While all this went on, Calista stood in a dark corner of the tent with her eyes closed, hands gripping her bow. Finally, it was her turn.
“Ladycats and gentlebeasts,” Beasel announced, “in the spirit of my tale—no pun intended—about the fierce warrior women of Iatta Khan, I present to you our final contestant. Raised by pinkbellied baboons in the wild heart of that same jungle, as swift and deadly as a werecat, expert with all manner of bow and blade, I bring you the ravishing Ultira Gemheart!”
“Ultira Gemheart?” Calista said with a frown.
Music began to play, starting with musicians pounding on animal-skin drums. A tribal beat, like something one would dance to around a bonfire while dressed in the bloody scalps of enemies. Soon other instruments joined, adding rhythmic croaks, rattles, bangs, and trills. A flute began a rising melody that promised life-or-death conflict.
Calista’s heart pounded. The curtains slid apart.
With a blast of heat and light, the torches on the stage ignited. It was her call to action, her moment.
Calista sprang out of the tent and landed at the very edge of the stage, the bow light and taut in her hands. Fake jungle vines hung between her and the audience. She pretended to shoot arrows through them and into the crowd. Several men in the front row actually flinched. One man dove to the ground, spilling his mug of beer all over a drummer.
Calista moved in time to the beat. She executed a flawless backflip and landed on a board suspended between a pair of fake trees, where she shot more invisible arrows. The spotlights stung her eyes. Not that it mattered; she could perform this act wearing a blindfold. The music took over, the beat growing ever fiercer. A singer lifted a tribal battle chant into the night.
She whipped her bow straight up at one point, then phased into a hawk, cut a wide arc above her audience, and phased back into human form in time to catch the bow in the center of the stage. Twirling it around her dancing body, she became keenly aware of the way her bare legs flashed beneath a grass skirt that barely clung to her hips. She fell to her knees and arched her back, exposing her belly. Beasel had insisted she reveal as much skin as possible.
Now she understood why. The men in the crowd had begun to howl and cheer and clap. The women covered their mouths, too stunned to move.
As the music neared its climax, Calista prepared herself for her most difficult trick yet. She did another backflip and landed catlike on the wooden beam. Flames burst and blossomed from the torches. The beat escalated—maddening, liberating. She had never heard music like this before.
Vaguely, she noticed movement on the stage. Hidden behind a row of bushes lining the edge, a stagehand crept forward on his belly. Calista had prepared for this, and yet she still found herself anxious. She noticed the gleam of moisture on the stage, drawn in the shape of a circle right where they had told her it would be, and dipped into a crouch.
The stagehand struck a match. Calista inhaled. She counted each beat of her heart.
One.
The match landed on the almost invisible, gleaming circle of oil.
Two.
She breathed out.
Three.
She sprang toward the sky—four—and flipped twice.
Five, six…
Midair, she let loose a string of sharp, ululating cries, counting seven eight nine ten.
Her feet hit the platform, and she landed in a crouch, flames dancing all around her, perfectly in the circle’s center. Calista drew a steel-tipped arrow, nocked it against her bow, and shot it past the wall of shivering heat at a spotlight set up on a rooftop.
The lamp shattered, darkening the stage and making the fire appear to burn even more brightly. The flames trapped Calista in their circle. She found herself savoring the heat. It crept up her legs and arms like the hands of her audience, pulling her into a loving embrace. A second later, the fire died, and then the drums rose to a quick climax and suddenly stopped.
Rising, standing with her shoulders thrown back, Calista felt completely naked in front of a sea of still faces. The laughter would start any moment now. She was sure of it.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
The audience exploded in a wild ecstasy of applause and cheers. It bled into the streets, where men and women—mostly men—jumped and clapped and howled from sidewalks, balconies, windows. The front-most section of her audience broke free and poured past the band, knocking over drums and stands. They reached for her as if eager to touch Valcyona herself.
Breathing hard, Calista ignored her admirers. She scanned the crowd for the only face she suddenly, desperately, hoped to see.
But there was no sign of Artemis.
Instead, she caught movement on the sloped ceiling across the street. She squinted and made out the dark figure crouched behind the broken spotlight. It was easier to see without that glaring light in her eyes. The figure was dressed all in black and wore a mask.
Maybe a burglar robbing the house?
A second, larger figure made its way toward the first, apparently trying not to be detected. Calista frowned in disbelief. Unless she was imagining things, the second one looked intent on murdering the first.
A bomb went off, or so it seemed. Fireworks erupted in the sky, throwing red light over Peleros. The light glinted off metal in the hands of the figure crouching behind the spotlight. He held something small and sharp.
An arrowhead.
The figure lifted a longbow and took aim at the stage.
Too stunned to move, Calista could only watch as the second figure leaped toward the first, gripping a blade in his attacking hand.
The blade fell, and so did the bowstring.
The arrow flew toward her.
Calista screamed.
CHAPTER 35
T ime ceased to exist inside the cave.
Oscar lost himself in following Larry and the others, taking in the smell of moist rocks and a metallic tang of what was probably human blood. He found that it thrilled him when it should have made him feel afraid. His friends were probably studying right now, and here he was on a dangerous adventure.
Along the way, Larry and Jason ignited torches that shattered the darkness and revealed the tunnel’s downward slope. Apart from the crackling of flames, the place was dead silent.
Jason’s voice reverberated like a tolling bell.
“It’s this way, guys.”
They picked their way across loose rocks and piles of boulders. No one spoke except to say things like “Be careful” and “Watch your step here.” Eventually, after several hours had passed, they came to a slightly wider tunnel where Larry declared they should stop and get some rest. The veterans broke out food and blankets. Oscar munched bread and cheese and listened as the men whispered to each other about Orglots and what knowledge the legends had passed down about their nature.
“Are you okay?” Larry asked him, his scars gleaming in the torchlight.
Oscar nodded but said nothing.
“Good,” Larry said. “We’re only stopping a few hours, so get some sleep.”
Oscar had no problem obeying the order. His head ached mildly from the beer he had drunk with dinner. He pulled the blanket over himself and was asleep as soon as he shut his eyes.
LARRY SHOOK HIM AWAKE.
“You ready, cub?”
Oscar blinked the fogginess from his eyes and nodded. They wasted no time in packing the blankets and making their way through the tunnels once more. Hours passed in silent monotony, and Oscar found himself fantasizing about returning to Theus a hero and impressing all his friends. Mostly, he dreamed of impressing Calista enough to earn a kiss.
One tunnel opened into a cavernous corridor where they had to hug the walls to avoid falling into a pit. Oscar stayed close to Larry. He avoided looking at the blinding torchlight and used his sense of smell to detect the proximity of the pit. He kept his gaze on Larry’s boots as a way of guiding his own steps.
At one point, a creature slithered across the wall, star
tling the men. Larry pointed his torch at it. The thing resembled an octopus with four legs instead of eight. Its skin was pale with a moist sheen, and when it reared its head back to study them, Oscar saw milk-white eyes. The creature was blind.
“Disgusting,” Larry said.
The creature detached one of its tentacles with a popping sound and held it out. Dagon unsheathed his sword and went to slice the outstretched limb.
It was Oscar who stopped him.
“No. Wait.” The man recoiled as if the creature had bit him. “It won’t hurt us.”
“How do you know?”
Oscar had no words to explain it. Somehow, he knew without a doubt the creature wanted only to study them. He knew it could feel the heat of their bodies, and that it assumed they were like the warm rock fungus it normally snacked on, except bigger.
“It thinks we’re mushrooms,” Oscar said. “Huge, delicious ones.”
“More reason to kill it,” Dagon said. “What if it jumps on us? Those tentacles look mighty sticky, in my opinion. Could be hiding poisonous hooks.”
“It won’t attack,” Oscar assured him. “And its tentacles are harmless.”
“How do you know that, boy?” Dagon shot at him, scowling in suspicion.
“I just do,” Oscar said.
“You expect me to believe that you’re some sort of expert—”
“Enough,” Larry said and went to stand between them. “Drop it, Dagon. Leave the boy and the creature alone.”
Grumbling to himself, Dagon took a step back. As he retracted the torch, the other veterans muttered in surprise. A pale, bluish glow was emanating from the creature’s skin, as if it had absorbed some of the light.
“Weird,” Muldoon said.
Oscar sent a nudge warning the creature about these men. The creature’s emotions shifted, and the visual effect was like watching a chemical reaction beneath its semi-translucent skin. Sparkling, it retracted its tentacle, and crept away with a series of sticky pops, lighting the walls with its eerie phosphorescence.
“That was mighty strange,” Larry said.
They made their way further into the cave system until, hours later, they arrived at the spot Jason had described in his story.
“This is where they laid the traps,” he said, lowering his torch.
The flames illuminated an area spattered with blood. The clamps that had trapped his friends were large metal things that looked like mouths ripped from a pair of nightmarish robots. Shreds of clothing, dark with dried blood, hung off the spikes like charred skin.
Larry crouched to study the traps.
“They’re manmade,” he said. “Jay, you sure this wasn’t the work of bandits? I don’t think Orglots could fashion something this intricate.”
Jason studied a trail of blood leading into darkness. “Bandits might have brought them into the caves, but the creature I saw was no man. Besides, why would bandits drag Bil and Sara into the caves? If I were them, I would have killed them and tossed them into the pit.”
“You’re right,” Larry said, examining the blood trail. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless I’m right about what I saw,” Jason said defiantly.
Muldoon washed his torchlight over the ground. “You said there was gold.”
“In that crack over there,” Jason said.
He pointed at a fissure in the ground. The others gathered around it to take a look, Muldoon scurrying over on his metal leg to get there first.
“We’ll get it on the way out,” Larry said. “It’ll only weigh us down. And besides, gold isn’t the reason we came. Right, men?” he added, searching their faces.
Muldoon and Dagon traded uncertain glances, sighed, and nodded in reluctant agreement. Oscar cared little about wealth; he found himself drawn to the next dark tunnel ahead. Maybe his father was right and he had a death wish after all.
A scraping noise made them all go tense. The men unsheathed their swords, and Oscar fell into a crouch, ready to leap away.
“Who’s there?” Larry said into the darkness, in the direction from which they had emerged.
Another scrape. Slow footsteps. Oscar caught a familiar smell that made him think of home—not home at the ranch or the academy, but home in Cartagena. A familiar, human smell.
Jason hugged the wall, eyes popping wide with fear. Larry pushed Oscar back and held out his sword. Oscar held his breath, peering into the darkness, no longer afraid but fascinated.
Relieved, he almost laughed at the bearded brown face that appeared at the edge of their torchlight.
“Papa? What… How…?”
Andres blinked in the light. “Oscar?”
The men lowered their swords. Larry gave Oscar a questioning look.
“This is my father,” Oscar explained. “Papa, what are you doing here?”
“I came to find you,” he said in English.
Andres took a step forward and tripped over a loose stone. Oscar darted over to grab him and was almost stabbed by the blade in his father’s hand. He stepped back and studied it.
“Owen’s dagger. He gave it to you?”
Andres kissed his son’s scalp. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“But…” A dreadful feeling made Oscar pull away. What was he doing here? Even with the Tiberian dagger, there was no way his father—a simple man with no Godkin abilities—would be able to defend himself. As happy as Oscar was to see him, he would only slow them down.
Larry extended a hand to Andres.
“Name’s Larry. And you are?”
“Andres Reza.”
They shook. The other veterans turned back to the gold, sheathing their swords.
“Andres, we need to keep going,” Larry handed him a torch, “but you can still go back. Take Oscar and get out of here.”
“No,” Oscar said. “I’m not leaving.”
Larry sighed and turned back to the tunnel. The other veterans tore longing gazes away from the gold and followed him.
His father hung back. “Oscar, I have something for you.”
“I can’t take the dagger. You might need it.”
“No. Something else.”
Andres dug a shiny piece of jewelry from his pocket. He handed it to Oscar, who held it up against the torch. It resembled one of those thin metal crowns worn by the beauty queens in the pageants back in Cartagena, except the design looked more functional than girly. It had a pale crystal embedded in the front.
They switched to Spanish.
“What is it?”
“The people in Theus call it an Araband. You touch the crystal, and it shows you things.”
“Magic?”
Andres shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s almost like a computer. Emmanuel said you could use it to communicate with your friends. Maybe if you get lost—”
“I see.”
Oscar tapped the crystal, and a marble of white light floated out. He quickly tapped it off and slipped it into his pocket. No time for that right now. The light from the veteran’s torches had almost disappeared inside the tunnel.
“Thanks,” he told his father. “Now, get out of here. I’ll be okay.”
His father shook his head with a faint smile. “I thought you had inherited your stubbornness from your mother, but maybe you got it from me. I’m not leaving you.”
With a smile of his own, Oscar turned toward the tunnel. He had to admit, it was good to have him here.
His father yanked him back. “You stay behind me. That’s all I ask.”
For the first time since they had arrived on this strange continent, Oscar obeyed his father without question—even, in fact, with a little smile.
CHAPTER 36
C alista lunged to one side, just in time to save her own life.
The arrow grazed her shoulder, slicing a cold line of pain into her flesh. She rolled across the stage and leaped to her feet, hands reaching for her quiver. As she aimed an arrow at the dark figures on the roof, she recognized the shape and statu
re of the one holding the blade, the color of his graying hair and beard reflecting the moon’s light.
She almost dropped the bow to keep from shooting him. The audience quieted as people began pointing out the arrow embedded in the floor and the blood on Calista’s shoulder.
“Watch out,” Artemis shouted from the rooftop.
Another arrow flew toward her, this time from a different angle. Calista stepped aside in the nick of time. The crowd erupted in cries of fear and alarm and began pouring in every direction to get away.
Calista scanned the rooftops. The second assassin was already in the process of pulling back a second arrow. Calista barely aimed as she released hers first.
The arrow took the assassin in the arm, forcing his aim to tilt into the crowd. A woman screamed once the arrow landed. Hopefully she would live. Calista stopped and readied her bow for a counterattack, but Artemis beat her to it. He leaped across a broad aisle of space, from one rooftop to the next, and landed right next to the assassin. Growing more and more alarmed, Calista watched as Artemis snapped the man’s neck and tossed him over the edge like one might do with a bag of dirty laundry.
The crowd screamed as more arrows flew through the air, aimed at both Calista and Artemis. One cut a line across her right thigh. The air was cold against the wound. She took cover behind one of the fake trees and tried to aim. Arrows thumped into its trunk.
Some of the assassins had made their way into the dispersing crowd. She marked them by the slow and measured approach they took amid the frenzy. Calista fired an arrow at a hooded figure carrying a red dagger—a blade covered in blood.
The arrow took a small boy in the back, spinning him around. He gazed wide-eyed up at the stage. His mouth moved like he was trying to call for his mother.
He crumpled to the ground. A woman next to him shrieked. She threw Calista a frightened, accusatory glance before scooping the boy into her arms and sprinting away. Her blonde hair matched that of her dead son.
Another hooded assassin joined the first. They broke into a run toward the stage. Calista let instinct guide her as Artemis had taught her to do, but it was panic that took over instead. She frantically fired two more arrows. One of the assassins went down clutching his bleeding neck, the arrow shaft poking past his fingers. The other continued, unharmed, which meant her second arrow had missed.
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