Chapter 104

The ceremony that followed exists in my memory as a blurred cascade of sounds and frequently indistinct images. My head ached; I felt drunk, but without the happy feelings. All of my senses seemed to disagree with each other, and my mind simply couldn't hold all the information it was being presented with. I remember one of the medics checking me out, diagnosing me with a severe concussion—to nobody's shock—and then just leaving me to my business. Maybe the medic was one of those who would just as happily have seen me die of a brain bleed rather than become the new Sword of Boston. Maybe he had better things to be doing. Whatever the case, once I had been checked out and deemed not to have severed my spine or experienced some other category of debilitating injury, Olaf helped me to my feet.

I remember standing with my two teammates, aware of them standing in line with me. Olaf stood shoulder to shoulder with me, his own battered form acting as a bulwark to help me keep my feet while the crowd filled our ears with unending ecstatic cheering. He had told me he didn't like me, but this was a kindness he didn't owe me. It does stand out in my memory that I can remember the sense of camaraderie I felt with these teammates. We had been united only for the briefest time, a few hours. Most of our time in each other's lives had been as adversaries. But that feeling of companionship, artificial though it may have been, still holds a permanent place in my heart.

Don't fail to remember, please, that I spent my life becoming the machine that my father intended me to be, a tool to help him gain nobility. My life had been lived separate from others my age; I had almost never participated in any group activities, never been part of a team. But as I stood there, trying to support myself on legs that threatened to fold at any minute, my shoulder finding strength in Olaf's solid form, I found myself dreaming. This was what it would be like to be a Griidlord. To be part of a unit, to win victory together, to support each other. I found I had a taste for it. After my insatiable need to be back in the suit, I think this would go on to become another motivating factor in my pursuit of victory. I wanted to have teammates. I wanted more of this. Of course, I couldn't have known then that there was such a wide chasm between idealized notions and reality.

I noticed Mario was speaking. I noticed in the way one does when one awakes from a daydream mid-lesson. He was speaking, and I felt he had been for some time. I turned my head, my brain swimming at the adjustment, and tried to focus on him. His voice droned on, as it did when he had a large audience. His face was the embodiment of importance, and this was, in some ways, the most important he would ever be—speaking on behalf of the priesthood during the tournament, holding the attention of the masses. I looked away, down toward the ground. I allowed my eyes to become unfocused, dedicating what little cognitive function I had to the task of listening.

His voice eventually transformed from a garbled, muffled presence into distinct words as I brought my drunken mind to bear on listening to him. "And with that, there could be none more worthy of bringing a Flow to each of their houses. These valiant young people, deemed unworthy of becoming The Sword of Boston by their efforts, still returned and performed exquisitely for us and for their city. It was their sacrifices today that will help the Oracle find our newest Griidlord, find our future and our hope. How could they deserve anything less than such a reward? Please, proud and worthy citizens, a cheer for those who competed today for others."

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He raised his hands with the power of one who expected results. The crowd did respond—there was a surge in volume—but it was somewhat muted, somehow forced. It wasn't hard to imagine why. A Flow was a prize that could be traded for enough wealth to feed many of these onlookers for their entire lives. True, the previously eliminated had sacrificed, had put themselves in great danger. But for a crowd composed largely of the poor and needy, it was a bitter pill to watch these rich children earn such a prize.

I looked back up, willing to brave the nausea and dizziness that the move would exact on me. I needed to see Mario's face. He did a good job of continuing with his grin and pride. It was the face of one who expected to be adored, who felt that all this attention was simply his due. But a mean satisfaction in me flared as I saw the corners of his lips twitch downward. He could see exactly what a lackluster effect his words had had on the crowd.

He waited a moment longer, then continued, "And now, at last, after many trials, after many stunning performances, we finally arrive at the waning days of The Choosing. The Oracle has deemed it so, our next Sword will be Lance or Tiberius. In two days' time, only one will remain standing before you, and you will know who your newest champion will be!"

The crowd responded more vigorously to that. Even in my feeble state, I couldn't prevent myself from picking out shouts for the people's champion or a chant that had started somewhere in the arena that simply repeated my name over and over.

"Tiberius! Tiberius! Tiberius!"

I don't need to go on forever about how that made me feel, but to put it concisely, I had never felt so wanted or valued.

Then my slippery thoughts managed to assemble themselves correctly for a moment. Had he said, "two days"? But wasn't this it? Would I not face Lance tomorrow and end this whole thing? Even as I thought as much, my knees threatened to spill me back to the earth, and I felt the rising lurch of my stomach. I wanted to vomit again. I was so dizzy. Mario went on, "It is tradition in our city to feast on the penultimate day of The Choosing, and thus, though we all hunger to see this last contest, tomorrow will not see us back in the arena." The crowd responded well to this as well, cheering and whooping. If I tortured my aching head enough to look, I could see tankards of ale sloshing in the hands of drunken spectators.

A day off? It seemed so unlikely. The powers that controlled the city could surely see what a sorry state I was in, had to know that rushing me back into the arena with Lance was their best chance to see me fail. Part of me, most of me in fact, was immensely relieved to have a chance to get my brain to rotate back the right way inside my skull, but it puzzled me.

Mario kept roaring at the crowd, "Tomorrow is a day of relief for this city, a day to be merry, to eat and drink, and wager, to imagine what the future might hold. Tomorrow is a day of peace within the walls of this stadium; no swords will clash here, the only disruption will be the construction of the final gauntlet our prospects must walk through. Tomorrow is a day for us to marvel at what the Oracle has given us, a chance to wonder, and a certainty that the best hope for all our futures will surely emerge to lead our Griidlords in the campaign season."