by V. E. Schwab
“Fal chas,” said Kell. Good luck.
“And you,” replied Stasion simply, his voice nearly swallowed by the sudden flare of trumpets.
Kell twisted back to the archways as the gate swung open, and the ceremonies began.
II
“See, Parlo?” said Rhy, stepping out onto the stadium’s royal balcony. “I told you it wouldn’t sink.”
The attendant hugged the back wall, looking ill. “So far, so good, Your Highness,” he said, straining to be heard over the trumpets.
Rhy turned his smile on the waiting crowd. Thousands upon thousands had piled into the central stadium for the opening ceremonies. Above, the canvas birds dipped and soared on their silk tethers, and below, the polished stone of the arena floor stood empty save for three raised platforms. Poles mounted on each hung massive banners, each with an empire’s seal.
The Faroan Tree.
The Veskan Crow.
The Arnesian Chalice.
Atop each platform, twelve shorter poles stood with banners furled, waiting for their champions.
Everything was perfect. Everything was ready.
As the trumpets trailed off, a cold breeze rustled Rhy’s curls, and he touched the band of gold that hugged his temples. More gold glittered in his ears, at his throat, at collar and cuff, and as it caught the light, Alucard’s voice pressed against his skin.
I fear you haven’t enough….
Rhy stopped fidgeting. Behind him, the king and queen sat enthroned on gilded chairs, flanked by Lord Sol-in-Ar and the Taskon siblings. Master Tieren stood to the side.
“Shall I, Father?”
The king nodded, and Rhy stepped forward until he was front and center on the platform, overlooking the arena. The royal balcony sat not at the very top of the stadium, but embedded in the center of one sloping side, an elegant box halfway between the competitors’ entrances and directly across from the judge’s own platform.
The crowd began to hush, and Rhy grinned and held up a gold ring the size of a bracelet. When he spoke, the spelled metal amplified his words. The same charmed rings—albeit copper and steel—had been sent to taverns and courtyards across the city so that all could hear. During the matches, commentators would use the rings to keep the city apprised on various victories and defeats, but at this moment, the city’s attention belonged to Rhy.
“Good morning, to all who have gathered.”
A ripple of pleased surprise went through the gathered crowd when they realized he was speaking Arnesian. The last time the tournament had been held in London, Rhy’s father had stood above his people and spoken High Royal, while a translator on a platform below offered the words in the common tongue.
But this wasn’t just an affair of state, as his father claimed. It was a celebration for the people, the city, the empire. And so Rhy addressed his people, his city, his empire, in their tongue.
He went a step further, too: the platform below, where the translators of not only Ames but also Faro and Vesk were supposed to stand, was empty. The foreigners frowned, wondering if the absence was some kind of slight. But their expressions became buoyant when Rhy continued.
“Glad-ach!” he said, addressing the Veskans. “Anagh cael tach.” And then, just as seamlessly, he slid into the serpentine tongue of Faro. “Sasors noran amurs.”
He let the words trail off, savoring the crowd’s reaction. Rhy had always had a way with languages. About time he put some of them to use.
“My father, King Maxim, has given me the honor of overseeing this year’s tournament.”
This time as he spoke, his words echoed from other corners of the stadium, his voice twisting into the other two neighboring tongues. An illusion, one Kell had helped him design, using a variety of voice and projection spells. His father insisted that strength was the image of strength. Perhaps the same was true for magic.
“For more than fifty years, the Element Games have brought us together through good sport and festival, given us cause to toast our Veskan brothers and sisters and embrace our Faroan friends. And though only one magician—one nation—can claim this year’s title, we hope that the Games will continue to celebrate the bond between our great empires!” Rhy tipped his head and flashed a devilish smile. “But I doubt you’re all here for the politics. I imagine you’re here to see some magic.”
A cheer of support went through the masses.
“Well then, I present to you your magicians.”
A column of glossy black fabric unfurled from the base of the royal platform, the end weighted so it stretched taut. A matching banner unspooled from the opposite side of the arena.
“From Faro, our venerable neighbor to the south, I present the twins of wind and fire, Tas-on-Mir and Tos-an-Mir; the wave whisperer Ol-ran-Es; the unparalleled Ost-ra-Gal….”
As Rhy read each name, it appeared in white script against the dark silk banner beneath him.
“From Vesk, our noble neighbors to the north, I present the mountainous Otto, the unmovable Vox, the ferocious Rul …”
And as each name was called, the magician strode forward across the arena floor, and took their place on the podium.
“And finally, from our great empire of Arnes, I present your champion, the fire cat, Kisimyr”—a thunderous cheer went through the crowd—“the sea king, Alucard; the windborne Jinnar …”
And as each magician took their place, their chosen banner unfurled above their head.
“And Kamerov, the silver knight.”
It was a dance, elaborate and elegant and choreographed to perfection.
The crowd rumbled with applause as the last of the Arnesian pennants snapped in the cool morning air, a set of twin blades above Stasion Elsor.
“Over the next five days and nights,” continued Rhy, “these thirty-six magicians will compete for the title and the crown.” He touched his head. “You can’t have this one,” he added with a wink, “it’s mine.” A ripple of laughter went through the stands. “No, the tournament crown is something far more spectacular. Incomparable riches; unmatchable renown; glory to one’s name, one’s house, and one’s kingdom.”
All traces of writing vanished from the curtains of black fabric, and the lines of the tournament grid appeared in white.
“For the first round, our magicians have been paired off.” As he said it, names wrote themselves into the outer edges of the bracket. Murmurs went through the crowd and the magicians themselves stirred as they saw their opponents’ names for the first time.
“The eighteen victors,” continued Rhy, “will be paired off again, and the nine that advance will be placed into groups of three, where they will face off one-on-one. From each group, only the one with the highest standing will emerge to battle in the final match. Three magicians will enter, and only one will leave victorious. So tell me,” finished Rhy, twirling the golden ring between his fingers, “are you ready to see some magic?”
The noise in the stadium rose to a deafening pitch, and the prince smiled. He might not have been able to summon fire, or draw rain, or make trees grow, but he still knew how to make an impact. He could feel the audience’s excitement, as if it were beating inside him. And then he realized it wasn’t only their excitement he was feeling.
It was also Kell’s.
All right, brother, he thought, balancing the gold ring on his thumb like a coin.
“The time has come to marvel, and cheer, and choose your champions. And so, without further delay …” Rhy flicked the gold circle up into the air, and as he did, fireworks exploded overhead. Each explosion of light had been paired with its own midnight blue burst of smoke, an illusion of night that reached only as far as the firework and set it off against the winter grey sky.
He caught the ring and held it up again, his voice booming over the fireworks and the crowd’s cheers.
“Let the Games begin!”
III
Lila had lost her mind. That was the only explanation. She was standing on a platform, surrounded by m
en and women who practically shook with power, the explosion of fireworks above and the roar of the crowd to every side, wearing a stranger’s stolen clothes and about to compete in a tournament in the name of an empire she didn’t serve in a world she wasn’t even from.
And she was grinning like a fool.
Alucard jostled her shoulder, and she realized the other magicians were descending the platform, filing back toward the corridor from which they’d entered.
She followed the procession out of the arena and across the bridge-tunnel framework—she honestly couldn’t tell what was holding the stadium up, but whatever it was, she seemed to be walking on it—and back to the solid ground of the city’s southern banks.
Once on land, the gaps between the magicians began to stretch as they walked at their own pace toward the tents, and Lila and Alucard found themselves with room to move and speak.
“You still look like a fish,” whispered Lila.
“And you still look like a girl playing dress-up,” snapped Alucard. A few silent strides later he added, “You’ll be happy to know I had a small sum sent back to our friend’s home, claiming it was a competitor’s bonus.”
“How generous,” said Lila. “I’ll pay you back with my winnings.”
Alucard lowered his voice. “Jinnar will hold his peace, but there’s nothing I can do about Master Tieren. You’d best avoid him, since he certainly knows what Stasion Elsor looks like.”
Lila waved her hand. “Don’t worry about that.”
“You can’t kill the Aven Essen.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she shot back. “Besides, Tieren already knows.”
“What?” His storm-dark eyes narrowed behind his scaled mask. “And since when do you call the London Aven Essen by his first name? I’m pretty sure that’s some kind of blasphemy.”
Lila’s mouth quirked. “Master Tieren and I have a way of crossing paths.”
“All part of your mysterious past, I’m sure. No, it’s fine, don’t bother telling me anything useful, I’m only your captain and the man who helped you send an innocent man off into saints know what so you could compete in a tournament you’re in no way qualified to be in.”
“Fine,” she said. “I won’t. And I thought you weren’t associating with Stasion Elsor.”
Alucard frowned, his mouth perfectly exposed beneath the mask. He appeared to be sulking.
“Where are we going?” she asked to break the silence.
“The tents,” said Alucard, as if that explained everything. “First match is in an hour.”
Lila summoned the bracket in her mind, but it proved unnecessary, since every scrying board they passed seemed to be showing the grid. Every pairing had a symbol beside it marking the arena—a dragon for the east, a lion for the west, a bird for the one in the center—as well as an order. According to the grid, Kisimyr was set to face off against her own protégé, Losen, Alucard against a Veskan named Otto, Jinnar against a Faroan with a string of syllables. And Lila? She read the name across from Stasion’s. Sar Tanak. A crow to the left of the name indicated that Sar was Veskan.
“Any idea which one is Sar?” asked Lila, nodding to the towering blond men and women walking ahead.
“Ah,” said Alucard, gesturing to a figure on the other side of the procession. “That would be Sar.”
Lila’s eyes widened as the shape stepped forward. “That?” The Veskan stood six feet tall and was built like a rock slab. She was a woman, as far as Lila could tell, her features stony behind her hawkish mask, straw hair scraped into short braids that stuck out like feathers. She looked like the kind of creature to carry an ax.
What had Alucard said about Veskans worshipping mountains?
Sar was a mountain.
“I thought magic had nothing to do with physical size.”
“The body is a vessel,” explained Alucard. “The Veskans believe that the larger the vessel, the more power it can hold.”
“Great,” Lila muttered to herself.
“Cheer up,” said Alucard as they neared another scrying board. He nodded to their names, positioned on opposite sides of the grid. “At least our paths probably won’t cross.”
Lila’s steps slowed. “You mean I have to beat all these people, just for the chance to take you on?”
He tipped his head. “You could have begged that privilege any night aboard the Spire, Bard. If you wanted a swift and humiliating death.”
“Oh, is that so?”
They crossed in front of the palace as they chatted, and Lila discovered that, on the far side, in place of the gardens that usually ran from palace wall to copper bridge, stood three tents, great circular things sporting empire colors. Lila was secretly glad the tents weren’t floating, too. She’d found her sea legs, of course, but had enough to worry about in the Essen Tasch without the prospect of drowning.
“And be glad you don’t have Kisimyr in your bracket,” continued Alucard as a guard held open the curtained flap that served as the main entrance of their tent. “Or Brost. You got off light.”
“No need to sound so relieved….” said Lila, trailing off as she took in the splendor of the Arnesian tent’s interior. They were standing in a kind of common area at the center, the rest of the tent segmented into twelve pie-like wedges. Fabric billowed down from the peaked ceiling—just the way it did in the royal palace rooms—and everything was soft and plush and trimmed with gold. For the first time in her life, Lila’s awe wasn’t matched by the desire to pocket anything—she was either growing too accustomed to wealth or, more likely, had enough charges on her plate without adding theft.
“Believe it or not,” Alucard whispered, “one of us would like to see you live.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
“You always do.” He looked around, spotting his banner on one of the twelve curtained rooms. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a match to prepare for.”
Lila waved. “I’ll be sure to pick up your pennant. It’s the one with a fish on it, right?”
“Har har.”
“Good luck.”
* * *
Lila unfastened her helmet as she passed into the private tent marked by a black flag with crossed knives.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered as she tugged off the mask, the devil’s jaw tangling in her hair. And then she looked up. And stopped. The room was many things—simple, elegant, softened by couches and tables and billowing fabric—but it was not empty.
A woman stood in the middle of the space, dressed in white and gold, holding a tray of tea. Lila jumped, fighting the urge to draw a weapon.
“Kers la?” she snapped, her helmet still resting on her head.
The woman frowned slightly. “An tas arensor.”
“I don’t need an attendant,” answered Lila, still in Arnesian, and still fighting with the helmet.
The woman set down the tray, came forward, and, in one effortless motion, disentangled the knot, freeing Lila from the devil’s jaws. She lifted the helmet from Lila’s head and set it on the table.
Lila had decided not to thank her for the unwarranted help, but the words still slipped out.
“You’re welcome,” answered the woman.
“I don’t need you,” repeated Lila.
But the woman held her ground. “All competitors are assigned an attendant.”
“Well then,” said Lila brusquely, “I dismiss you.”
“I don’t think you can.”
Lila rubbed her neck. “Do you speak High Royal?”
The woman slid effortlessly into English. “It suits my station.”
“As a servant?”
A smile nicked the corner of the woman’s mouth. “As a priest.” Of course, thought Lila. Master Tieren chose the competitors. It made sense that he would supply the attendants, too. “The prince insists that all competitors be provided an attendant, to see to their various needs.”
Lila raised a brow. “Like what?”
The woman shrugged and
gestured to a chair.
Lila tensed. There was a body in it. It had no head.
The woman crossed to the form, and Lila realized it wasn’t a headless corpse after all, but a set of armor, not polished like the kind worn by the royal guards, but simple and white. Lila found herself reaching for the nearest piece. When she lifted it, she marveled at its lightness. It didn’t seem like it would do much to protect her. She tossed it back onto the chair, but the attendant caught it before it fell.
“Careful,” she said, setting the piece down gently. “The plates are fragile.”
“What good is fragile armor?” asked Lila. The woman looked at her as though she had asked a very stupid question. Lila hated that kind of look.
“This is your first Essen Tasch,” she said. It wasn’t an inquiry. Without waiting for confirmation, the woman bent to a chest beside the chair and drew out a spare piece of armor. She held it up for Lila to see, and then threw it against the ground. When it met the floor, the plate cracked, and as it did, there was a flash of light. Lila winced at the sudden brightness; in the flare’s wake, the armor plate was no longer white, but dark grey.
“This is how they keep score,” explained the attendant, retrieving the spent armor. “A full set of armor is twenty-eight pieces. The first magician to break ten wins the match.”
Lila reached down and took up the ruined plate. “Anything else I should know?” she asked, turning it over in her hands.
“Well,” said the priest, “you cannot strike blows with your body, only your elements, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Lila hadn’t. A trumpet sounded. The first matches were about to begin.
“Do you have a name?” she asked, handing the plate back.
“Ister.”
“Well, Ister …” Lila backed away toward the curtain. “Do you just … stand here until I need you?”
The woman smiled and dug a volume from a pocket. “I have a book.”
“Let me guess, a religious text?”
“Actually,” said Ister, perching on the low couch, “it’s about pirates.”
Lila smiled. The priestess was growing on her.