“You look pale,” observed the king.
Rhy sank back against the chair. “I’m fine.” And he was. The pain made him feel alive. His heart pounded in his chest, racing alongside his brother’s.
King Maxim got to his feet and looked around. “Where is Kell?” he asked. His voice had taken to hardening around the name in a way that turned Rhy’s stomach.
“I’m sure he’s around,” he answered, gazing down at the two fighters in the ring. “He’s been looking forward to the tournament. Besides, isn’t that what Staff and Hastra are for? Keeping track of him?”
“They’ve grown soft in their duties.”
“When will you stop punishing him?” snapped Rhy. “He’s not the only one who did wrong.”
Maxim’s eyes darkened. “And he’s not the future king.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Everything,” said his father, leaning close and lowering his voice. “You think I do this out of spite? Some ill-borne malice? This is meant to be a lesson, Rhy. Your people will suffer when you err, and you will suffer when your people do.”
“Believe me,” muttered Rhy, rubbing an echo of pain across his ribs. “I’m suffering.”
Below, Kell ducked and spun. Rhy could tell the fight was coming to an end. The Faroan was outmatched—she’d been outmatched from the beginning—and her motions were slowing, while Kell’s only grew faster, more confident.
“Do you really think his life’s in danger?”
“It’s not his life I’m worried about,” said the king. But Rhy knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely. Kell’s power made him a target. Vesk and Faro believed that he was blessed, the jewel in the Arnesian crown, the source of power that kept the empire strong. It was a myth Rhy was pretty certain the Arnesian crown perpetuated, but the dangerous thing about legends was that some people took them to heart, and those who thought Kell’s magic guarded the empire might also think that by eliminating him, they could hobble the kingdom. Others thought that if they could steal him, the strength of Arnes would be theirs.
But Kell wasn’t some talisman … was he?
When they were children, Rhy looked at Kell and saw only his brother. As they grew older, his vision changed. Some days he thought he saw a darkness. Other times he thought he saw a god. Not that he would ever tell Kell that. He knew Kell hated the idea of being chosen.
Rhy thought there were worse things to be.
Kell took another hit down in the arena, and Rhy felt the nerves sing down his arm.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” pressed his father, and Rhy realized his knuckles had gone white on the chair.
“Perfectly,” he said, swallowing the pain as Kell delivered the final two blows, back to back, ending the match. The crowd erupted in applause as the Faroan staggered to her feet and nodded, the motion stiff, before retreating from the ring.
Kell turned his attention to the royal balcony and bowed deeply.
Rhy raised his hand, acknowledging the victory, and the figure in silver and white vanished into the tunnel.
“Father,” said Rhy, “if you don’t forgive Kell, you will lose him.”
There was no answer.
Rhy turned toward his father, but the king was already gone.
V
People always said that waiting was the worst part, and Lila agreed. So much so, in fact, that she rarely waited for anything. Waiting left too much room for questions, for doubt. It weakened a person’s resolve—which was probably why, as she stood in the tunnel of the western arena waiting for her match, she started to feel like she’d made a terrible mistake.
Dangerous.
Reckless.
Foolish.
Mad.
A chorus of doubt so loud her boots took a step back of their own accord.
In one of the other stadiums, the crowds cheered as an Arnesian emerged victorious.
Lila retreated another step.
And then she caught sight of the flag—her flag—in the stands, and her steps ground to a halt.
I am Delilah Bard, she thought. Pirate, thief, magician.
Her fingertips began to thrum.
I have crossed worlds and taken ships. Fought queens and saved cities.
Her bones shuddered and her blood raced.
I am one of a kind.
The summoning trumpets blared, and with them, Lila forced herself forward through the archway, her orb hanging from her fingers. Iridescent oil sloshed inside, ready to be lit.
As soon as she took the field, the anxiety bled away, leaving a familiar thrill in its wake.
Dangerous.
Reckless.
Foolish.
Mad.
The voices started up again, but they couldn’t stop her now. The waiting was over. There was no turning back, and that simple fact made it easier to go forward.