Will She care?”
“Why would She care?”
“It’s Her magic. We’re using it without permission.”
“Oh, right.” Leila hesitated. “We’ll see, I suppose.”
“We’ll see?”
Another wave of applause tore through the moment along with a horribly recognizable word: Artist. Before Tobias could succumb to his terror, he looked down at Leila’s hands still planted on his chest. “Leila…”
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh God, apologies.” She dragged her hands across his flesh, smearing the clay into the shape of an X. “There. Looks menacing, doesn’t it? Like war paint. Though I imagine it’d look even better in blood.”
“Leila—”
“No more talking. They’re calling you.” She snatched a rag from her satchel and wiped her palms clean. “Use the blessing and win.” She grabbed his hands, squeezing them. “Then…you can live your life without regrets.”
Kiss her. You have to. The gate creaked as it rose behind him, beckoning him to the arena.
“I’ll be cheering for you. Down here.” Leila released his hands. “Go on.”
Kiss her. But it was time to go. He stared at her for a second longer, then ventured out onto the sand.
Sunlight poured across his shoulders. He had forgotten what the dry heat felt like; it burned through him, or perhaps it was the noise of the crowd that felt so searing. He walked slowly, gazing out at the massive arena, at the countless people surging like ocean waves. Wembleton stood in the royal balcony high above him, shielded from the sun by a ruby-red canopy.
A barred pew loomed beneath the balcony where the twelve other competitors sat looking more like prisoners than glorious fighters. Tobias quickly turned away, opting to face Antaeus, who waited confidently in the distance.
Tobias reached the center of the arena, taking root beside his opponent. The cheering of the audience grew louder, and soon their voices morphed into a singular word. Tobias gritted his teeth—not again—but the word rang loud and clear.
“BAIT. BAIT. BAIT.”
Wembleton chuckled at the chant, and fantasies of him tumbling over the balcony’s edge filled Tobias’s mind. Instead the man raised his hands, lulling the crowd to silence.
“Citizens of Thessen, today you will witness a battle for the ages. In the pursuit of our Savior and the title of Sovereign, the Giant and the Artist will fight until one man stands as victor and the other is released from this life into the next.”
Tobias growled. Fight to the death. For God’s sake, call it what it is.
“These creatures standing before you are no ordinary men.” Wembleton opened his arms wide. “They are men of the Sovereign’s Tournament, the finest of warriors, a caliber above us all. Thus, an ordinary fight is simply unsuitable. Ladies and gentlemen, I reveal to you, the arena!”
A rumbling shook the ground, followed by an explosion of dust. Long shards of something tore through the sand—mirrors, some lined in intricate frames, others swaying on adjusting stands. They stood in staggering rows throughout the arena, reflecting images of Tobias and Antaeus, filling the space with their likeness.
“Behold the dreaded mirrors,” Wembleton said. “Will our two brave fighters use the arena to their advantage? Or will they find themselves lost? Will they fall victim to their own reflections?”
Tobias resisted the urge to curse aloud. Everything about the moment had become derogatory, his death a mere game.
“And now for the revealing of the weapons!”
A gate before them opened, and in marched two lines of palace guards covered in hard silver—chest plates, helmets, far more armor than Tobias and Antaeus wore. They carried a wooden chest between them and rested it on the ground, displaying its contents for the fighters: rows of sharp, horrid weapons held in place by leather straps.
“Giant, you have the advantage,” Wembleton said. “Please, select your piece.”
As Antaeus slid his hand across each weapon, the crowd murmured, then shouted, then cheered. He reached a long staff with a hooked blade—the bardiche, much more ghastly in person—and the audience howled in approval. A sneer spread across his face, and he snatched up the weapon, holding it high for the people to see.
“The bardiche for the Giant!”
The crowd roared, and Wembleton basked in the sound before continuing. “Now, Giant, please choose the Artist’s weapon.”
Neil’s laugh rang from the barred pew—“Oh, the Artist is so fucked”—but Tobias focused on Antaeus slowly scanning the weapons. The gladius. Pick the gladius. Antaeus grabbed a small sword, tossing it to Tobias.
“A short sword for a short cock.”
“The Artist fights with the gladius!” Wembleton said.
“BAIT. BAIT. BAIT.” The chanting continued, but Tobias ignored it, clinging to his hint of relief.