“Pr—Prince—Prince, listen to me—”
“You betrayed Hilaris!” Jaime screamed. “He trusted you!”
“You do not under—”
“He called you papá!”
“I had no choice. The King espied my operations last fall.” Tears vanished into Gaiyus’s thick beard. “I was under duress to convince him of my loyalty. He would have accepted nothing but my ward. My son. It was the only way to buy us time to cover up the Alliance—”
Jaime grabbed the wine bottle, shattered it on the ground. “You should have burned in his place!”
“—but alas,” the old man brooded, “there never was an Alliance, only a cesspit of feuding fools. I submitted to the Archpriestess after you escaped. Had I not, she would have killed your mother.”
His brother, and all the people of Jaypes, betrayed by one man.
Hilaris loved him. You can’t kill him.
Jaime twisted the knife around. Thrust the hilt toward Gaiyus. Both of them screamed.
A loud crunch.
His nose smashed in. The old Senator moaned. Jaime hurled the knife aside and fled the pavilion.
Off in the mountain, away from the tents—away from everyone—Jaime sat on the edge of Estos River, at the same place he had jumped in to escape Strategos Reizo. He peered into the watery mirror. Rainfall distorted his reflection.
A giant hawk landed on the tree behind him.
“I swore to Sojin I would protect our people,” he whispered. “Gods, Toran was right.”
A long minute passed.
“Maybe the best thing I can do is to submit myself to the King. At least then, no one else will have to die.”
The winds grew colder. The stalks of broom swayed. Dawn was here.
Arrys’s low voice drifted through the rains.
“Prince.”
It was faint at first: the noises of boots on bluegrass. As the rains pattered, it grew heavier, mixing with the tattoo of drums, falling hooves, the clattering of steel corselets.
Jaime raised his head.
The lochoi materialized above the hazy crests of the hills. Infinite archers, infantry, and cavalry surrounded him. On the overlooking hill, the commanding Strategos pulled to a halt. His standard-bearers flew the New Jaypes colors, blazing like spilled blood against the gray skies.
Gradually, the din drew the remaining Townfolders to the hills. They huddled close to each other, faces ashen. Hida stood on top of the highest crest. The sheen in her eyes captured the dark light of the banestorm.
“In the name of His Holiness the King, we are here for the one who blasphemes our monarch and calls himself Lord Jaypes’s chosen!” the Strategos bellowed.
Briefly, Jaime met eyes with Arrys. Despite his screaming right calf, he shifted onto his knees, lifting his hands to signal his surrender.
“Hold, boy—stop!”
Thousands of heads turned. Cassie raced past the cohorts, crashed into the river. Damias waved his hands, but Cassie wouldn’t stop paddling until he reached the other side. When he was back on his feet, he gripped Jaime’s hand. Pulled him to his feet.
Cassie the orphan. Cassie the mute—the boy who shared the same cripple’s mark on his wrist; the boy who had helped him escape the Archpriestess that cold night of Hilaris’s burning. He was the only reason Jaime was alive.
Had it really been one whole year since Jaime stopped Rimus Vulcas from drowning him?
Cassie lifted Jaime’s wrist high into the air. His fierce eyes fell on the Strategos, and then the rest of the people of Mount Alairus.
This awakened something in the Townfolders. The storm-gray in their eyes hardened to steel. More gathered around, holding scythes, pitchforks, butcher knives, anything and everything they owned. The mouths of the soldiers twisted in scorn—until Julias Markus himself appeared.
Jaime stopped breathing.
The late Queen’s brother wore a weathered cuirass, the hems of his tunic shredded against his thighs, but he drew his shortsword and pointed it to the sky.
“The sacrilege of Usheon Ottega’s reign has come to an end!” he bellowed. “No longer will you threaten us into submission; no more will Jaypans die as slaves. We will not yield our rightful Prince—today, we fight under the Emblem of the rightful King!”
The people roared. Jaime spun in a slow circle, staring. The booming of their unified voices thundered across the gray expanse of sky—perhaps across the entire Kingdom.
The Strategos shouted a command. The ragtag mass charged down the hills. The soldiers shifted formation, lowering their longspears perpendicular to their knees.
They believe in me.
Arrys’s dark brows arched downward, and his lip curled up. “Tonight, I shall practice the sword. But for you, it is half and one fortnight till Sporting Day.” He extracted one of his two steel hoops from his ear. “Take this. If a Larfene gives one to another, it means you are his blood-friend. It is no an easy task, a foreigner befriending a Larfene.”
Jaime turned his ear to Arrys, taking a deep breath. Eyes watering as steel cut through his soft flesh.
“Ow,” he whispered.
“Now win the Greatsporting so you can give it back. I will be rather irritable with only one ring.”
Jaime gripped his friend’s hand tightly. “I’ll see you in three weeks.” He turned to Cassie. “Arrys will take care of you. I have to leave. I’m going to Duel the King.”
Cassie shook his head vehemently. His eyes seemed to say, You can’t. If you do, we will never see you again.
Despite the well of infinite fear inside him, Jaime said, “Thank you again, Cassie. I’ll be back. I—”
He hesitated, but the roars ascending his home suddenly made his voice strong.
“I promise.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jaime raced down the mountain, careful to stay off the paths, but a stray rider thundered behind him. He sucked in air. The banestorm’s winds were everywhere, but he couldn’t seem to breathe any of it. The limp in his calf dragged him down.
“Prince Jamian!”
The courser pulled to a halt, stomping against the wild grasses. Jaime skidded too, heart fluttering.
Slowly, he turned around.
Julias Markus stared down at him through his glorious plumed helm, his face barely visible behind his T-shaped visor. His sword-hand held a stained spear. So many times during childhood, Jaime had looked at the Free Guard Commander, desperately wishing to one day become that man.
“Uncle,” he said.
The Commander threw down his spear and dismounted. In one swoop, he pressed Jaime up against his cuirass and kissed his head. He, too, still smelled strongly of incense.
“I have failed you, my Prince.”
“No,” Jaime murmured. “Mamá is alive because of you.”
The Commander let him go and fell to his knees, head pressed against his spear.
“One month ago, I led my men in a charge down this mountain. I was present as thousands of Alairans died under my command.” Tears rolled down the elder man’s cheeks. Jaime, perhaps foolishly, always thought Julias Markus did not know how to cry.
“Alas, but I know if things could have started anew, they would do it again. How avidly they fought and died for you, Jaime. We should have won. We should have ridden by your side a long time ago. I beg your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” Jaime lifted the heavy spear and extended it to him. “None of this was your fault. Gaiyus betrayed the Alliance to the King.”
“That cannot be. He told us—” Julias took the stave, his calloused hands chafing Jaime’s. “This whole time . . . ?”
“I have to get to the Colosseum. Only, I don’t know the way.”
Julias frowned. “Jaime, the Sporting is in under three weeks. Even on the Kingdom’s swiftes
t mount, it will take four to reach it from here.”
“I have to try. If I miss the date of the prophecy, the King wins, and the banestorm destroys us all.”
The Commander stood. “I will accompany you.”
“No—Mount Alairus needs you. You’re the only one who can protect them.”
After a pause, Julias gave a brisk nod.
“Very well. The Colosseum is bound southwest, in the heart of the Central Plains.” He gestured away from the mountains and the coast, in a direction Jaime had never been before. Julias handed him the reins.
“Take my horse, and fly.”
As Jaime climbed onto the high saddle, the Commander smiled grimly. “I will take care of Sartorios. If Lord Jaypes is on our side tonight, and we survive this, I will rally our last friends behind you.”
“Protect Mount Alairus. And Mamá. Please . . . protect her, Uncle.”
Julias Markus bowed his head.
“Let the winds lead you, my King.”
“I shall find my feet,” he whispered. Jaime kicked the courser into a new gallop and did not look back.
Five minutes into riding away from battle, Jaime pulled up short. His uncle said he would never make it to the Greatsporting on time—on horseback.
He glanced up at the sky. High winds flattened the broom, wrestled him on the saddle.
The currents are out of control, Lady Prescilla once said.
But he had to take his chances. He turned the courser around, riding back in the direction of his farmstead.
The only light on this side of the mountain flickered through his kitchen window. Jaime dismounted outside, rushing up the portico steps. Bright flames still kindled under the legs of their domed oven. He doused the coals and glanced through the mouth.
His mother’s honey cakes were charred black.
Dashing upstairs. Swinging inside his bedroom. Snatching up his knapsack.
Aulos Menander’s windcloak back in his hand.
Jaime spurred the courser back in the direction of Hektor Pappas’s grave. The stone airmarker was just a few steps away from the spot where he first touched the medallion.
He brushed his fingers against the marker’s engraved characters.
Northwind, an ancient power whispered.
Jaime wrapped himself into the windcloak and traced Northwind’s current to the sheer cliffs.
It was the largest current he had ridden yet. Streams of energy splintered and raged against his avai.
He took a deep breath, sent a short prayer to Lord Jaypes, and took a running leap off the mountainside.
In one jerk, the folds of his cloak opened.
Northwind suspended him high over the landscape.
For a second, he felt like the golden eagles he occasionally saw, wild and free from the King’s reign.
Jaime screamed out a whoop.
The banestorm’s streams sent him in a dive three, four, five times faster than any of the air currents he conquered in the west.
Soon, the cloud-dipped peak of home vanished for the final time.
At twilight of the fourth day, he soared into rocky plains. Only the toughest of grasses existed out here.
Another airmarker appeared on the crags ahead of him.
Jaime hopped off Northwind before the ground below him could drop off. The mighty current swooped back to the northeast.
He brushed his hand against the new marker.
Aspasia.
It was a gangling current that would take him straight into the crimson-drenched plains ahead.
His frayed sandals inched over the edge.
A river of bodies stretched from the south—so many it stole the weight from his body.
They travelled on foot, on horseback, even some in curtained palanquins. He had never seen so many bodies before. Banners of all colors and sigils flaunted themselves at the winds. They were all meandering in the same direction—to a gigantic stone structure in the horizon.
The Colosseum.
Jaime let out a breath.
Spherically shaped, it had ten levels of arches glowing with the most decorated of firepits. Giant marble statues of the four gods, painted brilliantly, posed at the world on the upper levels.
Ten levels!
The mud-bricks—even the lime—used to build most structures could support two stories at most. Anything more, and buildings were prone to cave.
How had his ancient ancestors constructed this? This had to be hundreds of times as large as the theater outside Korinthia City.
I’m going Duel the King in there.
He forced himself to count to four—and jumped.
Aspasia glided him down to plain level. A supply wagon stopped in the copper grasses so a Jaypan lady could relieve herself.
There’s your chance.
He darted inside.
After it started forward again, he dumped the contents out of one of the strongboxes. A whole lot of silver pieces. His eyes grew to their size. Quite a modest tribute to the King.
He jumped in, squeezed the lid shut.
His body fell into judders.
The evening sky brightened to fire. No one entered the wagon. The late summer air was stuffy, unbearable. In the shadows, Jaime touched his aching chin—and noticed a new batch of pimples.
Great.
An hour later, it was time. The wagon passed through gods-sized pillars of painted marble.
Jaime kept his eyes fixed through the knothole in the wood. It was hard to see anything except the soldiers posted on ground level and every tier of seating above that.
Suffocating.
The air was suffocating him, he needed out.
A squad of soldiers checked the crowds, stopping anyone with anything more than sandals and a tunic on their skin.
The wagon rolled to a halt.
“What’s inside?” a soldier asked the driver.
“Our supplies,” someone else replied. “And a gift for His Holiness.”
Jaime’s hands poured with sweat. New pimples seemed to sprout by the dozen. Two more soldiers hopped in, shuffled around the crate. One of them lifted his strongboxes. Knocked his head against wood. Salt dripped into his eyes.
Please, please, Lord Jaypes, don’t let them open me!
The soldier put him back down and cleared the wagon. Jaime stifled a scream of relief.
The lady’s guard emptied her supplies into an ornate hall of fountains and garlanded columns. They were under the Colosseum’s lower ring. The din from outside fell to a stream of murmurs.
Jaime lied there for a minute before lifting the cover.
The King must be close. But where?
He recalled the Colosseum plans Achuros had drilled into his sleep. The first book he ever received was on Jaypan classical architecture.
Why couldn’t he remember them now?
Breathe. Breathe! You know this place like Arrys knows the sword.
Arrivals.
He was in guest arrivals. The Colosseum’s southside, nearest to the gates. The King’s podium was on the northside, two tiers above the arena. This mighty Jaypan wonder had an entire network of underground chambers and rooms. So if he was looking for the King—Usheon would be right under his podium, in the Hall of the Ascaerii.
It was finally time.
Find him, and challenge him to a Duel. Easy. He can’t refuse you because of the Sacred Codex.
Jaime hopped out, walking as casually as he could to the enclosed walkway bordering the arena. As he moved clockwise, staying away from the firepits burning atop pillars, his belly clenched.
A ditch separated the stands from the arena. Torchlight drenched the grounds. It was total wilderness—his section began with a pit of sand for wrestling, which morphed into a field of dry grasses. Foot-racing. Then an ar
tificial river: swimming. And a gorge made of wedges that rose up from the ground like islands: spear-throwing and climbing. The final section, the northside, was a rocky plain with deep pits. Charioteering.
A championship for Jaypes’s most celebrated sports.
But his attention flitted back to the tiered seating. That tome on Jaypan architecture said the Colosseum could seat—how many?
One-hundred fifty thousand.
A hundred fifty-thousand people would be watching his Duel against his father. Already, thousands of New Jaypan officials occupied the first two tiers. They gorged on sea delicacies, slurped up autumn wines.
Jaime stopped and vomited.
When he was upright again, the judders came back violently. He walked faster, breathed deeper, but his whole body felt like it was going to burst—or melt.
A door rapidly appeared ahead of him, carved with the ancient Air Emblem. Usheon Ottega would be lodged behind it.
Jaime halted again.
The Archpriestess was making her rounds across the arena. The medallion hung openly over her white robes.
Jaime pulled himself between two columns, breathing hard. The aggregate murmurs of the Jaypan audience were pottery exploding in his eardrums. He waited a full minute before he poked his head outside again.
The Archpriestess was gone.
He jogged the final length of the walkway, his heart an unruly ram against his flesh, until he reached the double doors. Tossed himself inside. Pressed them shut behind him, wiping the vomit from his mouth. It was pitch-dark except for the torches lining the walls.
“Greetings, my Prince. It has not been long at all, has it?”
That voice—
Archpriestess Damasia stepped through a side door, her hands clasped together.
His calves broke from immobility. Jaime lunged at her. But someone caught his ankle in the dark. Yanked him backwards—
The carpeted stone floor slapped his face. His vision flashed out.
“I’ll kill you!” he screamed. “I’ll burn you for everything!”
More soldiers poured into the corridor. Blinded by pain, Jaime batted at their greaves. Legs rushed up around him. They tugged him upright. Foreign hands wrenched his arms back. Iron clamped them together.
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