Chapter
35

Aodren

I LEAVE THE CHAMPIONS’ TENT AND WALK A wide berth around the tournament field, hoping to unburden my thoughts. Though the rain has taken a break, the grass is soggy underfoot. It sends a chill up through my legs that adds to my already dampened mood.

At the meeting with the Guild and the Akarians, it was decided that the break between the sword fight and the start of the jubilee will be when Seeva and I take the field and inform the crowd about Sanguine. The consequences will be devastating because without Lirra’s story, Auberdeen won’t detain or punish Judge Soma. Even if I explain to the crowd that there is likely one person with ill intent behind the trade, there is sure to be backlash. Already, I’ve had lords requesting all Channeler trade be ended because the goods cannot be trusted. Tonight’s announcement will only add fodder to their fears. Then, when no Channeler stands up for Malam, everyone will conclude that Channelers are not welcome in Malam, no matter how many decrees I pass.

I walk behind the stands where the nobility sit. Judge Soma reclines in his seat, conversing with other noble kinsmen from Shaerdan. I want to tear him apart. It guts me to see him sitting here. He’s guilty of the trade, I know it. But I’m left without proof and no time remaining to find it.

The tournament begins soon.

With a clear mind on what must happen tonight, I walk around the north end of the field, avoiding the large crowds on my way back to the champions’ tent.

Carts and carriages of jubilee supplies clog this area. I wind through them and discover Lirra. Shock rocks through me when I realize she’s conversing with Millner. He’s a little worse for wear, but his appearance is a miracle. I can only hope he knows more than what he included in his letter.

The rumble of voices and cheers from the field drown out the sound of their conversation. I cannot hear what Millner and Lirra are discussing. However, I watch her beautiful face. Tonight it’s an artist’s canvas of shifting scenes. Anger fades into sadness, which settles into resolve. The sun slips down into the ocean, and the last bruised remnants of the sunset in shades of purple and yellow and orange light her face, and glint against the tear on her cheek. I want to be by her side, helping her through whatever is causing her so much pain. But she made it clear this afternoon that she wanted nothing more to do with me. I must respect her wishes.

People pass between us, blocking my view. When the crowd clears, Lirra is gone. However, Millner remains beside the carriage.

Instead of heading toward the tournament field, he walks to where a covered wagon is parked a little ways from the Channeler carts. Now that the sun has dipped below the horizon, it’s difficult to see clearly. I think he lifts his hand, as if he’s greeting someone.

It is not my usual method of operation to listen in on private conversations, but I’m certain Lirra knows more than she told me this morning. Secret or not, what Millner has to say may be the answer I need, that my kingdom needs. Considering how stingy he is with answers, and how Lirra is not willing to talk to me, my only option is take the information out of the air. I draw on every speck of sneaking skill I’ve learned from Lirra and maneuver until I’m within hearing range. It’s a good thing I haven’t donned any armor yet, or crouching silently beside the carriage wheel would be impossible.

Two people converse on the other side of the wagon, Millner and an older woman. The crackle in her aged voice sounds like the woman I met at the Elementiary, Astoria. But I’m not close enough to know for certain.

“She thinks I’m the one who is supplying the oil.” Millner’s voice crumbles around the words.

My intake of breath is swift. Lirra believes Millner is guilty? Why would she come to this conclusion? My confusion is only made worse when I think of the last twenty-four hours. Her belief that Millner is the supplier must be related to the reason she emphatically declared Soma was innocent. When I returned from Lirra’s home, I assigned Leif to follow Soma everywhere, to make sure the man keeps far away from Lirra, and to report any suspicious activity. Even now, I have Segrande keeping an eye on Soma while Leif prepares to fight. Neither one of them has reported anything that raises suspicion. So is it possible Lirra is right about Millner?

I strain to listen.

“What did you tell her?” the woman asks.

“I asked her to let the topic go.”

“And will she?”

Never. Even I know Lirra won’t be deterred from seeking out something she wants. Our entire time together is proof of that.

“Let us hope,” Millner says. The man is a fool.

“How much longer will it take?”

An aggravated sigh comes out of Millner. “It doesn’t matter that I’ve informed the traders of the dangers of Sanguine; the people they’re selling it to only want more. I spent the last two months talking to every trader who has gotten the oil from Soma. Very few would relinquish their remaining stock to me. Those who did charged a small fortune. I’ve had my life threatened a dozen times for trying to stop the trade.”

If he is trying to stop the trade, it doesn’t make sense that he would be the supplier. So why is this information something he couldn’t have shared with Lirra? What could be worse than Lirra thinking her father is the cause of so much destruction?

“It’s time to approach the Guild, Astoria.”

“You cannot.” Her response is harsh and cold. It’s a punch.

“Your oil has spread too far. Too many people are at risk. People have died. One of the champions has died.”

“He deserved it,” she says, and the malice in her tone shocks me. She wasn’t a supporter of mine by any means, but this is more callous. “What does it matter if a few Malamians die? How many of my Channeler sisters perished in the Purge?”

“A life for a life? Is that what is this? You told me it was a mistake. That you had made an oil for trade and didn’t realize the harm it would do.”

A pause.

“You did realize,” Millner says.

I lean against the carriages, the truth nearly knocking me off my feet. Lirra has told me that Astoria is like a grandmother to her. Astoria was there for Millner when he fled Malam with his baby daughter, helping him establish a new life in Shaerdan. Is this why Millner wouldn’t tell Lirra the truth? To protect her from this betrayal? Gods, Lirra believes her father is guilty when really it is Astoria.

“They. Killed. My. Sister.” Astoria’s fury clips her words. Her tone is full of spikes and edges and venom. “She had a family and a small Elementiary in Malam, and they destroyed it! They killed your wife. They hunted thousands of Channelers over the last twenty years. Every single giftless citizen of Malam is culpable. All of them. The murders are on their heads, not mine. They wanted to pillage us and take our power. Well, I gave it to them. Every greedy Malamian can have a taste of Channeler power. And I hope it rots them from the inside out.”

“No, Astoria. Listen to yourself. Those days are over,” Millner argues with her, but she can no longer see reason.

“They will never be over, you fool. Their hatred and fear are a poison. It will seep into their soil and pass on to the next generation. That king thinks he can convince my sister Channelers to return. It is a trap. And I will do what I can to expose him.”

“Astoria.” Millner’s voice cracks. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“He wants us for our magic, so I’m giving him a bitter dose of what we can do.” Her voice curls and snaps.

“You’re blinded by your anger. Can you not see that your plan will hurt Channelers in the end?”

“You know that isn’t my intention,” she shrieks. “But there are always casualties in a war. If one of us should fall for the rest of us to recognize the dangers, then that is what must happen. Those Channelers that moved to Malam were foolish. That land is festering with fear and hate. Channelers will never be safe there.”

“And Soma?” Millner asks.

“He had the most access to traders in Malam. He knew it was dangerous but wanted to make himself into a wealthy man.”

“He hurt my girl,” Millner roars.

His shout is overwhelmed by the boom of applause and rhythmic stomping. The fight is starting. Hand on my sword, I step out of hiding to confront Millner and Astoria.

“Been looking for you.” Leif is rushing in my direction, hands full of armor, two swords strapped to his back, and a third holstered at his waist. “Seeds, this is heavy. You’re next. If you don’t come right away, Malam will be disqualified.”

I rush to suit up in armor. I don’t want to leave the matter of Astoria unattended. I must inform the Guild.

“I need to send a message to Seeva,” I tell Leif.

“It’ll have to wait till after,” he says, and hands me a second sword. We hurry onto the field and join the other competitors.

Our names are shouted, the cheers of the crowd surge, and maroon and gray flags are waved. The blare of trumpets starts the final event of the tournament.

In order to win the cup, we must win the sword fight flag. Unlike the melee, only two competitors enter the center of the field at a time. Points are earned by hits garnered during the timed bouts. Each champion will fight two different bouts against competitors whose names will be chosen at random. At the end of the evening, points will be tallied, the victor of the night declared, and a flag awarded.

The sound of a distant storm crackles in the background as Leif steps up for his first fight. It is against Fehana, the Akarian warrior. Leif’s sword starts off fast, but as she rains strike after strike down on him, he cannot keep up. His energy is lower than it was two weeks ago, and his body weaker from trying to recover. It isn’t long before she overwhelms him and wins the match.

He shakes her hand and trudges back to my side.

I’m called up next. From the start of the sword fight, fortune is finally in my corner. I duel one of the Plovians. His swordsmanship is no better than I expected after seeing him and his fellow champion in the other events. He is no match for my years of trained skill, and I accumulate many points before my first bout is over.

Shaerdan wins a match when Otto beats Hemmet, then the Akarians score a win over Kolontia. They’re followed by a Plovian facing off against Shaerdan’s other competitor, Folger. Shaerdan wins.

Then Leif is called up to fight the Kolontian. I can tell he’s tired, and his body strains to block and parry. He struggles to move through drills we have done a hundred times, but Leif is full of grit. His muscles flex and shift as he gives everything to the bout.

“Leif O’Floinn of Malam” is called as the match’s winner, and the crowd booms their approval. People cheer for him, the Channeler Defender of Malam. The support of the audience is so strong, it gives me hope that when Malam doesn’t have a Channeler stand up at the jubilee, they will be forgiving. Perhaps they will understand that change takes time.

I’m called up next for my second bout. This time, my name flits around the tournament field as a light patter of rain plinks against my plate armor. The crowd’s support only increases the pressure. Hemmet, the Kolontian, raises his sword against mine. He just lost to the Akarian warrior, and anger blazes hot in his eyes. He will be a formidable opponent.

He proves as much the moment our swords clash. If I hadn’t seen the man fight the first night of the melee and I hadn’t warned him away from the fake Sanguine, I’d be tempted to think he’s taken the imposter oil. He is a blaze of speed. Our battle sends a constant ring of steel into the wind and rain. I land a hit, only to feel the sting of his moments later. Between clashes, we circle each other, avoiding the muddy puddles that have formed on the field. I know to win this match I must dig deeper, draw up strength from the years of training, and sharpen my strikes.

On his next swing, I parry and twist. The movement gives me enough space to slam the blunt of my blade against his ribs. He grunts. I hear the sound echoing from the mouth hole in his helmet. Hemmet tries to defend against my attack. I lunge, cut, strike, twist, hit, faster and faster, drawing on every ounce of strength to gain a strong lead. I only need to keep it up until the rule makers blow the horn.

The crowd is louder than the waves that crash against Celize’s cliffs.

Hemmet blocks my swing and thrusts his sword against my shoulder. The injury from the melee screams to life. I shuffle back, putting distance between us to catch my breath. My feet slip out from beneath me. I tumble into the mud.

Hemmet raises his sword.

I roll to escape his swing, and suddenly I can’t breathe. My lungs stop working. No air comes in or out. What’s happening?

I grasp my neck. Why can I not breathe? I roll my head to the side, looking for Hemmet, and his blade, which should’ve dropped already. I tear at my armor, trying to pull oxygen into my body. Hemmet watches me, not understanding my actions. He lowers his blade.

I open my mouth, futilely attempting to suck in air.

From what I see of Hemmet’s eyes, he appears equally confused. The ground beside me thuds. He has dropped his sword. His hands are on my helmet, yanking it off.

My vision fades into spots, and then darkness.