Our seats were in a special center box in the first row of the stadium, raised and separated by a heavy stone wall perhaps eight feet in height from the ground floor of the arena. Most of the stadium’s seating was little more than clay benches, raised row after row until they tipped up into the sky, followed by an outlying wall with more spectator towers for less privileged viewers to stand who could not pay for one of the Candidacy’s prime seats at the front.
It was one of the few times I was happy to be part of the king’s retinue. Our box was one of the few with a canopied roof to lessen the sweltering summer sun. I would be able to make out the contestants’ details far better than I would further back with the rest of my family and Ella’s. Refreshments were brought to the Crown’s box before continuing on to the rest of the rows, and if the scholars’ expectations were correct, each day of the weeklong event would last eight to ten hours trapped in our seats.
I recognized countless faces in the sea above. The scholars were right—it looked like every person I had ever met was in that crowd. Already the stands were brimming with color. I hadn’t realized there were that many people in the kingdom, even after my tour in the apprenticeship.
One third of Jerar? Ha. Try at least half.
A couple rows beyond, I noted a tall, red-bearded man dragging his daughter through the stands, picking his way toward the seats at the front. Really? A child? It was like a punch to the gut. The girl couldn’t have been more than six. And she looked scared, tugging at a yellow silk ribbon at the end of her curly black braid.
Why would somebody bring a child here?
Chancing a glance around, however, I saw she was far from alone. More children—some even younger than the girl—were scattered among the seats. What is wrong with these parents? I knew today wasn’t Combat, but Restoration would surely show more blood than a child should ever be forced to watch.
Turning away, my gaze caught on the Caltothian ambassador and I paused.
The man was brimming with rage. Eyes locked on the little girl, I could see cold fury written all over his face. I started. Was he upset by this brutality too?
But then I heard a familiar laugh. Someone was talking with the little girl’s father, and his voice was unmistakable.
My gaze flitted back to Lord Tyrus. He wasn’t looking at the little girl; he was looking at the crown prince.
And his hatred was unmistakable.
“Darren,” I whispered.
The non-heir glanced up and I pointed. His brow furrowed as he studied the man watching his brother. “I’ll have Father put extra men to the ambassador’s service tonight.”
I shivered. There was something unsettling about the Caltothian’s expression. When I snuck a glance again Lord Tyrus had composed himself, and if I hadn’t seen the look myself I wasn’t sure I’d have believed it was ever there to start.
The ambassador was not indifferent to the Crown, and he wasn’t here for peace. That much was clear.
****
First up was fifth-rank Restoration. And it took me all of five minutes to realize I was wrong.
I had told Alex the Candidacy would be similar to the first-year trials, only more intense. What I hadn’t mentioned—what I hadn’t known—was that there was one minor difference. And that difference would matter the most.
The mages weren’t casting on themselves, rather, the criminals of Jerar.
Men and women from the local jails were brought in to accommodate the total number of each rank’s participants. Which should have been fine, except I kept thinking back to how the first-years had willingly chosen to succumb to ailments during their own trials, and these prisoners had not.
And the Candidacy ailments were far more serious than the light injuries of our trials.
Fourteen mages spaced out in a horizontal line across the field, facing the crowd. Fourteen criminals were brought with their backs to the audience, facing their candidate with a soldier beside.
Then the herald announced the start.
There was a horrible sound as the soldiers’ blades cracked against the criminals’ knees. Then each prisoner dropped to the ground, writhing in pain.
Screams were crowding the air.
The mages rushed forward to begin their first casting, each racing to treat their victim’s five stages the fastest. The winner would move onto the next day’s event, representing the best of their rank with an opportunity to advance.
The stages got worse.
Wren sucked in a gasp, and I had to clap my hand to my mouth to muffle a cry as one of the soldiers stabbed a thrashing woman three times in the chest.
Darren turned in his seat. “Ryiah?”
“This is wrong!” Violent crime was punished on the spot with a hanging, the men and women I was watching were guilty of little more than theft. The gaunt lines of their faces spoke the truth. Lowborns who had chosen to steal rather than starve.
It was the bandits from the north all over again.
Darren spoke my name urgently. “Ryiah—”
“Petty crime isn’t enough to subject them to this!”
King Lucius’s voice boomed out across our box. “Shall I replace the prisoners with innocents instead, Lady Ryiah?”
Darren’s hand shot to my arm to keep me from replying.