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Becoming Cinque means gaining access to the Concilium, the ruling body of Caelria. It means having a vote in the policies put in place for the entire city. It means being able to suggest those policies in the first place. Yes, there are riches and luxury attached to the role, but those are less important than the power—literal in this case since the Cinque maintain the magic gifted to them by their respective gods.
“Watch.” Mouse points to where Judgment and his pair of war dogs, both clothed in black and bristling with weapons, have entered the arena. People scatter out of his way as he walks directly down to the sand and takes up a position just outside of it. All the Cinque will be competing again in an attempt to maintain their positions. If they don’t, they lose their magic to the next champion. Mouse has never heard of anyone in the history of the Trials making that decision.
More and more people file into the arena and fill the empty space. Mouse clears his throat. “There’s the Star. She’s immune to poison, and she soaks her lace gloves in it. She’ll kill stealthily, and she relied heavily on her alliance in the last Trials to see her through.” Her alliance that included my mother. Any loyalty she had clearly ended when the Trials did—she didn’t speak up in my mother’s defense, either.
I clench my jaw to keep from pointing out that he’s drilled me on all the past champions more times than I can count. He’s not repeating it because he thinks I don’t know the information; he’s doing it because he’s worried. “She looks like a Cup,” I say. It’s true. I can’t see many details at this distance, but the thin woman has short blond hair, pale skin, and is clothed in layers of sheer teal fabric that flow around her body almost like water.
“She’s allied with them. They value the alliance and will try to make things easier for her when they host their party. Don’t trust them.”
I’m not going to trust anyone. Since there are five winners, alliances are the name of the game, but Mouse is vehemently against me attempting one. My mother did and, while it technically helped her and the other four win, when the Minor Court declared she had committed treason they turned their backs on her without hesitation.
“There’s the Chariot.” I don’t have to have seen him before to identify him—he’s a massive man who stands a head and shoulders taller than those around him. His bald head shines in the Sun overhead, and tattoos break up the pale skin on his exposed thighs. He has over a dozen people with him and he ambles through the crowd with long steps that eat up the distance. His magic is momentum—once he’s in motion, he’s all but unstoppable. The more he moves, the more powerful he becomes. Even once I have the Moon’s moonbeams, my best bet to deal with the Chariot will be to set a trap where he can’t move. I don’t know how I’ll manage that, but it’s a problem for the future. In a perfect world, someone else would cut him down first, but I’ve never lived in a perfect world and I highly doubt my luck will change now.
Mouse goes tense beside me. “Death is here.” He points, but it still takes me a moment to pick the man out of the crowd. Unlike the others, he has no entourage. He’s a pale man with dark hair, lean to the point of being cadaverous, wearing simple black armor. “You mustn’t let him touch you. A single scratch is all he needs to kill you.” Mouse’s voice goes hoarse. “That bastard murdered your mother in cold blood. The Minor Court gave him an order, and he followed it without question. There was no trial, no public explanation. One day she was here, and the next, he cut her fucking head off.”
My throat goes tight. Mouse doesn’t talk about my mother’s death often. It hurts him. It hurts me, too, but the only memories I have of her are the faint impression of soft hugs and the smell of wintergreen. I still drink wintergreen tea when I want to feel close to this woman who is both a stranger and also the guiding light in my life. “He won’t survive the Trials,” I promise.
“Stay away from him, Kestrel.” Mouse grips my wrist too tightly. “His magic is the least of his power. He has a way with words that twists the truth. You may think you’re not susceptible—your mother thought the same thing. She was wrong, and you will be, too. You can’t trust anything he says.”
“I’ll stay away from him,” I lie. Before I get my revenge, I will get answers about my mother’s death.
Below, thirteen people file out onto the sand. The colors they wear mark them for what they are—the remaining members of the Concilium, comprised of the five guild leaders, and the kings and queens of the four Minor Courts. One of the Wands steps forward and raises their hands, commanding silence from the arena.
The Culling is about to begin.
While it is understood that the Culling is a necessary evil—and a necessary entertainment for the city—it perfectly demonstrates how barbaric the old gods are. No matter Their domain, They crave blood and violence in Their honor.
—EXCERPT FROM THE MAJOR ARCANA: A TREATISE ON THE HISTORY OF THE OLD GODS
CHAPTER THREE
“WE HAVE COME to this place on this day to honor the old gods by conducting the Tarot Trials to determine the members of the next Cinque.” The Wand’s voice is low and pleasing, and yet seems to reach every corner of the arena. I’m not sure how they’re doing it, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. They continue, turning slowly to encompass the entire crowd. “The members of the Concilium are present in order to oversee the Culling. We will announce each god, one by one. Once the god is named, you may make your attempt to reach the dais. The first person to step up will become the next champion of that god.” A pregnant pause, in which no one in the arena seems to breathe. “We will begin, as always, with the Fool.”
The master of the Ruby Guild steps forward. Of the five guilds in Caelria, Ruby is the only one that has people working in the Dregs. If you participate in sex work in Caelria, you’re required to be a member of the Ruby Guild. Violating that law is unwise in a number of ways, but I don’t see why anyone would bother. Rubies take care of their own, even those who join from the Dregs. The guild provides safe living quarters, private bathhouses, and a number of other perks in exchange for the percentage they take out of each Ruby’s income.
I’ve never seen the guild master before, but I know them by reputation—Guild Master Fox. Their name suggests they were once one of us, and I’ve always found the mystery of how someone from the Dregs rose to be a guild master at a relatively young age fascinating. They have warm, light brown skin, short, dark red hair, and flaunt their generously curved body in a flowing deep-pink dress that looks impossible to walk in. They manage all the same, moving gracefully to stand next to the Wand. They smile at the audience, and a number of people around me give little sighs in response. Even at this distance, I can see that they’re beautiful, but of course they are; they’re a Ruby.
“If you would like to be a champion for the Fool…” They smile. “Now is the time, lovelies. Step forward and prove your worthiness!”
Even though I’m expecting it, the surge forward makes my stomach twist. It’s chaos. Some people attempt to sprint directly across the sand to the dais, but they only get a few steps before those behind them cut them down. Then it’s just a brawl. The scent of death—blood and shit and other things best not mentioned—reaches me and it takes everything I have to breathe through it and keep still.
There’s no telling how long it lasts. Time has a way of stretching oddly in a fight, even when you’re not participating. Screams blend with the cheers of the crowd. They’re enjoying this, and why not? Death and entertainment are why this arena was built. I swallow hard and try to keep my expression locked down.
The one who emerges in a victorious spray of blood is a tall man with pale skin, red hair, and a mace easily as long as my arm. He laughs as he smashes it against the head of the last person standing, not missing a step in his path toward the Concilium and dais. As he approaches Guild Master Fox, he says something that makes them shake their head, and then he’s upon the dais. A gong rings from somewhere, announcing the first champion, the Fool.
The King of Cups is a short, slight man with warm, medium-brown skin, gray hair, and a beard. He’s wearing the distinctive Cups clothing, layers upon layers of navy and teal fabric with little accents of copper that shine in the light of the Sun. He leans heavily on a cane as he walks across the sand to announce the Magician.
Just like with the Fool, it’s a complete bloodbath. Bodies litter the sand now, their blood painting crimson patterns and pools around them. People fight and scream and die, all while the crowd roars in approval. I expect it to go on and on, but the gong rings again, loud enough to rattle my bones and freeze the fights.
The king laughs, the sound seeming larger than his slight body should be able to create. “You’ll have to be faster than that if you want to become a champion.” He motions a shaking hand to where a second person now stands on the dais. “We have our Magician.”
So. Stealth is an option. I study the Magician as prospective champions still among the living file back off the sand. The new champion is short—standing next to the towering Fool, they appear even shorter—with cool, medium-brown skin, coiled black, shoulder-length hair, and a petite body.
Guild Master Diem of the Citrine Guild announces the High Priestess. This time, I identify the champion before they reach the dais, a short woman with dark brown skin, her black hair in twists. She cuts through her opponents with an ease that makes my skin prickle. When the last one falls, she flicks the blood off her knives and steps forward to take her spot as champion of the High Priestess.
And so it goes. The guild masters alternate with the kings and queens calling out the gods in sequence and watching with delight as the wave of death crashes at their feet. Empress, Emperor, Hierophant, Lovers. Each fights their way to the dais and claims their position.
“The Chariot is next.” Mouse practically vibrates in his seat next to me. Is he seeing this Culling or the one twenty-two years ago, where he sat by my mother’s side and watched as champion after champion was named? Her strategy at the time had been to wait until one of the later gods was called, hoping that the majority of the prospective champions were either already dead or too tired to put up a good fight. The Moon is nineteenth out of twenty-two, so it wasn’t a bad strategy. I hope it holds true for me today.
