Eris endured the better part of the next week restricted to her room, and like that first year spent so often sick and injured in Rytus, confined to inns in convalescence, she could do little but wait and recover while her companions went about their business. Thought was her only distraction then, after she had devoured the two dozen books Diana brought her from across the manor’s premises.
Only in those moments of contemplation could the sheer lunacy of their adventures register. She was so close to status, wealth, and luxury unimaginable that she could quite literally taste it all around her, and yet the notion that, with the Seekers on their tails, they might usurp Hierax’s throne from under him and situate themselves comfortably within the aristocracy of the city—stranger stories did exist in history, but not many. Yet Khelidon’s plan did come together, and Rook was a claimant, and he could be installed if they could only find support; Eris saw it all now in her mind. Such a feat was possible.
And suppose they won? What next? War with the Gray Council? Pardons from the Archon? How could even a duke contest with enemies as great as theirs? They might forgive Rook out of convenience, for good relations with the rulers of Katharos were always required for the Magisters to gather their initiates and secure funding, but Eris—no, not Eris. They would not stop their pursuit of her. She could not imagine any scenario in which they would.
Yet even imagining past the unimaginable, even picturing a life she knew she would never have, she was left to wonder if it was one she wanted at all. There was much fun in flirting with Rook in contemplation of great beds to roll around in, and magnificent baths, and slaves everywhere, and an infinity of dresses and jewelry, her every whim sated, and power enough to do most whatever she wanted to anyone who offended her…
But her ambitions were otherwise. Once the girlish excitement passed she saw that this life—a life Rook wanted back—was not her own. Eris wanted to leave Esenia. She wished to travel the world. She desired to unravel its secrets. To master every spell ever devised and compose her own. She would visit Seneria, meet the Elves, confront its demons, and learn the true fate of the Old Kingdom. That was what she wanted. That was what she had always wanted. These last four years were a desperate intermediary step, her version of attending University while she honed her skills and raised a living the only way she knew how. Greater things were in her future, when she put what she learned to the test and pursued her true desires. Greater than being duchess. Even if she could live in Katharos, she couldn’t, for Eris was an adventurer.
It was a terrible way to live. But it was the only path she saw for herself. So why, she wondered day after day, why was she so determined to assist Rook in this insane scheme? Why did she feel as though his success was her own, when she was certain that any victory would spell the end, however far-off, of their relationship?
Such was the folly of ‘love.’ To pursue the interest of another at the expense of her own. There was no more perfect summation of that worst of four letter words. But for now she could do little but despair that no matter how well their plans fell into place, she did not expect the future to be a happy one.
----------------------------------------
The same Veshodman sewed her another dress in a slightly more everyday style. She concealed her injury and, in recompense, endured a seamstress poking and brushing against the scab for the better part of an hour, which was perhaps the most pain she had ever felt in her life. When the garment was delivered the following day she showed it to Rook and the rest; and two days later, a fortnight before the Tournament was to begin, she was confronted by Aletheia after dark.
The girl knocked on Eris’ door. There she stood, in a dress of her own—and it looked almost identical to the one Eris had just had made. Tight, although not so much as the one for the ball, and dark. Eris gave her a full look over. Aletheia still had a scrawny and boyish figure, very unlike how Eris had looked at that age, and were it not for her hair she would have seemed ridiculous to be dressed as a real woman (which she never usually was, instead preferring men’s clothes). Several objects of jewelry plundered from the party’s various adventures—Eris recognized a circlet that was nicked from Arqa’s vault—were adorned haphazardly across her body in tasteless fashion. Aletheia had no style.
“I’m your sister,” she pronounced.
Eris gazed at her like a wet cat gazes at a towel. “That is unlikely,” she said.
“I mean—I’m Cleopatra’s sister.”
“Also unlikely, considering Cleopatra does not exist.”
Aletheia had a wit when it suited her, but she was nervous now and not in her element. She struggled to find the right words. “Not me, but—Atalanta is Cleopatra’s sister. And I’m Atalanta.”
Now Eris understood the implication. “I see. Are you suggesting you—Atalanta—would like to attend the Tournament with Cleopatra?”
Aletheia nodded.
“You know that no ‘Atalanta’ was invited.”
“So invite me. I mean her.”
“Why would I do that, when I do not like you?”
“Because if something goes wrong, I want to be there,” Aletheia said. “And I can fight. And…I don’t want to be with Khelidon and Jason, I want to be with you.”
Eris raised an eyebrow at this admission. “You like me more than Jason and the brother of your protector?”
“You’re part of the team. I trust you. Sort of. I don’t trust them, they’re…”
“Revolting? Perverted? Odious?”
“Boys,” Aletheia said eventually. “Please—no. No. Not please. I’m coming with you. You can’t stop me.”
“I can stop you rather easily, for I need only tell Kirkos that you are not my sister,” Eris said. But that did not seem wise. In truth she was hardly bothered by Aletheia these days, although she would have preferred the girl was prettier, and a magician at her side in case something went wrong seemed a wise precaution. “You know we look nothing alike?”
“We have magic.”
“The less used the better, and Arcane Semblance cannot practically change height.”
“We’re sisters, not twins,” Aletheia said.
“But you are too short.”
“I’m tall! You’re just a giant. No woman is as tall as you.”
“Giantess,” Eris corrected. “Fine. I suppose we may both be blonde, at least. Have you told Rook of this plan?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He said I shouldn’t. But I will.”
That was spunk Eris could admire. “I will have Khelidon write to Kirkos to inform him of this development. I do not expect it will cause any problems. We will have to make sure our stories are straight, but that will be easy enough.”
“Thank you,” Aletheia said. And so she slinked away.
Eris was nothing if not a woman of her word; she did as she promised. By way of Khelidon she confirmed her attending of the Tournament on Kirkos’ honor, as his guest, and asked for permission to bring her younger sister. Kirkos wrote in reply:
“Most surely the only thing more lovely in this world than one Kallia is both sisters together congregated in a single place, gathered to watch my victory in the great annual games; for such an honor the Korakoi are not worthy, yet we still humbly accept to host yourself and Atalanta. On the day of the first melee I shall send a carriage to your residences and ferry you most safely together to the Colosseum.”
Eris had heard more romantic prose from the mouths of howling wolves. But so the plan was set, and they would do well enough to see it through now.
----------------------------------------
The last time she would see Rook was a week before the Tournament. After that he was to be forced to stay with Khelidon, and to conceal his face at all hours beneath his helmet. On their final meeting he paraded himself about Jason’s manor encased in a suit of gleaming steel. It was strange how, unlike a revealing dress, the metal concealed her favorite features, leaving nothing but a tall and broad-shouldered statue before her, restricting all details of flesh to the imagination (or memory, as it happened)—and yet still there was something impossibly striking about him attired so. More alluring than when undressed, somehow.
The actual armor was nothing remarkable. A well-made harness of plate, but not enchanted, not richly detailed with gold or covered with animal motifs. In fact it was rather plain, especially compared to Pyraz’s suit, but he still looked stunningly dashing within it.
Rook took the helmet off and smiled. By all accounts he looked just like the prince he was. “I thought it would be better to appear unremarkable,” he said. “I hope my cousin didn’t have the same idea.”
“Don’t lie, brother, we both know you wanted crows on your shoulders and for a helmet. We just couldn’t afford the smith’s fees,” Khelidon said.
“I don’t remember that at all,” Rook said. “Anyway, metal is metal when it comes to fighting.”
“Is it dangerous?” Aletheia said. “The fighting?”
“Not like the arena at Sam’al,” Rook said. “It’s a game—no one is supposed to get hurt. But it’s a game of martial arts. Hetairoi get hurt, especially in the horse races. There are also group melees with monsters. They’re rigged in our favor, but sometimes knights lose.”
“Only the bad ones,” Khelidon said. “You’ll be fine.”
“And if I’m injured, it won’t be Rook’s failure, but a young knight named Arakos.”
“That’s who you are posing as?” Eris asked. “A man named for vetch?”
“That’s the name I’ve told the Archon,” Khelidon said. “It goes with the armor. Unassuming. Will make the splash bigger when he wins.”
“How long does the Tournament last?” Aletheia asked.
“All week,” Rook said.
“We won’t see you for a week?” she exclaimed.
He shook his head sadly. “You’ll see me. But no, I won’t see you.”
“Presuming you win,” Eris said. “If you lose, we shall see you much sooner.”
“And if I die, you’ll never see me at all!” he said with a smile. “But when I win, when I show my face and give my speech to the crowds—who knows what will happen. Be prepared to act fast.”
“I’ll be ready,” Jason said. “I’m feeling out support right now. Hierax isn’t well-liked. This might be easier than we thought. With the—missives, you called them—it might be what the lesser lords were waiting for.”
A week without Rook. How strange that this now seemed a high price, but it was one she was willing to pay. He reached out for her and she went to his arms; cold metal pressed hard against her breasts, like muscle of iron crushing her, but she leaned up to kiss him on the lips, and in front of all their friends—and Jason—she indulged him for a long time.
She shivered when she felt a heavy, huge, gauntleted hand against the small of her back. “I love you,” Rook whispered.
Eris pulled away to look him in the eyes. She left her hands on his cuirass, feeling the steel as though it were his own sculpted muscle, and just as she was about to respond, Jason said,
“You do this in public now?”
They both looked to him and glared.
“Is that so surprising?” Eris said.
“Yeah,” he said, “it is. You’re crazy.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Diana said. “You’re a beautiful couple.”
“We are not—” Eris started, but she glanced back to Rook. She bit her lip. She hugged him for a long time, soaking in as much as she could before he departed with his brother for the week ahead, then finally let him go. “I would ask why this must be done in public, but I find myself no longer caring.” She kissed him again, then said, “I love you. Good luck. Fight well. Et cetera. Now leave, before the guards come and arrest us all for defecating in broad daylight.”
“Don’t worry,” Khelidon said, “They don’t care in Katharos. You can shit wherever you like. Brother, this way.” He looked to Eris. “One final thing. My most loyal man is named Ajax—he’s a man-at-arms in my retinue. I trust him with my life. I’m going to send him over to be your bodyguard. Kirkos and Hierax don’t know him, but you might want to disguise him anyway.”
“We don’t need a bodyguard,” Aletheia said.
“No,” he looked Eris over, “I’m certain you don’t. But it’s expected two fine noblewomen like yourselves would have a man like him. I’d be suspicious if you didn’t.”
“Very well,” Eris said. “We will bring him with us.”
Khelidon nodded. Aletheia and Rook said their last goodbyes, and he kissed Eris one last time, and then he put his helmet back on and departed down the Silver District’s streets.
“So it begins,” Eris said.
----------------------------------------
Among the many pins and needles on Katharos’ skyline was a single bowl. The ring of its walls were half as high as the city’s Spire and far taller than most multi-storey apartment buildings leftover from before the Fall; it looked almost like something dropped on the urban landscape by a giant, a piece of the sprawl that did not belong, but like all else it was of the black stone of the Old Kingdom, in imitation of the Oldwalls themselves—the ultimate reassurance that it was always meant to be here by the ancients who built this place.
This was the Colosseum. No one knew the manner of shows the ancients once put on within its arena. Horse races, most likely, for the field was large enough to double as a hippodrome. Athletic competition, perhaps. Great displays of magic and the Regizar’s might—that could only be speculated upon.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
These days it was used for knightly tournaments and little else beyond coronations. Such premises were grand enough for almost any occasion, but although the Colosseum itself was a fortress, it fell without of the Inner Walls of the city, past the hill on which the Archon’s palace loomed over everything, and within an area of the Outer Fields—the overgrown outer limits of what was once Katharos, still within its Oldwall embrace, but that had been destroyed and abandoned with the collapse of the Old Kingdom.
Nothing could destroy the Colosseum. It stood out among a sea of colonized ruins, unscathed by the blast that demolished so much else.
Thus, once a year, the Archon’s hetairoi cleared away the bandits and lurking monstrosities that called the Outer Fields their home and made a safe route to the Colosseum, and they invited all the city to attend (for the low price of one drachma per week, for the groundlings). In that time the Outer Fields became part of the city once again. Tents, camps, businesses, all set up to accommodate travelers come to see the fighting. It was a grand event, and all Katharos was abuzz with excitement as summer came.
They said one hundred thousand souls could fit within the Colosseum at a single time. Eris had her doubts. That would be nearly half the population, in one structure, at the same time. Even an arena built with magic would collapse under the weight of ten million pounds. But she had never visited the Tournament, nor seen the Colosseum up close. Paupers were not generally among those who attended the festivities (except the foolish ones, who begged outside the arena’s doors by day and were hauled away by adventurous hobgoblins at night. The Outer Fields remained a dangerous place.).
They met the ‘man-at-arms’ Ajax who was to pose as their bodyguard. He was a plebian looking brute in fine armor, with a workman’s tan and cropped hair and a smirk that never quite leveled out. Eris had already disguised herself and Aletheia, giving them both brown eyes and herself blonde hair, and while they waited for Kirkos’ carriage she reached for Ajax’s face.
He caught her wrist with the strength of a cyclops. “What are you doing?” he growled, still smirking.
His grip was immensely painful, but Eris smiled back. The self-restraint required to not liquify him then and there was truly worthy of some award. “Do you make a habit of battering the women you are sent to protect?”
“Only the prettiest ones,” he replied. “When they swing at me first.”
“I was taking no ‘swing,’ you barbarian oaf. I am going to alter your appearance, so you will not be recognized by any at the Colosseum. Did Khelidon not inform you of this?”
Here he let her go, but glanced suspiciously between her and Aletheia. “He said you were witches fucking his brother and that I was to watch you watching him.”
“Khel’s best man,” Aletheia muttered.
“I’ll keep you safe,” Ajax continued, “but I’m not interested in enchantments.”
“That is too bad, for you will have your appearance changed; ‘tis instrumental you are not recognized for one of Khelidon’s men. If you are, our true identities may be discovered as well.”
His response came more roguishly and good natured, as his smirk broadened and he looked to Aletheia, than the words implied: “Does it hurt?”
“You feel nothing. We are both under the effects of this spell at this very moment.”
“Making Eris angry hurts more,” Aletheia said.
Ajax sighed and relaxed. “Do as you will, then. But if anything’s permanent, you won’t make it back to complain to Khelidon about the way you’ve been treated.”
“Threats?” Eris said. “How lovely. I am shivering where I stand. Do not tell him, Aletheia, that I could stop his heart with the snapping of my fingers.”
“Or make his skin peel off with a blink,” Aletheia said. “Yeah. He shouldn’t know.”
Ajax still smiled. “I like you girls. You’re very funny.”
Eris changed the shape of his nose and turned his hair from brown to black; she made his eyebrows bushier, and added gray to his beard. It would have to do.
Their carriage was late, and Eris was irritated it was not another litter but instead horse-drawn, but that was no surprise: the streets swelled with unusual traffic. Every Inner Gate between the districts was clogged as what seemed like everyone in the city rushed toward the Colosseum. She hardly remembered, it was so long ago, but she did have distant recollections of prowling the streets while the Tournament took place and being in awe at the vast emptiness of the whole city. Like everyone had stood up and left, their shops deserted, their homes empty—for they had left, although they hadn’t gone very far.
The carriage lacked the litter’s smoothness of locomotion, but it compensated this deficiency with relative speed. It also possessed the quality that the driver, one of Hierax’s, had no compunction whatever about running down pedestrians in the streets with his horses, which meant they parted crowds in their path and reached the Colosseum far faster than they otherwise might have.
The northeastern gate in the Oldwalls to the Outer Fields was open. Not jury-rigged or knocked down, but powered and raised. The Archon’s watch lined its ramparts and gazed down at all who passed over its threshold toward the parade grounds that gathered about the Colosseum’s enormous base. Eris detected the whiff of a spell in the air, and Aletheia must have too, for as they rolled through the portcullis she glanced upward.
“What is that?” she asked.
“The mechanism for opening and closing the gate,” Eris said. “‘Tis too large to operate by hand. Mana in a battery moves it for the guards.” Then her vision glanced to their sides—and she saw the projection boxes of Lightning Walls before and after the portcullis. A secondary measure. They were everywhere throughout the city, unpowered and inert and rusted and lost to time, yet she realized as they passed through these that they were anything but inactive. The moment they crossed the threshold they would be incinerated. She detected the spell. She knew it. She stood up in the carriage and nearly screamed—
And they rolled through to the other side unharmed.
“What’s wrong?” Aletheia said, agitated, standing herself and bumping her head.
Eris took a moment to let her heart still. She swallowed and sat again, reliving more memories than she cared to have involving such devastating devices.
“Lightning Walls,” she said. “They are active. That is what we sensed. Powerful Old Kingdom magic.”
Aletheia looked horrified. She looked over her shoulder at the slowly-shrinking portcullis. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t it—do we have a key?”
There were others trailing through the gate, before and after them, so clearly any concerns were irrational. Eris shook her head. “I do not know. Perhaps they do not know either, and let it run off the mana in the air so long as it does no harm. Or it may be attuned to entities that are not human, so they can more safely leave the gate to the Outer Field open.”
“That makes sense,” Aletheia said. “…I hope we don’t find out.”
For once, Eris agreed with her.
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The Colosseum was colossal. It wasn’t just that it was tall, for it wasn’t especially compared to a Spire, but that it was a singular structure of a scale beyond any comprehension. There were hundreds of entrances past rows and rows of columns; loading areas guarded by men with spears; animals being brought in and off the field; people swarming everywhere; and even the tallest man was, up close against the stadium’s walls, nothing more than an ant to a castle. And it was so much more than a simple stadium. A keep seemed to be affixed to its exterior, with ramparts and crenulations and the coat of arms of the Archon hanging off its sides. There were towers that jutted off the ring’s side and rose above the Colosseum’s crest. It was almost like Kem-Karwene, an entire city unto itself, yet built above ground instead of below it. Tents and camps were arranged about the grounds in every direction.
Aletheia was awed; Eris was little better. They both stared for minutes, until their carriage came to a stop.
“I thought it would be like the arena in Sam’al,” Aletheia said. “Not…this.”
“The scale is…ambitious,” Eris said. “Rook may have overestimated himself.”
Ajax opened their door. The driver stood beside him. “This way,” he commanded, and he led to a row of columns, beneath the building’s roof, and past two posted guards. There were few people about here.
“Where are we going?” Aletheia asked.
“The Duke possesses his own entrance,” the driver said. “Follow me.”
More guards—these Korakos guards, like the ones at the ball—and more stairs, then more stairs, and more stairs, and even more stairs. They navigated a labyrinth that quickly became dark and dungeon-esq, and the only sign they were anywhere except the bowels of the earth were the raucous noises that shook even the thickest stone at their sides.
Eventually the sun returned. So they found themselves at the top of the Colosseum’s upper ring. Looking down, in miniature, they could see the field: it was enormous. They were almost too high up to see any individual at all, although the field was such that the perspective was perfect. There were a collection of seats here in a large box, with tables and other accoutrements and fine furniture and shade—for the actual wall of the stadium extended still over their heads, converging to a much smaller circle that let in sunlight through a mostly-covered roof, traced with skylights in the shape of the sun’s journey across the sky so to provide light throughout the whole day.
This box was its own island, hanging over the lower classes far below. Across from them were other high-ranking aristocrats with their own personal observation decks. Eris watched a fat woman with gray hair slap a slave some two hundred feet across—and who-knew how many hundreds of feet down—from her. Eris and Aletheia took a seat on a sofa near a railing; Ajax stood silently beside them.
But her voyeurism was distracted soon, for Kirkos was upon them. He wore a suit of armor that was covered everywhere with crows. Under his arm was a helmet in the shape of a bird’s beak. His pauldrons were crows. His greaves were talons. Everything was black. And all to cover a boy who was no more than five and a half foot. Even Aletheia was taller.
He ducked to a knee before them. “The ladies Kallia.” He grabbed Eris’ hand and kissed her fingers before she could pull herself away in disgust, then did the same to Aletheia. He looked up at her with amazement. “Atalanta. If your Cleopatra had told me, the night we met, that she had a sister as stunning as her, I wouldn’t have believed her.”
Both girls were horrified by this comment.
“Atalanta is not as stunning as me,” Eris said.
“I’m not as stunning as Cleopatra,” Aletheia said.
Kirkos frowned. “The two of you look so similar. How can you say that?”
“We do not look alike,” Eris said, now confused.
“You have the same intelligence in your eyes. The same beautiful hair. The same beauty in essence.”
Eris tried her best to smile politely, but it came off mostly as condescending. “We thank you for your kind compliments, Your Grace.”
“Will you be joining us here?” Aletheia asked.
“I’ll be fighting!” he proclaimed. “I waited as long as I could for you to arrive. Now—I have to get downstairs, for the introductions are soon to begin. I’ll keep my word, Cleopatra: now this victory will not only be for your honor, but for that of your family.”
“How delightful,” Eris said. “Where is the Duke?”
“He’ll be joining you once the games begin. And my sister, too; I’m certain you’ll love her.”
Eris nearly jumped off the edge of the box at this news. Anyone but Kirke the Toad, she thought. Even Zydnus. But she smiled—and Kirkos set off down the stairs.
“Do not trip,” she muttered.
There were three Korakos guards here, but no Custodians. One relief. Their disguises would go unchallenged. Of course, the games would continue on for thirty days, so there was plenty of time for disaster to strike. She and Aletheia took their seats and contemplated the field.
“We do not look alike,” Eris said.
“No,” Aletheia agreed. “You’re much more beautiful than me.”
“I know,” Eris said. “And prettier. And more graceful. You are, at best, plain.” The girl nodded her head. Apparently she had thought about this at length. “Then I am glad we are in agreement.”
“But I’m nice,” she said.
“And who would you rather be: the nice younger sister in your body, or the wicked older sister in mine?”
“…I’d want to be Cleopatra,” she admitted.
“A wise decision. Were I Atalanta, I too would want to be Cleopatra.”
“At least I’m not a bitch.”
“A small comfort, during long nights alone in your room.”
But here Eris shushed her and indicated across from them, to the adjacent box. There an ancient man with a long white beard was being carried on a seat into a position—the best, most central in all the stadium—to look down upon the field. He wore a beautiful robe and a crown studded with gems. After him followed guards bearing the Archon’s symbol, his personal retinue, knights of the realm: their tabards were purple.
And last up the stairs, four Cult Custodians. They assumed positions as guards at his box’s entrances.
“Do not look their way,” Eris whispered. “They cannot be allowed to see our eyes.”
Of course Aletheia looked at once, and she whispered back, “That’s the Archon!”
“Yes! I know! Now stop looking!”
Of course Eris could not follow her own advice. She watched the Archon through shaded, infrequent glances, as his wife—an old woman who looked like a prune—and two of his fat younger daughters, both now middle-aged, joined him with their husbands. Then finally there came a man in armor; he looked like Pyraz, in the style of the Old Kingdom (though the armor wasn’t powered), and must have been near sixty, but he still had a vigorous look to him: he was fit and carried a sword at his hip, and as he whispered into the Archon’s ear, Eris realized. This was Prince Alexandros. Their arch enemy. The worst villain in politics, or so it was said.
Eris knew his father was an ancient invalid, yet for some reason she had always pictured the Prince a young man. He was supposed to be handsome and vigorous—perhaps that was why. But he wasn’t young at all. He was handsome still, though he would not be for much longer, but he was fairly ancient himself. All his hair was white. She shuddered to look at him. Eris loathed the elderly.
“The Prince is with him,” Eris said. “We are in the presence of royalty.”
“And we have to cover our eyes,” Aletheia said.
“Account it better than the alternative.”
Then next came Hierax. With him was his wife, a woman who might have been attractive a century ago but, alas, was past her time; Kirke, who was still so repulsive Eris had to look away from her; and a handful of toadies and followers who pursued the Duke wherever he went. He wasn’t surprised to see Eris, and paid respect to Ajax, then greeted her and Aletheia both.
“It is my family’s honor to host your presence at this year’s Tournament,” he said. “I believe my son said this is your first?”
“Yes,” Eris said, “for us both.”
“It’s a marvelous show, and there are no better seats for it.”
Eris felt the need to say something vapid to stroke the Dukes ego, so she replied, “We will never be able to fully express how grateful we are for this opportunity, Your Grace.”
He smiled and instructed them to sit back down. But Eris noticed that he did not look quite the man she had seen some weeks earlier. His eyes had bags beneath them and his skin was a worse color. Also there was a shiftiness to his look, and with his party there were extra guards, so that soon there were as many spears as people in the observation box. It would have to do.
The common people poured into the lower levels of the Colosseum. The very poorest, the groundlings, stood on the sidelines and on the first ring and were at risk of being impaled by rogue projectiles. The middle classes were higher up, on the second ring, and some had the dignity of their own seats. Lesser gentlemen occupied the third ring and possessed sufficient space to move their legs, while landed gentlemen were stationed on the fourth, in seats that would actually be comfortable enough for a human not mentally impaired. That would be where Khelidon could be found.
Eris had never seen so many people in one place. Their roars were deafening. She couldn’t begin to count, but there were tens of thousand at least, all writhing in a great sea of motion beneath her. And by the minute more came, more and more, an endless stream, men and women and children all, just to see a crowd of pampered aristocrats hit each other with blunt swords.
There was plenty of room on this fifth ring the Duke called home, and their seats were sofas, but that did not stop the enterprising Kirke from sitting immediately beside Eris.
“Cleopatra!” she proclaimed. “Oh, how I’ve wanted to speak with you! It was my ball you attended with my cousin, but I think you stole all the attention away from me. Nobody was talking of anything except you and your dance with my little brother. But I don’t mind—in fact I was right there with them.”
Eris felt like an arachnophobe receiving counseling from a friendly spider. Aletheia watched Kirke speak attentively over Eris’ lap, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.
“I’m her sister,” Aletheia said.
“How lovely! I always wished I had a sister, but mother had only brothers, and all but Kirkos died when they were very young…”
Even out of the corner of her eye Eris saw the way the fat of her neck jiggled with each word, with the opening and closing of her jaw, like a great gelatinous monstrosity, a tumor protruding from her clavicle.
“Can you tell me of Telekhasmos, Cleo? May I call you Cleo?”
“No,” Eris said, trying hard not to look.
“To which? Oh—well, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so forward. Can you tell me of Telekhasmos?”
“No,” Eris said again.
This response befuddled the toad, who didn’t know what to say, and thankfully she needn’t flounder for long—for that was when the Prince spoke.
He had a black stone in his hand, up against his lips. He held it there as if he would kiss it at any moment—but instead he gave a speech, and his every word was amplified as if shouted through Aethereal Voice. It boomed and echoed through every inch of the Colosseum, clearly heard by all.
“Good morning,” he began, and his voice was one of perfect diction. “Travelers of Erimos.” Cheering. “Rytus.” More cheering. “Veshod.” Far and away the most. “The good citizens of Katharos, and all people of Koilados who have come far to see the opening of this year’s games: my father, the Archon, welcomes you, and extends hospitality to all the people of Esenia for the week to come.”
The chorus of ululation and clapping that followed was enough to make Eris dizzy—not ideal when situated inches before a precipice.
“This is a special year, my friends. Today marks the beginning of the seven hundredth Kathar Tournament. For seven centuries today my family has sponsored this event to hone the skills of our great hetairoi, to bring joy and honor, and above all to identify which knight is most fit to hold the title of Strategos for the year—for the winner will be so crowned, old man or young, and he will be recognized as first among equals. Those are the stakes.”
He paused for a moment, then smiled slyly.
“…as the current reigning Strategos, I thought it fit not only to introduce the games in place of my father, but to announce my retirement. I will not be competing this year.”
An eruption of jeers and boos.
“Time makes losers of even the greatest champions. My grandson, Prince Alexandros,” they were all named Alexandros, “will take my place. For now, as Prince and Strategos, I’ll introduce the competitors, and the games to follow. But enough talk. This is a very special year, and we have a very special tournament. Let the hetairoi enter the field and be known to the stands.”
The Prince made a gesture with his hand, and a moment later four huge portcullis gates at the bottom of the field, one to each cardinal direction, pulled slowly open. He took a seat and watched as, through each, poured forth knights on horseback. Hundreds of them, one for every nobleman in the city, all in the most magnificent armor imaginable, until finally the arena was lined with microscopic cavalrymen staring up toward the Archon.
And suddenly Eris wondered how even Rook could ever hope to win.