“Fal chas,” said Kell. Good luck.
“And you,” replied Stasion simply, his voice nearly swallowed by the sudden flare of trumpets.
Kell twisted back to the archways as the gate swung open, and the ceremonies began.
II
“See, Parlo?” said Rhy, stepping out onto the stadium’s royal balcony. “I told you it wouldn’t sink.”
The attendant hugged the back wall, looking ill. “So far, so good, Your Highness,” he said, straining to be heard over the trumpets.
Rhy turned his smile on the waiting crowd. Thousands upon thousands had piled into the central stadium for the opening ceremonies. Above, the canvas birds dipped and soared on their silk tethers, and below, the polished stone of the arena floor stood empty save for three raised platforms. Poles mounted on each hung massive banners, each with an empire’s seal.
The Faroan Tree.
The Veskan Crow.
The Arnesian Chalice.
Atop each platform, twelve shorter poles stood with banners furled, waiting for their champions.
Everything was perfect. Everything was ready.
As the trumpets trailed off, a cold breeze rustled Rhy’s curls, and he touched the band of gold that hugged his temples. More gold glittered in his ears, at his throat, at collar and cuff, and as it caught the light, Alucard’s voice pressed against his skin.
I fear you haven’t enough….
Rhy stopped fidgeting. Behind him, the king and queen sat enthroned on gilded chairs, flanked by Lord Sol-in-Ar and the Taskon siblings. Master Tieren stood to the side.
“Shall I, Father?”
The king nodded, and Rhy stepped forward until he was front and center on the platform, overlooking the arena. The royal balcony sat not at the very top of the stadium, but embedded in the center of one sloping side, an elegant box halfway between the competitors’ entrances and directly across from the judge’s own platform.
The crowd began to hush, and Rhy grinned and held up a gold ring the size of a bracelet. When he spoke, the spelled metal amplified his words. The same charmed rings—albeit copper and steel—had been sent to taverns and courtyards across the city so that all could hear. During the matches, commentators would use the rings to keep the city apprised on various victories and defeats, but at this moment, the city’s attention belonged to Rhy.
“Good morning, to all who have gathered.”
A ripple of pleased surprise went through the gathered crowd when they realized he was speaking Arnesian. The last time the tournament had been held in London, Rhy’s father had stood above his people and spoken High Royal, while a translator on a platform below offered the words in the common tongue.
But this wasn’t just an affair of state, as his father claimed. It was a celebration for the people, the city, the empire. And so Rhy addressed his people, his city, his empire, in their tongue.
He went a step further, too: the platform below, where the translators of not only Ames but also Faro and Vesk were supposed to stand, was empty. The foreigners frowned, wondering if the absence was some kind of slight. But their expressions became buoyant when Rhy continued.
“Glad-ach!” he said, addressing the Veskans. “Anagh cael tach.” And then, just as seamlessly, he slid into the serpentine tongue of Faro. “Sasors noran amurs.”
He let the words trail off, savoring the crowd’s reaction. Rhy had always had a way with languages. About time he put some of them to use.
“My father, King Maxim, has given me the honor of overseeing this year’s tournament.”
This time as he spoke, his words echoed from other corners of the stadium, his voice twisting into the other two neighboring tongues. An illusion, one Kell had helped him design, using a variety of voice and projection spells. His father insisted that strength was the image of strength. Perhaps the same was true for magic.
“For more than fifty years, the Element Games have brought us together through good sport and festival, given us cause to toast our Veskan brothers and sisters and embrace our Faroan friends. And though only one magician—one nation—can claim this year’s title, we hope that the Games will continue to celebrate the bond between our great empires!” Rhy tipped his head and flashed a devilish smile. “But I doubt you’re all here for the politics. I imagine you’re here to see some magic.”
A cheer of support went through the masses.
“Well then, I present to you your magicians.”
A column of glossy black fabric unfurled from the base of the royal platform, the end weighted so it stretched taut. A matching banner unspooled from the opposite side of the arena.
“From Faro, our venerable neighbor to the south, I present the twins of wind and fire, Tas-on-Mir and Tos-an-Mir; the wave whisperer Ol-ran-Es; the unparalleled Ost-ra-Gal….”
As Rhy read each name, it appeared in white script against the dark silk banner beneath him.