Why would Laconian soldiers carry the mark of an Ophir king?
I think of what Tadhana told me. What she called Lacon—rebels. And what Luwalhati told us—that the Lacon betrayed us. For five hundred years Laconians told us that they discovered Ophir and conquered us. That we were a feeble and weak people, a backward and primitive civilization. But what if—what if Lacon didn’t discover us at all? What if Lacon was always part of Ophir? There’s more to this story than we’ve been told. And when I get out of this arena, I’m going to find out exactly what it is.
Before the soldier can reach me, Eban throws himself between us, and the two of them fall, Eban struggling to disarm the man who’s trying to drive his blade into Eban’s chest.
Meanwhile the Octoblade is hovering so close we can feel the air from its blades. We’re all going to die. Eban is still struggling with the soldier, the blade so close to his neck it draws a line of blood.
-Yarima!I scream.
My angry daughter, Tadhana says.Good.
-Yarima! Lend me your might!
I’m shaking and furious. My anger overwhelming and ferocious. I’m ready to lay waste to every Laconian in the arena. And then, all of a sudden, I feel my power. My rage lights a spark and starts a fire in my blood. The resulting flames course through my veins, fury and vengeance. Lightning sparks up underneath my skin, tiny bolts that zap all over my body.
The lightning spreads, up through my torso and down my arms, until it flows through my hands, and just as the Octoblade is about to slice through us, I push the soldier off Eban, throwing him back with the force of my power. I pick up his blade and hold it up against the whirling death machine. The lightning from my body flows into the metal of my blade, and as it zaps the automaton, the blades stop whirling, sparks fly, and the machine bursts into flame. Now everything is burning, pieces of metal fly from the Octoblade and onto our platform, catching the cable that holds it up on fire, all the way down, down, down to the great motor at the bottom. There’s a strange, extended hiss, like the time the cook at the pleasure house poured water over a burning-hot pan. Smoke streams upward from below.
The platform lurches, as if it’s being pushed upward by enormous hands rather than just hissing steam. It begins to shake. “Jump off!” I scream.
The group of us flee as fire erupts from the depths of the ground. It shoots out from under the platform, blowing the entire thing straight up into the air. People scream and push each other out of the way. One man’s shirt catches fire; he drops to the ground, swatting at it furiously. People flee in all directions. People attempt to run, in vain. There’s no exit, no escape.
The audience is screaming, too, unsure what’s about to happen. Half of them remain in their seats, still believing it’s all part of the show. An exciting new sight for this year’s celebrations. Others know better. They’re already falling over one another trying to get out of the arena as fire begins to catch the banners hanging all over the amphitheater.
The platform crashes to the ground with a sickeningthudand reverberatingclang.
Eban and I take advantage of the bedlam and run toward the exit doors. A guard spots us and comes right for us, his freshly sharpened sword circling over his head, meaning to strike us down where we stand.
We make it to the door. Eban pulls on the handle. It doesn’t open. “Hurry!” I yell.
He continues tugging. “I’m trying!”
I grab the handle. He’s right. It won’t budge. I abandon that one for another a few feet away. As I yank on that handle, the guard catches up to Eban, his sword still raised high over his head. “Eban!” I scream, pointing at the guard.
Eban ducks and spins out of the way just as the sword comes down where his head had been right before. The metal meets the wall instead, then the guard turns and aims the blade at Eban again.
I look around frantically. There has to be another weapon somewhere for me to use. Then I see one. Eban sees it at the same time. But he’s closer. He sprints over to the body of a dead guard and pulls the sword from its scabbard. Then he turns to find the other guard coming straight for him.
This time he’s ready. The swords clang against each other. I look around for another sword within reach. I see one, on another fallen guard, but it’s at least ten feet away from me, and I don’t think I can reach it in time. Eban and the guard are spinning in circles, their weapons evenly matched, as the fire grows, consuming more and more of the arena, and gaining speed. At this point escaping the fire and finding an exit is far more important than grabbing that sword.
“Eban!” He doesn’t look. He might not hear me. And I can’t reach the other sword.
I try another door, but it’s locked, the same as the others. They’ll all be locked, of course, because then the servants won’t be able to escape the slaughter. That would’ve ruined the show.
The only exits I can see are from the stands, which are filled with screaming, fearful guests, who now understand none of this was meant to happen. We’re surrounded by a growing wall of flames, and the air is burning hot and hard to breathe. The flames I’d unleashed may have saved the Ophir from the Octoblade, but they will also be the thing that kills me. And Eban. My heart feels sick. Tadhana was right. I wasn’t careful, and now I’m not going to live, nor am I going to make it to the vault.
But then again, if I’m able to unleash something like that, why should a flimsy door stop me? I’m not accustomed to my abilities yet, so I’m unsure if I’ll only add fuel to the literal fire, but I have to try.
The guard gets a swipe at Eban, slicing through his jacket. Eban swings back and gashes the guard’s arm.
I focus all my energy on blasting open the door. The lightning energy flows through me, as it did last time, a rush in my veins, except now, I make a more conscious effort to regulate it. I can’t allow unmitigated magic to move freely through me and wreak havoc. I need concentrated, controlled power.
Still, it threatens to overwhelm me. I feel it verging on mayhem again, imagine it bursting forth into the arena, knocking out everyone in its path, including Eban, and then still leaving me locked in against the flames. No. I halt the image. That’s part of the problem. My fears are driving the intention. I’m inadvertently causing the destruction on my own. Eyes closed, I strain against it, visualizing all those bolts of energy as one narrow stream that, instead of taking every bit of me, flows only through my left hand, and only aims exactly where I want it to.
I wrap my hand around the handle. My entire arm shakes. Concentration. Control.
Focus.
Concentration. Control.
