“Why don’t they have me carry around a price list too? Sheesh.” A pair of stacked boxes catch my eye. “What’s in there?”
“Shoes and stuff.” Cissy holds her gown against her torso and models in the mirror. “This is even nicer than what I wore to the autumn tournament.”
I step over to the boxes and pull out my matching shoes. Inside the box I also find a complex set of winding strips like mummy wrappings. I pick mine up with two fingers. “What the heck are these?”
Cissy glances over her shoulder at me. “Your underwear.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
She sets one hand on her hip. “See? If you’d gone with me to the tailor instead of having your mom send in measurements, you’d know all this stuff. Thrax are nuts about their traditions, and those are traditional thrax undies.”
“I’m not wearing them.” Dropping the strips back into the box, I look at them out of my right eye. “I don’t even know how to get these things on.”
“You’re wearing them and I know exactly how to put them on you.” Cissy glares at me. “They look like typical underwear when they’re on, don’t worry. From what the Ryders told me, thrax are insane about this kinda stuff. If someone saw you in the bathroom wearing anything else, it could turn into a diplomatic horror story.”
My upper lip curls. “I don’t know, Cissy.”
“Oh, stop being a baby and put on your free gorgeous gown. We don’t want to be late.”
We slip on our dresses and I have to admit, I really like mine. The last two gowns I wore were the neon carrot and the marshmallow nightmare. This one’s simple, pretty and actually fits me.
And yes, I wear the traditional thrax undies. Whatever.
I drive Betsy over to thrax central. Cissy complains the entire ride how my beautiful green station wagon has barely-functioning air vents and sketchy radio. I remind her of Betsy’s loyalty and her own lack of car. Once we get to the thrax compound, it takes for-bleeding-ever to find a parking space. The winter tournament’s a much bigger shindig than autumn. I find a spot for Betsy, and then Cissy and I follow the crowd through a winding forest path that opens onto a large field.
Cissy shakes her head. “They must have cut down half a forest.” Compared to the autumn tournament, this field is huge and covered in fancy tents. There must be two dozen total, all in different colors.
I nudge Cissy’s arm. “There are five major houses, so the other tents must be the lesser ones.”
She smiles. “You’ve done some research.”
“Mom gave me some books.”
We approach the tournament green. It’s now surrounded by more and larger seating pavilions. A network of wooden walkways keeps everyone from sloshing through the mud. The thrax really went all-out this time.
With all the extra crowds and hassle, Cissy and I are really late. The pavilions are packed; there’s no chance to get a seat. We decide to stand by the tall wooden fence that surrounds the tournament green.
I settle into a spot, set my elbows atop the fence and scan the fighting field. The Earl of Acca stands in the center, his crossbow held high. He’s bashing it into a ghoul. My breath catches.
I tap Cissy’s shoulder. “I know that ghoul. It’s XP-22. I see him at Arena matches.”
Her pretty mouth sags into a frown. “Why’s the Earl fighting a ghoul?”
“I’m forced to fight in the Arena. It’s a job for XP-22. They must have paid him to appear.” I watch the Earl hammer away at XP-22 as he tries to run away. Anger careens up my spine. “This isn’t right. Even you could kick XP-22’s butt. And he clearly isn’t attacking the Earl.”
“Shh, Myla. It’s not our place to judge.”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth and look away. The crowd breaks out into wild applause. “Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“Is the ghoul dead?”
Cissy sucks in a breath. “Oh, yeah.”
The Earl of Acca struts off the field. Some thrax lackeys clear off the body. My eyes flare red with rage and horror. XP-22 didn’t deserve to end his afterlife that way.
Across the tournament green, the wooden fence swings open. A dragon creeps onto the field of battle. Its body is large as a cow, with a tail twice as long. It has stubby wings, red eyes, a long thin snout, and black scales that glitter purple in the light. It’s a shadow dragon, a rare demon that’s incredibly hard to kill.
I let out a low whistle. I feel sorry for whatever sucker goes after that thing.
The sucker in question steps onto the field of battle: Lincoln. He wears black body armor with the Rixa crest, his baculum broadsword gripped in one hand. He marches toward the dragon, tossing his blade from hand to hand, eyeing up his opponent.