Then either silence fell across the stadium, or Kell’s pulse drowned out everything—the crowds, the flapping pennants, the distant cheers from other matches. Somewhere in that void of noise, the spheres fell, and the first sound that reached Kell’s ears was the crystalline sound of them shattering against the arena floor.
For an instant, the blood in Kell’s veins quickened and the world around him slowed. And then, just as suddenly, it snapped back into motion. The Faroan’s wind leaped up and began to coil around her. The dark water swirled around Kell’s arms before pooling above his palms.
The Faroan jerked, and the red-tinted wind shot forth with spear-like force. Kell lunged back just in time to dodge one blow, and he missed the second as it smashed against his side, shattering a plate and showering the arena in light.
The blow knocked Kell’s breath away; he stole a glance up at Rhy in the royal box, and saw him gripping his chair and gritting his teeth. At a glance, it could have passed for concentration, but Kell knew it for what it was, an echo of his own pain. He uttered a silent apology, then dove behind the nearest mound of rock, narrowly escaping another hit. He rolled and came to his feet, grateful the armor was designed to respond only to attacks, not self-inflicted force.
Up above, Rhy gave him a withering look.
Kell considered the two pools of water still hovering above his hands, and imagined Holland’s voice echoing around the arena, tangled in the wind. Taunting.
Fight.
Shielded by the rock, he held up one hand, and the watery sphere above his fingers began to unravel into two streams and then four, and then eight. The cords circled the arena from opposite sides, stretching thinner and thinner, into ribbons and then threads and then filaments, crisscrossing into a web.
In response, the red wind picked up, sharpening the way his water had, a dozen razors of air; Tas-on-Mir was trying to force him out. Kell winced as a sliver of wind nicked his cheek. His opponent’s voice began to carry on the air from a dozen places, and to the rest of the arena it would look like Kell was fighting blind, but Kell could feel the Faroan—the blood and magic pulsing beneath her skin, the tension against the threads of water as he pulled them taut. Where … where … there. He spun, launching himself not to the side but up. He mounted the boulder, the second orb freezing the instant before it left his hand. It splintered as it hurtled toward Tas-on-Mir, who managed to summon a shield out of her wind before the shards could hit. But she was so focused on the attack from the front that she’d forgotten the web of water, which had reformed in the span of a second into a block of ice behind her. It crashed into her back, shattering the three plates that guarded her spine.
The crowd erupted as the Faroan fell forward to her hands and knees, and the water sailed back to Kell’s side and twined around his wrists.
It had been a feint. The same one he’d used on Holland. But unlike the Antari, Tas-on-Mir didn’t stay down. A moment later she was back on her feet, the red wind whipping around her as the broken plates fell away.
Three down, thought Kell. Seven to go.
He smiled behind his mask, and then they both became a blur of light, and wind, and ice.
*
Rhy’s knuckles tightened on the arms of his chair.
Below, Kell ducked and dodged the Faroan’s blows.
Even as Kamerov, he was incredible. He moved around the arena with staggering grace, barely touching the ground. Rhy had only seen his brother fight in scuffles and brawls. Was this what he’d looked like when he’d faced Holland? Or Athos Dane? Or was this the product of the months spent in the Basin, driven by his own demons?
Kell landed another hit, and Rhy found himself fighting back a laugh—at this, at the absurdity of what they were doing, at the very real pain in his side, at the fact that he couldn’t make it stop. The fact that he wouldn’t, even if he could. There was a kind of control in letting go, giving in.
“Our magicians are strong this year,” he said to his father.
“But not too strong,” said the king. “Tieren has chosen well. Let us hope the priests of Faro and Vesk have done the same.”
Rhy’s brow crinkled. “I thought the whole point of this was to show our strength.”
His father gave him a chiding look. “Never forget, Rhy, that you are watching a game. One with three strong but equal players.”
“And what if, one year, Vesk and Faro played to win?”
“Then we would know.”
“Know what?”
The king’s gaze returned to the match. “That war is near.”
In the arena below, Kell rolled, then rose. The dark water swirled and swerved around him, slipping under and around the Faroan’s wall of air before slamming into her chest. The armor there shattered into light with the blow, and the crowd burst into applause.
Kell’s face was hidden, but Rhy knew he was smiling.
Show-off, he thought, just before Kell dodged too slowly and let a knifelike gust of wind get through, the blow slamming against his ribs. Light erupted in front of Rhy’s eyes, and behind them as he caught his breath. Pain burned across his skin, and he tried to imagine he could draw it in, away from Kell, and ground it in himself.