by Kobe Bryant
“Perhaps,” Satis said.
“I wonder . . .” Pretia began. “I wonder if it would have been different if I’d decided to compete for House Relia when I first got to Ecrof.”
“I like to imagine my fellow Dreamers would be above protesting,” Satis said, his hand flying to the purple ribbon on his uniform. “But we are all given to mistrusting and resenting talents that don’t belong to us. If you ever, when you are older, decide to represent House Relia, I’m sure you’ll see that Dreamers, too, have their shortcomings.”
“Pretia would never do that!” Vera exclaimed. “Would you, Pretia?”
Pretia shrugged. She had given up trying to guess her future.
“So be prepared,” Satis said. “For anything.”
“I am,” Pretia said. “But now I actually need to prepare, you know, train. So—” She looked anxiously toward the cafeteria. She was genuinely starving now.
“And one more thing,” Satis said.
It was all Pretia could do to stifle a groan. She loved the Visualization Trainer, but she’d had enough of adults for one day.
“Not for you,” Satis said, looking at Pretia. “For Vera. I know you have set yourself an impressive goal for these games,” he said.
“Yes,” Vera chimed in brightly, “I’m going to tie F—”
Satis put a finger to his lips. “Perhaps it would be better to focus on breaking Julius’s record instead.”
“But Farnaka Stellus won more medals!” Vera exclaimed. “He won nine. Julius only won eight.”
“Keep your voice down,” Satis said.
“What’s wrong with saying that?” Vera demanded. “I read it in an Epic Text.”
Satis sighed. “There’s more to the story than what you read.” He led them to a quiet corner of the village. “I’m going to tell you the truth, but when I do, you must promise that you’ll stop talking about Farnaka Stellus.”
Vera and Pretia exchanged curious glances.
“You are correct. Farnaka Stellus was the most decorated athlete in the Junior Epic Games. That was the final year that Janos competed, in fact. They were contemporaries. So that should give you an idea of how good he was.”
Pretia looked at Vera, whose eyes were so wide it looked as if they’d doubled in size.
“He was a Dreamer and Sandlander—from Phoenis, in fact. The only Epic Games he competed in as an adult took place here, too.”
“I know that.” Vera sounded impatient.
“He quit in the middle of the games.”
“That’s why he’s not in any of the record books?” Vera asked.
“That’s only part of the story. His main event was the 100, like yours, Pretia. It was the opening event that year. Farnaka won, beating Janos. But on the podium during the medal ceremony, he shocked everyone by switching his Dreamer singlet for a Star Stealer tunic. He threw off his medal. Then he raised his arm in the Star Stealer salute and declared, No sports for any until there are sports for all.”
“What does that mean?” Vera asked.
“It means,” Satis explained, “that until Star Stealers and any of the other Orphic People are allowed to participate, Farnaka wouldn’t compete. But it means something more than that. It means that he challenged the Epocan Way of Dreamer versus Realist. He dismissed the importance of the two factions that make up our society. He came out against the very purpose of the games themselves, which is to decide who rules between Somni and Relia. And that is a high crime against Epocan Order.”
“Was he a Star Stealer?” Pretia wondered.
“No,” Satis said. “He wasn’t. But he was a Sandlander, and must have known them, to be so concerned about their fate.”
“So why—?” Pretia’s head was filled with questions. Who would give up sports? Who would toss away an Epic Medal?
Satis continued without letting her finish her questions. “Rumor had it that he went to live with a gang of Star Stealers. Some even say that he tried to convince the Star Stealers to act against the authorities to disrupt those games and future games. The only thing everyone is sure of is that no one ever saw him again.”
“So that’s why he didn’t show up at the parade,” Vera said.
“Yes,” Satis said. “What he did was a major violation of Epic Code. Our nation is founded on the principle of sports being the highest authority. Sports take the place of conflict. To speak against the sacredness of sports, especially on the Epic Podium, was a national disgrace.”
“I take it that’s also why he’s not in the record books,” Vera said.
“The historians did what they could to erase him, yes,” Satis answered. “But now you understand, Vera, why you must not mention his name. You want to chase greatness, but you don’t want to align yourself with someone who spoke against sport and the fundamental tentpole of our Epocan system.”
“I don’t,” Vera said quietly.
“Good,” Satis replied. “Better than chasing someone else’s history is making your own, Vera. And you are well on your way.”
Vera’s smile shone as she watched their Trainer walk away.
When he was out of earshot, she turned to Pretia. “That was . . . interesting, but I’m still going to surpass Far— I’m still going to surpass him.”
Pretia clapped her friend on the back. “I know,” she said.
But something in Satis’s story irked her. Pretia also didn’t adhere to the Epocan model of Dreamer or Realist. She was not from either house; she was from both—the Child of Hope who was supposed to unite Epoca. But what if it didn’t work that way? What had Janos said? For her there were no teams. Didn’t that imply that being both Dreamer and Realist meant she belonged to neither side?
Maybe she had more in common with Star Stealers than she thought.
16
ROVI
A NO-SHOW
What Issa asked was too much. There was no way Rovi was going to risk his new position as a celebrated Dreamer. There was no way he was going to risk his future at the games by championing the Star Stealers from the podium. What he was going to do was make the podium. He wouldn’t let Issa down in that respect.
Issa had promised to be there for the Epic Mile, and Issa never broke his promises. With Issa risking everything to be in the stands, Rovi vowed to do whatever it took to win.
He knew that his first task would be to block out the world for the duration of the race—for five minutes he couldn’t think about the protests against Pretia and her grana, the memory of the Phoenician guards leading his friends away, and his recurring nightmares about Hafara Prison.
For five minutes or so, all he could do was run.
Run first. Think later.
He spoke to no one as he walked to the dining hall for breakfast. He forced himself to eat light—enough to fuel him for the 1,500 but not weigh him down. He went to the indoor track and did a light jog, an Epic Mile at less than half pace. He stretched. He went back to his room, showered, and put on his race gear.
He was ready. He would do Issa proud. He would do his father and mother proud. He would do Ecrof and the Dreamers and the Star Stealers proud. But most of all, he’d do himself proud.
Usually, mile events were held at the same track as all other short- and middle-distance events. But Phoenis provided an alternate venue, one even more unusual than the magnificent Crescent Stadium: the Temple of Arsama, whose four sides measured exactly a quarter of an Epic Mile each. There were no heats. All twenty runners would run at once. One lap of the temple to victory. That was all.
Cornering would be different than on the track. But Rovi was confident. If there was one thing his feet knew how to do, it was run on the streets of Phoenis.
After signing in, the athletes were allowed to walk or jog a single tour of the course. Rovi decided to walk. He had already tested his legs that morning and he felt
good. But he had another agenda. Walking would allow him to check the stands for Issa. He knew this meant taking his head out of the game for a moment, but he figured it was worth it. Knowing Issa was there would give him an extra boost.
At each of the four corners of the pyramid the officials had erected a tower of bleachers for the spectators. Rovi walked briskly, his Memory Master on his head to keep track of the course so he could review it once more before the race started.
He rounded the first corner and glanced into the stands. There were guards everywhere, blocking the spectators from reaching the racecourse, more Phoenician guards than Rovi had ever seen in his life. Behind them, the stands were filled with Junior Epic Competitors and games officials. He kept on. The stands in the next corner were filled with Dreamers flying purple flags and waving purple banners. Still no Issa. The third set of bleachers was filled with a sea of blue Realists.
Rovi made the final turn. One more set of bleachers. One more chance to check for Issa. Then he’d have to put his game face back on.
The final set of stands was filled with a mixed crowd—officials, fans from both houses, family members of the competitors, waving homemade signs. He paused, combing the bleachers, trying to look at the spectators one by one.
No sign of Issa. Perhaps he was lost in the crowd, or perhaps he was keeping a low profile. But it wasn’t Issa’s way to not make his presence known to Rovi.
Rovi took a last look, scanning the shadows and the more obscure places. But all he saw were guards. Guards, guards, and more guards.
A horn blasted. He needed to hurry to the start.
Rovi took one last look behind him. Issa had promised. He’d promised! He’d never let the guards stop him before. But Rovi had promised Satis something, too—no more distractions. He wouldn’t let his favorite teacher down.
“Runners!”
There was no time to worry. There was no time to think. Rovi had to put everything behind him—family, friends, and Star Stealers. For five minutes—or less, if all went well—there would only be the race.
“Last call, runners!”
Rovi shed his warm-ups. He got into position. He muttered the Grana Prayer.
Now there was only the race.
“Go!”
Rovi took off. Steady. Calm. Confident.
Halfway down the first side of the pyramid, he found an inside lane. He could feel the sun bouncing off the golden bricks. He could sense the tremendous temple rising above him. He ran.
He made the first turn, dimly aware of Dreamers chanting the Dreamer chant.
Someone was calling his name. Not Issa.
But it didn’t matter. Not now. Not for another few minutes.
He rounded the next turn. He could feel the crowd of runners around him thinning. There were five, maybe six, of them in a breakaway pack.
One more turn. Then the homestretch. He wanted to pause, to break stride, to hear if someone special was calling his name. But his feet wouldn’t let him. They moved unbidden, finding a surer, quicker path around the great pyramid, leading him forward, until—until Rovi realized he was in the lead. He sensed this, but he knew better than to check.
Now it was just him alone, flanked by the pyramid on his left and the crowd that had gathered to watch the conclusion of the race on his right. Just him and the familiar ground of Phoenis. Just him and his feet.
And then, without Rovi knowing exactly what had happened, it was over.
He crossed the finish line.
First.
Suddenly everyone was all around him at once—friends, strangers, classmates, schoolmates, fellow Dreamers, Phoenician Dreamers, delegates, officials, Trainers.
“Rovi! Rovi! Rovi!” they chanted.
Then he heard a familiar voice—two familiar voices. “You did it!”
Vera and Pretia were standing in front of him, looking as happy as if they had medaled themselves. “Epic Gold!” they cried in unison.
He’d done it. He’d medaled, and not just any medal—a gold medal. Rovi, the former Star Stealer. Rovi the orphan. Rovi the Dreamer!
In a daze he was led to the medal podium and instructed to mount the highest platform. He heard the Dreamer anthem followed by the Ecrof fight song. And then, to his surprise, the anthem of Phoenis. This brought him back to earth. He wasn’t Phoenician. His parents were from mainland Epoca. If he was anything besides a Dreamer from Ecrof, he was a Star Stealer. But there was no Star Stealer anthem, and there had been no Star Stealers watching the race.
He sat quietly on the bus ride back to the village. Instead of celebrating with his teammates, he kept his nose pressed to the window, searching for a sign of his friends or of any of the other gangs of Star Stealers. Although Star Stealers were prohibited from the Upper City, they were usually around. And even a former Star Stealer like Rovi could always spot another Star Stealer lurking in the shadows, haunting the edges of the market, slipping through the Upper City on a risky errand.
But he saw no one. Not a single Star Stealer was out on the streets. As they approached the gates to the Junior Epic Village, Rovi saw a sign he’d never noticed before. It forbade anyone not affiliated with the games from entering the village. But at the bottom it read: Any Star Stealer seen near the games or the village will be instantly arrested.
* * *
Rovi waited until dark. After the final sorna horn of the day sounded to announce the sleeping hours, he slipped out of his residential tower. He knew he couldn’t leave through the entrance to the village. That would be too dangerous. But he was familiar with another Phoenis—a city of secret passageways and back alleys. Under the cover of darkness, summoning all his skills as Swiftfoot, he stole through the sleeping village away from the gate toward the back, where a high wall protected the Junior Epics from the rest of Phoenis.
He had to find Issa.
Rovi was skilled at climbing. His hands and feet found footholds, and in no time he was up on top of the wall, slinking along it like a cat. Then he was slithering down the other side, loose in the Upper City.
The city smelled like jasmine at night. The velvet-purple expanse above him glittered with stars. The Tile Palace glowed. The Temple of Arsama towered—the point at its apex piercing the night sky. Rovi stared over the desert to where the Moon Palace caught the silvery lunar light in its hundreds of thousands of tiles.
He moved quickly through the sleeping streets of Phoenis, past the Alexandrine Market, where the Junior Epic kiosks were shuttered for the night. He passed opulent homes and fine restaurants. He picked up his pace, hurrying from the market down a set of crumbling stairs that led to the Lower City.
The Lower City didn’t sleep like the Upper City did. People were always shuffling about the twisted, narrow streets. Light and music slipped from houses. Even a few vendors remained open.
Rovi darted from alley to alley, trying not to attract attention. Finally, he arrived at the banks of the river Durna, at the Draman Bridge, where Issa’s gang always camped. He paced back and forth beneath the bridge’s protective shelter, then crouched down, checking the shadows close to the wall. Last year, thirteen kids had made their home down here. Now it was abandoned. There were no pallets, no blankets, and no signs that there had ever been anyone there at all.
Rovi cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hello,” he called in a low voice that bounced back at him with an echo.
No answer.
“Issa?”
Nothing. Surely there must be some sign of his gang—a piece of clothing, a fruit rind, a sandal.
Then a figure stepped out of the shadows. Rovi jumped. It was a man. In the moonlight, Rovi could see that he wasn’t dressed in Star Stealer garb, but in heavier clothes that looked uncomfortable in the Phoenician heat. Rovi couldn’t see his face, which was in shadow. All he could make out were a number of gold rings on both of the man’s hands that gl
ittered in the moonlight.
Rovi turned, prepared to run.
“It’s not safe for you here,” the man said. “You shouldn’t linger by the river.”
It took Rovi a moment to realize he’d been mistaken for a Star Stealer.
“You should hurry before the guards come,” the man continued. “They’ve been patrolling the river every night.”
Rovi stepped back toward the wall, on the off chance that the man would recognize him as a Junior Epic and turn him in. “Where should I go?”
“The other river.”
Rovi gulped. The River of Sand. He did not want to venture into the dried-out tunnels. They gave him the creeps. Even though it had been more than two thousand years since the quicksand had flowed, the idea of walking in its former path terrified him.
“Go,” the man said, “or I’ll have to turn you over to the guards if they show. I can’t keep all of you safe.”
“Where in the tunnels are they?” Rovi knew there was an entrance close by, but the tunnels were extensive, stretching for miles beneath the city.
Footsteps echoed above. “Hurry,” the man said. “I hear the patrol.”
A flash from a hand lamp cast into the river, sending a yellow glow into the water. “Go,” the stranger hissed. Then he tossed the lamp at Rovi.
Rovi caught it and began to run. He feet flew over the pathway along the river. His eyes probed the dark wall to his right, searching for the tunnel entrance. Where was it?
He glanced quickly at the water. He could see the streaks from the guards’ hand lamp from the bridge behind him. Soon the light would find him, if it hadn’t already.
And then he saw the entrance. Quick as he could, he folded himself in half and ducked into the tunnel. He stepped into the hollowness left behind by the River of Sand.
Rovi tried to catch his breath. The tunnel seemed massive. The hand lamp cast a weak glow only able to illuminate the small area directly around Rovi.
Now what? Now where? He had to find Issa, but how?
