Chapter Seven

The glass fortress’s walls gleam blinding white in the morning light. Half of the building is built of thick rippled glass, but the rest of the fortress displays the solid rock of the hill that the fortress was built into. It looks as though the whole fortress grew out of the ground like a stalagmite at the Heavens’ command. I fight back the knot of queasiness in my stomach and look behind me. There is no sign of Kuran—yet—and I hope that my clumsy spell holds.

A table awaits candidates for the Sundo in the shadow of the gates. A middle-aged man with hollow eyes sits behind the table flanked by a Guardian that stares blankly ahead.

“Name and papers,” the man at the table says without looking up. He must be a Baylan, but he wears nothing to indicate his sect. His loosely belted robe reveals a snakeskin tattoo beneath his collarbones and a wiry brown body that looks underfed.

My heart sinks at his bored expression.

“Kuran Jal,” I stutter. “I have no papers.”

“You are Tigangi, are you not?” He dunks a piece of sweet bread into a mug of black coffee. “If your family is listed in the official records, you may request a copy from the archives. Only those from registered families may enter the Sundo.”

I was. Manong Alen had opened our family book and shown me the very page I needed now. If only I’d known!

“But applying for papers could take weeks,” I say. “I’ll miss the Sundo.”

He shrugs and pops the bread into his mouth.

“There must be another way.” I place my hands on the table, and he finally looks up, then down the faded blue linen of my tunic.

“One gold bead.” He taps the table with a finger, and I force myself to tamp down a sudden burst of anger. The Guardian at his side says nothing when I appeal to her open-mouthed. Tanu left Kuran for this? For bureaucracy and corruption?

“I don’t have gold.” I left everything I had with Kuran, and none of those things were gold.

“I am doing you a favor, child. Go back to your farm or whatever mudhole you came from. This is not for you.”

The man leans over his papers, a sign that I’ve been dismissed. Everyone here seems to think I am a helpless child, but they do not know me.

“I will prove who I am the traditional way,” I say.

I take a sharp needle I use for mending clothes and make pretense of pricking my arm. I spill the vial from my sleeve so that Kuran’s blood drips all over his table. “I am Kuran Jal, heir to house Jal. It is my right to give up my life for my country, as it is the right of every other Tigangi who is of age.”

None past twenty-five, and none younger than eighteen. I try not to shake as I dip a cloth inked with a naming orasyon into the blood.

This is my only chance. I will not be able to perform this trick twice. The Baylan scrutinizes the naming spell. I know it is valid, but the blood isn’t mine, and I can’t get any more of it. The blood slowly spells out Kuran’s name.

“Let her in. We both know that blood cannot lie.” The familiar voice fixes me in place.

Teloh appears at the gate, and I cannot read his expression. The way he does not meet my eyes feels deliberate, and it stings as much as a rebuke.

“You will be punished for requesting bribes, Reshar,” Teloh says.

He displays no deference, though Reshar’s age alone should demand it. Again, I don’t understand where he sits on the hierarchy of Baylan. First Arisa, now Reshar. He’s not old enough to demand respect for his age, and that means he must have a special status. Who is he really? Certainly not a simple Guardian.

I slink through the entrance before that rotten Baylan Reshar can protest, but my small hopes flicker, because the corners of Teloh’s lips curl up as I pass. I’m not sure if this is amusement or scorn, but I am certain that he knows exactly who I am.

I pass through the iron teeth into the waiting maw of the fortress, grateful that he doesn’t follow.

…

The cobbled courtyard swarms with people. I count just under three hundred candidates cramped into a small space between the iron gates and the glass wall of the fortress. It’s a boggling number of people to weed through in eight days. It seems too little time to determine the fate of a country, yet we have done this for centuries.

I don’t know exactly what will happen, but I have heard rumors. The candidates are tested by each sect of Baylan and ranked according to a secret scoring system. Some tests are physical, while others test mental toughness, and every Sundo, the tests are said to be different. Many of the tests are a matter of life and death because the ruler of Tigang must make hard choices, and sometimes impossible ones.

While no one wants candidates to die, there are always casualties.

Every year, following the Sundo, a parade of caskets leaves the fortress draped in flowers. Some years, there are fewer than a handful, but sometimes there are dozens. And those that survive never come out the same as they were when they went in. Their memories are erased, and they are taken to a palace outside the city, where they are cared for and waited on by doctors and nurses for a year. Most are plagued by nightmares. Some are trapped in their minds and cannot escape. Others never choose to leave the palace and return to their families. All of them are magically bound to never speak of the Sundo.

I once met a woman who survived, and the moment anyone ever asked her about the competition, she would start screaming and wouldn’t stop until her voice had gone hoarse.

Even so, there are fewer desperate-looking Tigangi here than I expect. Several groups of young people greet one another. They are locals from the city of Bato-Ko, by the style of their clothing; by the size of the bags they carry, it looks as if they are ready to holiday, not die.

I am acutely aware that I am the youngest person here, I know almost nothing about the competition, and I have brought nothing except the clothes I wear. I have never been so ill-prepared for anything in my life, and that terrifies me, because I cannot afford to fail.

I chew my lip and head toward the nearest group of candidates, but my voice is caught in my throat, already sticky. A weak “Hello” escapes my lips, but they turn their backs to me like a wall, so I keep going as if I meant to greet someone else. They laugh behind me, and I curl into myself. I wish I could disappear.

I’m already failing. The real Kuran would have been sitting in a circle, talking to everyone as if she’d known them forever. I shrink back against the cold glass wall and sit on the ground, just a poor imitation.

“I do not know what game you are playing, Narra Jal, but it’s a dangerous one.” Teloh leans against the glass beside me. I nearly jump to my feet, and only my pride keeps me from bolting. “You entered the Sundo in your sister’s name, so even if you win, you cannot rule—she is the one bound to the contract. You will be found out sooner or later. Why have you come?”

Heads turn away, and conversations dim around us. The air feels just a hint cooler beside him, as if I’ve walked into a different room, though I sit under the summer sun surrounded by hundreds of people. I scan the crowd for Arisa, but I don’t see her.

“First you tell me to get away from you, and now you let me in.” I do not know how to address him. I am sure that he is not Arisa’s favorite Guardian just for his looks. Even knowing this, I can’t help myself. “What do you wish now? Shall you order me to fly?”

“Should you not, instead, be begging me not to turn you in? I would be doing you a favor.” He mimicks Reshar’s voice.

“Give me one good reason to beg.” I am suddenly conscious of the kris tucked into his sash. I am certain that he would be able to throw me out of the Sundo if he willed it. An inappropriate laugh escapes my lips when I imagine myself slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

He raises a brow, and I catch another trace of maybe-amusement. I turn to stare at him and attempt to hold his gaze. His eyes don’t seem to fit the rest of him. They are blue-black, like the sky just after the sun has set. They could contain stars. They could swallow you. My skin crawls, and I look away.

“The Baylan have arrested my mother,” I say aloud. What I don’t say is that I don’t care about winning the Sundo, only finding her.

His expression barely shifts, but it feels a shade softer, if you could call a rock soft.

“You really don’t remember me?” Teloh asks after a long pause.

He can’t be asking about a past life, because his anger seems too raw, and if I ever admitted to my visions, I bet that he would dismiss me as some silly lovestruck farm girl. I am neither of those things.

“Unless I have terrorized you in your dreams, I cannot see how I have offended you. You must have me mistaken for someone else, because I have not set foot in Bato-Ko since I was a baby.”

He laughs. It is a glorious sound, and I hate myself for thinking it. But the wheels in my mind turn. Perhaps if Teloh has mistaken me for someone else, the Archivist might have, too. Who is this impostor that he raved about? I shiver and pray my mother has nothing to do with it.

“My apologies, Kuran Jal.” He stands and extends a hand, but I do not take it. I pick myself up off the dirt and stick my hands into the folds of my malong.

“I do not recommend staying, but if you must, do not call attention to yourself until the end. Stay quiet. Do not show off with magic. Keep your doors locked at night. Let these spoiled children weed themselves out with their ambition.” He pauses to stare at my neck, and I realize that my traitor scarf has unwound itself again. “And keep your marks hidden. Some would kill you just for those.”

The lack of judgment in his tone surprises me. And then he smiles. This time the smile is wide and real, as if we have been friends forever, and I am dizzied by it. Is this how people feel around Kuran? At least she does not flutter from mood to mood from one moment to the next. Teloh seems as changeable as the Tigangi weather.

And though I cannot ignore what my instincts warn me about him, the advice seems sound.

Stay quiet. That, I am good at. I knot my silk scarf and wait for the competition to begin.