by Amparo Ortiz
He conjures scrolls from thin air. They’re long and a little faded, but I recognize them.
Our contracts.
President Turner flicks his wand. The endless black ink disappears. Our signatures stay at the bottom of the page, but the text above them is in deep scarlet. The erratic, barely legible handwriting features words I hadn’t seen upon signing:
I hereby agree to participate in the twenty-seventh Blazewrath World Cup in accordance with the Sire’s wishes. I shall obey his commands, as well as comply with my duties as a member of my country’s team. This agreement is bound by magic. As such, the consequences I face upon breaking it shall be swiftly communicated to the Sire and implemented by those loyal to him. Disobedience and/or failure to accomplish what is required, including divulging the true nature of this contract should I discover it, shall be punishable by death.
The chaise where I sit is sand. I’m being swallowed into the deepest pits of the underworld, tumbling into frigid darkness, too stunned to fight against gravity.
The Sire controls the president and the Cup.
We’re all his playthings. Prisoners, like Andrew believes.
Of all the things I could think of, I think of my mother. She’d been right to question this whole thing. So had Papi, but Mom had been the constant voice of dissent. I’d been so angry with her I never wondered if something bad could happen. Now the worst has happened instead.
I don’t know when I start crying, but I don’t know how to stop.
“So we’re … He’s … in charge?” Luis struggles with every word.
President Turner can’t even say it again.
“Mister President,” I choke out, “did the Sire make you recruit us?”
He offers me a heartbroken frown. “Your stories are not the same. The Sire wished for your teammates to be in the Cup because he was curious of their dragons’ magic. He wished to see what they were capable of in a controlled environment, where he could study them with greater care. But he wanted to kill you for what you did to Takeshi. He’d even planned a televised execution. Something changed his mind, though. He chose to monitor you instead.”
I’m a batch of ashes and dust. My dream coming true is the result of a cursed dragon wanting to use me for his master plan. The president is a puppet, and so am I. No amount of talent matters. I’m here because I’m famous for thwarting my forever favorite. I’m here because I hurt the Sire’s feelings and messed up his endgame with that crystal heart.
This isn’t my dream come true. This is his punishment for me.
But I still have questions. “Why does the Sire need to monitor us? How does studying the dragons and their magical skills fit his agenda?” I pause. “What exactly is his agenda?”
“Maybe he’s looking for ways to defeat us in case we riot?” Génesis offers.
“We can’t riot, thanks to our contracts,” Héctor says.
“Exactly,” says Victoria. “We can’t do anything other than what we came here to do, which is to win. You think I want that bastard acting like he owns me? Nobody owns me. But I came here to bring the Cup home, and that’s all I care about. Everything else is a distraction.”
I’m glaring at her with all my might. She’s seriously putting a trophy over our rights and well-being. A trophy that means nothing because this tournament is a sham. I get that she once felt like a loser. She’s here because of her mom. I crave that trophy, too, but not like this.
And here I thought not being Puerto Rican enough was the biggest blow to my ego.
“Victoria … “Joaquín’s tearing up as he looks to the side, away from prying eyes.
It’s only now that I remember Manny’s here. He leaves the bar and his drink behind, approaching us with caution. “Victoria’s right, mi gente. We have no choice.” His indifferent tone finally takes on a logical shape in my head.
“This is why you’re not invested in us,” I say. “You knew about the Anchor Curse and the Sire’s hold over us all. You don’t care about the Cup because it’s not real.” The frustration I once felt for Manny’s attitude evaporates into nothing. Now I understand him.
“It is real,” says Victoria.
“You’re pawns. We all are,” Manny barks at her. “When I found out, Russell showed me my contract. I’m bound to that asshole, too.”
Realization dawns on Génesis’s face. “Was this when you went to London?”
Of course: Brian Santana’s firing. Manny went cold after that incident.
He nods. “I was there to discuss next steps after we kicked out Brian.”
“Don’t say his name!” Victoria is a thunderstorm in a petite frame. With a sniffle, she reaches for Edwin’s hand. With a tender smile, he accepts hers.
Héctor’s brave enough to speak. “Don’t punish yourself for missing him. He doesn’t deserve a second of your time, but if you feel like you can’t—”
“Stop talking about him!” She’s full-blown crying.
Edwin pulls her into a hug.
“The point is,” Manny continues, unbothered, “I met with Russell at his home. It was a terrible time to visit him. I left knowing more than I bargained for.”
President Turner says, “The Sire was venting his rage on me for losing a Runner.”
“And the bureau? Do they know about this curse?” Joaquín asks. “I’m assuming at least Director Sandhar is aware of it, since he allowed you to be present during Lana’s interrogation.”
Damn it, he’s right. I hadn’t connected those dots until now.
“Only Nirek and Agent Horowitz know. They have similar contracts, swearing them to secrecy and requiring them to fulfill the Sire’s demands. The bureau is still free to try to catch him, mostly because the Sire is confident they never will. And after so many years together, it was impossible to hide this curse from Corwin.”
Manny claps his hands. “This has been enlightening. Can we leave now?”
Joaquín finally speaks again, “We can’t talk about what happened here, or in the greenroom, to anyone. We all understand this quite well. Don’t we?”
We all nod in silence. Victoria’s no longer crying, but she seems utterly depleted.
So does Joaquín, despite being the picture of calm. “Then let’s get back to the stadium.”
Somehow I find the strength to get up. I’m still crying, still drawing the shape of my mother’s face the day she abandoned me, hoping I’d go with her instead.
The blinding flash of the Transport Charm engulfs me, sending me back to a world that’s been built on blood and lies.
“Andrew has always been a friendly bloke. I don’t know a single person who dislikes him! He shines brightest when speaking to others. However, in all my years in this sport, I’ve never come close to witnessing the kind of brotherhood he shares with Takeshi Endo. Those two are inseparable. From the moment they crossed paths, it was like watching long-lost twins find each other. Not many Blazewrath athletes can sway their supporters to root for another team. Yet Andrew has managed to get Scotland chanting for Japan during their matches. Japan’s supporters have even started chanting for Scotland, too! That is the power of Andrew Galloway.”
—Transcript from 2015 radio interview with Russell Turner, IBF president
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DIRECTOR SANDHAR DOESN’T COME BACK TO THE STADIUM. HE calls President Turner instead.
After a long conversation in which they discuss our new knowledge of our contracts, President Turner hangs up and tells us, “He got away.”
Nobody speaks. I’m still in the greenroom with my team, which currently consists of crushed spirits, save for Victoria. Some of the IBF staff freaked out once they noticed we were missing. There’d been a bunch of security guards in the room when we returned. After the president calmly sent them away, he’d gotten the call from Director Sandhar, who relented to let us keep our memories. Now I want him to take every damn thing in my pounding head.
He got away.
Just like he’s gettin
g away with controlling the Cup. I need to figure out why we matter so much to him. This can’t only be about making us the villains of his story. There has to be more.
I dab at my eyes, drying up leftover tears. Am I the Sire’s prisoner? Yes. That doesn’t mean I’m staying his prisoner.
President Turner is in the dark about his master’s real plan, so pressing him will be useless. I need to get craftier if I want to figure out what the Sire wants. Grinding his ultimate desire to dust might be the only way I can save Blazewrath. This competition matters too much for it to be tarnished like this. We just need our freedom back.
He got away, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t get what he’s after.
First, I need to stop Andrew from protesting. If I beg hard enough, hopefully I can save him from making himself the Sire’s next target.
A male IBF employee arrives to take us to the dragons. We cram inside the elevators in the most uncomfortable silence ever. Even Manny, who’s a little buzzed, keeps his mouth shut. By the time we get to the wait zone, a whole lifetime has seemingly gone by.
Chaos welcomes us once the doors slide open. There are Blazewrath players and IBF staff members everywhere, but there are also heaps of security guards lining the walls. They’re monitoring the players’ every move. Some guards stationed near the dragons’ wait-zone entrance are escorting them inside. The procession is in alphabetical order.
“Follow me.” The employee beckons us forward.
On the way, I spot Andrew, with his head down and his arms folded, in one of the corridors. He has three guards watching him from a distance, but no one’s bothering him. It’s like there’s an unspoken agreement to let him grieve in peace.
I slip away from my team and head straight to Andrew. He doesn’t look up at me, but his gaze flickers to my boots. “Hey,” I say as softly as I can. “You need to cancel the protest.”
I might as well have spit acid on his uniform. “Are you hearing yourself? We’re all being herded onto that field, dismissing a horrifying threat from a terrorist, and you want me to cancel the protest?” Andrew shakes his head. “Not a chance.”
“Listen to me, okay? You could cause more harm than good, especially to yourself.”
“Is Turner paying you an extra seven million to say that?” Andrew says icily.
I tip my head back with a hopeless sigh. I can’t tell him the truth, but I don’t know what works as the perfect lie, either.
“Are you thinking up a convincing load of dung for me?” Andrew’s grin is cocky as hell. “What’s this harm you’re referring to? What unspeakable evil will come to pass if I protest?”
His mocking tone would’ve pissed me off any other day. Right now, all I can dwell on is how to keep this stubborn boy from testing the Sire’s patience. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt because I couldn’t dissuade him from acting recklessly.
“Earth to Lana?”
I look back at him. “Remember what I said about betraying our countries?”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “Vividly.”
“Well, it’s the truth. We would be betraying our countries. I can’t live with that guilt.”
“But you can live with the Sire murdering people left and right? That would be bearable to you in comparison?” Andrew looks like his brain is frying up from trying to understand me. Then his eyes go wide. “Something happened before this conversation, didn’t it?”
“No,” I say too quickly. Damn it.
He tenses. “You’re lying.”
“Of course not.”
“Tell me what happened, Lana.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.” I retreat a few steps. I can’t protect him without compromising my contract. “You know what? Forget it. You’re going to think what you want, but trust me, protesting is useless. The Cup won’t get canceled. And like I said, it could seriously backfire.”
Andrew gives me a pitying look. “I’m not backing down because someone won’t do what I say. I’ll keep going because I believe in something greater than me. Let the Cup go on if it must, but I won’t be silenced.” He pushes away from the wall. “Thanks so much for pulling out at the last second like a coward. Don’t concern yourself with what I do anymore. We’re done.”
“I’m trying to help you!” I whisper-yell. “You’re making this harder than it should be.” I raise a hand to his chest. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes, but it must suck to go through this alone, so please don’t shut me out. And please don’t pick fights you can’t win.”
Andrew leans down. He’s bridging the gap between us, acting like he’s about to hug me. Instead, he whispers in my ear, “Thanks, but I’m choosing to resist in other ways.”
Wow. He’s using my own words against me.
Andrew walks away before I find a suitable way to respond.
“There you are!” Gabriela seizes my arm. “Our chariot is ready!”
I follow her out of the corridor, hoping against hope Andrew comes to his senses.
EACH TEAM GETS A PRIVATE WAIT ZONE, WHICH IS A HUGE CHAMBER identical to a hangar. There are sliding panels to the front and back. Pakistan is in front of us, with Russia settling behind. The panels will open once the procession starts. Each team will be flying out one by one.
The six Sol de Noche dragons have been arranged in pairs. Titán and Esperanza are first, followed by Puya and Daga, then Rayo and Fantasma. They’re tethered to thick straps the color of their dark scales, which are all hooked to the chariot that’s been built for me.
Not that I’d call it a chariot. It’s more like a replica of the Sol de Noche’s skull.
Its frontal horns, eye sockets, and fangs are there, but instead of bone white, the skull has been painted black. Its mouth is wide open, as if it’s about to devour everything in its path. A podium is nestled between the horns, and a leather strap has been placed at the top. I have to tie it around my waist so I don’t free-fall to my death. I shudder. No other Runner has had to step foot in a contraption like this. Everyone else gets Roman-style chariots. There’s either been a change in protocol, or I’m the only Runner getting a different design. Either way, it’s clear the Sire’s trying to keep the press’s attention on me. Is he expecting them to drag me for this over-the-top stunt? Or does he want to see how they react? Why would he even care?
And here I thought I couldn’t loathe him more.
I walk into the skull chariot. Staff members secure the harness around my waist while my teammates mount their steeds. None of the dragons show signs of discomfort. It’s as if they’re unbothered by the Sire’s latest message. Once the harness is set, another employee hands me a thin white pole with the Puerto Rican flag at the top. It’s much lighter than I feared. The red, white, and blue above me is a sight to behold, but I can’t look at it for long. I swallow down the boulders stuck in my throat and keep the tears at bay. This isn’t the time for a meltdown.
“Puerto Rico ready for takeoff,” I catch an employee saying into his mic.
“You look really powerful up there,” Joaquín says, trying his best to cheer me up. He then looks at the rest of my team. “You all do. Remember that. You are powerful.”
No. We’re prisoners.
Twenty minutes later, the international livestream begins with drums. Their booming, spine-jolting sound engulfs the whole stadium. A television screen appears on the sliding panel ahead, showing a procession of two hundred men from Dubai spilling onto the field. They are all dressed in their white kanduras, cotton robes that reach their ankles. The first man in line beats the biggest drum of all. The ever-posh Jeffrey Hines, who’s working as this year’s Cup announcer, calls the big drum the Al-Ras and the smaller ones the Takhamir drums.
“We’re about to be treated to a special performance of the Al-Ayyala!” he boasts. “Please welcome Dubai’s war dancers to the Blazewrath stadium!”
Applause quickly ensues. At first, I think the me
n are holding long, thin blades, but they’re actually camel sticks. They break into two lines, a hundred men on one side, the other hundred on the opposite side. All the men face one another while striking their camel sticks onto the sand and thrusting them into the sky. The men are chanting lyrical snippets in unison, a lovely blend of singsong voices, even though they’re pretending to challenge one another in battle. It’s such a pulsating, joyous performance that I don’t notice the fire dancers coming up behind them.
Once the Al-Ayyala ends, though, the war dancers part ways on either side of the field, allowing a fresh batch of both men and women to toss and twirl fiery batons. It’s a seamlessly woven frenzy of flames, acrobatics, and vibrant music. The field almost looks like it’s made out of spinning gold. An equally large group of singers appears next, each one gripping a small version of the United Arab Emirates flag: a lone vertical red stripe, along with the horizontal green, white, and black stripes. Singers belt out the IBF’s anthem, which is too long and convoluted, but the final verse has always been my favorite: “Bring home the gold, take home wherever you are.” It’s a reminder for players to proudly share their cultures regardless of which country is hosting the Cup. Growing up, that had been the one line I would sing along to. I prayed for the chance to sing it on the field. Now that the day has come, I can’t bring myself to celebrate my culture or anyone else’s.
First I have to rip this tournament from the Sire’s clutches.
Once the dancers and singers disperse to the sides, President Turner, Ambassador Haddad, and a slew of IBF representatives walk out. They pass right through the middle of the action, smiling and waving at the rowdy fans, then climb on a stage at the end of the field.
“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” an ecstatic Jeffrey Hines says. “Folks, here are this year’s Blazewrath World Cup competitors! First up, Argentina!”
One by one, each team exits the wait zone. None of their chariots are as over the top as mine. This is what I get for standing up to the Sire’s little lapdog, Takeshi. How lucky am I.