Oh,fuck.What am I doing?
His little manipulation routineworked. The game he’s been playing, a game that he’s been aware of all along while I was left guessing. He’s gotten to me. I’m actually debating how much to tell my own sister.
“I did find out something very interesting,” I say. I gesture then to the chariot driver. It’s unlikely he’ll hear us, but it’s not worth the risk.
But I am going to tell her.
Later.
Adria raises her eyebrows and nods. Then she smiles broadly and pats my back, and I’m reminded of how good it feels to please her.
The chariot drops us outside of the arena, the track we took the first night now occupied by a variety of races. This time, we walk the darkened tunnel on foot.
By daylight, the arena is almost unrecognizable. It’s half empty now; the qualifying events must not have the same draw as the opening ceremony, though perhaps that’s due to the royal box sitting empty more than anything else. I breathe a sigh of relief at Ronan’s absence—that’s one less thing to worry about today.
With the crowd huddled largely in the shadows, avoiding the sections of sunlit stone, the scale of the arena is even more apparent. It's impossible not to be awed by it, and yet I can’t help but think of the men and women who built it. Slaves mostly, I’d guess, since the arena was built long before Selara ended slavery. I wonder how many people toiled to dig the enormous stones out of the ground, how many of them broke their bodies dragging them here hundreds of years ago.
What did they think of what they made?
Adria snaps me from my reverie by pointing to the great torch, which had been dragged off to the side to accommodate the dozen events happening simultaneously on the arena floor. “So much for that honor,” she snarks, taking a dig at Quinn, though I doubt the location of the torch has anything to do with her at all.
We’re shepherded by an official through the swirl of noise and action to a towering slate board propped against a pillar. The order of every trial and every individual competing is written on it in white chalk.
My archery trial will be first, along with Adria’s qualifying sword fight. The sword-fighting tournament is seven rounds ofsingle elimination. Based on our placement in the bracket, we’ll only face each other in the semifinals, and the chances of me making it that far are slim to none.
I read through the other names until I finally find the one I’m looking for: Quinn of House Horatio. She’s on the other side of the bracket entirely. Neither of us will face her until the final, assuming any of us makes it that far; thank Sai for his mercy.
I wish Adria luck as I join a line of archers preparing to fire their qualifying shots. The target is painted on a bale of hay at a distance of thirty paces, exactly as I practiced all those years in the castle courtyard. The standard issue Selaran bow has a bit less give than I’m used to, but I quickly adjust to it during my practice shots.
“SYLVIE!” someone screams from the crowd.
My heart races as I look into the stands just to my left to see Larus, but it isn’t him yelling.
It’s Felix. “Sylvie! Over here!”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. The swashbuckling idiot is swaying on his feet and jumping haphazardly around, drunk before noon. He’s wearing another ridiculous maritime coat, this one in a bright yellow that makes him look like a dying canary as he flits around, waving like a lunatic.
I cover my face with my hand.
“Your husband?” asks the woman in black leather qualifying to my right. I don’t recognize the style of her armor or the way she wears her dark curly hair, piled onto her head with a strap holding it in place. Brakkari, maybe, or from somewhere beyond?
Wherever she’s from, they must spend a lot of time practicing archery. Her practice shots are nearly all bullseyes.
“Gods, no,” I say, watching Felix tumble into a man seated in front of him in the stands.
The woman laughs. “He’s a mess, but he’s handsome. Tell him to cheer for Calliope instead if you don’t want him.”
“Gladly.”
Despite Felix’s distraction, I manage to sail through my qualifying shots. I notice that Calliope does just as well as I do. Better, in fact. She splits one of her own arrows right in the bullseye.
“It will be a grand competition,” she says, pointing to my target where three arrows are grouped closely dead in the center. She holds out her hand to shake, her grip firm and unyielding.
“To victory,” I say. It’s a message of goodwill and good luck that I hope isn’t lost on her, assuming she isn’t from here.
“And to the victor,” she replies, the customary Selaran response.
By the time I meet Adria again at the sword-fighting ring, she’s already won her qualifying bout 5-0.
