by V. E. Schwab
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.
“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.
The stands let out a cheer as Lila entered the arena. From the balcony, the stadium had looked considerable. From the floor, it looked massive.
She scanned the crowd—there were so many people, so many eyes on her. As a thief in the night, Lila Bard knew that staying out of the light was the surest way to stay alive, but she couldn’t help it, she relished this kind of trick. Standing right in front of a mark while you pocketed their coins. Smiling while you stole. Looking them in the eye and daring them to see past the ruse. Because the best tricks were the ones pulled off not while the mark’s back was turned, but while they were watching.
And Lila wanted to be seen.
Then she saw the Veskan.
Sar entered the arena, crossing th
e wide space in a matter of strides before coming to a stop in the center. Standing still, she looked like she’d grown straight out of the stone floor, a towering oak of a woman. Lila had never thought of herself as short, but next to the Veskan, she felt like a twig.
The bigger they are, thought Lila, the harder they fall. Hopefully.
At least the armor plates were sized to fit, giving Lila a bigger target. Sar’s mask was made of wood and metal twined together into some kind of beast, with horns and a snout and slitted eyes through which Sar’s own blue ones shone through. In her hand hung an orb full of earth.
Lila’s teeth clenched.
Earth was the hardest element—almost any blow would break a plate—but it was also given in the smallest quantity. Air was everywhere, which meant fire was, too, if you could wrangle it into shape.
Sar bowed, her shadow looming over Lila.
The Veskan’s flag rippled overhead, a cloudless blue marked by a single yellow X. Between Sar’s letter and Lila’s knives, the crowd was a sea of crossed lines. Most were silver on black, but Lila thought that probably had less to do with rumors of Stasion Elsor’s skill, and more to do with the fact he was Arnesian. The locals would always take the majority. Right now, their loyalty was by default. But Lila could earn it. She imagined an entire stadium of black and silver flags.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
The arena floor was dotted with obstacles, boulders and columns and low walls all made from the same dark stone as the floor, so that the competitors and their elements stood out against the charcoal backdrop.
The trumpets trailed off, and Lila’s gaze rose to the royal balcony, but the prince wasn’t there. Only a young man wearing a green cape and a crown of polished wood and threaded silver—one of the Veskan royals—and Master Tieren. Lila winked and, even though the Aven Essen probably couldn’t see, his bright eyes still seemed to narrow in disapproval.
A tense quiet fell over the crowd, and Lila twisted back to see a man in white and gold robes on the judge’s platform that cantilevered over the arena. His hand was up, and for a second she wondered if he was summoning magic, until she realized he was only summoning silence.
Sar held out her sphere, the earth rising and rattling inside with nervous energy.
Lila swallowed and lifted her own, the oil disturbingly still by comparison.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright …
Her fingers tightened on the orb, and the surface of the oil burst into flame. The effect was impressive, but it wouldn’t last, not with so little air in the sphere. She didn’t wait—the instant the man in white began to lower his hand, Lila smashed the orb against the ground, sending up a burst of air-starved flame. The force of it jolted Lila and surprised the audience, who seemed to think it was all in the spirit of spectacle.
Sar crushed her own orb between her hands, and just like that, the match was underway.
* * *
“Focus,” scolded Alucard.
“I am focusing,” said Lila, holding her hands on either side of the
“You’re not. Remember, magic is like the ocean.”
“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Lila, “waves.”
“When waves go the same way,” he lectured, ignoring her commentary, “they build. When they collide, they cancel.”
“Right, so I want to build the wave—”
“No,” said Alucard. “Just let the power pass through you.”
Esa brushed against her. The Spire rocked slightly with the sea. Her arms ached from holding them aloft, a bead of oil in each palm. It was her first lesson, and she was already failing.
“You’re not trying.”
“Go to hell.”
“Don’t fight it. Don’t force it. Be an open door.”
“What happened to waves?” muttered Lila.
Alucard ignored her. “All elements are inherently connected,” he rambled on while she struggled to summon fire. “There’s no hard line between one and the next. Instead, they exist on a spectrum, bleeding into one another. It’s about finding which part of that spectrum pulls at you the strongest. Fire bleeds into air, which bleeds into water, which bleeds into earth, which bleeds into metal, which bleeds into bone.”
“And magic?”
He crinkled his brow, as if he didn’t understand. “Magic is in everything.”
Lila flexed her hands, focusing on the tension in her fingers, because she needed to focus on something. “Tyger Tyger, burning bright …” Nothing.
“You’re trying too hard.”
Lila let out an exasperated sound. “I thought I wasn’t trying hard enough!”
“It’s a balance. And your grip is too tight.”
“I’m not even touching it.”
“Of course you are. You’re just not using your hands. You’re exerting force. But force isn’t the same as will. You’re seizing a thing, when you need only cradle it. You’re trying to control the element. But it doesn’t work like that, not really. It’s more of a … conversation. Question and answer, call and response.”
“Wait, so is it waves, or doors, or conversations?”
“It can be anything you like.”
“You’re a wretched teacher.”
“I warned you. If you’re not up to it—”
“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”
“You can’t glare magic into happening.”
Lila took a steadying breath. She tried to focus on the way fire felt, imagined the heat against her palms, but that didn’t work, either. Instead she drew up the memories of Kell, of Holland, of the way the air changed when they did magic, the prickle, the pulse. She thought of holding the black stone, summoning its power, the vibration between her blood and bones and something else, something deeper. Something strange and impossible, and at the same time, utterly familiar.
Her fingertips began to burn, not with heat, but something stranger, something warm and cool, rough and smooth and alive.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright, she whispered silently, and an instant later, the fire came to life against her palms. She didn’t need to see what she’d done. She could feel it—not only the heat, but the power swimming beneath it.
Lila was officially a magician.
* * *
Lila was still trying to wrangle the fire into shape when Sar’s first ball of earth—it was basically a rock—slammed into her shoulder. The burst of light was sharp and fleeting as the plate broke. The pain lingered.
There was no time to react. Another mass came hurtling toward her, and Lila spun out of Sar’s line of attack, ducking behind a pillar an instant before the earth shattered against it, raining pebbles onto the arena floor. Thinking she had time before the next attack, Lila continued around the pillar, prepared to strike, and was caught in the chest by a spear of earth, crushing the central plate. The blow slammed her back into a boulder, and her spine struck the rock with brutal force, two more plates shattering as she gasped and fell to her hands and knees.
Four plates lost in a matter of seconds.
The Veskan made a chuckling sound, low and guttural, and before Lila could even get upright, let alone retaliate, another ball of earth struck her in the shin, cracking a fifth plate and sending her back to her knees.
Lila rolled to her feet, swearing viciously, the words lost beneath the cheers and chants and snapping pennants. A puddle of fire continued to burn on the oil-slicked ground. Lila shoved against it with her will, sending a river of flame toward Sar. It barely grazed the Veskan, the heat licking harmlessly against the armor. Lila cursed and dove behind a barrier.
The Veskan said something taunting, but Lila continued to hide.
Think, think, think.
She’d spent all day watching the matches, making note of the moves everyone made, the way they played. She’d scraped together secrets, the chinks in a player’s armor, the tells in their game.
And she’d learned one very important thing.
Everyone played by the rules. Well, as far as Li
la could tell, there weren’t that many, aside from the obvious: no touching. But these competitors, they were like performers. They didn’t play dirty. They didn’t fight like it really mattered. Sure, they wanted to win, wanted to take the glory and the prize, but they didn’t fight like their lives were on the line. There was too much bravado, and too little fear. They moved with the confidence of knowing a bell would chime, a whistle would blow, the match would end, and they would still be safe.
Real fights didn’t work that way.
Delilah Bard had never been in a fight that didn’t matter.
Her eyes flicked around the arena and landed on the judge’s platform. The man himself had stepped back, leaving the ledge open. It stood above the arena, but not by much. She could reach it.
Lila drew the fire in and tight, ready to strike. And then she turned, mounted the wall, and jumped. She made it, just barely, the crowd gasping in surprise as she landed on the platform and spun toward Sar.
And sure enough, the Veskan hesitated.
Hitting the crowds was clearly not allowed. But there was no rule about standing in front of them. That hitched moment was all Lila needed. Sar didn’t attack, and Lila did, a comet of fire launching from each hand.
Don’t fight it, don’t force it, be an open door.
But Lila didn’t feel like an open door. She felt like a magnifying glass, amplifying whatever strange magic burned inside her so that when it met the fire, the force was its own explosion.
The comets twisted and arced through the air, colliding into Sar from different angles. One she blocked. The other crashed against her side, shattering the three plates that ran from hip to shoulder.
Lila grinned like a fool as the crowd erupted. A flash of gold above caught her eye. At some point, the prince had arrived to watch. Alucard stood in the stands below him, and on her own level, the judge in white was storming forward. Before he could call foul, Lila leaped from the platform back to the boulder. Unfortunately, Sar had recovered, both from her surprise and the hit, and as Lila’s foot hit the outcropping, a projectile of earth slammed into her shoulder, breaking a sixth piece of armor and knocking her off the edge.
As she fell back, she flipped with feline grace and landed in a crouch.
