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Bestata startled in her seat.
Kosandion sat straighter.
Nycati paused, holding the instrument in his left hand, his right hovering above the strings, and strummed it. A deafening electric note tore through the arena and broke into a rapid complex chord, so loud it vibrated in my chest.
Oh damn.
The song soared in the arena, furious, fast, struggling, fighting, falling back and returning even harder, beautiful and lethal, like a vampire knight swinging her blade. It built and built, until I couldn’t take the pressure anymore, and finally triumphed, spilling into a heartbreaking crescendo, so moving and profound there were no words for it.
The final sounds died, fading. My cheeks were wet from angry tears. The arena was completely silent, as if all of us conspired to mourn the song’s end. Bestata looked shellshocked. Her eyes were wide open, her face pale, her hands clutching her sword as if it were a lifeline. Nycati nodded to her.
I would never forget this.
The Gaheas prince turned and went back to his seat.
“Amazing!” Gaston boomed. “Where else in all the galaxy would we be entertained like this? Friends, when we are old, we shall wow our descendants with the legend of this day.”
I had to do my job. I wiped my face with my sleeve. I was neither calm nor soothed. I felt restless and upset, as if something precious had been torn away from me, and I had to get it back. All the emotions from the song still roiled inside me, and I wanted to punch something to let the excitement out.
“Please welcome our next candidate,” Gaston prompted.
I bounced the white light between the otrokars and the Temple of Desire and stopped it on the otrokar section. Here you go, as requested, Your Grace.
Surkar stood up and tossed his cloak off his shoulders. The crowd gasped. In the Team Smiles section, Amphie turned plum-red.
Surkar wore a Southern kilt, boots, and nothing else, just as he had been around the fire talking to Caldenia. It wasn’t a ceremonial formal kilt adorned with stitching and leather belts. It wasn’t even a casual kilt otrokars sometimes wore to informal occasions like dinners with extended family. No, this thing was tattered from years of wear and at least two inches too short. He had shown up to a black-tie event in his inside-the-house sweatpants.
I glanced at Dagorkun. He covered his face with his hands and swore something harsh and angry into them. Karat reached out and patted his shoulder.
Surkar pulled a large, curved knife from the sheath on his kilt. Technically, it was probably a short sword. It was shaped like a knife, but it was bigger than the largest Bowie, more like a machete. He swung it, flipped it from hand to hand, spinning it over his fingers as if it were attached to him by a magnet, and descended to the stage.
I had asked Gaston what Surkar’s talent would be, and he said, “Sword dance.” Surkar’s face didn’t read dance. It read murder.
He stopped directly in front of us and pointed to Kosandion with his sword. “You! Face me if you dare, Sovereign.”
What?
“Prove to me that you’re worth my time,” Surkar bellowed. “Or will you hide behind your throne and your servants like a weakling?”
“…His father was the same. Let’s just say that their deductive powers leave much to be desired. Some people simply must be confronted with the obvious.”
Caldenia. She had convinced him that he needed to demonstrate his physical superiority in the most obvious way possible. And now he was here, in his kilt, challenging Kosandion who wasn’t even worth dressing up for.
“This is what happen when Caldenia talks to people,” Sean growled into my ear. “She better know what she’s doing, or I’ll wall her in her room until she forgets what the sun looks like.”
“Well, Sovereign?” Surkar demanded.
My heart hammered in my chest. Don’t accept, don’t accept, don’t accept… If he went down there, there was no way for us to keep him from getting hurt. She knew our inn was on the line. She knew why we were doing this. Why would she put us in jeopardy? Why would she put her nephew into the arena with an otrokar champion? Was I wrong? Did she want to kill Kosandion?
Kosandion stood up. Resven carefully, almost reverently, removed the robe from the Sovereign’s shoulders. He wore a black suit underneath. It wasn’t armor, it wasn’t combat grade, it was just clothes, a form fitting garment that clung to him offering no protection at all.
Kosandion held out his hand. “Knife.”
Miralitt stepped forward, produced a knife, and put it into his hand. It was a black fixed blade with an upswept profile, about seven inches long, with a simple handle.
“I need a path, innkeeper,” Kosandion said.
I did not want to make him a path. I wanted him to sit his ass down right back on that throne.
