“We like a variety of men in our competition. Different sizes, dispositions, professions.” She eyed her parchment. “Your seed is normal. Your intelligence is above average. And you’re the most conventionally attractive of the…” she read over his scroll, “…creatives. You’re an artist, yes? That’s what I have here?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“Right.” She unrolled the scroll completely, scanning it from top to bottom. “Your records aren’t perfect, but they’re unique. We like unique. Makes for a rousing tournament. You’re not as strong as some of our other selections, but certainly stronger than the rest of your category.”
“My category?”
“All competitors are categorized according to like traits.” She wrote as she spoke, not bothering to look his way, then rolled up her scroll and shoved it into her pocket. “I’ll leave you in the hands of these ladies. They’ll get you washed up, figure your measurements for armor, and then you’ll rest. Tournament starts tomorrow.”
“Wait, tomorrow?” he said.
“Yes. You sound surprised.”
“Isn’t there, I don’t know, some form of training?”
“You’ve had twenty years to train for this, ever since The Savior was born.” Her eyes narrowed. “Any lack of preparation is of your own misdoing.”
Tobias didn’t respond, overwhelmed by his own stupor. He was competing in the Sovereign’s Tournament. His mother and sister would receive an allowance—however much, he hadn’t a clue. And for the next however many days, he would fight, and dance, and kill, and do whatever else was asked of him, all for a Woman he didn’t want, or perhaps he simply didn’t know if he wanted Her. It was too much to take in—the greatest relief and the worst of news.
“The commencement ceremony begins after sunrise,” the woman said. “You’ll be presented in the fortress arena and announced with your category.”
“And what is my category, again?”
“All relevant information will be covered tomorrow before the ceremony. A man will join you—Wembleton. He’ll tell you all you need to know.”
“Do you happen to know if a Milo Christakos was selected as well?” Tobias asked.
“I’m not familiar with all the competitors. I’ve only been assigned to five of you. But if it’s any consolation, I’d say in comparison to the other men I’m assisting, your odds are, oh, I don’t know…fair? I’d rank you third, right in the middle.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Tobias grumbled.
“Right. I believe I’m done here.” The woman gathered up the hem of her dress, preparing to leave. “Would you like to say goodbye to your family?”
Tobias thought for a moment and shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“I fear they’ll never forgive me for this.”
The woman smiled, unconcerned. “Right.”
The servants around him continued to work, running their fingers through Tobias’s hair and digging wet rags into his armpits, while he stared at the nothingness ahead.
“Sir?”
The woman still stood before him, her gaze an abyss—a look of detachment, as if the man before her were already dead.
“Good luck, and may the best man win.”
The roar of the crowd clawed at Tobias’s insides. He assumed such a reaction was abnormal, that most people relished the applause, but the sound was enough to turn his stomach. For a moment he felt as if he’d be sick, and when that moment turned into hours, he considered shoving his fingers down his throat and taking care of the problem himself, though it wouldn’t do much good. The cheering would continue regardless.
Tobias sat in a holding cell nestled in the walls of the fortress arena, a box of a room with no redeeming features aside from the cool air within its keep. All he had to occupy himself were his own bouncing knee and fidgeting hands, which for once were perfectly clean, scrubbed for hours by servant girls. His body felt smooth, his skin like butter, his hair styled with creams that left his locks pleasantly soft. He looked down at his clothes—leather sandals; black, fitted harem pants; and nothing more—then peered through the gate at his side.
The entrance to the arena.
Countless people swarmed the pews, sending his sickness bubbling. With no means for distraction, he rested his head on the wall behind him, praying for an escape from the hell he had created.
The door to the cell swung open, and a man scuttled inside, pressing down the folds of his golden drape. He was older and portly, with a pinkish complexion and a mass of white hair pointing in every direction.
“Why, hello there! Are you…” he glanced down at a pocket scroll, “…Tobias Kaya?”