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“I know who he is.” Amma’s blood is on his hands.
A pause. “Yes.”
“When’s his Trial? Or do you not punish murderers if they only kill fifth-ringers?” I snap.
“I agree with you. But that’s not how it works.” I can’t handle the sympathy in his eyes.
I scowl down at the three hunters below. They’ve each faced a tragedy and come out of it ready to inflict another. But where does it end? If Pa falls at their hands, won’t I feel the same kind of bloodthirst? Won’t I want revenge?
“This is wrong. Isn’t there another way?”
“What would you do? Never give anyone justice? Forgive the guilty and let the wronged suffer?” There’s a challenge in his eyes. Would I forgive Ragno?
Never.
He touches the back of my hand with his fingertips. “Vesper... I want him alive, too. But nothing will make your father innocent.”
My chest feels tight, and I swallow the acid fear that bubbles up in my throat.
“They volunteered out of pure hate?”
“The one who catches your father will be granted a reward from the Regia.”
A violent hunger gleams in their eyes, without exception. Can Pa really face them and win? It’s not just that they’re strong; it’s that they think they’re right. Pa doesn’t.
He hid himself away for years out of fear, but also out of guilt and grief. Won’t that cripple him as much as how out of practice he is? For the last twelve years, his kind of fight has been the kind fought with words.
Against three highly motivated hunters—four if we include the dog—each spoiling for his blood... I don’t like his odds. My nails dig deeper into my leg, and my dress’s embroidery tears with little pops.
The maze is dense, the golden sword deep inside. How can he outrun them all long enough to find it?
He can’t. It’s impossible. My hands shake.
I touch Ma’s locket at my throat, where it’s hidden by my dress. If I gave this to Dalca, could he stop it? Or would I lose both Pa and his work in one poor move?
Dalca’s hands grip the edges of his armrest, his knuckles pale.
The roar of the crowd peaks. Pa enters the arena, looking impossibly small. I rise out of my seat, my heart thudding. He squints up at the sun, raising his roped hands to block the light.
The crowd’s divided. At least half of them scream, jumping to their feet, certain he’s a traitor. They want a good show, capped by a satisfying death. But the other half is silent, unmoving in their seats. Wearing heavier shawls, coarser overcoats. The people of the low rings, who see themselves in him.
Dalca, too, watches the crowd.
The three hunters—the man in green with his hound, the woman in blue with her bow, and Ragno Haveli in black with his scythe—salute first the Regia, and then Dalca. Dalca gives them a nod.
The Regia looks up at the circle of sky, perfectly blue. She waits a long moment, until the golden sun peeks over the edge of the black stormwall. Her hand makes the smallest of gestures, and a horn blows.
Pa takes off into the maze. The hunters look to the Regia, waiting for their signal. I grit my teeth. Pa’s being given only so much of a head start as to keep the game entertaining.
He runs as fast as he can, barreling into hedges and springing off instead of taking precious seconds to navigate around corners. His hands being tied makes him ungainly. He needs a weapon to cut the rope if he’s going to have a chance.
A second horn blows. The hound and the man in green charge into the maze, tearing up the ground as they go. The slender woman slings her bow onto her back and starts climbing a hedge. She pulls herself over the edge and takes off, sprinting along the top. Under different circumstances, I’d be impressed at her cleverness.
Ragno bides his time, scythe resting against his shoulder, wandering into the maze with all the urgency of taking an afternoon stroll.
The woman has the best vantage point. She finds Pa first, just as he turns the corner to see an axe embedded in the top of a stone pedestal, in an ikon-locked cage. In one movement, she nocks her bow and releases arrow after arrow toward Pa. The first one clips his shoulder and Pa drops into a roll, so that the second one hits the ground instead of his neck.
Blood blossoms on Pa’s shoulder. My heart pounds as if I’m down there with him.
