by Kobe Bryant
“I failed,” she said. “I failed the test.”
“No, Pretia,” he said. “There’s been no decision as of yet.”
“What does that mean?” she said.
“Well, it’s up to you, really. You are free to compete, of course. You are also free to withdraw.”
“So the test wasn’t about whether or not I could compete? It was just about whether or not I could use my grana?” Pretia hung her head as she found a seat at an empty table. Satis and Vera joined her.
“Right,” Satis said. “With no official decision, what you do is your decision. But my fear is that if you split yourself in the marathon and the decision comes down that you will be forbidden from doing so in the future, there’s a significant chance you’ll be banned from the rest of the games.”
“What?” Pretia cried.
“You would be found in violation of Granic Law, and that’s an automatic disqualification. So I’d err on the side of caution.”
“You mean compete but not split myself?” Pretia stared at her food. She didn’t have any appetite.
“The choice is yours,” Satis said.
“It’s not always a choice,” she said. “Sometimes it just happens.”
“And you can’t control it? You can’t restrain it?” Satis said.
Pretia angled away from Vera on the long bench so her friend couldn’t hear her. “Yes,” she said. “I can stop it when it’s happening. But it costs me.”
“You are a fearsome competitor even without splitting yourself, Pretia,” Satis assured her. “I would certainly love to see you out there for Ecrof and Somni.”
Pretia closed her eyes to think. No sooner had she done so than the picture in her Grana Book popped into her mind. A long twisting road that foretold both difficulty and success. She knew this image pertained to many things, not just the marathon. But what was a marathon if not a long road? If it had to be difficult, so be it. And maybe, just maybe, that explosion of golden light at the end of the road as shown in her Grana Book meant there was a chance she could win.
“I’m not sure I can win without my grana, so what’s the point?”
“The point is to run in a Junior Epic race,” Vera said.
“I don’t know,” Pretia replied. “I can try, but it’s like I’m being set up to lose.”
“Maybe you’ll surprise yourself,” Vera said.
“Fine,” Pretia said. “I’ll do it. But I’m not happy.”
“Of course you’re not,” Satis agreed. “But perhaps if you do this, it will work in your favor with the tribunal.”
“Let’s hope,” Pretia grumbled. She took a bite of her breakfast.
Satis sighed. “I wish you could be free to do your best,” he said.
“When will the tribunal make a decision?” Pretia asked.
“They are deliberating. They—” He broke off without finishing.
“What?” Pretia asked.
“There have been more protests. They are under a lot of pressure.”
“I’m planning a counterprotest,” Vera announced, throwing down her fork. “Tonight on the Grand Concourse.” She bounced out of her seat. “I’ll show Julius and his gang. And that stuck-up Rex Taxus, too.”
“The Dreamer Trainers have discussed this. We decided it would be best if you all stayed focused on your competition. We opened the games well. We’re leading. Let’s work on that.”
Vera looked from Satis to Pretia.
“Vera,” Satis said, “wouldn’t it be better to prove yourself to Rex Taxus on the field than during a protest?”
“I can do both,” Vera said, competitively. “I’ll—”
Pretia held up her hand. “It’s okay,” she said. “I know you’re all on my side. Even some Realists are on my side. At least my uncle is.” She sounded more confident than she felt. She couldn’t shake the memory of running and swimming in those cold glass chambers, watched over by the forbidding tribunal. She couldn’t believe her fate was in their hands—a group of adults who were so clearly against her.
“All right,” Satis said. “I’ll tell the race officials that you’ll participate in the marathon. And I’ll let the tribunal know that you’ve voluntarily offered not to split yourself.”
“Do you think that will help my cause?” Pretia said.
“It can’t hurt,” Satis replied. “Good luck today.”
When the Visualization Trainer had left, Vera leaned over her plate toward Pretia. “You understand what’s about to happen, don’t you?”
“What?” Pretia replied warily.
“You,” Vera said, patting her on the shoulder, “are about to compete in your first Junior Epic Games! Nothing can change that. From this moment on, you will always be a Junior Epic Competitor.”
A smile broke across Pretia’s face. Vera was right. Finally, after all the setbacks, after all the people who tried to prevent her from doing so, she was about to compete in the Junior Epic Games. Sure, the marathon wasn’t exactly her favorite event. She was much more excited about the 100 and the 4x400 relay. And sure, she couldn’t split herself today. But she was about to represent House Somni and Ecrof.
No matter what happened in the race, she would enjoy this honor.
* * *
After breakfast, Pretia and Vera joined a line of Dreamers filing toward the Epic Coaches to the various venues. Virgil chatted with some friends ahead of them, a crew of willowy divers from different academies. They passed Eshe, who had, to her delight, been substituted at the last minute for shot put and was pantomiming her throw as she boarded her coach.
“She’s a little intense, don’t you think?” Vera said.
“She reminds me of someone,” Pretia said.
“Who?”
Pretia laughed. “It’ll come to me.”
They took their seats as the coach began to roll out of the Junior Epic Village. Pretia had yet to see the decked-out interior of an Epic Coach, and she admired the luxurious seats complete with grana and visualization gadgets, not to mention the galley kitchen well stocked with Power Snacks and Spirit Water. There were also screens hung throughout the coach that played previous Junior Epic events. Despite the spectacular interior, Pretia was more interested in what was going on outside the coach—the miraculous city unfolding before her eyes.
She kept her gaze trained on the window as they passed the stadium and began to wind their way through the Upper City into the Lower City. The streets were lined with spectators cheering on the Dreamer coach as well as the Realist one that was following behind.
A delegate from the Kratos Academy in Chaldis stood up to address the athletes.
“The coach will take you out of the city gates to the edge of Phoenis,” he said. “The race will commence at the Moon Palace. You will run along the Phoenician Road toward the city of Ur for ten miles. Then you will double back, returning along a different road—the Tunis Road. You will enter the city through the gates and run up the road we are on now. The route crosses the river Durna and proceeds into the Upper City. Then you will head for the Tile Palace, run one circle around the Temple of Arsama, and head into the Crescent Stadium for a final lap of the track before crossing the finish line. Remember, the road on this race will not always be smooth or paved. Compete well and thoughtfully. Take caution and do your best. Here’s to dreams that never die!”
The athletes returned the cheer in one voice.
With that, the delegate sat back down.
As the coach approached the Moon Palace, the athletes grew silent, suddenly confronted with the enormity of the task ahead of them—a twenty-six-mile race through an unforgiving desert.
It was still morning, and the white-and-silver tile of the Moon Palace remained in shadow. The Dreamers filed off the bus. Pretia and Vera signed in and got their race numbers.
“You have fifteen min
utes to warm up,” a delegate bellowed through a megahorn. “Then the race will start. There will be Power Snacks and Spirit Water stations along the way. A race van will patrol the course in case of emergencies.”
Pretia and Vera peeled off from the pack to complete some paired stretches, followed by a light jog. They shed their tracksuits.
“Runners to the start!”
A throng of fifty Junior Epics assembled between two poles. Pretia glanced ahead, out over the desert. She shaded her eyes, peering into the vast nothingness ahead. She would run into that emptiness and then back while the sun rose, the air warmed, and the day stretched on bright and hot. All she had to do was run her best—and keep her shadow self reined in. She pushed down her resentment.
“Go!”
The athletes started at once, a mass of bodies jolting forward. It took a few moments for them to fan out and give each other space. Soon Pretia found her stride and fell in beside Vera.
At first the athletes ran in a packed group, trying to keep up with one another. But after a mile, they stretched out along the course. Some had sprinted on ahead, trying to establish a lead they hoped to hold the entire race. Others hung back, clearly pacing themselves, waiting until later to make a move.
Pretia and Vera stayed in the middle, keeping the leaders in sight but not pushing too hard yet.
After two miles, Pretia could run without feeling hemmed in by her competitors. She and Vera spread across the road, keeping pace with one another.
The desert was no longer in shadow. The sand shone a light gold color that Pretia knew would darken to bronze as the day lengthened. On either side of the road was nothing but an expanse of sand, now and then interrupted by an oasis of date palms or a single, lonely building or a crumbling altar smudged with ancient ash.
The road beneath their feet was hard and cracked, baked by the relentless sun. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
They ran through the first water station, where attendants handed out cups. Pretia didn’t break stride. She poured some cool water on her head, and more down her throat, and kept going.
Six miles into the race, a wind picked up, sending sand swirling. Pretia spat it out of her mouth and rubbed it from her eyes.
They approached a tiny village. The elders had come out to bang drums as the athletes ran through. The children, about Pretia’s age and younger, with scarves over their head and eyes to protect from the sand, ran along the road until they tired. A young boy unwound his own scarf and held it out for Pretia. She accepted it and covered her head and mouth.
“Like a true Sandlander,” Vera said approvingly.
They kept on. Pretia’s arms and back were slick with sweat. Now there were no more villages. Just sand and sand and sand.
And then the road turned into a bridge, a high overpass over a deep valley of—what else?—sand. Pretia let her eyes wander briefly, tracing the path of the sandy valley flowing to the east.
The Phoenician Road stretched on ahead. In the distance, she could see the the city of Ur shimmering against the horizon—a black silhouette of dome-shaped buildings flickering in and out of focus. They had almost reached the turnaround.
In two more miles they came to the outskirts of Ur, a small city compared to the glory of Phoenis. The marathoners were now firmly divided into two groups, with Pretia and Vera at the back of the lead runners.
The citizens had come out to support the racers. The Dreamers of Ur lined up on the right side of the road, the Realists on the left. They banged drums and shook shakers filled with beads. Children blew on small toy sorna horns and danced along the road. At odd intervals, small temples popped up, simple structures of unadorned sand bricks strewn with offerings to the gods—fruits, flowers, and pieces of pottery.
Three race officials stood by a water station at a curve in the road, directing the runners. Instead of heading north into the city, the competitors veered to the west in front of a small altar at a crossroads and doubled back along the Tunis Road.
Here, as the Dreamer delegate on the bus had promised, the road grew rougher, completely broken in patches and sometimes entirely covered in sand. Pretia was tempted to take off her shoes, but she knew she’d need them for the run through Phoenis.
Again, the road crossed a bridge over a deep, dark, jagged depression in the sand. But this time, instead of running off into the distance, the sandy crevice curved and began to follow parallel to the Tunis Road, mimicking each of the road’s twists and turns.
Pretia tried to point this out to Vera, but Vera was deep in her zone and didn’t acknowledge her.
Pretia took her mind off the exhaustion seeping into her legs by watching this strange crevice that followed the road, sometimes veering off slightly into the desert, but often returning and running alongside it.
The road twisted and turned with the valley mirroring it—less like a road than a river. A sandy river. And then Pretia knew what she was seeing: the famous River of Sand.
Now that she knew what it was, it was so obvious. The valley running alongside the Tunis Road wasn’t a valley at all, but a deep, cratered depression left behind when the River of Sand had been dammed by the people of Phoenis. She shaded her eyes again, marveling at how wondrous and terrifying it must have been to see a massive current of sand moving through the desert, twisting and turning. It must have looked like a living thing, a giant snake rushing through the land.
She understood why the people of Phoenis had decided to dam the river. Imagine if all of that sand was allowed to rush through the desert, wild and dangerous? Certainly, only the gods would have been able to control such power.
Pretia was tiring. Her mind wandered. She was still in the leader pack but falling off the back. She suspected that if she split herself, she could watch herself move on ahead smoothly. But she knew she shouldn’t.
Finally, she could see the Moon Palace outlined in the distance, marking the outside edge of Phoenis. She was reaching the homestretch.
The dried-up River of Sand, which had been a faithful companion to the Tunis Road, vanished, diving underground just before the Moon Palace. Vera and the leader pack had pulled away slightly, leaving Pretia. She knew if she didn’t use her exceptional grana, she wasn’t going to win.
She passed the Moon Palace, the tiles glowing yellow in the brilliant sun, where the Tunis Road joined the Phoenician Road. More and more spectators lined the course. Some patted the runners on the back as they passed. Others ran alongside.
The gates that admitted them to the Lower City were hung with purple and blue streamers. Only four more miles.
Pretia’s stride adjusted as she hit the cobblestones. She ran through the marvelous chaos of the Lower City—the warrens of side streets, small markets. The sweet smells of the hawker stalls and the bells and drums of the street musicians.
The road ran on an incline, up and up toward the Upper City. Pretia’s legs burned. She could barely keep the leaders in her sight.
She crossed the river Durna and arrived at the plaza where the Alexandrine Market was held. Today the plaza was turned into a festival for the Junior Epics, filled with stages and kiosks celebrating the athletes.
At the far end of the plaza, spectators jumped the race barrier and mobbed the course, only parting each time a runner passed. They were cheering and waving signs. Pretia’s legs ached but her heart soared at the encouragement up ahead. They were urging her on.
But were they? The closer she got to the crowd, the more the voices of those spectators sounded angry, not supportive. They weren’t cheering. They were protesting.
The guards had carved a path through the protest for the runners to pass, but still the crowd of angry spectators remained thick.
Pretia faltered. She stutter-stepped. She wanted to turn back or leave the course. But that would only make things worse. She had no choice but to head straight for the thick of the pro
test.
They were Realists of all ages—current competitors and people decades past their athletic prime. They shook signs with Pretia’s picture on them—her face doubled, with one of the images crossed out. She could hear them shouting.
“Stop the Self-Splitter!” they cried.
“Only one princess!”
“Real athletes stay together!”
At the forefront of the group was someone Pretia instantly recognized—Julius Renovo. She broke stride. She wanted to scream at him and tell him to stop. She wanted to announce herself proudly. But the words caught in her throat. She found her footing and ducked her head, bracing for the insults that she was sure would be rained upon her.
To her surprise, the Realist protesters parted for her as she approached, as if they didn’t know who she was. And then Pretia realized that the scarf she wore to protect her from the sand provided the perfect disguise. The protesters had no idea that the person they were protesting was in their midst. She knew she was safe until she passed, when they might glimpse the name on her singlet.
When she was through the group, she turned. The protesters weren’t looking in her direction. Instead, the protesters faced the oncoming runners behind Pretia, while chanting and waving their signs again.
She exited the market and ran into the heart of the Upper City. A few runners had fallen off the leader pack and were struggling in the final miles, allowing Pretia to improve her position in the race. She knew it wasn’t enough to make the podium, but still, she was pleased. She hadn’t used her grana, and she’d done better than she expected.
She was coming up on the Tile Palace, larger and more extraordinary than the Moon Palace down below. Now she could see the Temple of Arsama, its triangular point reaching impossibly high into the blue sky. All that was left for her to do was to run one circle around its base, then head into the Crescent Stadium.
Up close, Pretia couldn’t believe how large the pyramid was. She could barely see from one end of each side to the other. It took her much longer than she’d imagined to make her circuit of the massive building. On the final side she passed a faltering Dreamer from Dynami.
