You’re one to talk about fairness, I answer.
Fairness?He shakes his head.You think any of this is fair?
It’s not quite the answer I’d expected from him.
At my pause, a small smile drifts across Constantine’s lips. The dark stripe down his face is freshly black and shines under the light—and in spite of Raina’s continued efforts to weaken him, he still cuts a terrifying figure.They have a chance because this is meant to entertain. But it isn’t fair, Talin. If it were fair, I would give them an opportunity to escape.
I narrow my eyes at him.You could, of course. You just won’t.
If only the world were fair, Constantine replies.But no one wants that. They just want it to be fair forthem.
There is a note of some bitterness in those words, an old wound from somewhere long ago.
And there, beyond the steady link I have with Constantine, is a tug I know all too well.
I know better than to react, immediately tampering down my emotions in an attempt to keep my realization from the Premier. Raina’s tonic must have helped too. As I do, I look out into the audience of the arena, my eyes resting instinctively on where I think the pull is coming from.
Red is here.
I can’t see him in this crowd, but I can feel him. The elation in my chest mixes with terror. He ishere, in the capital, surrounded by enemies who want him dead.
It can’t be. It’s impossible.
And yet, even as I struggle with this realization, I can feel the clear beat of his heart through our link, can sense his presence out in the crowd as surely as I can feel the breeze in the air.
No, Red, I want to scream to him.You can’t be here. It’s too dangerous.
Down below, in the center of the arena, an announcer raises his voice to address the audience. In a daze, I turn to look at him.
“Welcome to the solstice festival!” he shouts. The answering cheers are deafening. The announcer smiles before pointing one hand in the direction of the Strikers’ gates. “The Strikers of Mara are famed for their ability to fight our Federation’s fearsome Ghosts. You’ve heard these stories for years, I’m sure—but today, you will get to see the legend in action!”
That’s all he needs to say. The people are on their feet now, jumping with anticipation in their seats as everyone cranes their necks in the direction of the gates. On the other end of the maze, guards undo the chains holding back the Ghosts, and they snarl against the bars of their cages.
My muscles tense until I feel as if I might shatter.
Constantine nods once. On the other side of the arena, two bannermen wave scarlet flags.
The Striker gates slide open at the same time the guards unleash the Ghosts from their cages.
The first person to step out into the light is Aramin.
I can’t help sucking in my breath. He has been given a full Striker uniform, with his double blades strapped to his hips and his arrows and guns completely equipped. They have trimmed his hair and let him tie it up into the traditional Maran knot. The only telltale change that sticks out is the bright yellow band around his wrist.
I stare at him, hardly able to believe the sight of the Firstblade stepping out of Cardinia’s central arena in his full glory. Such cruelty, letting him play at his former role in a game. Where did they get the uniform? From a fallen Striker? The thought makes my stomach turn.
He turns his gaze up to the sky, hearing the roar of the crowd but unable to see them. The only thing he can make out is the edge of the balcony where we now stand, our faces turned in his direction.
He meets my gaze, if only for the briefest moment. In it, I see a world of fury and grief. I want to pour my heart out to him, tell him I will save him and the others—except I can’t, and he knows it. So all we can do is stare at each other until he finally breaks away.
Behind him, Adena steps smoothly out into the arena, dressed in similar Striker finery, her wrist banded in red. Then there is Tomm and Pira, banded with blue and green. Adena focuses on the multiple routes before them that lead into the maze. She and Aramin pull out their blades in a uniform flourish. Their movements are so graceful and synced that the audience murmurs in excitement. So these are the legendary pairs of Maran warriors, they’re probably thinking, bonded until death to each other.
I don’t know why I feel compelled to do it now—they might not even be able to see my hands from here. But I still find myself signing to them, then pressing a fist gently to my chest. It’s subtle enough that the Premier doesn’t seem to notice, nor do the audience. But down in the maze, Aramin, Adena, Tomm, and Pira see me.
“May there be future dawns.”
They see the signs; they understand my words. And each of them lifts their fist in return and presses it once to their chest.
They are breathtaking, and in this moment, I want to cry for them. Each of us had pledged our lives to Mara when we became Strikers, and each of us prepared in some way for death to claim us—but not like this. Not in an arena full of screaming people, competing for our lives.
