The challenger made it to the rock and ripped off his damaged breastplate, revealing a shockingly muscular chest. Miralitt raised her eyebrows.
The two men clashed. Weapons rang, striking each other. They danced across the crag, cutting and slicing. Finally, the challenger leaped and buried his sword in his opponent’s throat. The wounded man clasped his neck, spat out a torrent of blood, stumbled about, waved his arms, seemingly forgetting that there was a blade in his throat…
The hero leaped and kicked the pommel of the sword, driving it into the man and knocking him off the cliff. Miraculously, all the soldiers on the field stopped to watch the body fall. It landed with a meaty thud.
The hero pulled off his helmet. He looked remarkably like the Dominion version of Surkar. If not for the obvious differences in size and pigmentation, they could have been cousins.
“I’d watch that,” Sean said.
Kosandion rolled his eyes.
The hero grabbed a flag, pulling it from under the corpses, triumphantly planted it by his feet, and bellowed. “Warriors! Comrades! Look! The tyrant is dead! Let his death serve as a warning to those who dare claim our freedom!”
“‘Claim our freedom,’” Orata muttered. “It’s not even good writing.”
“They’re not watching it for the writing,” Miralitt said.
“No, but they are watching. In huge numbers.” Resven glanced at Orata.
She covered her face with her hands.
“I swear on this field watered with the blood of our battle-kin that my blade shall not rest until every threat to our liberty is vanquished. As long as my heart beats in my chest, I will stand for justice and peace.”
The camera panned to the few warriors standing among the carnage below.
“That’s a lot of peace,” Sean said.
“Yes, they had a large budget,” Orata said. “They even got Samrion for the lead. He’s an intellectual, nuanced actor. He usually does mystery and intrigue shows. We talked before the production. He was very apologetic. Apparently, they paid him an obscene amount of money. I don’t know what they were feeding him to get him to that size…”
“Who are ‘they’ and when did they have time to put all of this together?” I asked.
“They are the Enforee family,” Resven said. “They own one of the largest video channels, and they opposed the Letero’s succession. They lost and now they’re bitter.”
“The identities of the spousal candidates were made public seven months ago,” Orata said. “They put it together pretty quick. A tight deadline but not impossible.”
The hero gripped the flagpole and waved it around, flexing.
The message was clear: the Dominion needed a warrior to safeguard its freedoms and lead it to glory, and Kosandion wasn’t it.
“How do they benefit from Surkar winning?” Sean asked.
“They don’t,” Kosandion said. “Selecting Surkar as a spouse would involve the Dominion in the Horde’s internal squabbles. He brings very few benefits and lots of problems, problems which will keep me occupied and distracted. It’s one of the many stones they hurl into my path hoping I will trip on one of them.”
I wasn’t a Dominion politician, but even I understood that the only way to neutralize Surkar was to shatter his image as an invincible warrior, and I had no idea how Kosandion could do that. He couldn’t exactly order Miralitt to march into the arena and kick his ass.
“What are the rest of the rankings?” Kosandion asked.
“Amphie, Lady Wexyn, Bestata, Prysen Ol, Oond, Nycati, Cyanide, Unessa,” Orata reported. “The show gave Bestata a boost as well, and Oond, who was up right after the debate trial, is now down. Also, they really didn’t like Cyanide’s date. They thought it was boring, and she was entitled.”
She was a cat.
Resven nudged the second muffin toward Kosandion. Kosandion broke it in half and bit into it.
“Is everything ready for the 2nd Trial?” Orata asked. “Do you need anything?”
“No, we have it covered,” Sean said.
We did have the arena covered. The rest was up to the candidates, and there was no telling what they would come up with.
“Welcome to the 2nd Trial!” Gaston announced. “Are you ready?”
The cacophony of whistles, creaks, stomps, applause, and howls confirmed that the delegates were indeed ready.
We had reshuffled the seating arrangements, eliminating the Donkamin, Murder Beak, and Team Frown sections, so everyone sat closer to the stage. Kosandion was back in his section, and we hid his throne mountain under the arena’s floor. The door to the portal was shut, and the bridge that connected it to the stage was retracted. The mist was gone too. It was expensive and I was saving it for the elimination ceremonies.
Gaston, who was whipping the crowd into an excited frenzy from the center of the stage, was practically glowing in his blindingly white outfit. When I asked him how many clothes he’d brought with him, he told me he grew up in a swamp wearing rags and he was overcompensating. I didn’t know what to make of that, so I made an excuse and walked away.
Kosandion watched the pre-show with a dispassionate expression. He was on his third cup of coffee, and I told Orro to cut him off before he became jittery.
I did a quick sweep of the arena. Everyone was where they were supposed to be. The Holy Ecclesiarch and his retinue were in place, the observers’ section was in order, and all of the delegations were present. Tony was above the arena. Today he would be handling the special effects.
Sean parked himself near the Holy Ecclesiarch. Apparently, the elderly man specifically requested his presence. His Holiness was still pretending to be decrepit. His performance was suffering at the moment since he and the First Scholar were engaged in a spirited debate, and he was waving his arms with the vigor of a man half his age.
Sean looked at me. To everyone else his expression would be perfectly neutral, but I knew better. This was his long-suffering look.
One of Cookie’s helpers, a petite merchant with sable fur and bright green eyes, jumped up and down in the observers’ section, waving her little paws at me. She could have just requested a call, but she didn’t, which meant she wanted to tell me something personally. I extended a narrow bridge to the observers’ section, barely a foot wide. A human would’ve walked very carefully across it. The little lees scampered over it like it was solid ground. She reached me, dropped a piece of paper into my hand, and dashed back.
I retracted the bridge and checked the note. On it, in Caldenia’s graceful hand, was written, “It is vital that W goes last and the oaf right before her. Please indulge me.”
I glanced at Caldenia. Her Grace nodded at me.
Now she was passing me notes as if we were in class and had to hide from the teacher.
I surveyed the sections. Surkar sat in the first row, in the center of the otrokars’ section, wearing a long cloak. Not a typical garment for the otrokars unless it was winter. Lady Wexyn was in her expected place, veiled head to toe in a glittering golden fabric.
What was Caldenia up to? Whatever it was, the order of contestants didn’t really matter to me. We would take a break between candidates 5 and 6, and Bestata had to be candidate 6, because Tony had told me her talent required some setup. There was no harm in letting Surkar go next-to-last and Lady Wexyn after him. If anything weird happened, Sean and I would handle it.