They were even, six to six.
Sweat ran into her eyes as she ducked, dodged, leaped, struck. A lucky blow took out the plate on the Faroan’s bicep. Seven to six.
Water spun before her in a shield, turning to ice every time Ver-as-Is struck. It shattered beneath his blows, but better the shield than her precious plates.
The ruse didn’t work for long. After the second block, he caught on and followed up his first attack with another. Lila lost two more plates in a matter of seconds. Seven to eight.
She could feel her strength ebbing, and the Faroan only seemed to get stronger. Faster.
Fire and water was proving to be a wretched choice. They couldn’t touch; every time they did, they canceled, turning to steam or smoke—
And that gave her an idea.
She maneuvered to the nearest boulder, one low enough to scale, and brought the two forces together in her hands. White smoke billowed forth, filling the arena, and in its cover she turned and vaulted up onto the rock. From above, she could see the swirl of air made by Ver-as-Is as he turned, trying to find her. Lila focused, and the steam separated; the water became mist and then ice, freezing around him, while her fire surged up into the air and then rained down. Ver-as-Is got his earth into an arcing shield, but not before she broke two of his plates. Nine to eight.
Before she could savor the advantage, a spike of earth shot through the air at her and she leaped backward off the boulder.
And straight into a trap.
Ver-as-Is was there, inside her guard, four earthen spears hurtling toward her. There was no way to avoid the blows, no time. She was going to lose, but it wasn’t just about the match, not in this moment, because those spears were sharp, as sharp as the ice that had pierced Kell’s shoulder.
Panic spiked through her, the way it had so many times when a knife came too close and she felt the balance tip, the kiss of danger, the brush of death.
No. Something surged inside her, something simple and instinctual, and in that moment, the whole world slowed.
It was magic—it had to be—but unlike anything she’d ever done. For an instant, the space inside the arena seemed to change, slowing her pulse and drawing out the fractions of time within the second, stretching the moment—not much, just long enough for her to dodge, and roll, and strike. One of Ver-as-Is’s spears still grazed her arm, breaking the plate and drawing blood, but it didn’t matter, because Ver-as-Is’s body took an instant—that same, stolen instant—too long to move, and her ice hit him in the side, shattering his final plate.
And just like that, the moment snapped closed, and everything caught up. She hadn’t noticed the impossible quiet of that suspended second until it collapsed. In its wake, the world was chaos. Her arm was stinging, and the crowd had exploded into cheers, but Lila couldn’t stop staring at Ver-as-Is, who was looking down at himself, as if his body had betrayed him. As if he knew that what had just happened wasn’t possible.
But if Lila had broken the rules, no one else seemed to notice. Not the judge, or the king, or the cheering stands.
“Victory goes to Stasion Elsor,” announced the man in white and gold.
Ver-as-Is glowered at her, but he didn’t call foul. Instead he turned and stormed away. Lila watched him go. She felt something wet against her lip, and tasted copper. When she reached her fingers through the jaws of her mask and touched her nose, they came away red. Her head was spinning. But that was all right; it had been a tough fight.
And she had won.
She just wasn’t sure how.
III
Rhy was perched on the edge of Kell’s bed, rubbing his collar while Hastra tried to wrap Kell’s shoulder. It was healing, but not fast enough for a ball. “Suck it up, Brother,” he chided the prince. “Tomorrow will be worse.”
He’d won. It had been close—so close—and not just because beating Kisimyr by anything more than a hair would raise suspicions. No, she was good, she was excellent, maybe even the best. But Kell wasn’t ready to stop fighting yet, wasn’t ready to give up the freedom and the thrill and go back to being a trinket in a box. Kisimyr was strong, but Kell was desperate, and hungry, and he’d scored the tenth point.
He’d made it to the final nine.
Three groups of three, squaring off against each other, one at a time, only the holder of the highest points advancing. It wouldn’t be enough to win. Kell would have to win by more than a single hit.
And he’d drawn the bad card. Tomorrow, he’d have to fight not one, but both matches. He pitied the prince, but there was no going back now.
Kell had told Rhy about the king’s request that he keep to the palace. Of course, he’d told him after sneaking out to the match.
“He’s going to have a fit if he finds out,” Rhy warned.
“Which is why he won’t,” said Kell. Rhy looked unconvinced. For all his rakish play, he’d never been good at disobeying his father. Up until recently, neither had Kell.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” said Rhy from the bed, “you need to start losing.”
Kell stiffened, sending a fresh jab of pain through his shoulder. “What? Why?”
“Do you have any idea how hard this was to plan? To pull off? It’s honestly a miracle we haven’t been found out—”
Kell got to his feet, testing his shoulder. “Well that’s a vote of confidence—”
“And I’m not going to let you blow it by winning.”
“I have no intention of winning the tournament. We’re only to the nines.” Kell felt like he was missing something. The look on Rhy’s face confirmed it.
“Top thirty-six becomes eighteen,” said Rhy slowly. “Top eighteen becomes nine.”
“Yes, I can do math,” said Kell, buttoning his tunic.
“Top nine becomes three,” continued Rhy. “And what happens to those three, wise mathematician Kell?”
Kell frowned. And then it hit him. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Rhy parroted, hopping down from the bed.
“The Unmasking Ceremony,” said Kell.
“Yes, that,” said his brother.
The Essen Tasch had few rules when it came to fighting, and fewer still when it came to the guises worn during those fights. Competitors were free to maintain their personas for most of the tournament, but the Unmasking Ceremony required the three finalists to reveal themselves to the crowds and kings, to remove their masks and keep them off for the final match, and the subsequent crowning.
Like many of the tournament’s rituals, the origin of the Unmasking Ceremony was fading from memory, but Kell knew the story hailed from the earliest days of the peace, when an assassin tried to use the tournament, and the anonymity it afforded, to kill the Faroan royal family. The assassin slew the winning magician and donned his helmet, and when the kings and queens of the three empires invited him onto their dais to receive the prize, he struck, killing the Faroan queen and gravely wounding a young royal before he was stopped. The fledgling peace might have been shattered then and there, but no one was willing to claim the assassin, who died before he could confess. In the end, the peace between the kingdoms held, but the Unmasking Ceremony was born.
“You cannot advance beyond the nines,” said Rhy, definitively.
Kell nodded, heart sinking.
“Cheer up, Brother,” said the prince, pinning the royal seal over his breast. “You’ve still two matches to fight. And who knows, maybe someone will even beat you fairly.”
Rhy went for the door, and Kell fell in step behind him.