Caster

by Elsie Chapman

  The desert sand begins to turn black at her feet. She begins to gurgle, the sound too much like my own still-jagged breathing.

  The crowd is louder than ever. The sound smashes into the roar of the casters around us, still fighting. My mind is at war.

  I should save her. A counterspell will do it.

  I should eliminate her. Because only one of us is going to win in the end, and she knows one of my secrets, too.

  The smell of the air has turned salty. Kylin’s clutching at her neck, and her bloody eyes bulge. Her rose-gold shoes have turned maroon. Shoes for a kid.

  I swear to myself, drag out a new red starter, and cast.

  She falls to her knees, heaving in huge breaths.

  I drop the red coin, and the desert swallows it up.

  The blow comes without warning. A slam to the side of my head so that I see a blur of colors and taste blood. Before I can fall, I’m twisting through the air. My back smashes hard into the desert floor so that sand arcs up in sheets.

  I can’t even gasp for breath. Overhead, the sky is such a bright crystalline blue, it almost hurts to look at it. Sand floats back down, and for a second, it’s like being buried.

  He appears through the clouds of tan and gray, the fighter taller than anyone else in the desert, with the perfect hands of an artist. Luan’s skin has gone as pale as milk where it’s not covered in bruises or blood. There’s enough desperation in his eyes that I know he’s completely dangerous. His silk ribbon hangs from his arm, sodden with blood.

  He’s holding a starter in his fist. I can’t see the color, can’t predict the spell.

  He opens up his palm, about to draw.

  I roll over before I feel how much my body hurts. I scratch at dirt as I go and drag myself to my feet, finally able to gasp now. I draw and my mind reaches for red fire. I draw and imagine it filling my veins and making me more than I am, powering up muscles until they are simply power contained. I draw until my arm is lightning and its cracking is in my mind, stinking and smoking and alive.

  Rudy, controlling magic is like sorting, putting everything in its place.

  But sometimes it’s also just like another way you said it might be.

  About not overthinking it, about just letting go.

  I stagger to my feet and face Luan. I start running at him, and surprise widens his eyes when I don’t stop—magic has never needed contact.

  I cast right as I slam my fist directly into his face.

  Full magic meets bone and surges through. He soars through the air and lands twenty feet away. Sand halos up around him. He doesn’t move.

  Knockout.

  The crowd shouts. It’s a waterfall of noise, crashing down. Faces go in and out of focus.

  It finally sinks in that they’re cheering for me.

  I turn in a jagged circle in the middle of the desert. Pain is a knife that cuts through my middle, and I half hunch over as I keep turning. I’m searching for the next caster to fight, the next fighter I have to knock out. I’ll let it happen without thought, let it be borne on nothing but impulse. I won’t fight what just wants to be. What I am.

  I want to say dread fills me at the idea of having to cast, and it does. But there’s a sick anticipation, too, because casting full magic is what we do.

  The taste of the blood that coats my teeth makes my stomach roll; it makes me thirsty.

  Can you ever be sure you’re using magic and it’s not using you?

  What if I don’t care to tell the difference anymore?

  Then a bell rings across the desert.

  The first round of the tournament is over.

  There are twenty-one of us left.

  I observe the others without trying to be obvious.

  I bet they’re all doing the same thing.

  Beneath a fake desert sun, while standing in sand turned black with our blood, we’re shy again with one another.

  There’s Nola, wiping her glasses on her shirt and squinting at nothing in particular.

  The twenty-something-year-old guy named Wilson, his grin huge and delighted.

  Kylin, still covered in blood. Who won’t meet my eyes. Who stares down at her ruined rose-gold sneakers.

  Only Finch doesn’t hide how he’s observing. I sense his green eyes on the side of my face and wonder what he saw, if anything, of my fighting tonight. I wonder if Navy saw me fight and if he’ll tell his fighter about it. And I wonder what Navy’s real name might be, something that should be weird to think about right now if I weren’t so desperate for normal things to think about.

  Twenty-one.

  I feel like a giant bruise. The pain from casting that last spell has already begun to fade, but I still hurt all over, from fighting and falling and being thrown. Adrenaline that kept me pumped during the fight is leaving me as quickly as it came, and now it all hits me at once—how it’s long past midnight, how I just hurt a bunch of strangers with magic, how I’m still alive despite everything.

  The crowd is still perched high on the sand above us. They won’t stop cheering and clapping and the sounds of both hurt my ears.

  I make out one chant:

  Rudy the First!

  It’s not Rudy the Amazing, but it’s also not Rudy the Dishonorable. I’d hate to be Rudy the Killer.

  And then the Kan Desert is gone and we’re standing in the middle of the mall food court again. The room is all floating light bulbs instead of a blazing yellow sun, a ceiling instead of the kind of blue sky the world hasn’t seen for decades. The dunes are once more just tables and chairs. The sand’s gone and the tile floor is back; used-up ring starters lie all over it the way coins do in the bottom of a wishing fountain.

  Eliminated fighters are waking up, no longer marble. They get to their feet and head into the crowd, mere spectators now. Teller, Aimee, Crawl, Luan, others with ring names I can’t remember. No caster was killed in the desert tonight.

  One fight down, three more to go.

  Embry is crossing the food court floor and heading toward us.

  “Congratulations, everyone,” he says. “And now we have twenty-one.”

  Wilson lifts an arm and hollers. His eyes flash with triumph, sweat glistening on his brown skin. “And soon it’ll just be me.”

  The crowd whoops and whistles.

  Embry’s teal eyes glint. “You’re confident.”

  “I’m a programmer. Built to always be thinking outside the box. It’ll be easy.” Wilson taps his temple with a finger.

  The corner of Embry’s mouth twitches. The reveal reminds me how he can easily be as charming as frightening, a desert made real with magic in order to fool.

  “I beat a programmer one year to become champion,” he says.

  There’s another whoop from the crowd. Wilson slowly lowers his arm.

  Embry faces us, expression already back to veiled and cool. I bet that’s how he looked when he fought, before his days in the Guild. I wonder why he stopped. If the memories of his fights are good memories or ones he dodges.

  “The second round of the tournament will take place tomorrow at midnight, 1212 Thorn Avenue. Third floor. The third round the night after, and then the final the night after that. The Tournament of Casters is a test, and tests that are easy test nothing at all, so feel free to withdraw now if you think you’re only going to withdraw later.

  “If you move on but then miss a fight, you will unfortunately be eliminated from this year’s tournament. A final thought for you to consider in the meantime: However well you think you fought tonight in the Kan Desert, you’ll have to find a way to be even better, each and every night. On the night of the final, the fighter who wins will be the one who didn’t only get better, but figured out the way to become the best.”

  Then he leaves, slipping away as smoothly as oil moves over heat. The crowd cheers some more before dispersing throughout the food court like bees leaving a hive. Most of the spectators head toward the bets counter, picking up whatever they’ve made tonight before leaving.
Some linger close by, as if they’re getting something by staying near those of us who cast as we did without dying.

  When one of them pulls out a notebook and a pen for autographs, I turn and head toward the bets counter. Chances are small that anyone would have placed any bets on me. But it can’t hurt to check. I have no marks left, and if Jihen finds me while I’m still empty-handed, Leafton might only be the first of our suppliers to mysteriously stop working with my parents.

  But hoping for others to bet on me so I can eke out marks is one thing—winning the two hundred thousand marks as champion is another. Only one of them is under my control, so that’s what I’ll focus on.

  The floor is still really crowded, but there’s a sense of the night being over, and exhaustion tells me I need to get home and sleep. Just as before, the crowd in front of the bets counter is the thickest and loudest. Behind the counter, the three clerks who were taking those bets earlier are now checking spectators’ bet receipts against the fight results.

  I stay at the far side of the group, unsure. I don’t have a receipt because I’m not a spectator and I didn’t place any bets, but didn’t the guy at registration say fighters got a cut of whatever winnings they brought in?

  Soon I’ve shuffled my way to the counter. “Anything for Rudy?” I gesture toward my cheek. “Fighter number thirty-eight if you need to check the register.”

  The clerk has about half a dozen binders open in front of her. She pulls one over and flips through its papers.

  “Oh, here you are. It’s your first tournament.”

  I nod. Something like hope rises, though I know it’s stupid. Maybe if the tournament allows betting during a fight, I have a chance of earning some marks. I started off okay with Teller, and then there was me not killing Kylin, and finally Luan at the very end.

  The woman checks even more binders, and just when I’m sure there’s nothing, she nods and checks off some columns. She reaches for an envelope from a box set below the counter and holds it out. “Fighter thirty-eight.”

  Stunned, I take the envelope from her. Inside are fifty marks. It’s not much, but it’s also not nothing. And someone—maybe someones—actually bet on me.

  She reads my continued shock as disappointment. “I saw you fight, dear. I’ll be shocked if dozens more bets aren’t placed on you next round.”

  I smile and stuff the envelope into my starter bag. “Thanks.”

  I turn to go, weaving through the still-clustered crowd to get to the elevator, when I spot her.

  The red-haired woman in the yellow silk dress, the one who was Luan’s backer. Luan’s tree height and strong hands meant little when it came to casting magic. My fist still stings from the punch, a tenderness in the knuckles that has less to do with the pain of having cast the magic for it than just smashing bone against bone.

  Seeing the woman makes me think of another backer, and for a second I glance around for signs of Navy. Finch is last year’s champion—it means a lot of spectators are betting on him. Navy, as his backer, would be here, picking up his winnings.

  But he’s nowhere to be seen. And it’s just as well because neither is Finch, and the memory of Finch’s delving eyes is something I can do without.

  The woman in silk nears the bets counter, stopping to talk to one of the men who are calling out for spectators and their receipts.

  I slip back toward the edge of the crowd and watch.

  “Hello, Hugo,” she says. “I’m here for my fighter’s winnings.”

  He nods. “Just give me and Jack a few minutes, Piper, and we’ll get you your marks. Not sure if it’ll make you feel better that only a few spectators wagered on him getting knocked out tonight.”

  She arches a brow. “It doesn’t.”

  “Sorry for the tough night.”

  “Yes, well, there will be other fighters.” She opens up her evening bag, but instead of taking out a starter, she’s checking her hair in a compact. “At least I’m saved from having to fund ring starters now—until I find someone new, anyway. Maybe next time I’ll choose a fighter with a bit more flair. Luan was just so conservative.”

  I wait until Hugo’s turned back to the crowd before approaching her. I’m too tired to be timid. I want to stop worrying about having marks for ring starters. And I don’t think I’ll get another chance as good as this.

  “I’m the fighter who eliminated yours,” I blurt out. There’s no real good way of saying it. “And I’m looking for a backer.”

  Piper slowly drops her compact back into her purse. Her gray-eyed gaze goes to my cheek. The letters of Rudy’s name must still be legible because I watch her eyes scan them.

  “Ah, yes, the fighter who knocked out Luan from the tournament.” Her tone is practically breezy. “Rudy the First for a physical punch, something the tournament’s never seen before.”

  “I’m—”

  “If you’re about to say you’re sorry, then you don’t need a backer, as you won’t last long enough to make it worth their marks.”

  The back of my neck gets hot. I don’t regret beating Luan, but it’s true I was about to say it.

  “It seemed like the right thing to say,” I mutter.

  “Maybe anywhere else, but not at a tournament where you have to beat forty-nine others.” Piper smooths a painted nail, oozing cool aggression much like the way Embry oozes power. “Backers can’t have their fighters be sorry about winning. Poor investments, if so.”

  Her tone is still light, but it doesn’t hide how she’s grown annoyed. With Luan leaving her without a fighter, yes, but just as much with me for talking to her about it.

  “I’ll be your new fighter,” I say. “Since Luan’s been knocked out.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not looking to back another fighter yet. I’ll need at least one more round to watch and decide. You’ll have to ask someone else.”

  I have no one else to ask. And one more round is one more round where I can’t be sure I’ll have marks to buy more starters.

  “You’ll be spending the tournament just watching other backers get rich,” I say. “Not the greatest business tactic.”

  Piper’s gaze sharpens. Her smile is nearly amused. “And I’ll want to back you, since you’re the one who knocked out Luan.”

  “I need a backer and you need a fighter.”

  “Backers only need fighters as long as they enjoy having a stake in the tournament,” she says. “Now, why do you need a backer? You did well enough tonight. A lot of fighters never even consider it.”

  “I want to win those two hundred thousand marks. But first I need marks to buy starters.”

  “Piper,” Hugo calls out, “got your fighter’s winnings sorted here at the counter. Ready for you whenever you want to grab them.”

  Piper ignores him and keeps her eyes on me. Beneath them I feel like an insect pinned to a board. I can sense her coming to a decision the way I sense pain comes for magic.

  “That’s also unfortunate, but it doesn’t change how I’ll want to watch you fight once more before deciding. Come find me after the next round—if you survive it.”

  She steps away and heads toward the bets counter.

  “You saw me fight tonight,” I call out after her. My voice is thin and hoarse. The desperation in there hurts my throat. “I thought you wanted flair.”

  Piper slows down but keeps going.

  “You know why I’m Rudy the First,” I say.

  I’m thinking it’s too late when Piper stops. She speaks over her shoulder.

  “The Mothery, Textile Sector, tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

  “Wait—I—what?” But Piper ignores me and keeps moving. I swear she’s laughing at my being so shocked. My pulse is fast and jittery, like I’ve been running. Or maybe it’s real hope and it’s just that I’m no longer used to it.

  I want to wait for her to finish so I can talk to her again. What if I heard wrong? What if she’s just kidding? What if—?

  “Hey. Rudy.”

  I spin on my
heel, nearly crashing into her, she’s standing so close behind me.

  Kylin.

  “Sorry,” I say to her when my mind goes blank for something more meaningful. I’m sorry I nearly killed you, but I only did it because you tried first. “I didn’t see you there.”

  She frowns, but it’s a thoughtful one, as though she’s measuring me up. There’s no sign of the confident caster I watched register as a fighter, but she’s also not the one who couldn’t meet my eyes afterward.

  “Can we talk really quick somewhere?” She glances around. Her shirtfront is stiff with drying blood, and her rose-gold sneakers have been ruined forever. “Not here.”

  Suspicion comes. I make myself see the kid she is—thirteen, maybe fourteen—beneath the blood still on her face, the white ink of her ring name clinging to her cheek.

  I wait for a group of casters to walk by before saying, “I think it’s against the rules for fighters to talk.” I’m making it up, but I don’t want to say any more to her than I already have. Casting battle magic at someone is easier if you don’t know them.

  “There’s no rule about not talking or Embry would have said it,” Kylin argues.

  “It’s still not a good idea.” I start to move away. So much for thinking I might wait for Piper.

  “Just two minutes. I promise I won’t try to kill you again.”

  I wish I could hate her or something, when really I just wish I’d been as gutsy a few years ago. Maybe I would have been able to convince my parents to let me help out earlier. Maybe then Saint Willow wouldn’t be the problem he is now. Maybe Shire would still be alive, still here being my older sister.

  “Two minutes,” I mutter. “And if you try anything—”

  “Why would I, now that you’d expect it?”

  “Is that your fighting strategy, then? Just catching casters off guard?”

  She shrugs with both shoulders. The gesture makes her seem even younger. “So can we go somewhere, then?”

  “Where?”

  She half smiles. “The washroom?”

  Kylin twists shut the main lock using full magic. The pain from casting leaves her pale and trembling, tired-looking. The Guild’s protection spell must have ended with the match. She should be saving her magic for tomorrow, but if she hasn’t figured this out yet, she’s not going to hear it from me. I’ll be fighting her tomorrow, and I need all the advantages I can get.