Ana remembered pushing against the Salskoff dungeons’ blackstone doors, reaching out with her Affinity and only sensing cold black nothingness. When her throat was raw from screaming and her tears were spent, she’d been reduced to huddling against them, shaking and scratching at them with bloodied nails.
She shook the memory away, focusing on a different question. “How do you know all this?”
Ramson’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been to a few of these shows before. I’ve seen how it works. The people here can negotiate purchases of Affinite employment contracts as the night goes on. It’s all done discreetly behind closed doors.” He paused. “That’s what we need to try for once we see May perform.”
She pulled her hand from his, suddenly cold. Of course Ramson knew of these shows—he was a criminal, an underground crook. But she had to ask—she had to know. “Ramson,” she said, and her voice was barely a breath. “Did you ever…were you ever one of them? A broker?”
“No.” The word cut with truth, yet something in his eyes made her insurmountably sad as he turned them to her. “But watching it happen is another crime in itself, is it not?”
She had no answer to that. Ana shuddered and turned away just as the drumbeats came to a sudden stop. As though on cue, the crowd erupted into wild cheers. A figure strode onstage, in front of the blackstone-infused glass wall and velvet curtains within. He was a clean-cut, gold-haired man who wore his charm like his navy-blue silk waistcoat: diamond-studded and glittering and sewn to the collar with flashing gold thread. When he waved, the bejeweled rings on his fingers glimmered as they caught the torchlight. “Mesyrs, meya damas, and all other guests!” he cried in a booming voice that resonated across the entire auditorium. “Are you ready for tonight’s show?”
The crowd’s screams grew louder and became a chant. “Bogdan! Bogdan! Bogdan!”
“That’s the Penmaster,” Ramson explained.
The Penmaster—Bogdan—raised his hands, beaming. “We have an excellent program planned for you tonight! Watch a formidable Ice Queen give us a prelude to the Fyrva’snezh! A Wood Nymph grows flowers from thin air! A Marble-Maker creates stunning statues! And, don’t miss it: our Steelshooter battles a Windwraith to the death! Who will make it out alive? There’s only one thing we know, and it is that you will all leave happy!”
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause. Ana’s stomach tightened, but she stayed silent as she watched a scene that should never have existed unfold before her eyes.
Bogdan held his hands up, and the crowd fell silent.
Suddenly, the drums started again. Boom-ba-da-boom. Ana’s pulse thundered with the beat, and she found herself holding her breath as she stared at the brightly lit stage.
The curtains exploded behind the confines of the glass. The crowds screamed as a massive cloud of mist obscured the stage from view for a moment, curling up against the glass walls and pouring over the top in plumes of white. As the vapor cleared, a figure stood in its midst. Tall, pale, and slender, with flowing ash-white locks and a dress of pale blue, she was winter incarnate.
The Ice Queen swept her palms in an arc around her. Ice spread at her feet, propelling her in a wide circle around the inside of the glass. Hair flying, dress rippling, she twisted her hands and ice shot from her wrists to the ground, anchoring her as she somersaulted through the air and landed on the other side of the stage.
The crowd erupted; the Ice Queen smirked and curtsied with all the grace of a performer.
“She looks like she’s enjoying it,” Ana whispered.
“She’s a regular,” Ramson muttered by her side, bringing his hands together in a slow clap. He was staring at the stage, his jaw clenched, his shoulders stiff. “She works with the brokers.”
“Under contract?”
“Right, but…” Ramson hesitated, and for the first time since they’d met, Ana watched him struggle to find words. “She’s not contracted against her will, if that’s what you’re asking. She works with the brokers.”
Not against her will, Ana thought, turning back as the Ice Queen spun onstage, ice blooming beneath her feet.
The audience oohed and aahed as the Ice Queen began to sculpt ice with flicks of her wrist. A splash of ice rose into the air, becoming a graceful, loping deer. Another wave crystallized into a pack of running wolves. A prowling Cyrilian tiger. A valkryf horse.
This was greater than just a show, Ana realized. This was a Deities-damned display of what Affinite employment could look like; a reassurance to those who blindly believed their own righteousness and morality while continuing to perpetuate violence and abuse against those powerless to resist it. May. The grain Affinite at Kyrov. And the Affinites who stood in the wings, waiting to be exhibited like dolls.
All of that pain and suffering, veiled behind a single glitzy show of sparkling ice sculptures and glittering outfits.
The Ice Queen slammed her hands to the ground. A column of ice thrust her into the air, growing taller and taller until it was level with the top of the glass wall—
And she vaulted over the wall, landing on two pillars of ice that shrank rapidly down toward the outside of the stage where Bogdan stood. The archers hidden in the ceiling alcoves made no motion to stop her.
The Ice Queen stepped onto the marble of the stage and took a deep bow.
“I present,” cried Bogdan. “The Ice Queen!” As the crowd thundered with applause, Bogdan took the Ice Queen’s hands and brought them to his lips. She smiled coyly at him before beaming at the audience and waving.
“Next up, Wood Nymph!”
“Ramson.” Ana’s voice was low with urgency. “He didn’t announce any earth Affinites today.”
“Bogdan chooses the Affinites he wants to announce.” Ramson cut her a glance. “Patience. All good things come to those who wait.”
So Ana watched the show in silence. Affinite after Affinite emerged through the curtains to show their powers. Before long, the marble stage was littered with flower petals, twigs, and earth; the glass was smudged with mist, frost, and water. The crowd cheered or booed depending on the performance of the Affinite. And sometimes, for a few goldleaves, Bogdan would engage the audience, directing the Affinite onstage to obey requests from the crowd. Particularly popular performances could end with showers of goldleaves pooling at his feet.
The night wore on and there was no sight of May. Yet Ana felt a chill spreading through her. She was no different from those Affinites onstage, whose suffering the world chose to hide beneath a sham layer of paint and bright outfits. Whose existence some hated, yet continued to profit from.
We will continue to cure your condition, Papa had told her. For your own good.
She blinked back tears as the realization twined around her chest, leaving her breathless and reeling. Papa had only loved the part of her that wasn’t an Affinite, a monster, a deimhov, in his words. He’d only wanted to save a part of her, not all of her.
Just as he’d only wanted to save the part of his empire he thought of as worth saving.
And for so long, she had only loved a part of herself, denying that other half, hiding the crimson of her eyes and the grotesque veins of her hands beneath hoods and gloves. For so long, she had desperately wanted to tear that other part of herself off, to make herself into something wholly deserving of love. Something that could step into the light, something worthy of the Deities’ blessings.
Yet who was it…who had deemed the other parts of her and her empire unworthy? Who had determined that Affinites were less worthy of love, of being human, and why? Simply on the basis that they were…different?
And a new thought came to her, piercing the wild screams of the crowd and the pounding of the drums.
I have to fix this.
“Mesyrs and meya damas! The show you have all been waiting for.” Bogdan’s voice dragged Ana from her thoughts. A
ripple of anticipation and thrill seized the crowd. “Our performances are over, but we never end a night without the Clash of the Deities. Welcome our Steelshooter, undefeated champion of the Playpen!”
Ana’s spirits sank just as a deafening roar of approval went up from the audience, and the drums started a new beat: low, somber, and steady.
The curtains at the back of the stage drew apart. A hulking figure stepped into the light. He was monstrous, armor glinting under the torchlight and muscles bulging beneath the steel plates. A dozen white scars slashed across his bald head and his face, which looked as though it had been dragged for miles against jagged outcroppings of rock. He leered at the audience, metal flashing in his teeth.
“And now,” Bogdan shouted. “A newcomer to the challenge: welcome, Windwraith!”
Boom-boom…da-boom-BOOM. From the shadows of the curtains stumbled another figure. At first glance, Ana thought it was a child. As she strained to see better, hoping to catch a glimpse of May’s ocean-blue eyes, she realized that the new arrival was no child but actually a young woman. Her scrawny form was emphasized by her dark, formfitting shirt and breeches. She looked up, her face framed by midnight-black hair that caught the torchlight.
Kemeiran. A whisper rustled through the crowd as they pointed at the girl.
She was about to tell Ramson that they should leave, when something else caught Ana’s attention. A figure, standing at the edge of the stage just in front of the velvet curtains. The pale blue of his eyes scanned the crowd, the white-blond of his hair glowing bloodred in the firelight.
The broker. The one who had snatched May from Ana’s fingertips back in Kyrov.
Without thinking, Ana sprang forward, knocking hard into a group of people in front of her. A glass tumbled from someone’s hands and shattered.
The man she’d bumped into turned around. He wore a gold mask with a farcical crying face, the mouth overly large and turned mockingly downward. “What—” he began.
“Get out of my way,” Ana snapped. The blue-eyed broker would disappear at any moment; she had no time. Ana reached for her Affinity—
“Excuse me, kind mesyr.” A hand looped around her waist and Ramson neatly stepped between her and the man, obscuring her view of the stage. Ana twisted, but he kept his fingers locked around her waist. “Meya dama here has had a little too much to drink! A testament to the great entertainment tonight.”
The nobleman’s eyes flashed, but he gave an indignant snort and turned back to the stage.
“Let me go,” Ana snarled, yet Ramson gripped her tighter.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
She shoved him back, but he held firm. “The broker,” she growled, already reaching for Ramson’s blood with her Affinity. “The one who took May—I saw him. Now, get off!” She shoved him aside with her Affinity, her anger white-hot.
Ramson stumbled back but caught himself, ignoring the strange looks of several people nearby as they moved away. His jaw was clenched; a strand of his hair fell over his mask. “And?” he challenged, his voice low. “What were you going to do?”
Something, she thought furiously. Anything.
Ana barreled forward but Ramson caught her, his arms wrapping around her in a viselike grip. Her head buzzed with anger and she considered ripping him from her with her Affinity, no matter the consequences.
“Think,” Ramson whispered, his lips next to her ear. To any outsider, they might have been locked in a passionate embrace—but Ana was one step short of blasting him across the room. “You’re here to save May. How is attacking that broker and exposing yourself going to help? At all?”
Ramson’s words fell like cold water on the molten metal of her anger. Ana stopped fighting, her breathing ragged, as she stared up at the Kemeiran girl. She stood alone on the stage beneath the shadow of the Steelshooter. Behind her, the curtains where the broker had been standing rustled, as though stirred by a phantom wind. He was no longer there.
Ramson was right. Using her Affinity against that broker, or doing anything reckless, would only expose them and foil their plan.
Ramson’s grip on her loosened, and for a moment she simply stood with his arms around her, her cheek against his shoulder, watching the stage and breathing in the clean, calming fragrance of his kologne.
The Steelshooter had retrieved four sharp throwing knives. He rolled his head, cracking the joints in his thick neck and corded shoulders.
Ramson drew back. His eyes darted across Ana’s face, and she imagined he was taking in every minuscule movement of her features, drawing up what to say next to assuage her.
“It’s not like this everywhere, remember,” he said, his voice gentler. His hands were still around her shoulders. “In Kemeira, for example, Affinites are appointed as the Temple Masters, the protectors of each village. In Nandji, Affinites are well-respected. And in Bregon—”
Ana flung his hands from her. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she snapped. Onstage, the Steelshooter gave a battle-roar and charged toward the tiny wind Affinite.
Ana turned away. May was not here tonight—she might not even be anywhere close—and Ana felt sick at the thought of watching Affinites kill each other for fun.
A hot, helpless tear rolled down her cheek. As she raised a hand to swipe it away, something peculiar happened. A collective gasp rustled over the crowd.
Ana turned. The Steelshooter bellowed as he staggered to face the Windwraith, who was now on the other side of the stage, pressed against the glass. Yet her stance was a fighter’s stance. Her palms were raised, one before the other, and her feet were planted shoulder width apart on the marble floor.
The Steelshooter lunged. Steel knives shot from concealed areas of his armor—
—and clattered against the blackstone-infused glass. The crowd gasped; people pointed.
The Windwraith had launched herself into the air, arms spread and legs tucked like a bizarre sort of bird. She soared over the Steelshooter’s head in an elegant arc. Faster than the blink of an eye, her feet tapped lightly on the gigantic man’s shoulders; she flipped a full circle and, with acrobatic precision, landed behind him.
In an extension of her landing, she whipped out her hands. Two of the Steelshooter’s throwing knives glinted in her palms.
By the time the Steelshooter, blinking in confusion, turned around, it was over.
The Windwraith pounced, graceful and deadly as a jaguar. She latched on to his shoulders and slashed her hands down upon his throat.
The thump of the Steelshooter’s body hitting the marble stage echoed around the silent auditorium. Red seeped onto the floor, turning the marble’s veins crimson. Ana’s Affinity stirred, a soft whisper at the back of her mind.
The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.
“Mesyrs and meya damas!” Bogdan’s voice boomed across the auditorium. “It appears we have a new winner and a new record! I present: the Windwraith!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and screams. The few who had placed bets on the Windwraith were waving their slips and shouting at the top of their lungs, clamoring for their gold.
Ana turned and began shoving her way to the exit. She had no strength left in her to spend even a second more in this Deities-forsaken place. As she pushed her way through the wild, drunken crowd, she couldn’t help but look behind her. The audience had worked itself into a frenzy and had begun chanting the victor’s name. Yet onstage, behind the blood-splattered glass wall, the Windwraith was quiet. She stood several paces from the blood pooling around her opponent’s body, head bowed, arms hanging by her sides.
Ana looked away. Like the Windwraith, she felt no victory at the Steelshooter’s defeat. It didn’t matter that a condemned girl had fought her way out and won tonight. No matter what, a body lay cooling on the floor. No matter what, a life had been lost. And until all the
stadiums and brokers had been burned to the ground, Cyrilia would keep on losing.
Ana threw one last glimpse at the gleaming marble statues of the four Deities and wondered how they could ever stand to look upon such a godless place.
The cold autumn air that stung his face was a blissful release from the hot, cramped chambers of the Playpen. Ramson slipped through the crowds, his eyes trained on Ana’s chestnut hair, the slim silhouette of her black dress as she walked briskly. He called out to her, loudly enough to attract the attention and giggling of several drunk revelers.
He caught her wrist. By instinct, he turned, pulling her into the darkness of a small alleyway. She made a noise in her throat and grew still. “Ana,” Ramson panted. Something in him twisted like a knife at the sight of her: arms crossed, shoulders hunched, as though she wanted to fold herself away.
She was unbelievably naïve—yet something in the way she viewed the world, as though it were carved of white and black, reminded him of the way he’d been before Jonah’s death. And somehow a small part of him wanted to protect her.
Ramson found himself reaching out and gently tilting her chin toward him.
She stepped back, snapping out of his hold, and ripped her mask off. It landed facedown in the wet garbage of the empty alleyway.
She was crying. Tears had carved dark streaks of kohl down her cheeks, mingling with her powders. For a moment, she stared at him, and he wanted to pull her close. “That,” she whispered, “was beyond inhumane. I don’t have the words for it.”
The heat coursing through his veins dissipated, and Ramson suddenly felt cold. “It was,” he said hoarsely.
She turned her gaze to him, eyes burning like embers. “How could you associate with those people? How could you watch them do that and not feel anything?”
For all these years, he’d taken the coward’s way out, refusing to sink to a level as low as the brokers under Kerlan’s command. Yet standing by and doing nothing was another form of evil, he realized as he dropped his gaze to the ground. And fate had rewarded him in kind, anyway.
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