The first competitor had claimed their weapon yesterday. She’d sauntered into the great veranda with a golden dagger strapped to the waist of her rose gold armour.
“Efie of Jin-Gernomi, the granddaughter of the imir. Remember my face, remember my name,” she’d boomed to the watching crowd, her henna-dyed hair streaming behind her. Sylah didn’t care where she was from; she was more interested in how she’d done what none other had so far achieved.
Twelve guards, two hundred steps, one exit, and two windows. The watch tower was impenetrable. Sylah had even been surveying the shift patterns of the guards, but they were so efficient there was no advantage there.
A dozen competitors had already failed at scaling the wall. One competitor posed as one of the guards on duty and failed miserably. Another hid in the alcoves of the tower until the tidewind brought them death. Someone else tried distracting the guards by setting off a bonfire in the courtyard; that earned him a night in the Ember jail instead. But Efie of Jin-Gernomi…How did she do it?
“Apparently Efie landed on the roof with an aeroglider.” Anoor broke through Sylah’s thoughts.
“How do you know that?”
“Kwame’s cousin’s from Jin-Gernomi. The hills make it the perfect place for aerogliding.”
“When did you see Kwame?” Sylah crossed her arms.
“I stopped by the kitchens last night.”
Sylah clenched her jaw. “Stop eating candied yams, Anoor, it’s not going to help you gain muscle.”
“I only had one…”
“One, perfect. Let’s assume you mean ten. So ten push-ups please.”
Anoor muttered something under her breath.
“That’s a mean mouth you’ve got there. Really dishing out the swear words now.”
—
Five more competitors won their weapons the following week. Thankfully, none claimed a jambiya, but it didn’t stop Anoor’s frustration.
“You’re supposed to help me win. It’s like you’re not even trying.” They were in the tower. It was hot and stuffy, and they were both at the end of their tether.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not an inquisitor from one of your zines, I can’t just manifest the perfect solution—”
“Don’t say it like that. I know you read the latest Inquisitor Abena story too.”
“I can’t just turn you into an incredible climber overnight. Did you see the last guy? He literally free-climbed the whole tower with his fingertips. That’s years of training. Years.”
“Well, figure it out, because right now you’re not keeping up your end of the bargain.”
“What?” Sylah’s voice was quiet. Simmering.
“You were supposed to get me through these trials, and I was supposed to teach you bloodwerk. We’re nearly through the entire Book of Blood, so I’m certainly keeping up my side.” Anoor’s eyes were wild.
“Oh, poor rich girl in her tower. For once something isn’t going exactly how you imagined it.”
“Imagined it? Not for one second did I imagine that I’d be learning from someone as—as mean as you.”
“It’s not my fault that the only way you could get anyone to stomach teaching you was to trick them into it. Don’t worry, I don’t forget the deal we stuck for one minute.”
They looked at each other, both breathing heavier than after their morning run.
“I feel sorry for you.” Anoor’s words were quiet, but her cheeks shook as she spoke. “I feel sorry for the hate you harbor in your chest. That hate has never had a vessel quite like you. You tell me I wallow in self-pity but can’t see your own guilt that eats away at your heart. I don’t know what you did or why you did it. You think that guilt transcends you, makes you better than the rest of us.” Each word stung like the gust of the tidewind, grating her raw. “Sometimes I wondered whether the joba seeds were the only thing keeping you alive, because the rest of you is dead. Deader than that seed you roll in your pocket.”
Sylah laughed. She laughed heavily, with spit and phlegm. It coughed out of her and into the awkward silence.
Anoor looked at her, her lips pert. “Why are you laughing?”