***
The week moves in an odd sort of time. Like at the house when I have to wait for Father to leave for a meeting or stand at attention while awaiting punishment. Moments with Thomas are always the slowest. Agonizingly so. When he's not dueling, he's dragging me from one box to another exclaiming over his new title and riches. Sometimes people find us, which is only an improvement because Cynthia is there.
On occasion while Thomas is dueling, Father leaves to do whatever it is he does. Warlock matters, I suppose. Whatever it is, he's usually with other old, paunchy men. During those moments Cynthia and I discuss things with less restraint, though eyes are still on us and we can't become too heedless. Several times I have found I'm being watched by various Chardonians. Other times I just feel it. The Grand Chancellor is especially unnerving. Why he finds me worth such observations, I'm unsure. But his son or another warlock usually regains his attention before it becomes too excessive.
There are eight more deaths. None of the deceased were as prestigious as Chancellor Jacob. Not even anyone who was on the Chardonian council. Most were from different countries. One benefit of having Thomas drag me around was only witnessing one of them. It was just as horrific as Chancellor Jacob's death, but easier to turn away from. Or rather, run away from, to visit the privy. At least that was the excuse I used.
Cynthia stays. She watches the duels with eager eyes. No doubt, trying to ascertain who her escape will be once she's tested. I can't agree with her line of thinking, but at least she has a plan to get away from it. Even if it's doomed to fail.
Upon my return from the privy, she explains that the winner was awarded the dead man's things as has been done with the others. Whether they are Chardonian or not, warlocks who enter agree to the terms and thus forfeit their possessions if killed. Not that a dead man cares. But one of the losers is already married, and as such, the new widow is set to become tarnished. That fact gives me more pause than any of the others she loads me with.
Tomorrow is the last day of the tournament. I'm aching for my own bed, though it's shared with my sisters. The bed here is too big and cold. Since we're staying at the tournament tents while Father and Thomas enjoy the feast, tonight's bed will be a cot next to Cynthia's. Then once the tournament is over tomorrow, we'll be back at Thomas's. Despite my words when I first saw our quarters, I haven't enjoyed having my own space. Even the cot sounds better.
“What are you thinking?” Cynthia asks. “You've gone quiet.”
“Going home. I miss being there instead of being stuck with Father here at the tournament. A whole week of freedom, wasted.”
“I suppose, but you should still be discreet with your words.” She returns to watching the final duel of the day. I try not to think of where our last conversation that began this way went. Cynthia adds, “And think of all we'd be missing.”
There's nothing to miss.
Bright yellow flashes and a winner is called out. The events for the day are finally over. With evening coming, darkness is falling. Warlocks send yellow sparks across the field, lighting torches all around. I lean back in my chair, grateful we're staying here for the night. Maybe I'll be lucky enough that Thomas will have less interest in me with so many others about. Then I'd really enjoy the evening.
“Do we have to wait for Father to go to the feast?” Cynthia asks.
“We'll give him a little while. If he doesn't show, it's probably all right for us to take a servant.”
In the box next to ours, the Grand Chancellor stands. I point him out to Cynthia. The crowd goes silent. A breeze picks up, carrying a scent of bad cabbage with it.
“What an impressive tournament we've had the privilege of observing. As the last rounds are fought tomorrow, I wish the finalists good luck.”
While he's speaking, a tarnished is led to a newly placed stone slab in front of the Grand Chancellor's box. It's the size of my bed at Thomas's, except with bumps and dips giving it a more ragged appearance. They reach it and stop. Dressed simpler than usual in nothing but a tunic, it's clear the tarnished is a woman. Her face is void of emotion.
“Before we celebrate the final night of the tournament, we have one last honor to perform.”
Father appears at my side and whispers, “This is what happens to some of those who are tarnished.”
My gaze darts to her. The threat was clear. That could be me, standing alone, marked as something less than human. My limbs grow heavy watching her stand without wavering. What are they going to do to her? This was never covered in any class or gossip. Tournaments are a place we let our owners show us off, not watch a tarnished.