“Oh-oh,” he stammered, his cheeks flaming. “Yes, I…desire women.”
“It’s all right if you enjoy both men and women, so long as women are in the equation. Because, as I’m sure you’re aware, our Savior is a Woman. It would be a bit of a problem if Her Champion preferred the cock to the cunt.”
“Women. I like women.”
“Right.” She jotted along her parchment. “Occupation?”
“Apprentice. For artistry.” Tobias winced; the words had spilled from his mouth unconsciously.
“I thought you were a laborer,” the woman said.
Dammit. “Well, I am.”
The woman lowered her scroll. “You’re a laborer and an apprentice?”
“No. I mean, I was.”
“You were what?”
“An apprentice.”
“But not anymore.”
“Right.”
“So you’re a laborer.”
“Yes.”
“And not an apprentice?” The woman paused, trying to sort through the details. “But you once were, yes?”
“Right,” he said. “I apprenticed for Petros Elia.”
She cocked her head. “The principal artist of Thessen.” Her reed flew across her parchment. “That’s a coveted position. And you were, what? Released?”
“I left of my own accord.”
“…To become a laborer.”
“There was an accident. My father, he was killed. My sister was left crippled.” He nearly shuddered. “The apprenticeship was unpaid. I had to leave. So I labor in the sugarcane fields to provide for my mother and sister.”
“Sir, a family history is hardly necessary.” Her reed hovered over her scroll, waiting for its next notation. “Just tell me, how would you label yourself?”
“Label myself?”
“Yes. Define yourself: are you an artist or a laborer?”
“Well, I’d like to think people are far too complex to be defined by one thing, much less their occupation. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The woman stared back at him, her lips flat.
“An artist. I’d call myself an artist.”
“Good.” Her reed darted across the page. “These last few questions were chosen by the Sovereign. Have you ever killed a man?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Have you ever killed a woman?”
“What?” Tobias spat. “No, definitely not. Never.”
“Right.” One last string of text, and then she rolled her scroll, stuffing it under her arm. “Stay put. Someone else will be joining you shortly. Your intelligence will be evaluated next, followed by a fertility test.”
“Fertility test?”
“The man who marries The Savior is expected to plant seed—to create the next Savior.” She glanced at his pile of clothes. “Stay disrobed.”
She made her way toward the tent flap, flipping it open before stopping abruptly. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have any questions for me before I leave?”
He wavered. “When would my family be paid?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, if I were selected to compete. When would they be paid?”
She pursed her lips. “Immediately.”
“Good.” His cheeks flushed. “Just curious.”
The woman darted from the tent, and Tobias cursed himself. He shouldn’t have asked; now his motives looked suspect, and he couldn’t risk elimination. But the worry came and went, as another servant joined him shortly, plump with red hair tied into a bun. They covered reading and history, then philosophy and mathematics, and by the time they had reached poetry and the arts Tobias’s head spun with information. Eventually that woman left only for another to take her place, this one guiding him in an act of masturbation so soul-crushing, he briefly considered never touching his penis again. Briefly.
After the woman collected his sample, Tobias sat on his bench, naked still per instruction, with nothing to do but dwell over his miserable state. Will this make any difference? He thought of the allowance, of his mother unburdened, his sister soothed, but his nerves were wound tight all the same. He needed this to work—that much was clear—but no amount of resolve could mask his grim reality.
If I’m selected, I could die.
A line of girls barged into his tent, led by the woman who had first assessed him. The other girls swarmed him, some running wet rags along his naked body while others wrapped yarn around his arms, his wrists, his thighs. One grabbed his foot, examining his torn sole before looking up at him, confused.
“What happened to your feet?”
Tobias ignored her, focusing on the woman scrawling across her parchment. “What is this?”
“Congratulations, Mister…” she glanced at her scroll, “…Tobias Kaya. You’ve been selected to compete in the Sovereign’s Tournament.”
Nausea heaved in his stomach. “What?” His voice came out sharp. “Why?”
“That’s not the typical reaction we see. I’m glad you’re so enthused.”
“Apologies, it’s just…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t think the odds were in my favor.”
“We like a variety of men in our competition. Different sizes, dispositions, professions.” She eyed her parchment. “Your seed is normal. Your intelligence is above average. And you’re the most conventionally attractive of the…” she read over his scroll, “…creatives. You’re an artist, yes? That’s what I have here?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“Right.” She unrolled the scroll completely, scanning it from top to bottom. “Your records aren’t perfect, but they’re unique. We like unique. Makes for a rousing tournament. You’re not as strong as some of our other selections, but certainly stronger than the rest of your category.”
“My category?”
“All competitors are categorized according to like traits.” She wrote as she spoke, not bothering to look his way, then rolled up her scroll and shoved it into her pocket. “I’ll leave you in the hands of these ladies. They’ll get you washed up, figure your measurements for armor, and then you’ll rest. Tournament starts tomorrow.”
“Wait, tomorrow?” he said.
“Yes. You sound surprised.”
“Isn’t there, I don’t know, some form of training?”
“You’ve had twenty years to train for this, ever since The Savior was born.” Her eyes narrowed. “Any lack of preparation is of your own misdoing.”
Tobias didn’t respond, overwhelmed by his own stupor. He was competing in the Sovereign’s Tournament. His mother and sister would receive an allowance—however much, he hadn’t a clue. And for the next however many days, he would fight, and dance, and kill, and do whatever else was asked of him, all for a Woman he didn’t want, or perhaps he simply didn’t know if he wanted Her. It was too much to take in—the greatest relief and the worst of news.