My hand had shot out and grabbed onto one of his long braids. When I fell the man came crashing down on top of me. The blow momentarily knocked the wind from my lungs and then the two of us were rolling and struggling in the sand.
When he had my hands and legs pinned—he was a bit heavier—I wriggled with all my might. Before the mage could make his hips and chest parallel to mine, my fingernails clawed desperately at the sand. I managed a small wad and shut my eyes and mouth just as I lobbed it at his face. The granules barely reached—my aim was severely hampered by the positioning of my wrist—but just enough took flight to catch in his breath. He started to sputter, and I thrust all my weight to the side, rolling with all my might until it was me on top of him.
I choked on my breath as my arms started to shake violently while he fought my grip. With his weight he had the clear advantage, and my arms were always my weakest strength.
He would win. He would outlast me in this, and then I’d be back on the ground, his victory at hand.
No. This couldn’t be it. Already I was losing hold, my muscles screaming out in pain as the numbing pain in my leg echoed their call and begged me to quit.
NO.
I clung to my resolve and fought against every quivering fiber, refusing to let go of the victory so close at hand. The man shifted and squirmed, his eyes alight with a vigor I refused to accept.
My muscles contracted, and he flipped me back to the ground. One hand pinned my defenseless wrists, his other reaching for my throat.
“Surrender?”
“No.” I whimpered the word, and the man squeezed, hard. I choked as the pressure increased and pain lanced across my lungs. A searing heat was ripping at my chest and my skin was afire, every single bit of me raging as he continued to press. My teeth chattered violently as I gasped for breath.
You came this far, no one ever expected you to win anyway.
“Surrender n—”
The shuddering halted as a sudden, biting pain seemed to claw its way right out of my flesh. A jarring flash and then the abrupt pain—and the pressure on my throat—was gone.
When the dizziness faded I was able to push myself up with both fists and elbows digging into the ground for support. What I saw—it sucked the joy right out of my breath.
The other mage was sprawled out in the sand not five feet away. His limbs flailing up and down, eyelids fluttering and expression blank, as his lips flapped in some meaningless words. There was nothing natural to his bodily tremors.
Then I noticed the red marks on his palm, feathering down his arm like a snake. Master Byron had explained those symptoms before, though I had never seen them in person: lightning.
The heavy vibrations, the pain, the heightened emotions.
I’d been wrong. I’d still had magic.
We weren’t so equal after all.
Chapter Thirteen
The mage survived. His name was Hadrian, I found out later. Lightning strikes, as the healers reminded me post-melee, hardly resulted in death if treated. My casting had only hit his palm. As far as injuries could go, it was quite possibly the best one he could get.
We spent the rest of the day being treated with the rest of the candidates in the local infirmary. Extra healers had been hired for the week of the Candidacy, so even though we had eighty-one injured by the time Darren’s party arrived, every one of us were treated by no less than two healers a piece.
I was so tired that evening that I hardly remembered a thing. Except that the prince had also won. Not that I had ever expected anything less.
Before the sun had even finished making an attempt through the hazy morning sky, the final candidates were escorted to the special candidates’ box. A section of seats reserved for the five best ranks and the Three Colored Robes.
A judge met with our group to go over the day’s schedule. Not one of us spoke. We listened as the man instructed us on how to proceed.
Each rank’s winner would challenge the one from the rank above. After the match concluded both candidates would be taken to the infirmary where an anxious staff of healers awaited. The next match would begin as soon as the winning candidate from the previous match was treated.
Most of our day—and the audience’s—would be spent waiting for the matches to start. Now that each round was a duel, the contests took no more than an hour at most; healings, on the other hand, could take several hours—even with several healers working at once—to complete. Each winning candidate had to be at full strength and stamina before entering into their next match.
“No visitors!” The judge barked at a crowd of squabbling highborns that had attempted to push past the guards. No one was allowed to converse with the candidates until after the day’s event was over. Too many bets had been placed and the stakes—though obviously in favor of the prince—were too at risk to have some sneaky spectator try to pay off a contestant, though I doubted it would work—all five of us had spent too much time training to let it come to that.