19. Occipio

occipiō ~ipere ~ēpī ~eptum, intr.

1. to begin, start, commence 

The water in my cup is sweet and clear and trembling.

I can’t tell if the ripples are from my nerves or the muffled roar of the arena crowd outside waiting for the first round of the Supernova Cup to begin. The smell of makeup lingers in the dressing room like desiccated pollen. My eyes itch, heavy with black mascara, and uncountable vis screens glint in my direction, recording.

“At least the tourney hall lights aren’t affected by the power outages,” the interviewer says to me cheerily. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

I stare at him wordlessly. We both know by the pockmarks on my face I’m from Low Ward, where blackouts and energy cuts are like breathing. He’s choosing to be blithe. His gaze rests on the silver rabbit sigil printed on the pale-blue helmet at my side. It runs and runs, sprinting but going nowhere.

“You know, on Earth they used to believe a rabbit lived in the moon,” the interviewer charges on.

My words come slow. “They used to believe many things—for instance, that the enemy could not be real.”

He shifts uncomfortably and glances to the hovering cameramen, a room full of Mid Warders—clean nails, clean faces, whiter teeth. Well-kept dogs. I chug from the cup—real water. No parasite-ridden stuff from the community pump. No bright ochre ale made with piss for lack of grain. Just a few drops of this clean water would have cured Mother. I was so sure of it back then.

I stand and don an inscrutable Dravik smile. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to get to my first match.”

Every ending in my life has been ruthlessly drawn with a dagger—one lodged in my father’s back. One dragged across my mother’s throat. One plunged into my collarbone. The last time I walked through this tourney hall, I had blood on my hands and toxic adrenaline in my every tendon. I was weaker then—less control. Less muscle, more bone. Now, each of my fingers is sharp enough to cut.

Now, I have become the dagger.

The tourney hall is all quiet marble and quieter angels carved in the lights; that much hasn’t changed. It’s only been four months, but it feels like a hundred. I cannot remember my father’s dying words anymore, nor my mother’s. What I remember are names and numbers and classifications. I remember pre-War books and post-War holograms splayed thick across my whitewood desk, holocandles burning long into the night.

Heavenbreaker is a Frigate-class A3.

My opponent’s steed is a Dreadnought-class A453-171.

Their sigil flies over their hangar, a six-legged black horse on a green field. House Solunde—the red-haired girl who smiled back at me at the banquet. A swarm of people cluster around her decon chamber door, waiting for her with flowers and autograph books. For a moment I swear I see a white-blond shock of hair towering in her crowd, but then it vanishes. Pointless. This is no time to think about a stepping stone like him.

The blue-and-silver rabbit banner ripples over my hangar as I approach the opposite side of the hall—my alcoves devoid of life. Well, not entirely devoid—I have one fan. Dravik waits for me with a smile on and his vis pulled up.

“Your opponent is Yatrice del Solunde, daughter of Lord Jonin del Solunde. She excels at—”

“—close takedowns, so I have to be very careful of letting her into my hitzone. She has a habit of coming in better on her second tilt.” Dravik gives me a rare surprised look. “I’ve been studying the tourney-fan database.”

“So I see.” He recovers. “Do keep in mind they’re critics, not riders themselves—they tend to lack a grasp of key truths.”

I glance around. “Where’s my pit crew?”

“Come and gone. Your steed is ready and waiting.”

“Strange that I’ve never seen them these two months,” I drawl. “Not here, and not in the bunker.”

Dravik just smiles patiently. “They’re very efficient at what they do. Did you see Sir Istra-Velrayd on your way here? He was in the Solunde crowd.”

“So that was him,” I mutter.

“I believe he thinks a hat can hide his ridiculous height.”

“As I said—he’s not very intelligent.”

“But he is dedicated.”

I frown. “He won’t be a problem, Dravik. I assure you that.”

The prince makes no noise to indicate either belief or disbelief. There’s a long silence that echoes between us.

“Did any of them…?” I ask, knowing the answer. I’ve used every spare moment of sweat-drenched training to watch the news for repentant Hauteclare faces admitting their guilt. He shakes his head. None. My scoff is a mockery of the sound; brittle.

“You were hoping differently,” Dravik says.

“Weren’t you?”

The prince’s little smile returns. “Oh, Synali—I’m afraid this body has entirely forgotten how to make hope.”

Mother’s cross weighs heavy on my neck under my suit. If anything happens…

I unhook the pendant and hold it out to him.

“Keep this for me.” I hate that my fingers are shaking. The prince reaches out slowly and sequesters it away in his vest pocket. “If I die, put it on my mother’s urn. Charnel house Delta-6. Row 38.”

“Synali—”

“Will you, old man?” I repeat harder.

That silent beat lingers again. The fifteen-minute signal blares throughout the tourney hall, and he nods.

“You know, the suit looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

His cane taps a quiet rhythm as he goes. No promises, only confidence. He’s convinced I can do this. He sees things that aren’t there. He’s mad. But for once, I want to believe in his madness, too.

I turn and face the hangar door. The synth-marble bas-relief of the twisted tentacled enemy and valiant Saint Jorj faces me, and I face them.

Whatever happens from this moment on…

“go.”