Min Shuei had heard him speak before, but it was always a shock to hear him say anything other than guttural snarling. She wasn’t sure if he was as intelligent as he sounded, or if he was only imitating his former self.
“There was your reprisal to consider, but you cannot afford to throw away a Sage before the Uncrowned are trained, you would face consequences yourself from my Herald, and I now have the backing of a Monarch whom even you cannot offend. Especially when he may win a heavenly weapon of execution. So I was safe.”
Northstrider waited for the entire monologue to come to an end without any expression on his unshaven face.
The Blood Sage ended with, “I have the right to train Yerin Arelius. She has cultivated her Blood Shadow with a technique I created myself. She is, in a sense, my disciple.”
Min Shuei could take it no longer. “She is the Sword Sage’s disciple, so a sword Sage should train her!”
Technically there were three Sages of their generation who had manifested the Sword Icon: the Sage of the Endless Sword, the Sage of Fallen Blades, and herself. Among them, the only one that used the title of the Sword Sage was Adama, the Endless Sword, though it could apply to any of the three.
“You have your own competitor in the Uncrowned, with her own Blood Shadow,” Northstrider said to Red Faith.
“Yan Shoumei needs no more of my guidance. She walks a different road than I, and I have taught her all she needs to know.” He took one step closer to Northstrider, hopping from one foot to the other like a bird.
“Yerin Arelius has laid the foundation for something extraordinary. This could be a breakthrough, not just in our understanding of the Phoenix and Blood Shadow advancement, but in how we all reach Monarch. We have an opportunity here to revolutionize the sacred arts, and I know you are not the sort of fool to let politics blind you to that chance.”
Northstrider nodded once.
Then he punched the Blood Sage.
His fist struck the man in the chest, and the air ignited with the force. The room exploded, the walls cracking, the window shattering and the chairs blasting to splinters. The building shook, and Min Shuei’s ears rang. She had flown through quieter thunderstorms.
The Blood Sage was launched through the empty window in a blur, fading to a speck in the distance.
Northstrider had literally punched him out of the city.
Delighted, Min Shuei laughed and applauded. “That was even more satisfying than I imagined.”
“He thinks only in terms of life and death. He knew I would not kill him, so he thought he was safe. Fool.”
Northstrider gestured, and order reasserted itself. Shards of glass in the window flew back together, the damaged floor and ceiling repaired with visible speed, and the splintered chairs rebuilt themselves.
“I have consulted with the Akura family,” Northstrider said, standing in the center of the whirlpool of debris. “They have given their consent. You are to train Yerin Arelius.”
Min Shuei bowed at the waist. “Thank you, Monarch.”
The ceremony introducing the Uncrowned was held in the arena as usual, but it had a very different atmosphere than normal. It reminded Lindon of Sacred Valley’s Seven-Year Festival, or of the celebrations that filled Ninecloud City while the tournament was in progress.
The eight towers that held the audiences of the various Monarch factions remained in place, but the arena floor had been replaced with a pool of shimmering light that slowly shifted from one set of colors to another.
Eight Underlords hovered on rainbow Thousand-Mile Clouds above that surface. The chosen Uncrowned each drifted in front of their faction’s tower, which made for a lopsided distribution.
Two men and a woman drifted in front of Reigan Shen’s tower: his three fighters.
Each layer of the Shen faction’s audience tower was decorated for a different Dreadgod, and of the four, only the Silent King had no representative remaining.
Brother Aekin of Abyssal Palace wore a dark stone mask, roughly carved with thin slits for eyes and a suggestion of a snarling mouth. He was unremarkable otherwise, wearing hooded sacred artist’s robes of the same slate gray.
Next to him was Calan Archer, a muscular man whose sleeves were cut short to show the scripted rings around his biceps, which crackled with blue-and-gold lightning. He was a sandy-haired man with a square jaw and a scar across one eye, and he gave off a serious air. He represented the Stormcallers, the cult of the Weeping Dragon.
Finally, there was Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall. The girl still stood like a specter in her red robes, black hair falling over her face in a veil.
[Don’t you think it’s funny that the Dreadgod cults managed to get three spots?] Dross noted. [They’ve never even competed before! Was it Reigan Shen who made them that much better?]
Lindon wondered about that often. Had the Dreadgod followers always been so strong, or had Reigan Shen’s support given them wings?
These three of Reigan Shen’s representatives had performed well throughout the tournament, and until the last round, Lindon would have said that Yan Shoumei was the weakest of them.
Lindon wouldn’t have been certain of his odds against either of the men, but Dross had suggested that he would win three out of four matches. He should have been able to beat Shoumei every time…except for her new, enhanced Blood Shadow. Now even Dross couldn’t tell.
Were the other two hiding their strength as well, just like Yan Shoumei?
That was enough to worry about on its own, but they still had an ally. Drifting alone in front of the dragon tower, Sophara wore gold and jewels and loose cloth that left her midriff bare. Lindon thought she looked more and more human every time he saw her.
She tilted her chin up as she stood on her Thousand-Mile Cloud, surveying the audience as though she stood above all Lords.
[Is it still arrogance if you can back it up?] Dross wondered.
Across from her, she faced another team of three side-by-side.
Mercy was dressed in her finest Akura uniform again, though she didn’t carry Suu. No one carried any visible weapons during the ceremony. Eithan’s fancy dress was back, and his robes were bright ocean shades that didn’t seem to represent Arelius, Akura, or the Blackflame Empire.
Lindon wondered what that meant. Knowing Eithan, it could have been a subtle coded message. Or it could have been that Eithan felt like wearing blue and green.
Yerin wore her standard black uniform, her dark hair flowing behind her in a gentle breeze. She didn’t wear her master’s sword, but her six silver sword-arms stretched out.
Her eyes stayed on her enemies.
Lindon felt another stab of regret. There they were, the three of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He should be up there with them.
And as soon as this ceremony ended, they would leave. Taken away by Sages to train.
Leaving him alone.
Off to the side, Ziel stood in front of Northstrider’s audience, slouched as though he would fall over without something to prop him up.
Eight people fighting for Penance, the heavenly weapon. Four who would support sending the Dreadgods home, and four who would oppose it.
What could Lindon do to influence the outcome?
[I don’t want to say there’s nothing you can do,] Dross said. [I really don’t. I’m focusing so hard on not saying that.]
The Ninecloud Soul introduced each candidate one by one, and only when she finished did she start the ceremony proper: the addition of the Broken Crowns.
“The Broken Crown,” the Soul explained, “has been the symbol of the Uncrowned King tournament from the beginning. This Divine Treasure, implanted in the souls of these eight young warriors, will immortalize them and symbolize their strength. It will let others recognize them as agents of their Monarch. It will serve as eternal proof of the glory they have earned on this battlefield.”