I look around the huge room helplessly, still grasping Aeson’s hand. The Imperial guards stand around us to keep the jostling crowds away. Before I get in line, I’m desperate to see my family and friends one more time.
“Gwen! Gwenevere Lark!” I hear Laronda’s familiar brash voice from a few feet away, and next thing I know, there she is, and next to her is Gracie, yelling “Gee Two!” Both are wearing parade Fleet uniforms.
Then I see Chiyoko, also in uniform, and Gordie, in a nice new pair of Earth-style slacks and shirt. Right behind them I see Oalla and Keruvat, Hasmik and Dawn, Erita, Xelio, and Blayne, who’s smiling calmly as he hovers upright on his board. Except for Dawn and Hasmik (who wear nice civilian clothing), everyone else is dressed sharply in Fleet whites.
The next minute is emotional chaos. . . .
Gracie throws herself around my neck and kisses me hard on the cheek . . . then comes Laronda . . . Gordie takes me in a sheepish brotherly embrace . . . and then it’s impossible to tell who’s who—I get squeezed and crushed in bear hugs and slapped on the back, shoulder, even my behind—Erita takes credit for the unexpected butt slap with a wide humorous grin—and Xelio presses my hand with his powerful warm one while giving me a searing intense gaze of his midnight-black eyes.
“Gwenie, oh please, please . . . be careful . . . be strong! Promise, promise! You fight . . . you just . . . fight with all you’ve got!” Gracie mutters, and suddenly I see big sloppy tears start down her face. In seconds my sister is sobbing wildly, and Blayne and Gordie both move in to hold her as she sobs against my brother’s chest, then Blayne’s, and finally steps back and wipes her mess of a face and gets a grip, just like that.
“Gee Two, remember what Dad always says, Lark power! Okay? Okay!” Gordie mutters to me meanwhile, and he looks like he’s about to cry too—I’ve never seen my little brother react this way to anything.
This in turn causes me to lose it. “Gordie—Gordon Lark, you just take care of Gracie, and—and—Mom and Dad and George . . .” I mutter breathlessly, as water runs down my face.
“Gwen! Stop it.” Oalla’s sobering voice breaks in, sharp like a knife, as she rests her hand on my arm and presses firmly and painfully, then looks into my face. She’s intense and very calm, and it serves to compose me also. “Nobody’s going to take care of anyone. You just do what you have to do and come back a Champion, and then you can take care of them all yourself. You got that, My Imperial Lady?”
“Yes,” I reply with gratitude, regaining my composure.
“Be strong, Shoelace Girl . . . run fast . . .” Xelio says softly.
Keruvat takes my hand and squeezes it with his huge one, and smiles down at me, and I notice his eyes glisten. “You can do it, Gwen, for Kass and all of us, got that?”
I continue to nod, while Hasmik hugs me and cries, saying something incomprehensible in Armenian, and Dawn solemnly presses me against her chest.
Then it’s Blayne’s turn. Levitating effortlessly, the boy flips his long hair away from his blue eyes and squeezes my hand with his, while maintaining the calmest expression of all. “You’re gonna be just fine, Lark,” he says, raising one brow at me. “Come on, after all we’ve been through, it’s stupid easy. Just some dumb Game. And you’re smart. And okay, a little crazy—but in a good way. So use your big mouth, those megaphone vocal cords, right? I mean, you’ve even got a logo there, recognizing that big blabber mouth of yours. So there. . . . Problem solved, as usual, it’s your specialty.”
“Oh, Blayne!” I snort, unable to hold back my own laugh. “Only you would say something like that, mister.”
“Naturally,” he retorts.
Chiyoko takes me in a gentle hug, and rubs her hand against my back. “Don’t let anything stop you, Gwen. I believe in you. . . .”
More endless well-wishes follow. I acknowledge all of them, while beginning to move in the direction of the White Categories table that’s off to the farthest right.
Aeson, who had stepped back temporarily to allow everyone their greetings, now moves in again, and follows me closely as I stand behind some muscular young woman in a white uniform with a mouth logo, just like mine. . . . She’s also a Vocalist, and turns around briefly, meeting my gaze with cold hostility.
And at some point, as early as tomorrow, I might have to kill her. And she’s going to try to kill me.
I break eye contact with the woman and turn away, focusing on the distant registration table before me and all the others in line—other Vocalists, Entrepreneurs, and their supporters. All these people in white . . . half of them are my guaranteed deadly enemy. The other half, also an enemy. . . .
A few minutes later, I am at the head of the line.
The seated Games official wearing the grey staff uniform with a rainbow armband (reminiscent of Qualification) looks up at me and holds out the registration keying gadget.
“Your name, your Category, equipment bag, and token,” he says in Atlanteo.
“Gwenevere Lark, Vocalist,” I reply, handing him my token, and setting my equipment bag down on the table before him.
The official passes the gadget over my token, which immediately lights up white. Then he does the same to the mouth logo on the front of my bag, and scans the bag which also lights up white, and so does the corresponding logo on my uniform, front and back, apparently. I glance down at my chest to see the strange brilliance that is picked up by the reflective material of the rest of the uniform shirt . . . before the light on all the items once again fades.
“Congratulations, Contender Lark, you are officially registered for the Games of the Atlantis Grail. Proceed inside for the Contender Ceremony Lineup, to await further instructions. Welcome to the Games!”
He points me to the large guarded entrance along the side wall, designated as “Registered Contenders Only,” then turns away from me to process the next person.
I step aside, making room for others in line behind me, dazed by the finality of what just happened.
I am now a Contender.
There’s no going back.
I pause near that damned entrance, seeing other Contenders doing the same thing, stopping here at the doors to say final goodbyes to their support networks. My family and friends stand back tactfully, looking at me with concern, while I must now say the most impossible goodbye to the one person who is left.
Aeson.
My beloved stands before me, momentarily looking strange, distant, closed-off, even lost. There’s no other way to describe the fleeting expression of lonely despair in his eyes before he forces himself to smile at me, then takes me in his embrace.
I lift my arms around his neck, and he presses me to his chest, so breathlessly hard that neither one of us can breathe. . . .
“Gwen,” he whispers, kissing me hard on my mouth. “You are . . . everything . . . my hope. Remember who you are, how strong you are, how needed you are. . . .”
“Aeson . . . I love you,” I say, feeling the sweet bruising pressure of his lips against my mouth, kissing him back fiercely, teeth against teeth.
And then I let go, and move back slightly, putting my hands around his face, just holding him along his lean jaws, stroking his cheeks.
Now is the moment. . . . I reach into my pocket and take out the little crystal Pegasus. “My love gift to you,” I say, giving him the figurine.
Aeson takes the Pegasus and brings it up to his lips. He then puts it in his own shirt breast pocket. “Next to my heart,” he says. “Always.”
What happens next leaves me speechless.
“I still don’t have a proper love gift for you yet, im amrevu,” Aeson says, watching me with intensity. “However, I have this—” He reaches with his right hand to untie the black armband around his left sleeve. The black length of silk comes loose, and he folds it carefully into a square and hands it to me.
“What—what are you doing?” I protest, with my mouth fallen open.
“Take it,” he says, while a faint bittersweet smile p
lays on his lips. “This is my most precious possession, my greatest honor. By law, you may not formally wear it on your sleeve, but you can keep it with you . . . close to you. It might be of use as an extra bandage—”
“Aeson!” I exclaim, completely overwhelmed. “I can’t take this!”
“I must have it back, of course,” he continues seriously, ignoring my protest, as he presses the folded black silk in my hand, closing my fingers over it. “Promise to bring it back to me in one piece when the Games are over. Because I’ll be very displeased if something were to happen to it—do you understand, Gwen? It’s the only one I have. . . . Nothing must happen to this mark of honor—I trust you to take very good care of it, for as long as it’s in your safekeeping. So bring it back to me.”
“Oh my God . . .” I whisper.
But he’s not done. “I will wear no other armband until you personally return this one to me safely. Is that understood, my Imperial Bride? So you must come back and return it to me. Promise me now, im amrevu!”
“Well, then. . . .” I take the black armband with trembling fingers, and place it in my inner breast pocket. “Next to my heart,” I say faintly, echoing his own words.
“Come back to me,” he whispers, taking a step back, looking at me with impossible eyes.
I preserve that moment in memory, his look, his expression, all of him.
“I promise,” I say with a brave shining smile.
And then I turn my back on Aeson and on all of them. I proceed on my own into the guarded entrance to the Games of the Atlantis Grail.
Chapter 35
I enter the corridor and walk in a loosely flowing stream of Contenders, with my equipment bag slung diagonally across my shoulder, same as the others. The corridor, dimly illuminated with wall sconces, gradually slopes uphill, for about a hundred meters, and then curves slightly.
Another entrance is revealed around the corner. This one opens into a large hall, similar to the registration hall behind us. In fact, it might be an identical chamber, except for the fact that it’s filled with rows of seats, like an auditorium.
I start to wonder how many other such huge interior halls does this stadium have? We haven’t even begun to experience the scope of the actual arena space, this is intimidating enough. . . . Somewhere out there, coming deep from the interior, we can already hear the distant roar of the crowds.
Guards and Games officials stand at the hall entrance, directing us to be seated in ten distinct long “strip” sections based on our Categories.
I end up in the sixth section from the left, the designated Vocalist area, in a row somewhere halfway from the front of the auditorium. The two sections immediately next to us are Red Athlete on the left and Yellow Inventor on the right.
Each row in each section has ten seats, and there are at least fifty rows that I can estimate. Which means that there are five hundred Vocalists, and that many other Contenders, in each of the ten sections. That’s a total of five thousand people. . . .
In other words, 499 people who have to kill me—and each other—in order to win.
And 4,500 more people who might also want to kill me, and would definitely try, for additional AG points.
Oh, and of course any one of these potential killers could be dedicated assassins sent by the Imperator specifically to make sure I don’t make it out alive. . . . My imagination goes wild with possibilities.
No, stop. . . .
The seats fill in quickly. I grab the first available one and sit down between a stone-faced brown-skinned young man, and an angry looking woman with pale skin and freckles. After one evaluating glance directed at me, neither one pays me any more attention—or at least, pretends not to.
That’s because we’re not supposed to interact with each other in any way just yet, according to Games rules. Neither hostile nor friendly contact is permitted. Except for appraising looks, everyone remains carefully aloof, for fear of disqualification.
And so I sit stiffly in a sea of white uniforms, holding on to the equipment bag in my lap, watching those around me, staring ahead, occasionally glancing behind, to gauge the competition. Like everyone else, I try to locate the high-profile celebrity Contenders in our midst, the ones who got the bulk of the media coverage, and who are expected to win.
As far as I can tell, there are no particular celebrities in the Vocalist Category. In fact, as the Imperial Bride, I might be the most “recognizable” Vocalist in this group. And as such, already I can feel their hungry eyes on me, as the rest of the Vocalists turn to sear me with their killing stares. . . .
On the other hand, the Red Athlete section immediately on our left is filled with prominent players—Deneb Gratu is somewhere in that section, possibly the most famous Contender of all, this year—and so I scan the red rows anxiously, trying to find him. The hall is still filling, and it’s possible he hasn’t arrived yet. . . . However, I seem to recognize several other prominent Athletes. And when I glance to the right, in the Yellow section, I see a face or two among the Inventors who might be notable.
I continue to look for familiar individuals in other sections. This includes Brie Walton. I’ve been told to be on the lookout for her. Yes, a very discreet deal has been made between her and Correctional—in exchange for cooperating and providing intelligence, Brie has been allowed to compete in the Games. She’s definitely here, and her directive is to protect me. As far as I know, Logan had her registered in a different Category, equally low-key. . . . But for security purposes, none of us have been told for sure, in case the Imperator is keeping track.
I turn to the far right of the hall, where in ninth place, is the other White section, the Entrepreneur Category. Brie Walton is very likely one of those white uniforms. I search for purple-streaked hair. . . . And it occurs to me, how many other gutsy (or crazy) Earthies could be among these Contenders?
A few more minutes of waiting, and finally Games officials appear on the small elevated platform up in the front. We get to hear the Reading of the Rules, which is a part of the Games tradition.
“Welcome, Contenders, to the Games of the Atlantis Grail! The Games are Forever!” says an amplified male voice in Atlanteo.
“The Games are Forever!” the hall around me echoes, voices raised with fierce enthusiasm. I mouth the popular slogan along with everyone else.
The speaker continues, “We applaud your courage, bravery, skills, and determination that have brought you this far! You are formally registered to compete, and in just a few hours you will make your spectacular arena debut before all of Atlantida in the Commencement Ceremony. But first, we want to remind you of the Rules of Conduct that you are obligated to follow, starting today.”
He begins to read a long list. Among the rules are:
“You may not fight, sabotage, harm, or undermine any of the Contenders outside the Game Zone. . . . You may not touch, steal, or cause damage to the equipment, weapons, bags or other Contender property. . . . Intimidation, blackmail, and other dishonest methods of influence are forbidden outside the Game Zone, and verbal contact is limited except for designated circumstances. . . . Weapons may not be openly carried outside the Game Zone, and must be kept in closed bags. . . . You will respect your fellow Contenders and their right to privacy until the competition begins. . . . You will faithfully follow the Instructions and Taboo Rules of each Stage. . . . You will respect the final decisions of the Judges in regard to the awarding of AG points and disqualification. . . . If you sustain a mortal injury, your designated representatives may request to have your body and your property extracted from the Game Zone before the completion of a Stage—”
This goes on for some time, and I can see Contenders all around the hall starting to grow restless and impatient as we wait.
When the official is done speaking, another takes his place to give us the Commencement Day schedule.
“The Commencement Ceremony begins exactly at thirteenth hour of Ra, with the Sacred Invocation that lasts for the entire half h
our of Noon Ghost Time. As soon as it ends, at first hour of Khe exactly, you will rise from your seats in the same order you are now and line up to march in the Contender Parade—”
I focus hard, trying to process the Atlantean terms for the hours and their different method of timekeeping. It still feels strange to have a day with 27 hours, split into thirteen “hours of Ra,” or AM, and thirteen “hours of Khe” or PM, plus noon and midnight each lasting 30 minutes—a weird half-hour called Ghost Time.
In short, we’re told that we will be spending much of this day waiting, standing in lines, and marching in a spectacle parade . . . all while holding our equipment bags.
No one mentions bathroom breaks.
“You’re responsible for your own property,” an official tells us. “This includes all your custom weapons and personal equipment bags. You must keep them with you at all times, including the Ceremony. Because of legal proceedings of earlier years when Contender bags and their contents were tampered with, despite all precautions, we can no longer allow you to store them in this venue, on account of sabotage. If anyone touches or comes in contact with your property, assume it has been compromised—”
So, bag. Looks like I’ll be hugging and lugging you all day, I think.
And then I listen to yet another Games official drone on about how exactly we must march, keeping a distance of at least a meter between each person, and how quickly we must step as we circle the arena and then end up in our designated sections. . . .
After more than an hour of endless talk and nitpicky instructions related to the Ceremony, I am so deadly bored that I forget to be stressed and nervous. The same goes for pretty much every Contender in the room. Maybe it’s intentional, to make us dull and relaxed. . . .
Who knew? Our first Games ordeal is trying to stay awake. They’re trying to kill us off here before it even starts.
For some reason I imagine how Laronda would joke about this, if she were here. And then I think of all the rest of my friends and family . . . and Aeson. Are they out there, seated in the stadium, watching, waiting, worrying about me?
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