Legendary (Caraval 2)

“Traditionally we perform once a year, giving us months to recover,” said Nigel. “This time Legend has given us less than a week.”

“I’m not giving you any days of my life.”

“I do not desire your life. I want your rest.”

“How much?” Tella asked cautiously. She had gone days without sleeping before. Giving up a few nights of rest didn’t seem too great of a sacrifice. But that was how these bargains always appeared. On the surface, Legend’s performers made them sound like insignificant inconveniences, but they were never that straightforward.

“I will take from you in proportion to what I give you,” Nigel said. “The more questions I answer, the more rest I will receive. If I give you no answers of value, you will lose nothing.”

“And when will you take my sleep?”

“As soon as you leave this room.”

Tella attempted to see every angle of the deal. It was the evening of the twenty-fourth and they were scheduled to arrive in Valenda the morning of the twenty-ninth. There were four days of travel left. Depending on how much sleep he stole, she’d be exhausted by the time they reached Valenda. But if he gave her concrete information about Legend, it would be worth it.

“All right. But I will only give you my sleep as long as we are on this boat. You cannot take anything from me while we’re in Valenda.”

“I can work with that.” Nigel retrieved a brush along with a tiny pot full of burning orange liquid from the stand beside his bed. “I’ll need your wrist to complete the transaction.”

Tella hesitated. “You’re not going to paint anything permanent on it, are you?”

“Whatever I draw will disappear as soon as you pay me in full.”

Tella stretched out her arm. Nigel moved with practiced skill; his cold brush swirled and twirled along Tella’s skin, as if he often used body parts as a canvas.

When he finished, a pair of eyes, exactly like hers, peered back at Tella. Round and hazel-bright. For a moment she swore they pleaded with her not to make this choice. But losing a little sleep felt like a small sacrifice if it would give her the information she needed to fulfill the debt to her friend and finally end the last seven years of torment that had begun the day her mother had left.

“Now,” said Nigel, “what is it you wish to know?”

“I want Legend’s true name. The one he was called before he became Legend.”

Nigel ran a finger over his barbed-wire lips, drawing a drop of blood—or was the blood tattooed on the tip of his finger?

“Even if I wanted to, I could not tell you Legend’s name,” said Nigel. “None of his players can reveal this secret. The same witch who banished the Fates from earth centuries ago gave Legend his powers. His magic is ancient—older than he is—and it binds us all to secrecy.”

Though no one was certain why the Fates had vanished and left the humans to rule themselves, there were mumblings they’d been vanquished by a powerful witch. But Tella had never heard anyone say this was the same witch who had given Legend his powers.

“That still doesn’t tell me anything about Legend’s true identity.”

“I’m not finished,” Nigel said. “I was going to tell you: Legend’s magic prevents his true name from being spoken or revealed, but it can be won.”

Spider legs danced over Tella’s skin, and one of the painted eyes on her wrist began to close. It fell swiftly, in a way that made her feel as if she was running out of currency, but also very close to the answer she needed.

“How do I win the name?” she asked quickly.

“You must participate in the next Caraval. If you win the game, you will come face-to-face with Legend.”

Tella swore one of the stars tattooed around Nigel’s eyes fell as he finished. It was probably all the ginger smoke and pungent incense addling her brain, giving her visions of living tattoos.

She should have left then. The eyelids on her wrist were more than halfway closed now, and she had the answer she needed—if she won Caraval, she’d finally have Legend’s name. But something about Nigel’s last words left her with more questions.

“Is what you just said a prophecy, or are you telling me that the prize for the next Caraval is the real Legend?”

“It’s a little of both.” The tattoos of barbed wire piercing Nigel’s lips turned to thorns, and black roses bloomed between them. “Legend is not the prize, but if you win Caraval, the first face you see will be Legend’s. He plans to personally give the next winner of Caraval their reward. But, be warned, winning the game will come at a cost you will later regret.”

Tella’s skin frosted over as the painted eyes on her wrists closed shut, and her mother’s familiar warning flashed back: Once a future is foretold, that future becomes a living thing and it will fight very hard to bring itself about.

Then it hit her. A wave of fatigue so intense it knocked her down against the cushioned bed. Her head spun and the bones in her legs turned to dust.