Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (14 page)

I did none of these things. Instead, I assumed that my lack of success with men was a reflection of a greater flaw, perhaps one tied to my giftlessness, and so I gave up the hunt. In doing so, even though I still hungered for Drayk as I ever had, I found unexpected peace, and was able to return to my old hard-working self at training.

Despite all my volatility, Drayk remained as predictable as sunrise. He was meticulous with his routine—coming and going from the storeroom, training new recruits, leading the garrison—and never once stopped to ask what was wrong. He never once looked up and really
saw
me. Though I am sure he sensed a shift in my mood—and he must have seen the garish lipstick—he said nothing. For this I was both glad and disappointed. I was glad because it meant I could put on my training uniform, return to the arena with head held high and pretend that nothing had ever happened. Perhaps that is true bravery? Showing your face when you would rather run and hide. I was disappointed because it meant that despite my misguided efforts I was still invisible.

I was almost seventeen when this changed.

It was the Festival of Berenice, a week-long event where competitors come to Tibuta proper from every island to honour the goddess of victory. My mother had considered cancelling it since violence was rife but had decided it might direct the commoners’ energy into something more productive. She was wrong, of course.

Events are held in all battle disciplines—manna, sword and shield, spear and shield, double-sword fighting, archery—and competition is open to everyone, both members of the royal court and freemen. Of course “everyone” does not include slaves, helots—those soldiers who are neither slave nor citizen—or xenoliths. There are two categories of events: gifted and ungifted. A Talent can compete in an ungifted event but they are forbidden from using their gift. This is monitored by a judge who can sense powers in others.

The judge for this year’s tournament was an illegitimate. Her name was Eloyse Nathos and she was of the Golding bloodline but had grown up on the street, hunting in the sewers and surviving off handouts. It is said her grandfather was a Talent but no one knew for sure: her mother died before she could ask about the tie between her family and ours. In a way Eloyse was lucky to be alive. An illegitimate with a less subtle and more threatening gift would probably be put to death. This rule made no sense to me. For one thing I thought it was barbaric to slaughter our own citizens. For another, I saw it as a wasted opportunity. Illegitimates could augment our army. They should fight beside us, not run away from us. That was another thing I intended to change the moment I took the throne.

It was phthinoporon, the season of the falling leaves, when the temperature was supposed to be neither too hot nor too cold to fight. However, the weather had been doing strange things and it felt more like spring. The squabbling of newly hatched chicks provided a gentle counterpoint to the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. The trees looked naked and forlorn but a whole variety of bugs were swarming en masse, two seasons too early.

The night before, Tibuta had been enthralled in Berenice’s procession and sacrificial bonfire surprisingly without incident. This morning, most of the city was feeling the aftereffect of too much celebrating, but like most of the competitors I was reasonably fresh, having snuck off to bed at a reasonable hour. With Harryet’s help I donned my competitor’s uniform—mine was black and gold to show I was of the Golding line—and raced to the kitchen to wolf down a warrior’s breakfast: two fried eggs, smoked haddock, fresh bread with cheese and an apple. “Good luck!” Cook waved as I ran out the door, grabbing the packed lunch he had prepared for me earlier and a skin of water.

Drayk was waiting for me at the start of the Walk beside my palanquin with an entire unit of soldiers to guard us as we moved through the city. He had already packed my gear. I ignored the fluttering of my heart and looked him square in the face. “So what’s our strategy?” Without meeting my eye he offered his hand and helped me into the confined compartment. I tried to hide the fact that his touch made me stiffen.

“To win,” he said and settled in opposite me. Our knees were almost touching.

“That’s it? I’m sure my mother only encouraged me train with you because she expects me to fail because of my size. Have you
no
words of advice to prevent that from happening?”

Drayk’s slate-coloured eyes were unsteady. “Anyone can overcome her stature. Manna uses an opponent’s weight and energy against them. Translate these fundamentals to every discipline and you will be fine.”

I scoffed. “That won’t be much good if I come up against Odell.” My cousin’s gift was ice. “Perhaps it’s lucky I don’t have a gift after all.”

“Perhaps.”

I could tell Drayk was distracted. He would never usually be so blunt. He parted the curtains and looked wistfully past the soldiers through the streets of Elea Bay, which were crowded with recovering revellers, street hawkers, beggars, competitors and spectators pushing to get through to Penteli Stadium. The noise was atrocious: the crunching of the hoplites’ boots, people yelling their wares, others demanding people step aside. A cart had broken down and the poor donkey was mewling while his owner bellowed at people to keep moving.

“Are you all right?” I said.

Drayk looked at me properly for the first time that morning. His eyes were the beautiful colour of a storm. “A close friend of mine returned to Caspius this morning.”

I had a feeling he might mean the woman in red. “I’m so sorry,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. “Surely he—or she—will come back soon?” I held my breath.

“She. And I doubt it. Annalise came to Tibuta after an argument with her family about a set of silver spoons—stupid, I know. Now her father is unwell and she wants to work things out with them. If all goes well I doubt she’ll be back.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, exhaling, not knowing what else to say but wanting to sing with joy.

“It’s probably for the best. Things had run their course between us. It is easier this way.” He settled into a contemplative silence. I did my best to hide my glee.

Penteli Stadium lies on the outskirts of Elea Bay, nestled between it and Lete. It is an impressive long rectangular building constructed entirely of glowing Tibutan Gold Marble, with two public entrances, one on each of the longer sides, an entrance for royalty at the shorter end, and a smaller competitors’ entrance opposite. The competitors’ entrance is known as Icelos’s Door because dead combatants are occasionally carried through it.

The surrounding streets were heaving with people. The smells were mixed: charcoal corn, roast chestnuts and lemonade, argutan manure and sweat. Drayk had my armour slung over his back in a leather bag. He carried my spear under one arm. The soldiers used their shields to push through the crowd. I carried my blades wrapped in their leather baldric. Over my shoulder was my lunch pack.

We ducked into the cool shadows of the small competitors’ entrance, down a flight of stairs and into an even colder stone passageway beneath the stadium leaving most of the soldiers to secure the area. Four war-wits followed us, including Bolt, through the throng of competitors. Drayk steered me clear of a boy about twice my height with a fuzz of orange hair and a woman who looked like a troll, and into a private cell at the end of a long, dark corridor. He shut an iron gate behind us and my guards took up their positions outside. “Ignore the other competitors. Focus on your breathing,” Drayk said.

I was to compete in three events: spear and shield, double-sword fighting and then manna all in the ungifted category. The qualifying rounds would begin very soon. And I was nervous. Sure, I had won all the smaller tournies in the palace, but I had known all of my opponents: I had watched them train and scrutinised their strengths and weaknesses. My mother had treated each of these victories as a trifle, saying things such as, “You were lucky. The other girl stumbled,” or “Don’t get a big head, everyone knows Hero can’t fight to save himself.” She was probably right. Still her disparaging comments were enough to dampen my enthusiasm so eventually I had stopped telling her of my victories and she had stopped asking. My father had never once come to watch me compete.

This was different. Here I wouldn’t know who I was fighting until I entered the stadium. And
everyone
would be watching.

From my small cell beneath the stadium’s floor I heard the tiered seats fill with eager spectators. Drayk leant against the stone wall opposite, his arms crossed. “You better warm up,” he said and I began to do a series of exercises: push-ups, sit-ups and star jumps. Time dragged on excruciatingly slowly.

Finally I heard the sound of the minstrel’s voice amplified by the acoustics of the theatre-style seating. He brought silence to the crowd. A moment later there was cheering. Then the clamour and rumbling of some forty thousand people stamping their feet in anticipation. Sand crumbled from the ceiling. My stomach was heavy.

“Verne?” said a small voice from outside the competitors’ cell. It was Hero, his pupils dilated in the partial light.

“Cuz. Come in,” I said motioning for him to enter.

“I wanted to wish you good luck,” he said from the door.

“Thanks.”

“So, good luck then.” He looked about uneasily.

“What is it?”

“Have you seen Odell?”

I admitted I hadn’t. “Why?”

“He was in the foulest mood this morning. Apparently Berenice has taken another. I pity whoever has to fight him.”

I swallowed hard. “Thanks for the warning.”

I thanked him again and he slunk out of the cell and back into the corridor, moving quickly, hoping to avoid his brother.

A small boy popped his head around the door. “Highness, you’re up in five minutes.”

I swallowed. “Already?”

“Are you ready?” Drayk said.

My mouth had gone dry and all I could do was nod.

Drayk untied the string on the leather satchel and removed my armour. I put on my gloves. “Arms up,” he said and lifted the bone cuirass over my head. With surprisingly gentle hands he tied the breastplate to the backplate. I feared he could hear my heart thundering in my chest. With his help I pulled the skirt of bronze-and-bone plates over my leggings. I glanced up and our eyes met. We both blushed and looked away. I could hardly breathe. “Legs,” he said and I offered him one leg at a time so he could do the buckles up on my greaves. He secured my shoulderplates and collar; he was so close I could smell him. He lifted my whalebone helmet into place and knocked on it twice for good luck. Then he guided my arm into the leather straps of my shield and passed me my spear.

“How do I look?”

He chuckled. “Like a real Tibutan.”

I was grinning but he couldn’t tell from behind the helmet. With it on, it was next to impossible to see anything in my periphery past the horns protecting my cheeks so Drayk placed his big hands on my shoulders and steered me towards the door. He led me through the bowels of the stadium towards a light at the end of a tunnel. A few feet from the entrance he stopped and bent down slightly so I could see his face. “Don’t use all your moves at once. Go slow. Draw your enemy out and discern his weaknesses. And give the people a bit of a show. There is nothing worse than a fight that’s over in three seconds. You want to go into the next round as favourite.” His smile was reassuring. “And remember, Verne. Move like water.”

I was surprised. It was the first time had not called me Little Miss. I cocked my head, frowning. He pretended not to notice. I was about to say something when he turned me to face the yawning mouth of light. “Go get ’em.” I tried to ignore the pounding of the crowd just beyond the entrance. I focused my mind on my Gods’ Eye and slowed my breathing. I stepped into the arena.

The stadium’s timber floor was covered in a thick layer of white sand taken from the seabed beyond Tibuta’s wall. The sun reflected off it straight into my face and I had to squint to see my opponent enter from the other side of the arena. It was the troll. It had to be her behind all that armour. She was enormous. Two long plaits of ropy blond hair hung from beneath her whalebone helmet. She pumped her spear in the air and the crowd went wild.

I glanced up and saw my parents sitting in the shadow of their black-and-gold canopy. My mother’s crown was a slender piece of gold coiling into a pointed snake’s head. My father’s beard hung to his knees.

The troll and I met in the centre of the arena, bowed, and then clipped our spears together in a sign of respect before moving back. We took the warrior’s stance. A gong sounded and we began. The fight was slow to start. I struck hard but she was quick to defend herself and my spear hit the centre of her shield. I had to jiggle it to release it. She waited until I had recovered my spear and we resumed our starting position. She thrust towards my hip but I spun out of the way. I came down from above but she brought her spear up and our weapons clashed overhead.

A winner in the spear and shield event is determined by points based on hits—either to the body or elsewhere—defensive manoeuvres and overall form. It can be underwhelming for a spectator who does not understand the score system. Because of this, the crowd was restless. As far as they could tell, nothing was happening.

My shield arm got heavier and heavier. Sweat dripped into my eyes. My opponent propelled her spear towards me but she had braced her end against her open palm so when it ricocheted off my shield, the momentum pushed her back and she stumbled. This was my brief opening. I threw my spear. It hit her armour square in the chest and fell to the ground. It was a winning hit. The gong sounded. The crowd thundered. We pulled off our helmets and, pushing the sweaty hair out of our faces, shook hands. I briefly waved to the crowd—I have never been much of a performer—and glanced at my parents to check they had seen my victory.