A wrinkled hand of sharp, slender fingers pointed at Gele as a gravelly voice filled the sudden silence. “Who is this again?” King Peal sat on his basalt throne. Time had not been kind to him. His muscles had atrophied, leaving him a skeleton still living inside a bag of leathery skin. His beautiful platinum crown rested lopsided on his bald spotted head—necklaces of amber, pearls, and gems coiled around his throat. A loose silk robe covered him, but it fell from his shoulders as he shifted. Runes seared into his chest remained as faded pink scars, giving hints to the magician the King was before age crippled him. Only hushed whispers ever mentioned that part of the ruler’s past, even if he made no bother to hide it. Yet, it certainly piqued Sawyer’s interest as Gele stood at the center of the altar, subject to a dozen bored stares.
“This is the dancer from Melaopel,” Nab, who sat at his right, grunted. A big man, clad in muscles and whalebone charms. Underneath a thick black beard, a grin grew. “Last time he boasted about the Beckoning, then spat out his dinner after only a single good hit.”
“Who?”
“It does not concern you, father," Nab sighed. "But, unfortunately, this happens more frequently than I like. After the spirits return to sleep, some sad little man thinks he deserves a second chance.”
He was right. Gele kept moving forward until he stood right under the King’s seat. His eyes scanned the altar. Around him were the King and his many princes. Aside from Nab, all of them seemed drunk and bored. A chance? “I didn’t come here to grovel or to beg. The man who you knocked down is different from me.”
“How so?” Nab leaned forward, squinting at him. “Are you his twin? You have the same bruises, boy.” One of his brothers sniggered.
“I ran out towards the sea, then the storm hit.” Gele turned to face Sawyer. “I fell under, and I saw an Anima at the bottom. I looked straight into its jaws and survived.”
Nab snorted. “And each time I go out hunting whales, I see mermaids blowing me kisses. So quit your stories, save it for the feasts, and leave us to our peace.”
“It was not a story!” Gele snapped. Careful. Any wrong word could ruin his chances.
“Stranger has rolled up on Galu’s shores,” Emned muttered aloud, bells on her arms ringing as she stepped forward. “Or maybe your palace walls are too thick to hear the rumors.”
“Gele,” Sawyer called out, “are you here to defend yourself or challenge Nab? Come on! You completed the Beckoning. You do not need to prove anything to him!”
“A hundred eyes, teeth like flat seashells, blunt and made for crushing. It would have taken my soul by prying it from bones. Do not mock me, prince. Your whales only chew on krill and flail as they die. The Anima has no skin. Where will you cut it, Nab? Dive into the deep with me next. See if your soul survives!”
“A splendid lie,” Nab climbed down from his throne. A skirt sewn from seal skin and mammoth wool went down to his knees. But he had only bought it from a trader. What he did earn was on his chest: deep scars from animals and metal alike. Burns gnarled his skin from past wars. Nab, a man twice Gele’s size and nearly triple his age, stood over him. The smile had turned crooked.
“Nab,” King Peal lurched forward, his crown nearly falling from his old head. “I saw one before, when I was a boy, he’s right. They never wash up on the beaches. You can only find them on the ocean floor. Maybe—I’m sorry, my son—there might be some truths coming from his mouth after all.”
“Then we’ll see. You want a boat? I'll give you a boat.” Nab cocked his head to the side. “Bring me a paddle!”
A little boy, Nab’s grandson, came scurrying. With him was an oar from the prince’s longship. “You want to be a warrior, do you, Gele? I’ll give you another try to see if you were the kind to survive an Anima.” He gave the oar a few good swings, swatting the air with a loud swash. “Try, Gele of Melaopel, like your father did so long ago. Try and get me to fall on my knees.” He swung the oar again, swish! There was no difference between this and the spear he drove into whales’ backs. “Be careful, though. One wrong move, and you’ll fall over dead.”
“Gele,” Emned shook her head disapprovingly. The dancer’s red eyes flickered like stomped embers. “Don’t be stupid. He’ll crack your head open.”
Sawyer slammed her fist against the stone. “If you cannot beat one angry person, how would you be able to stand against armies, sea monsters, and the Second Sea? But, Gele, you already survived this Sea of Shrouds, do not grow timid now! The Beckoning, remember what it was then, and come to it again!”
“Will you help?” Gele thought as he stepped forward.
“No, why the hell would I do that?” Sawyer said outright. “This is your trial, one you started before we ever met. This isn’t my place to step in.”
“Good,” he said aloud. He looked Nab in the eyes. “I accept.”
“If you’re ready, then start swinging.” King Peal leaned back in his chair. He wiggled an empty cup in his hand. Tired sunken eyes hinted at passion, hoping the boredom would soon be swept away. “Do not disappoint. I would hate to forget tonight too.”
“Sorry, father,” Nab rolled his shoulders, “the game will end just as quickly as it began.”
A resounding crack burst out as Nab swatted at his foe. Gele backed away, feet sliding across the altar. The paddle only struck air, but he could feel the hit run down his spine. Even if it was just imaginary, his bruises stung from the pain.
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Nab did not give Gele time to even think. Playing, he surged forward, thrusting the tip of his weapon. Gele ducked and whirled to the side. Slow, Gele realized. Just an attempt to test him, to gauge his speed. Nab was not new to watching performances from the dancers, and he was familiar with the rite of the Beckoning. Respect was demonstrated through a hint of caution. No. Gele jerked to the side when the next thrust came. Nab’s sandals stomped against the floor as he threw all his power behind the oar. This was how it was before, the first time. Nab moved like a viper, fast and vying to end it in one hit. Then, he did it again, barely a second after. Gele rolled this time. He could dodge, but not forever. There was no respect, only a lynx tormenting a field mouse before it swallowed it whole. Nab’s fangs came down as a swipe, and the paddle swung around to prevent Gele from leaping away.
Thwack! The paddle slammed into his shoulder, throwing Gele to the ground. Landing on his side, he could only roll away as Nab tried to kick him. Climbing to his feet, Gele retreated from the oar’s range, a bitter taste on his tongue.
Nab came for him again, another swipe. It went low, aiming for Gele’s ankles. The dancer, in retaliation, jumped. His legs sprung him over the oar, his colorful clothes mimicking feathers as he became a bird. Spinning in midair, Gele clenched his teeth as bang! His heel bashed Nab’s head, swinging like a warhammer. All the force collected into a strike that echoed across the mountain. The kick made the man stumble as Gele captured the momentum. Behind him, Emned cheered—it was her who taught him the move.
A quick breath cycled through Gele’s lungs. Still trapped in a fluid movement, Gele caught himself, landing on his hands, planting them firmly against the floor. Pivoting to the side, he whirled, using the spin to land a kick right in Nab’s ribs. The big man grunted. And while he stood stunned, Gele shot his other foot up, digging it into his chest. The drums around him still played. The fervor of the festival still roared. A crowd had gathered, awe-struck. Gele ignored them as his feet touched the floor.
All of it was one dance, his muscles melting into water. Sweat trickled down his body as he moved. Standing on the beach again, he teetered on the verge of re-entering the tumultuous sea. Not drowning; rather, he was on the precipice of dissolving into the brine. One more step. One more step, and he would be moving forward. Like the Beckoning, he would begin and be unable to stop until he reached the end. It all fell if he stopped halfway through, and Gele would lose the rhythm. The drum behind him kept beating. The festival’s music became his metronome.
His reflexes threw Gele back, springing him into a cartwheel. A quick moment later, the oar lashed out, nearly bashing Gele’s knees. It moved more like a whip, a flash, then a thundering crack every time it missed. And when it got too close, it was followed by the crowd’s cheers.
The two twisted around each other, equally wary and eager—like cats that stalked each other, circling around, waiting for the chance to strike. Gele kept his rhythm, his feet sliding as he watched for openings. Nab, however, had the beautiful advantage of range. The oar came at Gele a few times, in empty jabs that only tested him. Gele changed his pace in a similar effort, moving faster and springing into rolls and jumps to both get behind and startle Nab. The next time the warrior launched the paddle at him, Gele accepted it as his chance. He surged forward, his aim centered on Nab’s ankles. Such focus became blinding as the oar swooped up, crashing down with all of Nab’s strength, like a tidal way. Wood burst into splinters as it impacted Gele’s back. All that remained after was a broken pole and the warrior’s smug smile.
Gasping, Gele scrambled away. The oar knocked the air right out of his lungs. Only ragged breaths came from his throat. It hurt to stand up straight, his spine searing from the smack. He could feel the wood shards stuck in his back. Blood streamed down it like a crimson cape. Gele’s dance halted, with his internal rhythm destroyed. It had all fallen apart.
Too slow to respond, Gele only stumbled back as Nab advanced. It was over. The warrior came swiftly and stabbed his foe in the shoulder with the split wood. Before he properly understood the pain, a rush shoved Gele off his feet. Tackled, he landed sprawled on the floor, now pinned by both the man and his weapon. Nab’s knuckles bashed Gele’s nose, eliciting a brutal crunch. The audience howled when they thought it was done.
Gele clenched his teeth as blood pooled in his mouth. He could not breathe. The man on top of him crushed him. It would soon end as it did before, in overwhelming defeat. For a second, his eyes shut, accepting it. What will I be when this is done?
Rickety terror came over Gele as he pressed his palms against the floor. He could not fall or faint. His arms shook. Without thinking, he swallowed trickles of blood. Do not fall. His feet were firm against the floor. Why couldn’t he stand up? He gnashed his teeth together. His body was moving, every organ shuddering but refusing to work as one. His eyes darted around, searching for anything. They locked on Sawyer Jean. The spirit stood horrified, eyes reflecting sights of another world that became too familiar now. Blurry visions came and went, each barely lasting a second. Memories clashed against his fleeting consciousness, colliding with one another like rain against fire. Born from that was a heavy smoke, a cacophony of things he had yet to see nor understand.
“I want to fly too.” His voice grated against his teeth, erupting as a snarl. Nab punched him in the nose again. A shock went through his skull, but he remained on his feet, even as his arms went limp. Blood painted his scarf red, desecrating it. Everything stung as if thorns pressed down on him from all directions. What he muttered was a lie. How could he wish to fly when he did not know where to land? Keep going. He was on the beach again, ready to run. He had to become a warrior to free himself. His fingers twitched. He could move them again. Reaching out, he grabbed a sharp wood splinter from the smashed oar. Lunging forward, he aimed to stake it in Nab’s heart. To earn the right to see the world, he had to win, somehow.
Nab swatted Gele’s stick away. Standing over the dancer, he had seen the desperate play in its entirety. Gele grew a smile. Spitting up blood, he rushed forward as the wood shard left his grasp. His other hand curled into a fist. A wicked laugh came from Sawyer when she heard his thoughts and learned of his feint. Halfway delirious, he could see a little girl with a black eye and red knuckles brawling with taller kids in alleyways and stone streets. Rising, Gele threw all his lingering strength into his arm, bashing Nab in the chin with a booming uppercut, burrowing into his jaw. The warrior stumbled, just catching himself. The momentum was his. Gasping for air, Gele could breathe again.
The floor, the crowd, and the Second Sea itself faded in the next moment. Gele locked his stare on Nab, and he returned such a gaze. The warrior came running, his arm swung back, ready to crush Gele’s bones. Everyone was watching now. Nab could not let shame besmirch his title.
Gele let Nab charge, himself trapped in a trance. All he could sense was a close-by spirit, the rummaging of inner thoughts forming an erratic flow, a new rhythm. Gele’s feet slid to the beat of Sawyer’s words, though Gele could not listen to what she said. He was in too deep now. Nab came at him, quick and angry. Each step was a vicious stomp as he let out a roar. His gaze spun to the throne, where King Peal perched like a vulture. The warrior lingered, trying to read the man. At that moment, Gele advanced. His heart thrashed inside his chest. His leg snapped up, curving in a wide arc. The kick, replicating a whirlwind, came at Nab before he could see it. Gele’s heel slammed into Nab’s cheek. A hard thud echoed as the warrior collapsed. He laid there for all of Galu to see. The dancer clutched his scarf, coated in blood. I did it. Gele resisted the flooding disbelief. He was now a warrior. His gaze tiredly trailed up towards the sky, hoping the Second Sea and its spirits saw it all.