When the surge lapsed, Marek flung himself to the ground, pressing his cheek to the well-beaten rug. “Sylvia, I love you,” he said. “I will bring you flowers and sesame-seed candies until the day I die.”
I nudged his head with my boot. “I would rather have the candies and a portion of your earnings.”
Marek laughed, rolling onto his back to look at me with dancing eyes. “How un-Omalian of you to ask me for money.”
“How un-Omalian of you not to accept.”
His smile slowly disappeared. A solemnity passed between us, heavy with words unsaid. Neither of us belonged to Omal, yet neither of us laid claim to our true kingdoms. I doubted Marek or Sefa had considered the possibility I was a Jasadi. I had not performed a single act of magic in the entire time they had known me. But they must have suspected I was more than I claimed.
Marek’s replacement arrived to relieve us. We lounged in Nadia’s borrowed chairs and watched two men grappling on the platform. The fights were my favorite part of the waleema. Mahair’s craftsmen constructed a raised platform for the matches taking place between the first and last hour of the waleema, with the last hour reserved for serious contenders. Buckskins and boiled leather cushioned the platform, preventing a hard fall from cracking open any skulls. Men and women hoisted themselves into the ring for a chance at victory. There could be no celebration of the Alcalah without a competition, and Mahair preferred the physical kind.
“Are you competing?” I asked Marek.
He lifted a shoulder. “Could be.”
I stifled a snicker. He’d be in the ring within an hour. I’d always wanted to compete. Indulge the tempting opportunity to win the prize and buy myself a new cloak with nothing more than an hour’s effort. But I could not risk exposing my skill.
You mean exposing your savagery, Hanim said. Would they treat you the same if they knew you could snap a man’s neck without a thought?
I shoved a candy into my mouth, crunching until I drowned out Hanim’s voice. I wound my way back to Rory’s booth. A cheer rose as performers leapt from roof to roof, swiping long torches to light the lanterns hanging over the road. A rosy haze illuminated the mosaic of fire above us. Children chased each other, dodging legs and swinging baskets, their laughter ringing louder than the lute players’ cheery melody. Mahair in its full glory.
For the next hour, my voice grew hoarse explaining the purpose of each oil and ointment to the visiting Omalians while Rory snored lightly on my right.
By the time Fairel crashed into the booth, I was ready to hurl a jar at the next person who asked why we used frog fat in the plaster. Someone had tried to braid Fairel’s short hair into twin tails. The resulting braids curved over her ears like a ram’s horns. A smear of what I fervently hoped was chocolate covered her nose, and she wore a clean, lovingly tailored frock woven in Omal’s white and blue. I had seen her running between the booths all afternoon, dragging around the chairs Nadia loaned to the Gahre merchants. Her Orbanian work ethic at full play.
“Are you busy?” She vibrated with anticipation. “Raya said I can watch the matches if I have company.”
A lemon would shudder at the sour pucker on Rory’s face. “Why would you go with Sylvia? There are plenty of small urchins gathering at the matches.”
Fairel lowered her eyes. “Sylvia is my only friend, and I want to watch them with her.”
Rory and I glanced at each other, sharing in the unease of me being anyone’s only friend. He waved a hand. “Off with you, go.”
I gritted my teeth before taking Fairel’s small hand and weaving through the crowd. I had on loose white pants that rose high on my abdomen and cinched at my ankles. Two slits cut into the sides of my tunic allowed me to knot it just above the band of my pants. Though gowns were the standard fare for a festival, I had dressed in case of a sudden need to flee.
Each person on the platform dedicated their fight to Kapastra. No Omalian Champion had triumphed in the Alcalah for over ten years, but reality did not prevent excitement from buzzing around the villagers. Even if their Champion lost, the Nizahl Heir was choosing his Champion from Omal. An Omalian had twice the chance of winning the Alcalah, even if they did so in Nizahl’s name.
The crowd undulated, crowing as a short woman with shaved hair knocked Yuli’s son to the leathers. Odette, the butcher’s daughter and the waleema’s reigning fighter.
“Why don’t you fight?” Fairel asked. “You’re strong. I helped you clean Yuli’s stables one summer, remember? You carried the heaviest crates and controlled the biggest horses.”