And even that wasn’t the end.
A towering red-tinged cloudship painted with a symbol resembling the Bleeding Phoenix obviously belonged to Redmoon Hall. A floating island covered by a giant pure-white tree must belong to the Silent Servants, as a halo of light that resembled their Goldsign crowned its branches. The Stormcallers were carried on a long storm cloud that drizzled a curtain of rain on the mountains surrounding Sky’s Edge. A number of structures had been built on the cloud itself, so that it looked like they traveled with their entire sect.
Lindon didn’t sense any more Heralds, but he suspected there was at least one. The Blood Sage had attended the tournament, which left the Herald to continue running Redmoon Hall; he couldn’t imagine the man not being here.
But this sight sickened him. Surely no one from Sky’s Edge had been left alive.
He turned to Mercy, but she seemed calm.
“Oh, our side is still alive,” Eithan explained while keeping his eyes on the horizon. “As Mercy told you, everyone is playing quite strictly by the rules. For now. While the battle below is quite heated, it is strictly between Golds and the weaker Lords. They toy with us.”
“For them to have beaten us here, they must have gone to great expense,” Lindon said quietly. “Are they positioning for the end of the tournament? If so, why didn’t we…pardon, Mercy, but why didn’t your mother see this coming?”
“My mother’s weakness is not a lack of foresight.”
Eithan flipped hair away from his face. “I suspect the situation is thus: they are poised to secure the labyrinth as soon as their champion wins the tournament. They have arrived so…aggressively…merely to express superiority and exert their confidence in Sophara.”
“That’s it?” Lindon blurted.
When he put it like that, it sounded…petty.
“I’m boiling down a great many factors, and of course this is all speculation on my part…but many Monarchs are such people. Those who enjoy throwing their power around. They would be certain that Fury can’t fight them all, and even if Yerin wins the tournament, there are so many together that they can retreat without reprisal.”
A hand of dense shadow madra struck a golden spear from the air before it could be fully formed, kicking up a wind that pushed the Redmoon Hall cloudship back.
[I have some idea of what it costs to move this many Heralds,] Dross said. [As you may remember, some of them were our guests in Ghostwater. They’ll have given up fights all over the world to make this demonstration.]
“What happens when Fury loses?” Lindon asked.
“This isn’t a fight,” Mercy responded. “This is him saying he won’t back down. But…I know him. There will be a fight.”
Lindon noticed they were still heading straight for Sky’s Edge.
[I appreciate how fast and fuel-efficient this cloudship is,] Dross said, [but don’t you think we should check its turn radius? For instance, we could turn around and go the other way.]
“You can drop me here,” Mercy said. She tapped Suu on the deck, and the staff’s dragon head hissed. “I’ll go the rest of the way myself.”
“There’s no barrier stopping us from entering?” Lindon asked Eithan.
“None. If I had to bet, they won’t mind our arrival at all. But they may take issue if we try to depart.”
“And the Lords are fighting on the ground?”
“The strongest participating in the battle are Overlords. They would very much appreciate the arrival of a few more skilled combatants, I suspect.”
“No,” Mercy said firmly. “I have responsibilities here, but there’s no reason for you two to risk your lives.”
Lindon continued speaking to Eithan. “If Sophara wins, are we all going to die?”
He would happily put his faith in Yerin, but he didn’t want to bet his life on the Uncrowned King tournament if he didn’t have to.
Yerin hadn’t even made it through the top four yet.
“Malice has certainly prepared for this, which means that Fury has a way to escape. It’s probable that we will have an opportunity to survive, even if the worst happens and the Monarch is killed. But…” He shrugged. “We will certainly be safer if Yerin wins. Or if we don’t go down there at all.”
Lindon thought of his expression in those tournament recordings.
And he thought of what he’d felt when Suriel gave him a second chance.
He looked down into his palm, where Little Blue was hugging Suriel’s marble. The tiny blue candle-flame matched her perfectly.
“Apologies, Little Blue,” he said. “I need your help.”
She dropped the glass ball and gave a whistling cheer.
There was only one step he could take at the moment to improve his power, and Dross had confirmed it would work. He had hesitated only out of fear for Little Blue’s safety.
But she was eager to help, and he needed her.
“I swear to open my core to you and share my power,” Lindon said, for the second time in his life.
Little Blue regarded him solemnly as she knelt and pressed both hands to his skin.
Then she gave one bright, piping note of agreement and their contract was complete.
Deep blue power slid into him; not an overwhelming amount, certainly not compared to the sea of pure madra he already contained. But more than he’d expected from the Sylvan Riverseed, and more than enough to stain his pure core a deeper blue.
As it did, his own power crashed into the Sylvan Riverseed.
She fell over on his hand, and if Lindon could have interrupted the process, he would have done so out of panic. Her color brightened to a lighter shade, but she became clearer, more solid, more defined. Her eyes gained a new shine, and legs and feet appeared beneath her long skirt.
She doubled in size until she was about a foot tall, and Lindon wondered if she might grow to human size until her form settled.
When she stood on his hand, he felt her weight more than he ever had before.
A new sensation settled in his pure madra as it took on a cleansing, emptying aspect. It wasn’t entirely like her original power, but not exactly the madra he was used to using either. A combination of both.
Little Blue lifted both her eyes and gave a loud chime.
He didn’t hear words, but now he could vividly understand the emotion behind them.
Victory.
Now, after so long being carried around, she could help carry him.
18
Pride trembled, bruised and panting, on the stony ground. He wanted to sink to his knees, but he would rather die than kneel to these opponents.
Not that they seemed likely to kill him.
Most of the Akura forces were inside the fortress walls that the Seishen king had raised in Sky’s Edge, but Pride and his team had been caught on the stony hills outside when the dragons had arrived.
The mine was all but empty, everything of value stripped from the town, and they’d evacuated everyone for miles. The territory was ready for the Dreadgod to arrive, and Pride had only been supervising the return of the Gold workers.
When dragons had swooped in, cutting off their retreat, he hadn’t been too alarmed at first. They would receive support, and there was no one in this group of dragons above Overlord. And they clearly weren’t thirsty for blood, or their Herald would have annihilated them from a thousand feet up rather than sending her descendants.
Then the other Dreadgod cults had arrived, and his heart had fallen past his knees.
Even when Uncle Fury had begun fighting, it hadn’t helped Pride’s position at all. A dozen Lords sat on clouds or floating mounts around Pride and the others, watching. Four of them were Overlord. Five times that many Truegolds and Highgolds watched from further back, a mix of cultists and dragons of all colors.
They just kept sending Underlords forward to duel. There was some joke about reenacting the Uncrowned King tournament for themselves, but really they just wanted to see their opponents suffer.
There were no rules. Whenever it looked like one of them would win, an Overlord on the bench would throw in a Striker technique and claim he was swatting a fly.