Heat sluices through me again.
Focus, Suraya, for ashes’ sake.
I swallow, grabbing the fan in my lap and swishing it aggressively near my face. From the side, Ziba hands me a glass of water, and I drink it gratefully. To my horror, she had witnessed the proof of the king’s lovemaking written all over me during my bath in the evening. She hadn’t said a word, thank every star in the sky, but her eyes had glinted with what had looked oddly like relief. By this morning, when my skin was back to normal—thank you, suppressed but effective magical blood—she, too, had returned to her normal quiet and efficient self with no mention of my extracurricular activities with her beloved sovereign.
And beloved he is, contrary to Oryndhrian rumor.
Those who might not adore him respect him. Even the Aspacana.
A wave of screaming overtakes the entire crowd, citizens from all over Everlea, including the horde clans. These tournament events will be followed by nights of frenetic feasting, which are central to the Gauntlet of Mithral—a fascinating combination of athletic games, sacred celebrations, and cultural spectacle.
The stands had been erected quickly at the intersection of the four territories belonging to Rakh, Shabra, Chamros, and Karkad. This is hallowed ground to them, the space where many of their communal rituals take place: the intersection of sky and earth is the center of their divine beliefs.
I don’t miss the significance that my magic, embodied by the simurgh, is symbolic of the earth and sky connection as well. Which is probably why each of the Aspacana leaders is focused on honoring my presence and wanted me here. That and the mistaken belief that I can cure the plague threatening their livelihoods. Not that I can do much without the full extent of my magic.
I swallow hard and gulp more water, very conscious of the hundreds of stares flicking to me from the onlookers who see me as some corporeal representation of their goddess.
Oxhorn drums start to beat, heralding the start of the procession. There is a visceral energy humming through the spectators, including nearly all the nobles from Verisia, who have never before been invited to the Gauntlet.
First, each of the Aspacana leaders will be presented to me with their courts in a display of their primary elemental numen, and then the official tournament will begin. As I understand it, there is jousting, strength contests, hand-to-hand combat, and even chariot racing. I sit up, excited by the energy in the stands as everyone pitches forward to see the presentation spectacle in the open-air arena. Several dozen musicians follow the marching drummers, and ethereal panpipe melodies fill the arena.
Jaw agape, I stare, fascinated, when scores of beautifully dressed entertainers in bright clan colors emerge in their wake and start to dance, their supple bodies undulating like the numena they represent. The Rakh dancers twirl live flames in between their limbs, while the Karkad ones send ribbons of liquid up into the sky like tiny airborne rivers with each leap. I can’t help observing that Zahre is front and center, clad in blue leather. Droplets of water roll across the voluptuous body I try not to notice.
He doesn’t want her.
I despise the fact that I can’t seem to control my jealousy. I have no reason to be, but Ani’s words about the king’s former lover echo poisonously in my brain. I drag my gaze away and focus on the Shabra performers, who are manipulating shiny rocks in a dazzling display of dexterity, while the Chamros dancers rise up, whirling into the air on magical wind currents.
I watch with wonder, along with everyone else. Even Laleh looks impressed. Each rais and raissa gallops onto the sands riding massive, decorated warhorses to roars and shrieks of their people. Rais Azes and Rais Masišta are bare-chested, their arms, legs, and torsos covered in tattoos, their big muscles oiled and glistening. Gold torcs adorn their necks.
Even the raissas, Tabiti and Karânî, have ornate gold jewelry hanging from thick armored collars over fitted tunics, their tattoos of various abstract animals like snarling cats, flying griffins, and horned rams also on ferocious display.
The four riders come to a sharp halt in front of the dais, bowing their heads in deference. I smile and cant my head in return, lifting the two fingers of my right hand to my chin and releasing them toward each leader, like I’ve been told to do by a very helpful and knowledgeable Ani, who is well-versed in Aspacana culture and formal customs.
“Lady Suraya,” Raissa Tabiti says as her horse dips down to its forelegs. “May your flame forever burn hot.”
The nearly seven-foot Rais Masišta is next. His horse doesn’t bow, but he draws his massive ax and holds it high. “May your waters never stop flowing.”
“May the earth always provide,” Raissa Karânî offers, her horse rearing up to its hind legs and pawing the air.
Last, Rais Azes eyes me, arrogance radiating from him in waves. “May the winds favor you.”
There’s one more competitor, and that’s King Darrius Nightsong. There’s complete silence as we await his entrance—no performers, no acrobats—and an entire realm holds its breath.
The sound of an azdaha screeching cuts through the air. Indira circles above everyone’s heads with a cry and lands dead center on the ground. The king sits astride her back.
Glittering crimson azdaha eyes collide with mine.
Starkeeper,Indira greets me, and I bow my head in mutual respect.
How are your eggs?I ask. She bares her teeth in a happy grin that makes a few onlookers shriek.
Thriving,she says.Razulek sends his regards and says to make sure this one doesn’t murder too many of his subjects in a jealous rage.
I laugh and then frown. Surely that’s not going to happen.
Indira opens her mouth and roars, lowering a dark bloodred wing so her rider can dismount, and my mouth utterly dries. The king is bare-chested as well, gold dust shimmering over his oiled bronze-brown skin, and wearing tight black front-laced leathers that leave little to the imagination.
Gods...
