Otto twists like he might walk away from the conversation, but stops when Hemmet asks, “What do you have?”
The question pulls Otto back. He reaches into the blue and gold pocket of his Shaerdanian uniform and pulls out a bottle. “Try this.”
“I don’t know if I trust anything from you.” Hemmet eyes the bottle warily. Smart man. “What is this? Who gave it to you?”
Breath held, I’m on my toes, leaning forward to catch his answer.
Otto shakes his head and slips the bottle into his pocket. “Later,” he says, and then disappears into the back side of the tent.
Should I say something to Hemmet? He didn’t take the oil from Otto, a promising relief; however, that doesn’t mean Hemmet will avoid it in the future. Otto will have more chances to convince Hemmet, and if that should happen, he may suffer the same fate as Baltroit. However, if I say something, my warning could get back to the supplier.
An image of Segrande, mourning Baltroit, comes to mind. The anguish of that night comes back so vividly, turning my mouth dry.
I lurch out of hiding. “Do not trust anything from Otto.”
“Are you talking to me?” Hemmet points his thumb to his chest.
I move closer, my voice low. “Yes. I’m giving you friendly advice. Stay away from Otto. What he’s trying to give you is harmful.”
Eyes like narrowed slits, the champion puts his hands on his hips and steps in, as if to intimidate me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The ferocity in his response is so much like his father’s. They are both always on the ready to tear someone limb from limb.
“Do you think I would bother with this conversation if it wasn’t a concern? I have taken a risk to talk to you, to warn you. If you don’t want to know, then it’s on you.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What’s in that bottle?”
Keeping one eye on the tent, I move in so no one can overhear. I explain Sanguine, the real version and the fake version, and the hazards of taking the latter.
He glances at the tent where Otto disappeared not long ago, and then shifts his attention back to me, with new curiosity. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I watched another man lose his son,” I say, honestly. “While I have little love for your father, no man should have to suffer that way if it can be prevented.”
It’s one day away from the jubilee, when Seeva plans to make an announcement about Sanguine. I hadn’t planned on confronting Otto to find out where he got the oil, but there is no way around it.
* * *
Trumpets play a song unlike any of the announcing tunes of the tournament. The chorus of horns creates a beautiful melody. When they end, the four women that lead the Channelers Guild walk out onto the field. Seeva takes the announcer’s cone and welcomes the crowd. In the crush of people, I wasn’t able to find Lirra before the start of the showcase. I imagined the field would be as full as it had been on the night of the joust or the melee. I was wrong. As I look down at the crowd from the nobility box, the number of spectators who have packed around the field far exceeds the size of other days.
Shouts and applause ring loud from one end of the field to the other. Unlike the Tournament of Champions, there are no discordant jeers mixed in. Maroon and gray flags dot the spectators, so I know my people are out there, watching the event.
Seeva talks openly about the Channelers’ five powers: land, wind, fire, water, and spirit. Her explanation introduces the twenty women who will perform today by sharing their gifts with the audience. The crowd listens in reverence for the upcoming show, eagerly consuming Seeva’s information. This showcase is much more than a talent event—it’s educational for all in attendance.
Anxiety keeps me stitched tight as I listen to her talk. At some point, she will mention where each of the participating Channelers hails from. Everyone will know that there are no Malamian Channelers in the showcase, and they will know that Channelers do not feel safe in Malam. While their choice to stay away is one I fully understand, it also saddens me that the tide has been so slow to change in Malam. There are many in the crowd today. When they see Malam has no representative, how will they react?
But as the showcase begins and Channeler women enter the field, Seeva does not mention that none of them are from Malam.
A fire Channeler walks across the field, holding only a candle. When she reaches the center, she lifts her right hand, and the fire responds by expanding until the flame is taller than the woman. The spectators gasp in delight.
Two water Channelers throw small cups of water at each other, and before the droplets can soak the other, both raise their hands and the water sprays the crowd, igniting squeals of joy on this muggy day. Cheers come from men and women wearing Malamian maroon and gray. The sight of their delight and interest gives me hope.
The performances intensify as the show continues. I wait, anxious, to see Lirra take the field. Segrande arches one furry brow in my direction, noting my restlessness, but he doesn’t say anything.
The announcer shouts Lirra’s name, and when I hear it, my heart presses against my ribs with yearning. It’s a need that has nothing to do with the kisses we’ve shared, but for more of her time, more of her laughter, more of her.
We wait, and my restlessness spreads to those around me. Segrande scoots forward in his seat and scans the women around the field.
“Where is she?” he asks.
She doesn’t walk out onto the field. We wait, and Lirra never comes.
Where did she go?
* * *
When we return to the castle, I head to Leif’s chambers. Lirra’s absence doesn’t sit right with me. But then, neither does Leif’s. I head to his room to check in with him first. Then I’ll seek out Lirra. As eager as she was to participate in the showcase, I know very few obstacles would’ve prevented her from going.
Leif’s hair is askew, and he’s pacing his room like a caged animal. The sight of him, covered in perspiration and shaking with restlessness, is startling. My first concern is infection. I step inside ready to insist on seeing the knife wound.
He shoves a chair, knocking it to the ground. The force of his hit, his aggravation . . . I start to think about how edgy he was during the meeting with the Akarians and the Channelers Guild. The comment he made was callous, unlike Leif’s usual kind manner. The answer comes to me rather quickly.
“You’ve been taking the oil,” I say, after standing in his doorway long enough without him recognizing my presence.
The man nearly jumps out of his skin. He spins to me, the whites of his eyes showing, and I close the door.
There are few men left whom I trust. He is one of them. But the disappointment of this discovery punches me in the stomach and gives me cause to rethink my stance.
Some of the wildness clears from his eyes. “I was going to tell you,” he says, remorse with no pretenses.
I gesture for him to continue. Leif launches into a story of how he caught Baltroit drinking Sanguine, and because he thought it sped up the healing process, Leif asked Baltroit to get some for him. Leif did not have the truth about the imposter oil, and for this, guilt rears up within me. I was too preoccupied with Lirra and the tournament to discuss the matter with him.
Leif scratches at his skin on his neck and then wipes sweat from his eyes. “I promised Lirra I wouldn’t take any more, and I intend to keep my word.”
The comment catches me unaware. “She knew?”
He pulls his shirt from his chest and fans at the perspiration. “Yeah, caught me the night of the joust.”
Lirra and I have shared every detail about Sanguine since we agreed to work together. It matters not that Leif asked her to withhold the truth from me. The discovery that she kept his condition secret stings like a violation of trust. I could pick over the broken trust and withdraw, but then I consider Lirra and Leif’s friendship. In all that’s happened between me and Lirra, she’s proven that she will always keep her word
. I can accept that if she told Leif she wouldn’t disclose this secret, it makes sense she wouldn’t tell me. I dislike that she’s done this, but I can appreciate her loyalty.
“I should’ve told you yesterday.” His hands scratch his arms. “But I cannot even think straight. It’s torture, feeling like I want to tear off my skin.”
“How many bottles did you drink?” I ask, curious to determine how quickly the effects of the oil will show.
“Five.”
An answering wave of alarm crashes over me swiftly. Five bottles are a pittance. The oil’s hazards come on so quickly, more so than I understood. How many bottles did Baltroit drink before he died?
“Could you still be at risk of dying?”
“I don’t think so.” He blows out a frustrated breath and looks at his toes. “Though I’m weaker than before. Not taking the oil makes my body feel like it’s been sparring all day long. I . . . I fear the outcome of tomorrow night.”
“The sword fight of the tournament?”
He nods. “I knew it was going to be difficult to earn enough points to still be in the running for the cup. But now that my body is drained by the toll of the oil, I fear it will be impossible.”
“You’re unable?”
“I am able, but I don’t have much energy. I don’t know how long I’ll last.”
Leif is going to need my help. I wanted to stay out of the event and focus on the meeting, but the chance of victory calls to me. I see the benefit of having a win. Already I’ve seen the spectators pull together. That’s the unity I need to promote and encourage once we’ve returned to Malam.
“I will fight with you,” I tell him.
He lurches out of his chair, stepping into my space. He stops abruptly and juts a hand between us as if he wants me to shake it. I knock it aside and reach around to give him a quick embrace. I clap him on the back. “Tomorrow, you and I will win the cup.”
* * *
After leaving Leif’s room, I inform the guards that we’ll be heading into Celize. Whatever they think about my choice to leave the castle at this late hour, they keep closed expressions, and ten minutes later we’re riding for the Elementiary. If anyone knows what happened to Lirra, it’ll be the older woman, Astoria.
The entire time the carriage rolls through the evening, a growing sense of unease tightens my gut. Lirra wouldn’t have missed the showcase. Something is very wrong.
We arrive at the Elementiary. Despite the late hour, the streets are still lit with lanterns as people stroll between the shops. Sparks of light flicker from the smithy next to the Elementiary. A few children run around with small orbs, carrying flames just like the ones I saw at the showcase.
The excitement of the jubilee event is a current still running through the people passing by. But all I feel is something dark and full of dread.
The guards escort me to the Elementiary and bang on the door until the old woman opens it. Her eyes set on my face, without dipping in any show of respect. The men at my sides press closer. And I’m sure they want to punish her for her impudence. But I tell them to stay back so I may speak to her alone.
Astoria retreats into the Channeler school.
“Where is Lirra?” I ask as soon as the door snicks closed behind us.
“Why would I tell you?”
“I’ve extended patience to you out of respect for Lirra. I have done you no harm. And I only wish to repair the damages my kingdom has done. But I warn you, if your insolence does not end now and you do not yield the information I seek, I’ll have my men detain you.”
She stiffens, her nose flaring to the ring of steel in my voice. I can see the fight behind her eyes, wanting to cut me down with her words.
“My apologies, Your Highness.” Disdain drips out of her. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where Lirra is.”
I stare at her for a long beat. There are probably a thousand reasons she would lie, but something tells me this is the truth. Which worries me even more.
I thank her for the information and then walk to the door. But before it opens, the noise from outside echoes into the Elementiary. Angry voices shouting, “Down with Malam!”
The clank of steel rings out.
“Channeler haters.”
Someone screams.
I rush to the window. A view of the lantern-lit street shocks me. A swarm of people have surrounded the royal carriage. The guards, who were posted beside the door, have abandoned their stations to draw their swords and fight people away from the carriage. The driver has been pulled down from his seat and is barely fending off two men.
“They saw you had no Channeler at the showcase,” Astoria says, her voice quiet and dark. “They know you have killed our mothers, daughters, and sisters. And they will not yield any longer.”
I glance over my shoulder, seeing the hate born years ago.
Then I pull out my sword and rush into the fray.
Chapter
32
Lirra
WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, THE WORLD IS black. What day is it?
The grit of the dirt on the floor digs into my palms, and I remember where I am. The oubliette. My lungs squeeze, and the blood whooshes through my ears, and there are no sounds except for my breaths.
I cannot have missed the showcase. The darkness is disorienting. Maybe it’s the same day, I think to myself, even though my gut suspects an evening has passed. But I don’t want to think about that. I haven’t worked on my gliders for a year just to miss the showcase.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” I call out, trying not to feel discouraged when the sound echoes up and up and up.
I have to get out of here. I push myself to stand. I don’t think of the dark. No, I just reach out, stretching until I fall forward, hands landing against the jagged stone wall, stopping me from slamming my head.
My fingers skate over the rocks surrounding me. But as I move closer, I stumble on bones. Sticks. They’re sticks.
In the dark, I walk the perimeter of the oubliette, tripping and falling and finding nothing helpful. No handholds. No rope. No spot to start climbing.
The base of this hellhole is too wide to reach if I extend hands and feet in opposite directions to climb out.
I stare at the top. It’s too high to try to conjure a wind to lift me all the way up. I don’t have the energy for it.
There’s no way to escape.
“Hello! Help!” I cry, realizing that it doesn’t matter what day it is. I’m going to miss the showcase, and the next one won’t happen for another five years. That thought squeezes my lungs until I’m gasping, suffocating in this hole.
The only thing worse than missing the jubilee would be dying in here.
Somehow, it doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibilities.
* * *
The creak of a door wakes me.
“Lirra?” Aodren’s voice sounds oddly feminine, and when I blink my eyes open, he vanishes into the pitch-black.
The oubliette.
The last two days’ nightmarish events return, making me wish I could bring back the dream of Aodren. Even if his voice had a womanly quality instead of the normal deep toe-curling tenor, I’d take an odd dream over this hell. I push off the floor, my fingers grazing bones as I sit up. A shiver skates up my spine. I lick the dried crust of blood from the corner of my mouth and blink, hoping my vision will adjust and give shape to this death pit. That doesn’t happen. All I know is that it’s dark, tight, filled with bones, and there is no way out.
I already tried to find a way to escape.
I suppose panic should be setting in about now. But after a night here, my stomach has hardened into a lump with no more allowance for fear.
“Lirra, are you there?”
Not a dream! “Orli?” I whisper, though I’m not sure why my voice is lowered. “What are you doing here?” If she’s at the oubliette door, she must’ve found some way to deal with the guard.
“I came to help you out, unless you like being down there.”
“Oh, Orli, I cannot believe you’re here, I—I . . .” Gratitude wells up into a lump, clogging my throat. I have no idea how she found out I was here or what she went through to enter the castle and find me. “You are everything to me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me. You would’ve done the same. We must hurry. The guards are unconscious, but they may wake soon.”
“Did you make them a sleeping aid?”
A laugh. “I’m rusty, so I don’t know how long it’ll last.” There is a current of strength in her voice that’s been missing for months. After her ordeal in Malam, I never thought I’d hear it again.
“I’m going to throw down the rope,” she says, and then I hear a rustling. Thwack, thwack, the rope ladder must be unrolling and falling against the stone wall. I try to listen to which side of the room it’s falling down. It’s close—
Thwack. It smacks my face.
“Stars!” I grab my cheek and rub the spot.
“Sorry.”
I rub the sting out of my cheek and then reach for the ladder. My fingers grip the rough fibers, and I climb onto the first rung. The room bows out around the bottom of the oubliette, so I cannot use the wall for leverage. The climb is difficult as the rope swings from side to side.
“Lirra, be quick.” I’ve only gone seven rungs.
“Are they waking?”
“No.” She grunts. “It’s . . . the . . . rope.” She puffs out breaths in between each word. “It’s breaking.”
I scramble upward, climbing as fast as my fingers can grip the rough holds, but every few steps my foot slides through the rung, or my hands miss the grab. Not a speck can be seen in this black hole.
A crackling snap echoes through the oubliette.
“Lirrrraaaaaa!”
I throw myself off the rope as it slumps to the ground and thrust my palms out, calling on my Channeler energy as fast as I can to push the air below. Instantly, the force stirs the air, creating a wind that presses back. The more energy I can release, the farther the wind will send me upward.
Once a King Page 26
