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Kosandion decided to hold the elimination in the arena.
Outside of the inn, a bright sunny day was in full swing. Inside, a late evening painted the sky above the arena with blues and purples, and in the west, a splash of brilliant pink diluted with gold gently smoldered into night. I had recorded a spectacular Texas sunset and was now projecting it on the ceiling. The air was pleasantly warm. A simulated evening breeze fanned the delegates in their seating sections.
At the south side of the arena, an enormous stone doorway opened to a short passage leading to the portal glowing with pale green light. I stood just inside of it, out of view. Gaston waited next to me. He’d chosen another space musketeer outfit, this one a deep hunter green, and he topped it off with a brimmed hat with a ridiculously fluffy black feather.
At the north end, directly opposite the doorway, a stone crag thrust from the bottom of the arena. It had two small seating sections on each side and a stone staircase that led all the way to the top, crowned with a stone throne. Behind the throne, eleven enormous banners, each representing the remaining delegations, hung from seemingly empty air, stirring gently in the breeze. There was a spot for the twelfth banner, between the second and third banners from the right, but it was obviously missing.
Between the throne and the doorway, in the center of the arena, the raised stage waited. I had lifted it a bit higher and added some fog for atmosphere. Dark mist swirled along the bottom of the arena, sliding around the stone stage, lapping at the walls of the delegations’ sections, and flowing to the throne crag and back, like a turbulent sea. Occasionally tiny motes of golden light emerged from the mist and floated up slowly until they melted into the evening air.
It was as if the throne crag and the stage had risen from a bottomless chasm shrouded with mist. But the mist was barely three feet deep. I had bought it from Cookie, and he gave me a slight discount, which made his followers clutch their metaphorical pearls. It was still not cheap, but worth it. Orata had asked for "maximum drama." No innkeeper would shy away from that challenge. We lived for this stuff.
The arena hummed. The last delegation had been seated fifteen minutes ago, and they were getting antsy.
There was some minor commotion in the observers’ section. I pulled a screen up to take a closer look. Two of Cookie’s helpers dashed about, pretending to spar with two long daggers. Dagorkun looked like someone stomped on his foot, but he had to endure it, so he just let all the pain go to his face. Next to him Karat smiled and clapped her hands.
The smaller of the lees leaped into the air, bringing his dagger down in a sweeping cut. Oh! They were reenacting Karat and Bestata’s bout this morning. They must’ve seen the footage.
I knew Bestata was in trouble when Karat asked me to record their sparring session, because she wanted “an instructional video for Lady Helen.” All vampire houses prided themselves on their melee skills, but House Krahr had taken personal combat to new heights.
Like all vampires, House Krahr treasured their children. They knew for decades that they would have to send them to battle on Nexus, where anomalies made aerial warfare impossible, and so they turned Arland and Karat’s generation into expert ground fighters. My sister described her future husband as “a killing machine” and meant it, which Arland would’ve taken as a huge compliment.
This expertise came with a hefty price tag. Concentrating on ground combat meant less time for education in other aspects of warfare. For example, Sean warned me that if Arland ever had to fight a space battle without an admiral to guide him, he would lose. But it did make for remarkable duels.
I split the screen and checked Lady Bestata. The red streak across her face was barely visible now. I had convinced her to spend a couple of hours in the medward, because having a spectacular bruise across one’s face highlighted on the Dominion’s screens would’ve been a bad look. The welt on Bestata’s face could be healed, but the wound to her pride was permanent. Karat had killed her three times during that duel.
“A remarkable woman,” Gaston observed over my shoulder.
“Which one?”
“Both of them. Although Lady Karat is much more engaging.”
Aha. Engaging.
The inn chimed in my head. It was time. I dismissed the screens and grasped the arena with my power. This would require careful timing.
“Go,” I murmured to Gaston.
He touched the brim of his spectacular hat, flashed me a serrated-tooth smile, and marched through the doorway.
I flicked the lights on. Twelve clusters of flood lights, positioned at the ends of 100-foot poles along the perimeter of the arena, came on and tilted down, illuminating Gaston in the passage. We had gone full Monday Night Football.
