Vayra had never seen Tavelle’s port so busy.
Cargo ships scuttled about the civilian port, but they were to be expected. It was the navy docks that were crowded. Frigates stood guard offshore, their sails ready to drop and intercept an approaching ship at a moment’s notice. A few three-deck first-rate ships waited at the deep berths, painted in utilitarian beige and black. Such massive warships rarely made an appearance in the port of Tavelle.
Between them, at the most central berth, a flagship waited. It was about the same size as the other first-rate ships—three gun decks, three masts—but golden ornaments clung to every surface. Braided golden accents circled the gun ports, and the entire stern of the ship was a relief mural of some ancient battle (with windows inserted sporadically). A red flag with a golden crossed-feather sigil hung off the stern. It made the Harmony seem bland in comparison.
This was King Tallerion’s flagship. There was no other explanation.
The Harmony sloshed into one of the few open berths, and a single horse-drawn carriage awaited them. Only Vayra, Pels, Glade, and Nathariel boarded it.
The carriage left immediately. The coachman whipped the horses, and the carriage raced through the city. It swerved around corners and bounced down cobblestone streets until it arrived at a small inner-city hall reserved for foreign diplomats—other Velaydian minor lords or parliamentarians. Never would a king expect to wait in such a hall.
Like most of the city’s buildings, it was entirely wooden. The walls were woven roots, grown in place then dried out, and the sloped roof had miniature shingles of pinecone segments.
At the hall’s front gate, the four passengers met with the king’s red-coated guards before advancing into the hall. “His majesty is waiting for you,” said one of the guards. “Please do not delay.”
They walked into the main chamber of the hall—a long, dimly-lit room with a few long tables and pillars at the edges—and approached the king.
He stood at a table at the hall’s far end, discussing with advisors and military officers in red and yellow coats. They tapped maps and shuffled papers, and discussed quietly amongst themselves. A few Order of Balance Elders attended as well.
Vayra, Pels, Nathariel, and Glade passed through another blockade of guards, then approached the table.
After a few seconds of near-silence, with the king and his advisors speaking quietly as if no one else had approached the table, Vayra cleared her throat and prepared to announce their arrival—probably in an informal or improper way.
She never got a chance. One of the guards cut her off and proclaimed, “Your honoured majesty, the Mediator and her entourage have arrived in your presence.”
“Entourage, eh?” Pels muttered. “I like the sound of that.”
King Tallerion looked up from the table. His tired gaze washed over Vayra, Pels, Nathariel, and Glade. “Ah, our team has arrived.” He wore a set of modest white robes and a sash—Vayra wouldn’t have called it kingly, except that it was impossibly clean. “Please, join us. We were making our final preparations for the Skyclash tournament.”
As soon as the king acknowledged them, the advisors at the edge of the table parted, allowing Vayra and her ‘entourage’ to approach the edge. She said: “Apologies, my lord…but what preparations are there to make?”
The king chuckled. “General strategy, a list of your competitors, and most importantly, dealing with external interference.”
For a few minutes, they discussed a high-level overview of what the plan was: total victory was the goal, keeping a Godly authority out of Karmion’s hands, but they would settle for a very high placing—one that would demonstrate their strength to the galaxy and any world that was unsure about its allegiance.
“There are many worlds on the Line of Battle who are just looking to survive,” one of the red-coated commanders said. “They switch allegiance every few years, and sometimes even by the month. If we show them our strength, we prove to them our ability to protect them and win this war.”
“Do you know who the competitors will be?” Nathariel requested. “How?”
“We don’t have a full list,” said Tallerion. “However, we know that every God and their family will be sending a team of Captains to claim Talock’s authority. It won’t be their favoured children—those in line to inherit the family’s main authority—but it will be someone trustworthy and powerful. We have provided a few names from each family who we think our you could possibly face.”
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He pushed a long scroll of parchment towards them. Vayra took a glance at it, but it was just a point-form list of names and families, all with separate notes about their Paths.
“As representatives of Velaydia, you two have a great deal resting on your shoulders,” a naval officer in a yellow coat said. “We expect that you study the list well and prepare however you can.”
Vayra opened her mouth, a faint pang of indignance welling up inside her, but she pushed it down. Representing this star-nation was the best way to secure the galaxy’s future and put the Gods in their places.
And to improve herself.
As Phasoné had made clear, all guests of the tournament, no matter the faction, would receive rewards for victory at all rounds of the tournament, in the form of elixirs, weapons, and other magical artifacts.
At least, that was how it had worked in the past. She doubted the quality of the rewards that they would give to sworn enemies like her and Glade.
She glanced at Glade to gauge his reaction. He stood perfectly still and silent, his head bowed to the king. Nathariel met the king’s gaze, and Pels hung back, a mere navy officer in the face of mages and kings.
“All of the Gods of the High Pantheon will be attending the tournament,” Tallerion continued. “As leaders of their families, they are expected to attend such an important tournament in-person. I will attend in-person as well, to oversee and represent our strength. It would not suit our interests if I didn’t attend.”
“Your majesty, that sounds incredibly dangerous,” Nathariel said.
Tallerion adjusted his sash and tightened it proudly. “The Shattered Moon is consecrated under a pact of non-violence—outside of the tournament fights, that is. I will be protected by a law centuries old.” Still, he glanced side-to-side, eyes landing on the guards at the edge of the hall. “The Moon has its own independent force of guards, specifically trained to stop fights and maintain the peace. And I will have all my guards with me.”
Vayra looked down with a grimace. King Tallerion had no spirit potential, and she realized now more than ever how squishy and vulnerable people like him were.
“Even if no one attempts to take your life at the tournament, there are long distances to travel on the Stream where we would be incredibly vulnerable,” Nathariel pressed. “Assassins don’t abide by codes of honour.”
“My guards should dissuade and deal with the assassins as much as they would in any other location. As for God-heirs, they would not lower themselves to kill a mortal.”
“But how about me?” Vayra asked, rubbing her mechanical arm. “How long is that excuse going to stand before I’m powerful enough to warrant a crushing duel? And if you were collateral damage…”
“That is why the Mediator will travel to the Shattered Moon in a small, unassuming advance team to register for the tournament—before king Tallerion arrives,” said an Order of Balance Elder. “And once they arrive, they will be safe outside of the arena.”
Somehow, Vayra doubted that she would be safe outside the arena, especially with her presence known, but she didn’t press the subject. She could deal with any attempts on her life.
“Captain Pels?” asked one of the Navy officers.
“Yes, Grand Admiral?” Pels scrambled to the table and dipped his head.
“Can you smuggle the Mediator and the Disciple to the Shattered Moon before the main team arrives?”
Pels smiled. "For certain, I can smuggle them." But his face soon scrunched in confusion. "My crew can smuggle anything. But what's the point in hiding that the Mediator is travelling separately from the King?"
"For her own safety, first and foremost," the navy admiral said. "But also for the safety of the king. When she arrives and word travels around that she has entered, no one will have reason to attack Tallerion's flagship. But we do not need to put her in extra danger along the way."
Pels delivered a dutiful nod, then stepped back.
"And what of the entrants' progress?" King Tallerion asked.
"The Mediator has reached Captain," answered Nathariel.
"And the Order Disciple?"
"He has reached the peak of First Lieutenant.” Nathariel folded his hands behind his back. “He's catching up, and if all goes well, he will reach Captain along the journey from Tavelle to the Shattered Moon."
"Are you certain you can provide the necessary guidance to grant an Order Disciple's Path Revelation?" an Order Elder asked. "Could you understand the life of a Disciple well enough?"
"Of the two of us, Elder, only I have reached Captain. He will reach his Revelation in time—I swear on my honour as a God-heir."
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The Harmony left the port of Tavelle at midnight.
Everything was calm and quiet, and Pels made sure the crew stayed that way. There were no whistle blasts or shouts. The crew whispered orders amongst themselves. Vayra, Nathariel, and Glade stayed belowdeck, keeping out of sight. They didn't expect spies in Tavelle, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibilities. For good measure, Vayra had donned a Redmarine's coat and a tricorn hat as a disguise—it hid most of her easily-distinguishable features as best as possible, especially when she tied her hair up into a bun and tucked it under the hat.
If there were spies, disguising the ship in port would've been futile, but once they slipped out onto the Stream, they changed all of the flags and dimmed some of the lanterns to give the ship a different profile—at least, from a distance.
As long as Pels's plan to avoid the largest, best-travelled lengths of the Stream worked, and they drew no undue attention, they would arrive at the Shattered Moon completely unhindered.
Only one problem remained: getting both of the entrants to Captain.