Then either silence fell across the stadium, or Kell’s pulse drowned out everything—the crowds, the flapping pennants, the distant cheers from other matches. Somewhere in that void of noise, the spheres fell, and the first sound that reached Kell’s ears was the crystalline sound of them shattering against the arena floor.
For an instant, the blood in Kell’s veins quickened and the world around him slowed. And then, just as suddenly, it snapped back into motion. The Faroan’s wind leaped up and began to coil around her. The dark water swirled around Kell’s arms before pooling above his palms.
The Faroan jerked, and the red-tinted wind shot forth with spear-like force. Kell lunged back just in time to dodge one blow, and he missed the second as it smashed against his side, shattering a plate and showering the arena in light.
The blow knocked Kell’s breath away; he stole a glance up at Rhy in the royal box, and saw him gripping his chair and gritting his teeth. At a glance, it could have passed for concentration, but Kell knew it for what it was, an echo of his own pain. He uttered a silent apology, then dove behind the nearest mound of rock, narrowly escaping another hit. He rolled and came to his feet, grateful the armor was designed to respond only to attacks, not self-inflicted force.
Up above, Rhy gave him a withering look.
Kell considered the two pools of water still hovering above his hands, and imagined Holland’s voice echoing around the arena, tangled in the wind. Taunting.
Fight.
Shielded by the rock, he held up one hand, and the watery sphere above his fingers began to unravel into two streams and then four, and then eight. The cords circled the arena from opposite sides, stretching thinner and thinner, into ribbons and then threads and then filaments, crisscrossing into a web.
In response, the red wind picked up, sharpening the way his water had, a dozen razors of air; Tas-on-Mir was trying to force him out. Kell winced as a sliver of wind nicked his cheek. His opponent’s voice began to carry on the air from a dozen places, and to the rest of the arena it would look like Kell was fighting blind, but Kell could feel the Faroan—the blood and magic pulsing beneath her skin, the tension against the threads of water as he pulled them taut. Where … where … there. He spun, launching himself not to the side but up. He mounted the boulder, the second orb freezing the instant before it left his hand. It splintered as it hurtled toward Tas-on-Mir, who managed to summon a shield out of her wind before the shards could hit. But she was so focused on the attack from the front that she’d forgotten the web of water, which had reformed in the span of a second into a block of ice behind her. It crashed into her back, shattering the three plates that guarded her spine.
The crowd erupted as the Faroan fell forward to her hands and knees, and the water sailed back to Kell’s side and twined around his wrists.
It had been a feint. The same one he’d used on Holland. But unlike the Antari, Tas-on-Mir didn’t stay down. A moment later she was back on her feet, the red wind whipping around her as the broken plates fell away.
Three down, thought Kell. Seven to go.
He smiled behind his mask, and then they both became a blur of light, and wind, and ice.
* * *
Rhy’s knuckles tightened on the arms of his chair.
Below, Kell ducked and dodged the Faroan’s blows.
Even as Kamerov, he was incredible. He moved around the arena with staggering grace, barely touching the ground. Rhy had only seen his brother fight in scuffles and brawls. Was this what he’d looked like when he’d faced Holland? Or Athos Dane? Or was this the product of the months spent in the Basin, driven by his own demons?
Kell landed another hit, and Rhy found himself fighting back a laugh—at this, at the absurdity of what they were doing, at the very real pain in his side, at the fact that he couldn’t make it stop. The fact that he wouldn’t, even if he could. There was a kind of control in letting go, giving in.
“Our magicians are strong this year,” he said to his father.
“But not too strong,” said the king. “Tieren has chosen well. Let us hope the priests of Faro and Vesk have done the same.”
Rhy’s brow crinkled. “I thought the whole point of this was to show our strength.”
His father gave him a chiding look. “Never forget, Rhy, that you are watching a game. One with three strong but equal players.”
“And what if, one year, Vesk and Faro played to win?”
“Then we would know.”
“Know what?”
The king’s gaze returned to the match. “That war is near.”
In the arena below, Kell rolled, then rose. The dark water swirled and swerved around him, slipping under and around the Faroan’s wall of air before slamming into her chest. The armor there shattered into light with the blow, and the crowd burst into applause.
Kell’s face was hidden, but Rhy knew he was smiling.
Show-off, he thought, just before Kell dodged too slowly and let a knifelike gust of wind get through, the blow slamming against his ribs. Light erupted in front of Rhy’s eyes, and behind them as he caught his breath. Pain burned across his skin, and he tried to imagine he could draw it in, away from Kell, and ground it in himself.
“You look pale,” observed the king.
Rhy sank back against the chair. “I’m fine.” And he was. The pain made him feel alive. His heart pounded in his chest, racing alongside his brother’s.
King Maxim got to his feet and looked around. “Where is Kell?” he asked. His voice had taken to hardening around the name in a way that turned Rhy’s stomach.
“I’m sure he’s around,” he answered, gazing down at the two fighters in the ring. “He’s been looking forward to the tournament. Besides, isn’t that what Staff and Hastra are for? Keeping track of him?”
“They’ve grown soft in their duties.”
“When will you stop punishing him?” snapped Rhy. “He’s not the only one who did wrong.”
Maxim’s eyes darkened. “And he’s not the future king.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Everything,” said his father, leaning close and lowering his voice. “You think I do this out of spite? Some ill-borne malice? This is meant to be a lesson, Rhy. Your people will suffer when you err, and you will suffer when your people do.”
“Believe me,” muttered Rhy, rubbing an echo of pain across his ribs. “I’m suffering.”
Below, Kell ducked and spun. Rhy could tell the fight was coming to an end. The Faroan was outmatched—she’d been outmatched from the beginning—and her motions were slowing, while Kell’s only grew faster, more confident.
“Do you really think his life’s in danger?”
“It’s not his life I’m worried about,” said the king. But Rhy knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely. Kell’s power made him a target. Vesk and Faro believed that he was blessed, the jewel in the Arnesian crown, the source of power that kept the empire strong. It was a myth Rhy was pretty certain the Arnesian crown perpetuated, but the dangerous thing about legends was that some people took them to heart, and those who thought Kell’s magic guarded the empire might also think that by eliminating him, they could hobble the kingdom. Others thought that if they could steal him, the strength of Arnes would be theirs.
But Kell wasn’t some talisman … was he?
When they were children, Rhy looked at Kell and saw only his brother. As they grew older, his vision changed. Some days he thought he saw a darkness. Other times he thought he saw a god. Not that he would ever tell Kell that. He knew Kell hated the idea of being chosen.