Caldenia leaned toward me, her voice discreet. “What’s happening?”
“Your nephew is anticipating something, and he doesn’t want us to interfere.”
“About time,” Caldenia said. “I was beginning to worry we’d miss the show.”
A loud bell tolled through the arena. The game was over. The five candidates stepped away from the table and retreated to use the various facilities. Oond’s humanoid helper stood up, bowed to him, and exited the stage. Oond rolled his high-tech fishbowl to the section of his delegation, where he was greeted by an enthusiastic fin display.
“You’re looking a bit pale for a human,” Karat said. “Here, eat some cookies. It’s about to get exciting.”
“No, thank you.”
I didn’t want cookies. I wanted peace and quiet and the orderly elimination of three additional candidates without any show or excitement.
“The scores have been tallied,” Gaston announced, his microphone-amplified voice carrying through the stands. “Candidates, please take your places.”
It took them five minutes to get there, and I could barely sit still from all the anxiety. The six candidates lined up. Nycati in a plain white outfit, Bestata in her black armor, Oond in a gorgeous veil of his orange fins, Prysen Ol in his trademark blue robe, Lady Wexyn in a translucent sage green kaftan style dress with a forest of golden accessories sprouting from her hair, and Amphie in a silver gown. They faced Kosandion, who sat upon his throne with all the dignity of a man who ruled an interstellar nation.
Three would go, three would stay. Almost there.
“In sixth place, finishing with the lowest score,” Gaston said, “is…Nycati of Gaheas.”
Nycati’s rankings appeared on the screens. His people were happy and well fed, and his population numbers were robust, but his tech score lagged behind other contestants. His military, although numerous, was armed with outdated weapons, and his culture was too homogenous. His nation had stagnated.
When Nycati played chess with Kosandion, he had built up his resources and then he attacked, unleashing a chain of assaults and planting traps all over the chess board. By the time Kosandion repelled one attack, the next one already would be in progress. Caldenia was right. The secret prince deliberately lost the game.
“Another hundred years, and he would be conquered,” Dagorkun murmured.
“Or not,” Karat said. “As long as one has a strong foundation, the nation won’t fall.”
“Evolve or die, Lady Karat,” Dagorkun said, his face impassive. “But you should persist in your xenophobia. The longer the Anocracy remains a closed nation, the better it is for the Horde.”
“Is that so?” Karat flashed her fangs.
Dagorkun leaned back, a wistful look on his face. “One day the Anocracy will wake up, look outside of its own navel, and see the Horde’s banners on every side. Mmm, I live for that day.”
“No worries, Under-Khan. On that day, you will see me with my sword on your doorstep.”
“Children, will you two be silent?” Caldenia snapped.
“You have conducted yourself with dignity and confidence,” Kosandion was saying. “We are truly privileged to have been graced with your presence. It is with great regret that the Dominion must bid you farewell.”
“The privilege was mine,” Nycati said. “I have been warmed by the light of the Dominion, and I will treasure its memory in the depth of my heart.”
Caldenia turned and gave me a look. “I rest my case.”
Kosandion nodded. “What do you ask of the Dominion?”
Nycati raised his head. “Twenty-seven years ago, King Krolli held the throne of East Gaheas. He was betrayed. His uncle, Toliti, rebelled against him, led his troops into the Crystal Palace, and slaughtered the royal family. He claimed the throne and began a bloody reign of terror and repression.”
Typical. In the Gaheas kingdoms, the royal bloodlines played musical chairs with thrones, and whoever was left standing when the music stopped usually died.
“Two people escaped that massacre,” Nycati continued. “The first was the king’s nephew, the youngest son of his second brother. He was only two years old. The boy was smuggled out by one of the rebels secretly loyal to the king.”
And I knew just who that boy was.
“The second was Artonnda, the king’s third consort. He had been entrusted with a priceless treasure of the royal line. The Wrath of Fire, a weapon and a crown, genetically linked to Krolli’s line. When His Majesty realized that the palace was lost, he tore the Wrath from his head, thrust it at his consort, and pushed Artonnda into an escape shuttle, instructing him to keep the crown safe at any cost. His Majesty remained behind with his family while Artonnda escaped to the Dominion. There he offered the crown to the Sovereign in exchange for safe haven.”
The arena was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.
Nycati’s voice rang out. “Today I ask the Dominion to return the Wrath of Fire to me.”
Silence stretched for a long, torturous breath.
“Your request is granted,” the Sovereign announced.
Resven rose, holding a carved wooden box in his hands.
Sean formed a stairway between the stage and the throne crag. Nycati marched up the stairs, each step a resolute statement. Resven met him halfway.
The screens zoomed in, capturing every minute movement in great detail.
Nycati opened the box and took out a circlet. It was a delicate half-moon of pale metal, two arms of twisted metal branches with fine leaves linked by a thin chain in the back. In the middle, where the branches met over the wearer’s forehead, a large jewel glinted with white fire. Something one of Tolkien’s High Elves might have seen in a dream.
Gingerly, Nycati raised the circlet in front of him and looked at it.
“Why is he hesitating?” Karat murmured.
“It will kill an imposter,” Caldenia said. “The Wrath of Fire will accept him only if he belongs to the bloodline.”
Nycati’s entire life culminated in this moment. If it were me up there, standing with the crown of the family I never knew in my hands, I would be wondering if the people who had raised me had been lying to me all along. There would be no do-overs.
Nycati took a deep breath and placed the circlet on his head.
The jewel flashed with red, as if a miniature volcano erupted in its depths. Nycati’s body jerked back, rigid. His arms flexed, his hands clamped into fists. He raised his head to the sky and screamed, his eyes swirling with gem fire.
A surge of magic shot from him, straight up, like a banner being raised, so intense my teeth rattled in my jaw.
Gertrude Hunt quaked, shuddering. I planted my staff into the floor and pulsed my magic through the inn, comforting, soothing, reassuring.
A pillar of glowing fire engulfed Nycati, humming like a high-voltage wire. He was screaming, his face a twisted mask of pain, but no sound came.
I strained, spinning my power around him, trying to minimize the impact.
The magic blinked and vanished. Nycati stumbled, suddenly released, caught himself, and raised his head.
The gem had turned a rich amber, swirling with deeper shades of golden brown. The exact color of Nycati’s eyes.
The white robe slid off the prince’s body, revealing pale battle armor underneath.