“What did you read in your journals?” asked Leonis.
“It was three reincarnations ago. I met her when I was a Dread Blaze. She was a rising Tomb Spark and impressed the hell out of me. I apparently knew of her by reputation, though I’ve not read far back enough to know why.”
“Wait,” said Scorio. “If you’ve read through your diaries, you have to know about the Trials, and what your powers are, right?”
Lianshi pouted. “Each entry I’ve scanned refuses to go into detail. Apparently, I end up agreeing with the policy of not revealing information about the trials, infuriating as it is. Nor do I write down what my abilities are. Which has driven me crazy. And which past mes have apologized for, and told me to be patient about.”
“Past yous sound asinine,” said Leonis.
“So I think each time. But every reincarnation I seem to swear that I’ll reveal the goods, only to change my mind when I do so. There are even entire pages I’ve torn out. Not this time, though. I’m going to write everything down.”
“Seems you’ve vowed that before,” said Scorio wryly.
She blew a lock of black hair out of her face. “A girl can change.”
Leonis’s grin grew wide. “The ninety-eighth time is the charm.”
“Greetings, Class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three!” Chancellor Praximar’s voice rolled across the room, silencing all conversation and drawing attention to the far stage as before. Once more, he was clad in his official robe of bejeweled beige, and he stood, beaming, as the students quieted down and turned to give him their complete attention.
“We have reached the midpoint of our tournament, and from henceforth the competition shall only grow even more intense. Those who have fallen in battle were worthy, assuredly, but either due to fate, bad luck, or poor decisions, are no longer in the running. Those who yet remain in both brackets now have a real chance at winning the tournament, and joining one of the two elite teams that shall enter the final Gauntlet run. I can barely restrain my excitement and wish in my heart of hearts that you could all benefit equally from this process!”
Scorio stared coldly at the distant figure. Never before had Praximar’s words rang hollower, had his cheer and benign words grated so much. Scorio imagined himself stepping out of the shadows by the chancellor’s side and dislocating his jaw with a perfectly placed punch.
“But alas. Today we witness a further evolution in the winner’s bracket, a winnowing that shall reduce the number from sixty-four to thirty-two. Each combat shall be a spectacle, but unfortunately, we cannot watch them one at a time. Thus I enjoin our guests, instructors, and fellow students to watch carefully and with avid attention; there is much to be learned from the exploits of the men and women who are about to fight before us today.”
A murmur passed over the crowd like a breeze rifling through a field of wheat, but Praximar raised his hand. “Today there are no extenuating situations in need of special attention. We shall proceed to the main fight. Instructor Helminth?”
The Hell Whip stepped forward, hands linked behind her back. “Students, honored guests, spectators, infuse your crystals and lie upon your biers! The Archspire shall convey you to the Arena, where we shall see who shall progress and who will be left behind.”
Despite himself, Scorio felt a twinge of excitement as he moved to the base of his bier and placed his palm over the crystal. He’d never seen Emberlings fight before, and the prospect of witnessing thirty-two such battles all at once got his pulse racing.
When his crystal gleamed, he leaped up lightly atop his bier and lay down, hands crossed over his chest.
A moment later the world about him changed; he stood upon the stands of the vast arena, surrounded by other students who grinned and moved to stand together in small groups.
Below them were the sparring circles, each surrounded by darkness, none within ten yards of the other. Their contestants stood at the ready, facing each other across the circle’s breadth, and Scorio remembered with vivid clarity how it felt to stand there below, to feel the whole arena watching him, the excitement, the tension, the fear, the exhilaration.
“Should we move down to the lower levels?” asked Scorio, turning to see Lianshi and Leonis close by. Apparently, they manifested in the same pattern that one lay upon the biers.
“No need,” said Leonis, hands on hips. “Just focus on whichever sparring circle you’re interested in, like quickening your darkvision, and you’ll find that the arena does the rest.”
Scorio frowned and looked back down. Picking a sparring circle at random, he narrowed his eyes, focusing intently on the distant figures. The circle suddenly swam into view, growing large and obfuscating the others, so that Scorio felt as if he were observing from only a dozen yards above the contestants.
“The rules are simple.” Helminth’s voice rang out from an invisible source up on high. “Anything is allowed. Victory takes place when your opponent yields, touches the ground outside the ring, or is rendered unable to fight. This being a mystical space, you have no need to fear unleashing your full abilities upon each other; no injuries will remain when you awaken. The fight will begin on the third chime, interfering in another combat will immediately disqualify you from the tournament, and there will be one bout. Good luck, contestants.”
Blinking, he let the magnified view fade away, and the circle was replaced by the full thirty-two. The first chime sounded, and he scoured the contestants below for the one figure he wished to watch.
“There,” said Lianshi, touching his shoulder and pointing to the far-left side of the fights.
How did she know? But there was no time to ask—the second chime sounded, and Scorio focused on the circle Lianshi had pointed out.
Immediately it swelled in size, and he saw Jova Spike standing calmly, gaze fixed on the massive Massamach who glowered at her from the far side. His robes were stretched taut over his prodigious frame, his huge shoulders rounded like boulders, his square jaw and closely trimmed beard making him look older than Scorio knew him to be.
Massamach was doing a good job of hiding it, but Scorio could tell he was nervous; the huge man opened and closed his fists, and shifted his weight subtly, as if trying to find the optimum stance.
Jova, however, stood poised and alert yet almost gave off an air of disinterest. She awaited the third chime with her hands upon her hips, lips pursed, gaze locked on her foe.
“Massamach’s no longer ranked third,” said Leonis by his side, though his friend wasn’t visible. “But he’s still a force to be reckoned with. Jova’s got her work cut out for her.”
“No, she doesn’t,” said Lianshi, then the third chime rang out.
Scorio leaned forward, heart hammering, and watched as Massamach threw himself forward into a sprint, powering his way toward where Jova stood still, waiting for him. When he was halfway across the circle, the huge man leaped into the air. Scorio thought he’d soar right toward Jova, but instead, he came down only a yard away, still far from his foe—but his impact upon the ground was devastating.
The stone shattered in a small crater around him, massive spikes of rock rearing up, but a furrow a yard wide raced from his feet to where Jova stood, a deep gouge in the ground that threw up similar spikes as it flew toward her.
Scorio could immediately tell that Massamach’s aim was off by a good couple of yards to the side—was his control so poor?
Then he understood.
The moment Massamach had crashed down upon the ground, Jova had leaped away, clearly anticipating his attack. But it hadn’t come directly for her, rather skewing out wide to her left.
Except she’d jumped right, and landed neatly on smooth stone as the furrow devoured the rock where she might have landed otherwise.
“Damn it,” hissed Leonis. “That was close.”
Jova rose from her crouch, and now it was her turn to race toward Massamach in a wide curve.