by Vi Voxley
“They know,” Violet said. “No need to remind them.”
Her mother nodded, agreeing.
“Good,” she said and smiled. “Because this is a day of great news.”
***
“Quiet down,” their mother said when they’d joined the others in the lounge.
Completely out of character for her, Violet actually did. She sat back on the sofa, looking at her mother Irmela, standing in front of her, smiling at her, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.
Violet wouldn’t, couldn’t go far enough to say she hated her mother, but they were so unlike it barely made a difference. Everyone said they weren’t similar at all, even if not all of them should have.
She’d been just two years old when her father had wounded Irmela’s pride by asking whether she was sure Violet was his. Her mother hadn’t spoken to him for a whole year, possibly costing the Atreens another champion or calaya. No one had blamed Irmela, though. The fault was all her victor’s. He should have known better – calayas were loyal to the bone.
“Quiet down,” her mother said again, not raising her voice.
Her eyes were still on Violet and she was still smirking. Violet knew the mixed emotions she had for her mother were mutual. Irmela was as stubborn as they came, and that was her only shared characteristic with her daughter.
Violet thought calayas should be pampered and cared for, as was their right. Irmela said she was a spoiled brat.
Violet took great care of herself, while Irmela barely cared. It infuriated Violet to no end that her mother still looked amazing in her carelessness.
Violet wanted everyone to like and admire her. Irmela only wanted those she liked to like her.
Violet thought the tournament was the best thing to ever happen to her. Irmela thought the custom was an ancient tradition and should be banned. That was their bitterest disagreement.
Despite all that and much more, Violet couldn’t deny that her mother certainly was a calaya to be admired. And she did admire her, she really did. It was no secret. Traditionally, calayas barely showed any signs of aging and Irmela still looked quite like she had when she’d been fought for. Her long silver blonde hair always fell loosely to her waist. The indigo strand of her hair was parted at her temple, falling in two curly waves over her cheeks. Her posture was regal and the smirk on her lips made her entire face smile.
She was truly beautiful, and her voice was even more so. Violet had always loved that melodic soft timbre of her voice, singing to her when she was small. It was no secret either that she would have loved to be more like her mother. Unfortunately, they both thought the other should be more like them.
Irmela still wouldn’t raise her voice.
“It’s about the tournament,” was all she said.
Silence set so fast that a few guards dared to peek around the corner to see if something had happened to the Overlord’s wife and daughters.
Violet and her sisters were suddenly all sitting at the edges of their seats, their hearts in their mouths. Even the ones too young for their own tournaments were waiting.
“Oh, now you listen,” Irmela said.
You’re enjoying this, Violet thought. If someone had teased you like this before your own tournament you’d have had them executed!
She let them fry for a long moment.
“You’re cruel,” Violet said at last.
“Let it never be said I am,” Irmela said, smiling.
“Alright then. You have your wish. The Overlord has agreed to host the tournament. There will be death and blood and all sorts of gore. Many men will die. Such fun.”
Violet barely registered anything after “has agreed to host”. She was so busy howling with joy and clapping that it took her several seconds to remember her manners.
“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “When? When!?”
“When will men start dying for you? Soon enough,” Irmela said.
Violet glared. She wouldn’t let her mother ruin that moment for her.
“I can’t believe you oppose it so much, mother,” she said seriously. “It’s our custom.”
Lavie agreed with her. Out of six sisters – six! – three of them, Lavie, Marelle and Violet herself, were of proper age. Marelle said nothing.
“Yes,” Irmela agreed. “It’s a stupid custom.”
“The Overlord doesn’t think so,” Violet shot back at once.
Her father was a notable warrior. In fact, he was much more than notable and far beyond the label of a warrior. He was, well, an overlord. Surely he’d once had a name, but Atreens sometimes forgot such trivial matters. When a champion was distinguished enough, he became known for his deeds and only by his title. In the year the Overlord had won the tournament and Irmela, there actually hadn’t been a competition. That would have meant that someone had actually stood a chance against him.
In truth, even Violet thought that hiding behind her father was a low blow, but Irmela just laughed.
“Well, he does have a few stupid opinions, too,” Irmela said.
The part of Violet that wanted to argue was overwhelmed. Every dream she’d ever had about the tournament arose once again.
No one spoke about the Overlord like that. Much less spoke to the Overlord like that. But Irmela could do what she wanted and say whatever popped into her head. However much their father loved Violet and all his children, Irmela was his treasure – his prize.
Now Violet would have a champion of her own. A mighty warrior she could control like that, a world-conquering warlord, just for her.
Arguing. Right.
“It’s not stupid,” she said. “We’ve done this for ages.”
“Yes. And I don’t doubt we’ll keep doing it for ages more. I’m just saying what it is.”
Something suddenly occurred to Violet, stopping the futile argument short.
“Mother...” she warned. “If you’ve heard anything about the champions who will be attending, you have to tell us.”
“Do I, now?”
“Yes. Oh god, I’m going to have a heart attack. Who is it? I see a name. Do you think I can’t tell when you have something really good and you’re keeping it from us?”
Irmela just shrugged, still smirking.
The Atreens had just one god, one supreme being they prayed to, but he had droves of underlings, some good, some bad and some just mischievous.
Violet could swear her mother was, at least, an emissary of a lesser demon – possibly the lesser demon herself.
“God, have mercy,” she whined. “Mother, what did you feel when you heard the Overlord was going to be at your tournament!?”
That pushed a button. Quite a few buttons, it seemed. Something flashed in their mother’s eyes. A sad smile passed her lips.
“I felt bad for the other champions,” Irmela said, but then nodded. “Alright, alright. It’s Forial. He’s enlisted to fight.”
Violet’s mouth dropped. Lavie squeaked and Marelle laughed – the first she’d ever heard her quiet sister do so.
“What?” she snapped.
“Oh, your face,” was all Marelle said before she settled for her usual slight grin.
Irmela’s true daughter, Violet thought bitterly.
Forial was their father’s second-in-command. He was a huge man and an accomplished warrior who almost never laughed. Violet paired him with Marelle at once.
Just because they could have the most quiet children in the world, who only laugh when I’m miserable.
Forial’s enlisting brought out several conflicting emotions in Violet. On the one hand, he was a powerful warrior and not having him compete for his fief lord’s daughters would have been embarrassing. On the other hand, Violet didn’t want him.
It’s not that I don’t like him, she thought. I just don’t want him to win me.
It was completely plausible, after all. They’d all seen him duel. Forial could win. He was certainly good enough. Honestly, Violet didn’t know which she feared more – Fori
al winning and picking her or Forial becoming the champion and picking someone else.
This is the worst day of my life.
Then she saw Irmela’s face. It still observed her, calm and amused.
“No,” Violet said. “That was not it. Mother, you’re killing me.”
Irmela laughed. “I’m sorry, Violet, but I have to agree with Marelle. The look on your face...”
“Will you two leave my face alone!”
Violet knew she was being melodramatic, but she’d learned it was the only way to deal with her mother. Besides, she really, really wanted to know. And if Irmela wasn’t going to tell her, she’d find out from someone else. The Overlord would probably tell her, or not, if Irmela got to him first. Someone else then… Surely Forial would know who his competition was going to be.
“Oh, Violet,” her mother called to her. “I forgot to mention! The flagship of the Raider Prince has left the siege of Salinet. It looks like he’s coming too. Totally slipped my mind.”
Through Lavie’s excited questions, Violet’s mind just went a calming, Ooooohhh. Quickly followed by, My mother really is a lesser demon.
She refused to give Irmela the satisfaction of reacting in any way. The Raider Prince! God was giving her a reward for having a mother like hers. She could barely think straight. But why should she? It was better than she could ever have imagined.
It was the first thing that managed to banish the memory she was trying to suppress, even for a moment.
Violet smiled, truly smiled.
She wasn’t going to be a prize. Oh no, she was going to be the prize.
CHAPTER THREE
Only debris and destruction surrounded the flagship when Reim arrived on the empty bridge ten minutes later. The lieutenant was the only one on board who could truly match him in combat – the pirate lord, of course, not the Prince. Reim was tall and slender for a warrior, but he made up for the lack of raw mass with his speed.
There were lines etched on the brow of his narrow face (mostly because of the Prince). They made him look older when he was being serious, but when he smiled the real him came through. Reim liked to say that the gray in his short black hair was the Prince’s fault too.
The crew was gone, sent to rest about two months before they’d expected to get real sleep. The Prince was lounging carelessly in his throne, a pleased smile on his lips. His second-in-command didn’t even spare him a glance and walked to the front window instead.
“What the fuck,” he said.
“Ah, Reim,” the Prince replied lazily. “Your ability to provide me with expert tactical observations is definitely the quality I value most in you.”
“You son of a bitch,” Reim said respectfully.
“She was everything but that, as you well know.”
Reim glared at him, but the Prince just smirked. As someone who hated being bored, he thoroughly appreciated Reim. His second-in-command could boast an utter lack of official respect – which the Prince didn’t care about anyway – and complete respect for his true self – which was all that mattered in the end. He was also unfazed by any and all troubles the Prince got them into, which were many.
Reim shrugged.
“Fine,” he said. “Now explain yourself.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“I didn’t know there was anything other than Salinet on our schedule.”
“There is now.”
“So what did you do?”
“Hacked into their systems and fired off a few plasma shots.”
Now Reim really glared. The Prince had always said Reim’s face was made to glare at him. He definitely had to do it often enough to wear it as a permanent expression.
“Dick move,” Reim said.
“I was in a hurry.”
“If it was so bloody easy for you to do, why have we been stuck in this miserable siege for all of three weeks?”
“I assure you, I had no intention of ending it like this,” the Prince said. “And it was extremely difficult, actually. I deserve praise here. I had to really, truly try.”
“Don’t expect any congratulations from me, you bastard.”
The Prince grinned. “I wasn’t, honestly.”
“What’s so sudden then that it made you destroy a quarter of the Salinet fleet?”
The rookie chose that moment to crawl out of whatever shadow he’d been standing in. Shaking, he edged forward, waiting for permission to speak. Reim growled in frustration while the Prince just laughed.
“Speak up, man,” he ordered. “How’s my beloved? And what is your name? I can’t keep calling you rookie. There will be a few more soon, no doubt.”
“Beren is fine, my Prince,” the man said hesitantly. “And it’s Sarto, my Prince.”
“Stop the ass-kissing,” Reim snapped to the Prince’s amusement. “He’s not your Prince. He’s the least prince-like being I’ve ever met.”
Sarto’s eyes flickered between them, unsure of where death might strike him. “Wh-what should I call him then?”
“The idiot he is,” Reim said.
While Sarto looked horrified, Reim turned to the Prince. “Now answer me. What’s so bloody urgent?”
“The Overlord’s daughters are up for a tournament,” he said. “He’s hosting the biggest event in living memory. Three of his own and four more.”
That got Reim’s attention. The rookie’s too, it seemed. The Prince doubted either of them had ever even seen a calaya, but they certainly knew who the Overlord was. And they’d also heard of his miraculous six daughters.
Six bloody daughters, the Prince thought. Six calaya daughters. That man is trying to save the species singlehandedly. Bless him.
He didn’t think it was an unfair estimation. Calayas were rare. To have six in one family was as close to a miracle as it got. But no wonder if the rumors of Irmela’s beauty were anywhere close to the truth.
“Here, here,” he called them, flipping the screen on again. And there it was, the flash of violet. He had to force himself to focus – plenty of time to think on it later. Reim and Sarto came as if pulled by an invisible cord. The Prince knew Reim had quite a few things to say, but at the moment all three of them stared at the screen, mesmerized.
“Great year,” the Prince said and his voice lost some of its fake edge. He could swear Sarto actually winced, but the screen kept his eyes in place. One calaya was hard enough to bear, but there were seven of them there.
He didn’t need to point – the girls were noticeable enough. Though not clear to see, not really. Calayas usually wore long dresses and veils of all sorts to hide them from sight. Some who were already married didn’t bother, but the younger ones hid themselves from the world until their tournaments. Images of the calayas were even rarer than they themselves, but the glimpses were astonishing enough. For some reason, the elusiveness of their beauty made them all the more desirable.
“Seven of them,” he said, rising from his chair to stand at full height. Sarto almost stopped breathing, while Reim dropped his mocking act at once. The time for pretense and fooling around was over for a while. His voice dropped to its real, deep and dark tone. Those who had heard him speak like that were his for all of their lives. Reim had bowed to that voice, and so had all of the Raiders.
So would any unlucky soul that entered the Overlord’s tournament, and the girl who served as the prize.
Though the warriors competing would be many and good – very, very good, in fact – the Prince doubted any warrior who cared about his reputation could stand aside for this one. The tournaments were as rare as the calayas, and usually there were just two or three of them to be won. Four was enough to summon every Atreen clan capable of traveling the stars. But seven... Seven would bring something spectacular.
Not any seven calayas, but three of Irmela’s daughters. Her beauty was legendary. Even at poor angles and hidden by veils, the images of the three were stunning, the colored strands showing who they were. The men had been staring mutely for a wh
ole minute now – no wonder poor Beren had suffered for it.
The Prince sent the image to the main screen. Almost life-sized, it even left him speechless for a moment. Slowly, he walked closer.
“Pearl and Halley,” he said. “Pearl is said to be a little firecracker. I hear she even joked about entering the tournament herself. If she’d win, she’d get to choose between us.”
His grin grew wider.
“I like her.” He went on. “Her sister, Halley – nicknamed Honey and as sweet as they get… I swear, if they raised her like that just so I’d get to say that, I’m going to kill someone. Poor girl.”
“Olive,” he went on. “Not much known about her. She’s been kept in such secrecy I didn’t even know she existed. But she’s pretty, no doubt.”
With every name he called, Sarto and Reim directed their eyes to the girl in question, just like he. The beauty of the calayas wasn’t to be underestimated, he thought with a bitter smile.
“And that’s Maige,” he said. “The only one known to already be rooting for someone. I hope it works out for them, I really do.”
That left the last three.
“And those are Irmela’s.”
All three of them stared, equal in that moment, if not in any other.
“Lavie – bright, happy, bubbly. We’ll see how long that lasts after the Overlord reveals what he has in store for the trials. I doubt he wants to give his daughters to someone who doesn’t bleed for them. Marelle. I hear she’s truly Irmela reborn. Doesn’t believe in the tournaments at all. I think she’s going to say as much.”
The Prince looked at the girl for a moment longer. “I admire that. Good for her.”
And finally, the last one, the one to blame for the wound in Beren’s side, and an older, more painful one. “And that leaves Violet.”
