cider, and no one noticed that the spilled liquid kept moving, tracing patterns across the wood.
Someone set a fresh drink in front of her.
Alucard was calling for attention.
“To London,” he said, raising his glass.
Lila raised her own.
“To London,” she said, smiling like a knife.
I
RED LONDON
The city was under siege.
Rhy stood on the uppermost balcony of the palace and watched the forces assemble. The cold air bit at his cheeks and tugged on his half cloak, catching it up like a golden flag behind him.
Far below, structures collided, walls rose, and the sounds of stoked fires and hammer on steel echoed like weapons struck together in a barrage of wood and metal and glass.
It would surprise most to know that when Rhy thought of himself as king, he saw himself like this: not on a throne, or toasting friends at lavish dinners, but overseeing armies. And while he had never seen an actual battlefront—the last true war was more than sixty years past, and his father’s forces always smothered the border flares and civil skirmishes before they could escalate—Rhy was blessed with enough imagination to compensate. And at first glance, London did appear to be under attack, though the forces were all his own.
Everywhere Rhy looked, the city was being overtaken, not by enemy soldiers but by masons and magicians, hard at work constructing the platforms and stages, the floating arenas and bankside tents that would house the Essen Tasch and its competitors.
“The view from up here,” said a man behind him, “it is … magnificent.” The words were High Royal, but their edges were smoothed out by the ostra’s Arnesian accent.
“It is indeed, Master Parlo,” said Rhy, turning toward the man. He had to bite back a smile. Parlo looked positively miserable, half frozen and obviously uncomfortable with the distance between the balcony and the red river far below, clutching the scrolls to the flowery pattern of his vest as if they were a rope. Almost as bad as Vis; the guard stood with his armored back pressed against the wall, looking pale.
Rhy was tempted to lean back against the railing, just to make the ostra and the guard nervous. It was something Kell would do. Instead he stepped away from the edge, and Parlo gratefully mirrored his action by retreating a pace into the doorway.
“What brings you to the roof?” asked Rhy.
Parlo drew a roll of parchment from under his arm. “The arrangements for the opening ceremonies, Your Highness.”
“Of course.” He accepted the plans but didn’t unroll them. Parlo still stood there, as if waiting for something—a tip? a treat?—and Rhy finally said, “You can go now.”
The ostra looked wounded, so Rhy dredged up his most princely smile. “Come now, Master Parlo, you’ve been excused, not banished. The view up here may be magnificent, but the weather is not, and you look in need of tea and a fire. You’ll find both in the gallery downstairs.”
“I suppose that does sound nice … but the plans …”
“Hopefully I won’t need help deciphering a scheme I made myself. And if I do, I know where to find you.”
After a moment, Parlo finally nodded and retreated. Rhy sighed and set the plans on a small glass table by the door. He unrolled the parchment, wincing as sunlight made the page glow white, his head still throbbing dully from the night before. The nights had grown harder for Rhy. He’d never been afraid of the dark—even after the Shadows came and tried to kill him in the night—but that was because the dark itself used to be empty. Now it was not. He could feel it, whatever it was, hovering in the air around him, waiting until the sun went down and the world got quiet. Quiet enough to think. Thoughts, those were the waiting things, and once they started up, he couldn’t seem to silence them.
Saints, how he tried.
He poured himself a glass of tea and dragged his attention back to the plans, setting weights at the corners against the wind. And there it was, laid out before him, the thing he focused on in a desperate attempt to keep the thoughts at bay.
Is Essen Tasch.
The Element Games.
An international tournament between the three empires—Vesk, Faro, and, of course, Ames. It was no modest affair. The Essen Tasch was made up of thirty-six magicians, a thousand wealthy spectators willing to make the journey, and of course, the royal guests. The prince and princess from Vesk. The king’s brother from Faro. By tradition, the tournament was hosted by the capital of the previous winner. And thanks to Kisimyr Vasrin’s prowess, and Rhy’s vision, London would be the dazzling centerpiece of this year’s games.
And at the center, Rhy’s crowning achievements: the first ever floating arenas.
Tents and stages blossomed all across the city, but Rhy’s deepest pride was reserved for those three stages being erected not on the banks, but on the river itself. They were temporary, yes, and would be torn down again when the tournament was over. But they were also glorious, works of art, statues on the scale of stadiums. Rhy had commissioned the best metal- and earthworkers in the kingdom to build his magnificent arenas. Bridges and walkways were being crafted around the palace, and from above they resembled golden ripples across the Isle’s red water. Each stadium was an octagon, canvas stretched like sails over a skeleton of stone. On top of this body, the arenas were covered: the first in sculpted scales, the second in fabric feathers, the third in grassy fur.
As Rhy watched, massive dragons carved of ice were being lowered into the river to circle the eastern arena, while canvas birds flew like kites above the central one, caught in a perpetual wind. And to the west, eight magnificent stone lions marked the stadium’s posts, each caught in a different pose, a captured moment in the narrative of predator and prey.
He could have simply numbered the platforms, Rhy supposed, but that would have been woefully predictable. No, the Essen Tasch demanded more.
Spectacle.
That’s what everyone expected. And spectacle was certainly something Rhy knew how to deliver. But this wasn’t just about putting on a show. Kell could tease all he liked, but Rhy did care about his kingdom’s future. When his father put him in charge of the tournament, he’d been insulted. He’d thought the Essen Tasch a glorified party, and as good as Rhy was at entertaining, he’d wanted more. More responsibility. More power. And he’d told the king as much.
“Ruling is a delicate affair,” his father had chided. “Every gesture carries purpose and meaning. This tournament is not only a game. It helps to maintain peace with our neighboring empires, and it allows us to show them our resources without implying any threat.” The king had laced his fingers. “Politics is a dance until the moment it becomes a war. And we control the music.”
And the more Rhy thought on it, the more he understood.
The Maresh had been in power for more than a hundred years. Since before the War of the Empires. The ostra elite loved them, and none of the royal vestra were bold enough to challenge their reign, solid as it was. That was the benefit of ruling for more than a century; none could remember what life was like before the Maresh came to power. It was easy to believe the dynasty would never end.