“I am not rich in names, Your Highness. I have only the one.”
Arin lifted a brow. I fell quiet, donning an expression appropriate for the occasion: a little flummoxed, a little anxious. Deception was an art form I thought I’d perfected. It was easy to mold myself into what others wanted to see, but Arin had exposed the flaws in this particular skill set. Apparently my rage, when roused well enough, was the last truly honest thing I had left.
The Nizahl Heir tipped his lips up. I had seen more expressiveness from him in the last ten minutes than in the last three days combined. “Have your pleasure, suraira. Every truth has its time.”
Foreboding trailed its finger along my neck. If he meant to rattle me, he’d succeeded.
Arin tapped the opened chest, moving on. “These tools will become your dearest companions in the months to come.”
“Do you truly believe six weeks and a few weapons will help me become Victor? The other Champions have been training since the last Alcalah. They have a three-year head start.”
“You have one advantage the other Champions lack.”
“You must mean my irresistible charm, since we have established my magic does not function.”
“Yet it was your magic that stabbed Felix and twice saved your life.”
He picked up a rusted cutlass, extending the hilt in my direction. I took the curved sword, slashing it through the air experimentally. I had dozens upon dozens of questions, all momentarily replaced by the childish glee of swinging a sword. I passed my finger along the kitmer carved into the side, its falcon head held high.
“You would allow me to wield Jasadi weapons, even in private?” Was it his way of rubbing my cowardice in my face? If so, it was a wasted effort. Looking at the kitmer, imagining the Jasadis who’d held these weapons before me, I felt… nothing. I knew what I should feel. Hanim hadn’t been shy about reminding me of how I failed Jasad, how Jasadis suffered at my incompetence. Shame is a dangerous feeling to manipulate. Pull at the string too many times, and it will eventually snap into apathy.
Arin slid his handkerchief over the dusty handle of another cutlass. “I would prefer my time wasn’t drained in the sieve of your animosity for Nizahl,” he said. “We will both be better served without the intrusion of divided loyalty.”
The sword leaned heavily against my legs.
“Nizahl will never have any share of my loyalty.”
Again, Arin did not rise to the insult. I wondered at it, sometimes, this imitation of patience. The coiled quiet of him.
“I did not mean Nizahl,” he said. “Pick up the cutlass.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The first week tested my limits. How fast could I run on land? How nimbly could I maneuver in rushing water? How far could I throw? Every evening I fell into bed convinced I had reached the peak of exhaustion, only to be disproven the following night. If it hadn’t been for the drawings Jeru delivered to my room, I would have written off the exercises as another peculiar viciousness of the Commander.
“What are these?” I asked as I spread the pages on my bed. Jeru dutifully remained behind the threshold. White chalk dusted the top of his curls.
“A collection of Lukubi artists created drawings of the tournament dating back centuries. A gift for Sultana Vaida. His Highness thought you should study them.”
“In my plethora of free time?” I was intrigued despite myself. I unwrapped the strip of rabbit hide bundling the parchments. Some of the pages were yellow with age. “How did they come into the Heir’s possession?”
“He borrowed them from her.”
Of course. Because the ruler of Lukub, rumored to be the most vicious Sultana since the Howling Crown, was friendly with Arin. He borrowed precious parchments from her and probably advised her on the best torture techniques over a hearty meal.
Jeru veered down the hall before I could press for more.
The sketches were divided by trial, then by year. I flipped through the images of the first trial, my curiosity morphing into apprehension with each new set of Champions. The number of Champions dropped from five to four suddenly, and I knew the bottom sketches had been done after the Blood Summit.
I traced the shaded drawings of the forested Orban canyon. The artist had used a knife to press ridges into the trees, the grim-faced Champions posed beneath its sinister branches. Ayume was an Orbanian forest where the first trial would be held, brimming with the horrors wrought by Dania’s ancient war magic. Dania was a master hunter, as austere in life as she was brutal in battle. Orbanians commemorated her with a trial testing physical endurance in the heart of the forest where she’d waged her most infamous battle.