“Lord Sol-in-Ar,” said Tieren, “the older brother of the king.”
Lila frowned. “Shouldn’t being the eldest make him the king?”
“In Faro, the descent of the crown is not determined by the order of birth, but by the priests. Lord Sol-in-Ar has no affinity for magic. Thus, he cannot be king.”
Lila could hear the distaste in Tieren’s voice, and she could tell it wasn’t for Sol-in-Ar, but for the priests who deemed him unworthy.
She didn’t buy into all that nonsense about magic sorting the strong from the weak, making some kind of spiritual judgment. No, that was too much like fate, and Lila didn’t put much stock in that. A person chose their path. Or they made a new one.
“How do you know so much?” she asked.
“I’ve spent my life studying magic.”
“I didn’t think we were talking about magic.”
“We were talking about people,” he said, his eyes following the match, “and people are the most variable and important component in the equation of magic. Magic itself is, after all, a constant, a pure and steady source, like water. People, and the world they shape—they are the conduits of magic, determining its nature, coloring its energy, the way a dye does water. You of all people should be able to see that magic changes in the hands of men. It is an element to be shaped. As for my interest in Faro and Vesk, the Arnesian empire is vast. It is not, however, the extent of the world, and last time I endeavored to check, magic existed beyond its borders. I’m glad of the Essen Tasch, if only for that reminder, and for the chance to see how magic is treated in other lands.”
“I hope you’ve written this all down somewhere,” she said. “For posterity and all.”
He tapped the side of his head. “I keep it someplace safe.” Lila snorted. Her attention drifted back to Sol-in-Ar. Men talked, and men at sea talked more than most. “Is it true what they say?”
“I wouldn’t know, Master Elsor. I don’t stay apprised.”
She doubted he was half as naive as he seemed. “That Lord Sol-in-Ar wants to overthrow his brother and start a war?”
Tieren brought his hand down on her shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm. “Mind that tongue of yours,” he said quietly. “There are too many ears for such careless remarks.”
They watched the rest of the match in silence. It didn’t last long.
Alucard was a blur of light, his helmet winking in the sun as he spun behind a boulder and around the other side. Lila watched, mesmerized, as he lifted his hands, and the earth around him shot forward.
Otto pulled his fire around him like a shell, shielding front and back and every side. Which was great, except he obviously couldn’t see through the blaze, so he didn’t notice the moment the earth changed direction and flew up into the air, pulling itself together into clods before it fell, not with ordinary force, but raining down in a blur. The crowd gasped, and the Veskan looked up too late. His hands shot skyward, and so did the fire, but not fast enough; three of the missiles found their mark, colliding with shoulder and forearm and knee hard enough to shatter the armor plates.
In a burst of light, the match was over.
An official—a priest, judging by his white robes—held a gold ring to his lips and said, “Alucard Emery advances!”
The crowd thundered with applause, and Lila looked up at the royal platform, but the prince was gone. She glanced around, already knowing that Tieren was, too. Trumpets sounded from the central arena. Lila saw that Jinnar had advanced. She scanned the list for the central arena’s next match.
Tas-on-Mir, read the top name, and just below it, Kamerov.
* * *
The magic sang in Kell’s blood as the crowd roared in the arena above. Saints, had every single person in Red London turned up to witness the opening rounds?
Jinnar passed him in the tunnel on the way out of his match. It didn’t even look like he’d broken a sweat.
“Fal chas!” called the silver-eyed magician, peeling off the remains of his armor. By the looks of it, he’d only broken three plates.
“Rensa tav,” answered Kell automatically as his chest hummed with nervous energy. What was he thinking? What was he doing here? This was all a mistake … and yet, his muscles and bones still ached for a fight, and beyond the tunnel, he could hear them calling the name—Kamerov! Kamerov! Kamerov!—and even though it wasn’t his, it still sent a fresh burst of fire through his veins.
His feet drifted forward of their own accord to the mouth of the tunnel, where two attendants waited, a table between them.
“The rules have been well explained?” asked the first.
“And you are ready, willing, and able?” prompted the second.
Kell nodded. He’d seen enough tournament matches to know the way things worked, and Rhy had insisted on running through each and every one of them again, just to make sure. As the tournament went on, the rules would shift to allow for longer, harder matches. The Essen Tasch would become far more dangerous then, for Kell and Rhy both. But the opening rounds were simply meant to separate the good from the very good, the skilled from the masters.
“Your element?” prompted the first.
A selection of glass spheres sat on the table, much like the ones that Kell had once used to try to teach Rhy magic. Each sphere contained an element: dark earth, tinted water, colored dust to give the wind shape, and in the case of fire, a palmful of oil to create the flame. Kell’s hand drifted over the orbs as he tried to decide which one he should pick. As an Antari, he could wield any of them. As Kamerov, he would have to choose. His hand settled on a sphere containing water, stained a vivid blue so it would be visible to the spectators once he entered the arena.
The two attendants bowed, and Kell stepped out into the arena, ushered forth on a wave of noise. He squinted up through his visor. It was a sunny winter day, the cold biting but the light bright, glinting off the arena’s spires and the metallic thread in the banners that waved from every direction. The lions on Kell’s pennant winked at him from all around the arena, while Tas-on-Mir’s silver-blue spiral stood out here and there against its black ground (her twin sister, Tos-an-Mir, sported the inverse, black on silver-blue).
The drama and spectacle had always seemed silly from afar, but standing here, on the arena floor instead of up in the stands, Kell felt himself getting caught up in the show. The chanting, cheering crowd pulsed with energy, with magic. His heart thrummed, his body eager for the fight, and he looked up past the crowds to the royal platform where Rhy had taken his place beside the king, looking down. Their eyes met, and even though Rhy couldn’t possibly see Kell’s through his mask, he still felt the look pass between them like a taut string being plucked.
Do try not to get us both killed.
Rhy gave a single, almost imperceptible nod from the balcony, and Kell wove between the stone obstacles to the center of the arena.
Tas-on-Mir had already entered the ring. She was clothed, like all Faroans, in a single piece of wrapped fabric, its details lost beneath her armor. A simple helmet did more to frame her face than mask it, and silver-blue gems shone like beads of sweat along her brow and down her cheeks. In one hand, she held an orb filled with red powder. A wind mage. Kell’s mind raced. Air was one of the easiest elements to move, and one of the hardest to fight, but force came easy, and precision did not.
A priest in white robes stood on a plinth atop the lowest balcony to officiate the match. He motioned, and the two came forward, nodded to the royal platform, and then faced each other, each holding out their sphere. The sand in Tas-on-Mir’s orb began to swirl, while the water in Kell’s sloshed lazily.