CHAPTER ELEVEN

WITHOUT THE SENATOR SUITE’S THICK SILK CURTAINS to block the morning light, I awake as early as if feathered Diablo were my bunkmate instead of Nari. Dawn still deliberates over what color to wear for the day when I make my way quietly from my bunk to the Arena, being careful not to wake the others.

Outside, seven other large bunkhouses line a gravel path that leads through the residential quarters and toward the largest equine center in Nedé. The sight of dozens of horses grazing in the field next to the stable tempts me to abandon my mission in favor of wrangling one for a ride. I wonder when Callisto will arrive —if she’ll actually arrive. It takes some effort to tear my eyes from the dark, sleek-coated Lexanders, forcing my feet to follow the path past the paddocks and stable to my predetermined destination.

The slate gray outline of the massive Arena looks cold and even less inviting in the low light of predawn. But my resolve beats out apprehension. I have to get better, I remind myself as I enter through the archway and into the quiet emptiness.

As I pull yesterday’s bow from a rack of similar weapons, the thought occurs that perhaps I should have secured permission to be here. I’ll take my chances. I’ll use whatever excuse, whatever leverage I need to, for Tre’s sake.

With no one to man the moving targets, I warm up on the infernal sacks that soundly humiliated me yesterday. After a dozen shots triumphantly meet straw, not dirt, the seclusion of the empty Arena ups my nerve. With the spunk of a younger Reina, I experiment with maneuvers I’ve observed at Alexia demonstrations. First I run past the target, keeping the center mark in my sights, then turn on my heel and shoot. Sprint, shoot, repeat. Roll, shoot, repeat. My effort quickens with my heartbeat. The arrows, however, laugh at my confidence, every one of them refusing to hit true. I grip the riser more tightly. When yet another arrow narrowly misses the target, I grunt in exasperation.

I hear Trinidad’s words echo in my mind: “Quit overthinking it, Candidate.”

No, not in my mind. I whip around to find her leaning against the Arena wall, hidden by shadow under the awning. Upon being discovered, she uncrosses her arms and closes the distance between us. As she enters into the soft radiance of early light, her arm bands glow golden.

My cheeks warm. How long has she been watching me? Fantastic. If she wasn’t convinced before, now she knows I’m incompetent. I consider racking my weapon and pretending I didn’t see her, but that’s about as stupid as what I’m doing now.

Trinidad grabs a bow and quiver on her way to me. “You have the determination of an Alexia,” she says, no flattery in her tone. “But you’re getting ahead of yourself. Quit dancing around like you know what you’re doing and remember the basics. Until you can hit the target consistently, forget that fancy stuff.”

Beside me, she models again the proper posture, the correct drawing motion. She wields the bow as skillfully as a third arm; her movements powerful but laced with the nuance of a master archer. She hits dead center once, twice, thrice. Then she sets her bow aside and instructs me to shoot, occasionally smacking the flat of my stomach or the underside of my arm to remind me to flex, lift, or relax.

My arms ache with fatigue, the tips of my three shooting fingers swell hot and sore by the time voices build in the distance. Bats. I lost track of time. I silently question Trinidad. I have no idea if this is okay —me early, her here.

Her eyes flit in the direction of the sound. “Take the north exit. Circle around behind them, quietly. I’ll get these put away.” I guess that answers my question. She grabs our gear and starts toward the weapons rack.

“Trinidad?” She doesn’t look at me, but I know I have her attention. “Will you help me again tomorrow?”

Her eyes brush the now blue patch of sky over the Arena, considering.

“Be here at zero-six-hundred.”

When I reenter the Arena to join the other Candidates, Bri saunters toward me.

“Where’d you prance off to this morning, Sunshine?”

I don’t think I broke any rules, but I don’t want her to know about the morning training. I’d rather none of them know.

“I woke up early. I . . . needed some air.”

Her eyebrow arches as she scans the dust on my vest. “Of course you did,” she says, with mock understanding. “Just like you were oblivious that you were going to be a Candidate.”

That’s it. I don’t care if she hates me for being here; this is ridiculous. I push into her, tempted to indulge the fist that itches to rearrange her snide face.

I yell, “What’s your problem? It’s not like I asked to —”

“Looks like some of you are ready for today’s training,” Adoni interrupts, her strong hand grasping my shoulder, pulling me away from Bri.

I try to compose myself, the flush of anger melting into the heat of embarrassment. Adoni releases me and mounts a meter-high, circular raised platform on the south side of the Arena before continuing.

“Today you will test your hand-to-hand combat skills on each other.”

Even though I’m keen on the prospect of having permission to hit Bri, I question the wisdom of giving us Candidates an opportunity to get our hands on one another. I try to discreetly read the others’ opinion of this development, but Adoni’s already continuing, “In the real world, your opponent won’t give you the courtesy of a fair matchup. In fact, a smart adversary will ensure inequality. You must prepare your mind and body to fight anyone —regardless of size or ability.”

Am I the only one wondering what kind of opponent the Alexia would face, other than a senile, enraged woman or rogue wild beast?

“Using the combat techniques you’ve been taught, you will attempt to pin your opponent or render her immobile for ten seconds. You’ll be the judge of how much you can take. The match ends when one of you admits defeat, falls off the platform, or goes unconscious.”

Goes unconscious? Is she serious? I take mental stock of the other Candidates, calculating how far each would go to win. I don’t trust Bri or Jamara to hold back from hurting someone. And Yasmine will be as helpless as a two-legged iguana. Yes, this is definitely a bad idea.

Adoni continues. “Our first matchup is between . . . ,” my heart quickens, afraid of what I will hear. “Dom Reina Pierce and Dom Torres.”

I close my eyes and sigh in relief. Thank goodness. At least Yasmine only has to face me.

I easily spring onto the platform. Yasmine struggles to do likewise, her arms shaking from exertion or fear —likely both. I want to assure her it’s okay, to promise I won’t hurt her more than what’s necessary to win, to remind her she can concede at any time. But I can’t let the others think I’m soft. I’m already disadvantaged against two of them in bow, and against Jamara and maybe Nari in combat. I can’t let my tenacity slip. It’s the best weapon I have.

With the snarl of a feisty barn cat, Yasmine takes a defensive stance, bracing herself for a fight. Fik’iri Province should be proud of their Candidate. I am. And I respect her valor enough not to go too easy on her. She might be timid and fragile, but she deserves to lose with dignity. With a slight nod of reassurance, I come at her with a three-quarter-strength punch. She counters with a slap to my right cheek, then tries to claw at me with her other hand. I guess that’s the end of form or technique. Yasmine seems eager just to survive, wildly swinging, grasping, grunting.

I skirt around her, slipping behind her squat body. Being considerably taller, my arm slides easily around her neck. I squeeze, being careful not to hurt her, then kick the back of her knees so she buckles. She crumples beneath me, still squirming, trying to find a way to break free. I stare at the gray streak in her hair, aware of every one of my muscles. A little tighter and I could cut off her air supply. How fragile is life? A single strand of spider silk, snapped with the flick of a forearm.

Nedé’s motto has never felt more essential: Protect the weak. Safety for all. Power without virtue is tyranny.

Within seconds Yasmine’s resolve disintegrates, and she rasps, “Enough.” I immediately release the pressure, and she collapses on the splintered wood platform.

“You did good,” I whisper for her alone. I mean it. She did as well as could be expected of her. How was she —or anyone in Fik’iri —to know Grandmother would introduce such a rigorous Alexia component to the Candidacy?

I jump from the platform, breathing quickly, more from adrenaline than fatigue. Adoni reviews our technique, analyzing Yasmine’s lack of control and abandonment of form. I don’t really hear much. I’m distracted with trying to pinpoint a slippery emotion. I believe it belongs in the same genus as shame and regret. Should I have refused to fight her? As my adrenaline slows, scratches begin swelling and stinging across my face and down my arm. I did try to protect her, to act with virtue. Still, it didn’t feel right to dominate a frantic, helpless Yasmine.

Adoni’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “Next up: Dom Makeda and Dom Brishalynn Pierce.”

A grin spreads across my face. Maybe I should, but I don’t feel shame about looking forward to this one.

No doubt Jamara will give Bri a good sobering, and she deserves it. Bri’s usual brash facade doesn’t crack, but she must be nervous. Adoni whispers something in Jamara’s ear as she walks toward the platform. The Kekuatan woman mounts it with ease. I watch Adoni a moment longer. Is it just me, or does she seem angry or frustrated about something?

Jamara’s frame dwarfs her opponent’s, and she sneers as they take their stances. Bri smiles demurely in turn. Then, in a flash, Jamara rushes at Bri, unexpectedly taking the offensive. Smart move. She just eliminated the one thing Bri had going for her: speed. They collide with a smack, thud to the wood platform, then roll and maneuver, each Candidate trying to gain the advantage.

A minute into the match, Jamara has Bri pinned like a butterfly. She punches her square in the face once, twice. My stomach turns. Bright red blood streams from Bri’s nose, her lip. It’s one thing to hear about violence —or even to wish it on another person. It’s quite another to witness brutality firsthand.

Jamara lifts Bri by her vest and slams her head onto the wood, splattering blood. When Bri still doesn’t concede, I search for Adoni again. She watches with arms crossed, a strange, determined hardness blanketing her face. Another thud of Bri’s head against boards, and she all but stops squirming. Could she still concede, even if she wanted to? Consciousness slips from her body like the blood draining from her nose.

The anger I’ve harbored toward Bri for the past three weeks drains in an instant. No one should be beaten like this, not for a training game. Adoni said so herself.

Trinidad turns toward her leader, speaking quietly but with fierce urgency. Adoni only shakes her head, her concentration never wavering from the platform. But even she doesn’t look happy about this. Why doesn’t she do something?

Jamara slides her hands from Bri’s vest to her neck, cutting off her air supply. Bri gives several weak attempts to dislodge Jamara, then goes completely limp.

That’s it. At least it’s over. Bats, I have to admire Bri’s courage. There’s no way I would have made it that long.

But instead of rising in victory, Jamara reaches for her belt. The metal blade of a dagger glints as she unsheathes it.

No. No, something isn’t right.

Without a thought, without a plan, I rush toward the platform, feel myself stumble toward Jamara, instinct propelling me to stop her before she does something unthinkable. Just before her raised arm can strike its target, I barrel into her side. My momentum is barely enough to knock her off Bri’s body, but the dagger rattles to the deck. For the briefest moment I have the advantage, her mass under me. Then, faster than a coconut falls, I’m forced onto my back. Panic seizes every sense, and I’m overwhelmed by heat and light, the hardness of the boards under me and the stench of sweat above. Think, Reina. Think. But no revelations come in the oppression of Jamara’s strength. I swing a knee up but don’t have enough force to dislodge her. When she shifts slightly, I manage to retrieve my arm and connect my knuckles with the side of her head. The blow proves too little too late. A solid fist is the last thing I see.

I welcome the cool stream of water especially this evening. It massages my head and trickles down my face, stinging where it irrigates the cut over my left eyebrow. My muscles scream anarchy after the early morning hours spent training with Trinidad, followed by the combat session gone wrong, and then several hours of blade training following my return to consciousness.

As I left the bunkhouse on my way to the shower this evening, Nari had followed me outside.

“Reina,” she said. “What you did for Brishalynn —that took guts.” Nari has a steady sincerity I appreciate. I’d say I’ve even grown to trust the Innovatus from Lapé.

“Thanks,” I replied, a little embarrassed. It was the first I’d heard someone speak of the incident since it happened. When I came to under the awning, the others had already started blade training —business as usual, the Alexia way.

“Did you see what happened after I . . . uh, got my face rearranged?”

As luminosity drained from the last clouds overhead, Nari recounted what transpired after Jamara knocked me unconscious. Apparently, as soon as Jamara clocked me, Trinidad sprinted toward the platform and was mid-mount when Adoni called them both off.

“Jamara was going to kill Bri,” Nari said. “And probably you too. If you didn’t go after her, and if Trinidad didn’t go after you . . . by Siyah! What was she thinking?”

I shook my head, equally puzzled. “Did anything else happen?”

“Any more unsanctioned fights? No. They carried you and Bri to the awning so a medic could examine you. She bandaged up the cuts —Bri’s were worse.”

The medic —a middle-aged woman with elaborate plaits of silver-black hair framing her lined face —had welcomed me back to consciousness. Her rough hands dabbed at the cut over my eye, patched it up, and then sent me back to training as if I had simply taken a water break. Bri, whose face resembled a slab of raw lamb, was excused for the rest of the afternoon. How kind of Adoni.

“Oh,” Nari continued, “and I convinced Adoni to give us separate lodging for the rest of Alexia training. I didn’t think Bri should spend the night under Jamara’s bunk after what happened. Who knows what she might do next?” She chewed at her lip. “Adoni seemed strangely unconcerned. Do you . . .” She paused, then rushed on. “Do you think Jamara was put up to it?”

“Maybe.”

I wasn’t trying to keep information from her. She’s probably the closest thing to an ally I have in the competition. The truth was, I really didn’t know.

But now, as my muscles uncoil in the shower spray, my thoughts become more lucid. I remember Adoni’s private aside with Jamara yesterday, the glint of metal just before I was paired with Trinidad. . . . Did Adoni give her the dagger? I struggle to picture the knife Jamara held poised above Bri —it all happened so fast. But the small blade wasn’t like the short swords we used in training this afternoon. And Adoni had said something to Jamara again, just before she mounted the platform to fight Bri.

But that doesn’t make sense. Why would Adoni put her up to it? What would she gain? Nothing. The only plausible answer is that Adoni was under orders.

The connection slams into me like the Candidate from Kekuatan: Grandmother. Could she have been testing whether Jamara would do “whatever it takes” for the good of Nedé? My stomach lurches. If I’m right, it would seem Jamara is the only Candidate who has passed her test.

My amphibian shower mate croaks, perhaps to let me know he’s finished bathing. I crank the valve closed, listlessly pushing the slimy frog aside with my toe, then dry off enough to dress.

When I step out of the shower house into the darkening twilight, I’m suddenly aware of every stirring in the leaves, every distant monkey call, every individual croak and grate of invisible insects. If I’m right, if killing a Candidate was sanctioned —no matter who gave the directive —none of us is safe, least of all me. I’ve gone nearly eighteen years without experiencing fear on any substantial scale, but between the encounter at my teak forest arena, the information Ciela gave me, and Jamara’s recent ruthlessness, jumpy nerves are becoming familiar companions.