The Final Strife

Those Embers assigned to the guild of duty can now apply to be the wardens’ griot. Have you got what it takes to make the leaders of the Empire laugh? Have you got the skills to entertain a crowd?

Please sign up on the sheet below.

—Audition notice found on the playhouse floor

Midnight came around faster than Sylah expected. Anoor had been gray with nerves when Sylah had last seen her. Now she was out there, below, in the abdomen of the arena, while Sylah was so high she could barely see her. A reinforced glass screen, which must have taken mooncycles to create, separated the four sides of the seated audience from the elements below. The crowd’s cheering echoed eerily in the inverted fish tank.

Two teams had been selected by the griot, who made a jest of the whole thing by picking names out of his different orifices. The wardens’ griots were a parody of everything the true blue-blooded griots stood for. They mimed and jested and acted like fools, which would be all well and good if they ever actually told stories. Instead, the Ember griots were a poor replica of their Duster counterparts.

Anoor’s name appeared by the griot’s ear, joining the same team as Jond. Uka watched on with pained impatience, but the audience cheered along with the farce.

Kwame laughed so hard beside Sylah that she almost got up and left. The servant sought her out and plonked himself next to her as if they were friends. Every day he sat next to her at dinner with the other servants; every day she bared her teeth at him, but he wouldn’t go away.

Sylah looked down at the arena floor and grimaced. Anoor’s armor stood out like a tree in a barren land. Bright green—“the armorsmith had never done it before, can you believe it? I got the idea from this girl who made hers pink!”—the metal had been oxidized to assault all of Sylah’s senses with its vivacity. Her helm, another design of Anoor’s, was admittedly a work of art. Two gilded kori birds in flight swept across her ears.

Jond’s armor was simpler, but he’d still chosen a lavish filigree of gold and silver. His helm was shaped like the open jaw of a desert fox, the canines on either side of his forehead, the ears pinned back at the top of his head. It was beautiful and deadly. It suited him.

Sylah’s eyes swung between the two competitors. They had half a strike before the tidewind struck.

“What are you going to do first?” Sylah had incessantly quizzed Anoor that evening.

“Build a shelter.”

“Exactly, no point having a strategy when you’re all dead.”

The two flags had begun to flap, welcoming the wind to come. The arena had been transformed. Mounds of sand blocked the teams’ views of each other, and rubble and scraps of metal were scattered on the ground. They’d be like daggers in the tidewind.

Uka began to speak.

“Competitors and audience members. We continue with the second trial of the Aktibar: tactics.”

Roar…roar…roar. The crowd’s cheers spun round and round.

—

“Being a Warden of Strength is not just about the might of your muscles, but the might of your intellect. So today we put your theory to the test. Two teams battle to win the flag from the other. Each member has a baton, for defense or offense. The losing team will be eliminated.” Uka reveled in the cries of the crowd. Her arms spread wide as she spoke into the sound projector. Her gray ensemble was skin-tight, the suit collar coming to sharp points, like daggers resting on her breasts.

The crowd was hungry. Anoor was not. She felt very, very sick. Uka continued.

“The trial of the stealth will be announced next mooncycle for the remaining competitors. Followed by the trials of mind, bloodwerk, and combat.”

Her team’s armor clanked around her, each of them itching to begin. One competitor’s armor was rose gold, and Anoor could see the wisps of henna-dyed hair through the helm.

“You ready?” a voice said to her right.

Anoor jumped.

“Do I know you?” she said, peering into the depths of their helmet.

The competitor took it off, revealing short twists of hair and an attractive face. It was the captain she had met in the training barracks who had given her pointers on the jambiya.

“Yanis,” he reminded her.

“I remember. Nice design.” She nodded toward the scorpion embellishment of his helm. The pincers curved around each ear with the poisonous tail curling around the neck guard.

“Thanks, you too.” His smile was warm.

The wind had started to build; any second now they would be thrown into the beautiful chaos of the tidewind. A few short weeks ago Anoor had never been outside at night. Tonight, she was going to battle in the tidewind.