Marek was silent for a long moment. I hoped we’d seen the end of the conversation.
“Five years. Five years of friendship, Sylvia. And we are friends, despite your many efforts to distance yourself from us. Yes, I noticed. I am a talent at understanding people, but you… you baffle me. Five years of friendship, and do you know the only word I would use to describe you?” He glanced at me. “Mild. Just… mild. Which might have been the end of the story until two nights ago, when I watched you singlehandedly sever a man’s backbone without flinching.”
Mild. I examined the word, testing the fit. It amused me. Perhaps Hanim’s whip was reserved for mild-mannered girls, and the scars on my back a generous reward for my tepid temper. My first week in Hanim’s tiny cabin, I threw my food at the wall and promptly burst into tears. I was still a rebellious thing, full of spite and the indignations of slighted royalty. Though I’d seen my grandparents burn with my own two eyes, had heard the messenger declare Niphran’s death with my own ears, reality had yet to sink its claws into my chest. Jasad’s disgraced war captain had stood silent as the grave as she waited for me to wipe the last of my tears.
“Go to the corner,” she said, “and lift your arms.”
Frightened of her blank eyes, I’d kept my arms raised until the scream in my shoulders dulled into a whimper. I counted the cracks in the wall, memorized the writing on my cuffs. The pain eventually settled, becoming as constant and forgettable as the pulse in my neck. I found a way to think through it.
Mild, indeed.
Undeterred by my silence, Marek continued, “Have you heard the news? They say the Nizahl Heir was spotted near the border to Gahre.”
The spike of fear his words drove into my chest irritated me. Gahre was another Omalian lower village sitting a mere hour away. The news of his arrival would have ridden in long before the Commander’s horses. I unclenched my fists. “Chatter of idle merchants, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” Marek agreed, glancing askance at my twitching fingers. “It’s Omal’s turn to represent Nizahl in the Alcalah this year. The Heir is probably gracing our humble villages to find his Champion.” Marek’s derisive tone communicated exactly what he thought of such an idea.
Hosted once every three years, the Alcalah invigorated every kingdom from the highest crown to the wildest vagrant. The tournament consisted of three grueling trials meant to celebrate the sacrifice of the progenitors of our kingdoms. The location of each trial rotated between the four kingdoms and culminated in a Victor’s Ball. If Mahair’s obsession with the Alcalah was any indication, the kingdoms built their lives around this event. I couldn’t count the number of times I had listened to Rory’s patrons walk around the shop and fantasize about dancing at the Victor’s Ball or cheering in the audience of one of the Alcalah’s trials.
Nizahl was the only kingdom not to choose a Champion from among its own people. Shortly after burning Jasad to the ground, Supreme Rawain had generously announced Nizahl’s plan to foster peace by choosing a Champion from a different kingdom every Alcalah. Besides, Nizahl possessed an unfair advantage. They conscripted their youth into the army from adolescence, and their most incompetent soldier could easily match another kingdom’s best.
“He wouldn’t choose a Champion from a lower village,” I said. “I’m sure he has some arrangement with the Omal Heir. A preselected Champion the royal family favors, perhaps.”
“Felix can’t pick the snot from his nose. The Nizahl Heir certainly will not be asking him his thoughts on picking a Champion.”
I made a disgusted sound at the image. “Every Champion he’s chosen has won the Alcalah. I doubt he would agree to train an incompetent just to curry political favor. Even if the Nizahl Heir did decide to choose a lower villager, he would find it a challenge to convince them to accept such a fatal role.” For all they loved to speculate about the Alcalah, lower villagers had too much sense to willingly compete in a tournament that left more than half its Champions dead. At least, I hoped they did.
Marek shrugged, navigating the wagon around a stretch of foul-smelling ponds dotting the road. “It might be worth the risk. If they become Victor, they win a retinue of guards, an upper-town home in every kingdom, riches to last their lifetime.”
“It’s not worth the risk unless you’re an oat-brained noble whose sole purpose for competing is to prance around and claim you’re celebrating the sacrifice of the Awaleen.”
The myths behind the Alcalah were utter nonsense. The four original siblings were beings of pure magic—the first magic. The Awaleen had created the kingdoms and ruled over them for millennia before Rovial, Jasad’s Awal, went insane and killed thousands. Magic-madness, the storytellers claimed. The inevitable consequence of powerful magic. To contain their brother and protect their kingdoms, the Awaleen consigned themselves to an eternal slumber beneath Sirauk Bridge. What exactly did the Alcalah seek to celebrate? The bloodshed or the burial?
Aware of my rising frustration, I fell quiet, smoothing my skirt down around my knees. The pale sunlight reflected brightly from my cuffs. It was a blessing to be the one person capable of seeing or feeling them. Their shine would have seared holes into Marek’s periphery.
“The Commander’s last two Champions were a Lukubi stonemason and an Orbanian beggar. Both became Victor.”
“Marek, enough.” I didn’t wish to talk about Nizahl or the Alcalah anymore. Anger was far slower to fade than it was to kindle, and I didn’t have the energy to spare.
“They say meeting his eyes can freeze a Jasadi’s magic in their veins,” Marek continued. “Supposedly, he can sense it by touch alone.”
The very thought threatened a reappearance of my eggshell breakfast. Most days, I excelled at willfully forgetting Jasadis were hunted like rabid animals. There was nothing I could do for them. There was barely anything I could do for me.
“What you describe is impossible. Do you mean to say the Commander has magic himself?” My tone went harsh, roughened by the tableau Marek’s words painted.
“Of course not. I am just saying—”
“What you are saying is treason. We have committed more than our fair share of that lately, don’t you agree?”
The crowd thickened as we neared the main square. People weaved around Marek’s wagon as it moved through a crowd clad in blue and white. As soon as he stopped, I took a deep breath and jumped down. I kept my cloak wrapped tight and my head low. Every accidental shoulder-bump or arm-brush sent a thousand pinpricks of revulsion throbbing through me. I couldn’t walk to Rory’s shop fast enough.