Prosef Vesev lifted his eyes to the southern sky, scanning the segregated seating about Grimstaf VIII. Segregated, of course, by family, as those ancient rivalries were the backbone of Fenaback. Families rose and eventually fell, though some like his endured for hundreds of years.
Somewhere up there, his father was looking down with disapproval, perhaps rage. And Prosef could not bring himself to care. As his mother had said, his actions in joining the tournament were for the long-term benefit of the family that he would one day lead, so he felt no shame.
There. He found her, as though by intuition. He could always pick out Mother in a crowd, no matter how far away. He could not see the expression on her face, but he knew it was one of hidden pride. Mother saw not only his potential, but also the great role he would play in this world. Soon, he would move onto the next step. He had foolishly stayed out of the games last year, at age sixteen, but this year's omens were obvious. The Harbinger, in his great speech to the Fenabackan families, had looked right at him, as though seeing into his soul and pondering his future. Whatever the black angel had in store for him, Prosef would meet it head on.
It would not be long. He could end these tests as soon as he wished.
The first was to be an obstacle race, of all things. The Magnates created ethereal rings of orange and yellow, like hoops of fire, that hung in the air around a course of their own magical making. Prosef had few desires in the world aside from his mother’s, which he was content to make his own—she was the wisest person he knew, far wiser than Fenaback’s Magnates—but one of those desires was to learn what manner of power the Magnates wielded. Ancient and mighty, it defied the laws of the Kinships, extending far beyond them into the realm of the impossible. Prosef’s own Kinship, however, bordered on that. Today, for the first time, he would take the shackles off, allowing the Magnates, his family, and perhaps the Lord Above, to see his true potential.
And then he would leave, bound for the Earth to conquer it for House Vesev.
Among the contestants were a few of the Dolce weaklings, like Felicity, one of Otto’s granddaughters. The Dolce were more numerous than the Vesev, despite being a younger family, possessing as they did less patience and objectivity in their choice of marriages. Otto encouraged all their children to bear descendants for the family, never stopping to question whether they were all worthy or fit. Prosef’s father, Victro, current leader of the Vesev despite his middle age, had reportedly gone through four potential wives and divorced another two—and some said he personally saw to it that any offspring had been terminated early—before settling on Hilda of House Fandarck. She had been the perfect choice, possessing the wit to ally herself with the more powerful Victro Vesev and subtly deny her birth family the benefits of the marriage. There were some who questioned her loyalty because of it . . . and Prosef had personally dueled and killed one for it.
The real problem, however, in these lesser families was not the choice of marriage partners but what they did following their other dalliances. The Dolce were notorious for their multiple illegitimate children they not only allowed to live, but—rather than dumping them in Castile to dwell with the non-allied at the very least—gave them a place in the family. Such thoughts sickened him.
Present today were multiple of the lowborn Castile rats, those with blood so ignoble or diluted that many didn’t even possess a Kinship. Prosef could spot them by their bearing and speech, so obvious were the signs. Alas, the Harbinger of the Lords Above had seen fit to announce the invitation to all the people of the city, which was normally reserved for only the elementalist families, as it should be. They stretched and warmed up for the obstacle run like the others, as though being in their top condition could give creatures of such low birth a chance in these games.
To the north stretched the longer southern Skyfall of Isle Fenaback, small but greatest of them all, and between the floating land and the new stone-molded arena on which they now stood spanned the course, a twisting snake of flame-hued hoops. Prosef was relatively certain they were incorporeal illusions of the Magnates making, not real flame, but he would find out when he got close to one. There were floating walls, however, and moving objects—some looking quite dangerous—that blocked certain paths or narrowed them, all to add a bit of challenge and variety of outcome to the competition, making it about more than simple wingpower and speed.
The contestants started in a line, all thirty-one, readying themselves for the sky sprint ahead. Magnate Chassan, who evidence suggested was once a Cragborn, had assisted the Harbinger in the creation of Grimstaf VIII, though Hilda had doubts as to the extent of his contributions. He held his flag aloft, the signal to commence the first game, and then promptly dropped his hand, issuing a beam of light that swept the air in front of where the flag had been held, at the top of the contestants’ vision.
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Prosef’s wings burst from his bare back, ethereal red-and-violet tendrils that made the suggestion of wings but did not perform in the same motions. Rather, they vibrated like a hummingbird’s, blowing both wind and a stream of hot energy behind him as he shot into the air. His acceleration was not the quickest—not quite, being outdone by one Flameborn of House Tarnack, but he stayed ahead of the others as he soared toward the first ring. It was about ten paces in diameter, its brilliant gold light outdoing the morning sunrays, its middle smooth and solid while the outside trailed tongues of flame.
The Tarnack Flameborn passed through the ring just ahead of him, and two other elementalists were right behind Prosef. One was a Windborn, while the other, a Dewborn, was shaking water from his wings purposefully as he flew. The announcer had said that nothing was off-limits as far as touching other contestants or inhibiting their flight in any way.
The next ring was a hundred yards in front, with a series of rotating stone blocks in front that forced one to go around or else time their passage just right. Accelerating to full speed, Prosef simply ducked beneath them and sped under the stones. As he came under the last one, the Flameborn spun above him, slicing with a wing. Prosef ducked it and returned the gesture with a crimson burst from his wings. It blasted through the air, clipping the man even though he tried to evade it. The Tarnack cried out as the energy seared his leg.
Just a taste, my friend. Prosef sped past the Flameborn without a backward glance. Despite the cursing, he was not out of the running, and he was fast, so Prosef would have to do something about him eventually. A few more hoops, a few more twists of the course, and Prosef found that he didn’t have to vie for first place anymore: a glance behind revealed that he was still at least three wingspans ahead of the nearest opponent, which was the Dewborn. A fast Dewborn, he thought. To beat a Windborn was no small feat.
The obstacles grew increasingly complex, until Prosef could not simply fly at full speed but rather had to use his head to plan out the best way, or veer suddenly to avoid projectiles from strange devices. An alternating set of incinerating beams blocked one orange hoop, the only path to which was a floating tunnel of stone. He stopped, glancing in his peripheral to see the Dewborn coming in, readying a wing to splash him with water, as though that would do anything. Vibrating his wings at an increased frequency, he ducked, slowed, and then threw the young man headlong into the flames. He cried out as the flame-spitters scorched his side, though he tried to shield it with his water-molded wings. His body struck the bottom side of the stone cylinder hard and fell, Prosef zipping overhead of him.
The medics swarming below would get him. Would he live? Prosef did not have a preference either way.
Prosef was not around to see how many of the youths and alumni eliminated in such a fashion from the race, because he stayed at the forefront until the very end. At last, he swept through the last hoop, which ended back at the island, west of where it had begun. The controlled elementalist brand of cheering and applause greeted him as he waited for the others to finish. The way they'd announced it, it sounded as though everyone who finished would move on to the next round of the tournament. When all were accounted, this proved to be under two dozen people, as nine had fallen—injured or unconscious—and been carried away by the medics.
The next round was the martial arts trial, a favorite on Fenaback. There were three distinct arts taught on the island, with each family specializing in a school with its own variations. The Vesevs taught a variant of the striking art, known for its speed and power, with an emphasis on heel kicks, spinning kicks and fists and elbows. Power brings order. That was what they taught. His mother, Hilda, had taught him the Fandarck school, which was a blend of the throwing art and the grappling art. Thus he had learned to be prepared for most styles of attacks, in addition to sword and bow training.
Today, in this round, it would be all unarmed combat, traditional combat. No limitations on style. One-on-one, no elemental enhancements, to submission. This gave the slight advantage to non-elementalists, but there were only two of those remaining and Prosef was not worried about them. The Magnates said nothing either way regarding brutality or whether lethal techniques were allowed, so Prosef resolved to not use excessive violence.
Each opponent went down with relative ease. Those who were good on their feet he took to the stone floor, and when his opponent proved proficient at grappling, he pulled the stops and crushed them quickly, forcing a submission. They fought three rounds, each time against a different opponent, and those with two or more losses were eliminated.
That left twelve contestants, as a few finished with three wins. After a short break, Magnate Horace announced the last stage, which would be the same but with elemental powers and weapons. Prosef had been expecting it, though he wished he could have brought his own custom katana to the arena. Instead, they had an armory of dubious but sturdy close-range weapons. The Vesev heir took a long, half-decent-looking katana, trying out a few practice swipes to make sure of the balance.
The rules, however, had shocked many of the spectators and even the contestants: each duel would be to the death, with the winner moving on. Should he be too wounded to continue, the winner could withdraw and forfeit. Judging by the looks on the others' faces, however, Prosef wondered if that would happen at all. Feeling a tingling of his dormant wings at his back, he flexed his off-hand. Now would be the time. He would display his full power. His wings would be the demise of at least one of those present. Perhaps more.