Nizahl was the only kingdom not to choose a Champion from among its own people. Shortly after burning Jasad to the ground, Supreme Rawain had generously announced Nizahl’s plan to foster peace by choosing a Champion from a different kingdom every Alcalah. Besides, Nizahl possessed an unfair advantage. They conscripted their youth into the army from adolescence, and their most incompetent soldier could easily match another kingdom’s best.
“He wouldn’t choose a Champion from a lower village,” I said. “I’m sure he has some arrangement with the Omal Heir. A preselected Champion the royal family favors, perhaps.”
“Felix can’t pick the snot from his nose. The Nizahl Heir certainly will not be asking him his thoughts on picking a Champion.”
I made a disgusted sound at the image. “Every Champion he’s chosen has won the Alcalah. I doubt he would agree to train an incompetent just to curry political favor. Even if the Nizahl Heir did decide to choose a lower villager, he would find it a challenge to convince them to accept such a fatal role.” For all they loved to speculate about the Alcalah, lower villagers had too much sense to willingly compete in a tournament that left more than half its Champions dead. At least, I hoped they did.
Marek shrugged, navigating the wagon around a stretch of foul-smelling ponds dotting the road. “It might be worth the risk. If they become Victor, they win a retinue of guards, an upper-town home in every kingdom, riches to last their lifetime.”
“It’s not worth the risk unless you’re an oat-brained noble whose sole purpose for competing is to prance around and claim you’re celebrating the sacrifice of the Awaleen.”
The myths behind the Alcalah were utter nonsense. The four original siblings were beings of pure magic—the first magic. The Awaleen had created the kingdoms and ruled over them for millennia before Rovial, Jasad’s Awal, went insane and killed thousands. Magic-madness, the storytellers claimed. The inevitable consequence of powerful magic. To contain their brother and protect their kingdoms, the Awaleen consigned themselves to an eternal slumber beneath Sirauk Bridge. What exactly did the Alcalah seek to celebrate? The bloodshed or the burial?
Aware of my rising frustration, I fell quiet, smoothing my skirt down around my knees. The pale sunlight reflected brightly from my cuffs. It was a blessing to be the one person capable of seeing or feeling them. Their shine would have seared holes into Marek’s periphery.
“The Commander’s last two Champions were a Lukubi stonemason and an Orbanian beggar. Both became Victor.”
“Marek, enough.” I didn’t wish to talk about Nizahl or the Alcalah anymore. Anger was far slower to fade than it was to kindle, and I didn’t have the energy to spare.
“They say meeting his eyes can freeze a Jasadi’s magic in their veins,” Marek continued. “Supposedly, he can sense it by touch alone.”
The very thought threatened a reappearance of my eggshell breakfast. Most days, I excelled at willfully forgetting Jasadis were hunted like rabid animals. There was nothing I could do for them. There was barely anything I could do for me.
“What you describe is impossible. Do you mean to say the Commander has magic himself?” My tone went harsh, roughened by the tableau Marek’s words painted.
“Of course not. I am just saying—”
“What you are saying is treason. We have committed more than our fair share of that lately, don’t you agree?”
The crowd thickened as we neared the main square. People weaved around Marek’s wagon as it moved through a crowd clad in blue and white. As soon as he stopped, I took a deep breath and jumped down. I kept my cloak wrapped tight and my head low. Every accidental shoulder-bump or arm-brush sent a thousand pinpricks of revulsion throbbing through me. I couldn’t walk to Rory’s shop fast enough.
The bell over the door jingled. I waited for Rory to poke his head from the back room. When a minute passed without the click of Rory’s cane, I rounded the counter and pushed the curtain aside.
“Go away,” he said without turning around. Rory sat perched on two upturned crates, three bowls on the table and the bucket of frogs at his feet. I wrinkled my nose at the odor. Dania’s dusty bones, I was too late. He never worked with the frogs during the day, when the stench of blood and sour alcohol wafted through the rest of the shop. Not unless his distaste for humanity overwhelmed his common sense.
“Now, Rory,” I began, infusing my voice with patience I didn’t have. Of all the weeks for him to throw a fit, he had to choose the week of the waleema? “I think you should—” Before I could continue, a basket hit my chest. Rory didn’t look up from the bowls.