“The commencement ceremony begins after sunrise,” the woman said. “You’ll be presented in the fortress arena and announced with your category.”
“And what is my category, again?”
“All relevant information will be covered tomorrow before the ceremony. A man will join you—Wembleton. He’ll tell you all you need to know.”
“Do you happen to know if a Milo Christakos was selected as well?” Tobias asked.
“I’m not familiar with all the competitors. I’ve only been assigned to five of you. But if it’s any consolation, I’d say in comparison to the other men I’m assisting, your odds are, oh, I don’t know…fair? I’d rank you third, right in the middle.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Tobias grumbled.
“Right. I believe I’m done here.” The woman gathered up the hem of her dress, preparing to leave. “Would you like to say goodbye to your family?”
Tobias thought for a moment and shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“I fear they’ll never forgive me for this.”
The woman smiled, unconcerned. “Right.”
The servants around him continued to work, running their fingers through Tobias’s hair and digging wet rags into his armpits, while he stared at the nothingness ahead.
“Sir?”
The woman still stood before him, her gaze an abyss—a look of detachment, as if the man before her were already dead.
“Good luck, and may the best man win.”
The roar of the crowd clawed at Tobias’s insides. He assumed such a reaction was abnormal, that most people relished the applause, but the sound was enough to turn his stomach. For a moment he felt as if he’d be sick, and when that moment turned into hours, he considered shoving his fingers down his throat and taking care of the problem himself, though it wouldn’t do much good. The cheering would continue regardless.
Tobias sat in a holding cell nestled in the walls of the fortress arena, a box of a room with no redeeming features aside from the cool air within its keep. All he had to occupy himself were his own bouncing knee and fidgeting hands, which for once were perfectly clean, scrubbed for hours by servant girls. His body felt smooth, his skin like butter, his hair styled with creams that left his locks pleasantly soft. He looked down at his clothes—leather sandals; black, fitted harem pants; and nothing more—then peered through the gate at his side.
The entrance to the arena.
Countless people swarmed the pews, sending his sickness bubbling. With no means for distraction, he rested his head on the wall behind him, praying for an escape from the hell he had created.
The door to the cell swung open, and a man scuttled inside, pressing down the folds of his golden drape. He was older and portly, with a pinkish complexion and a mass of white hair pointing in every direction.
“Why, hello there! Are you…” he glanced down at a pocket scroll, “…Tobias Kaya?”
Tobias nodded.
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m—”
“Wembleton?”
The man grinned. “My reputation precedes me. I’m here to see to it that you’re prepared for our commencement ceremony on this fine Presentation Day.”
Presentation Day. Tobias was beginning to hate holidays. Every last one of them.
“I imagine you’ve never witnessed a Sovereign’s Tournament before. The last one wasn’t in your lifetime, certainly.” Wembleton rested his hands on his belly. “Well, I can assure you it was glorious. A true spectacle. But each one is different, and this one has the promise to be quite memorable.”
He paused, waiting for Tobias to be enthralled by his words, but Tobias merely stared at him, too dejected to pretend.
“Are you familiar with how the Sovereign’s Tournament works?”
“Just that there are challenges,” Tobias said. “Some are dangerous.”
“Dangerous, yes. Very. Allow me to shed some light on the matter—give you a taste of what’s in store, yes?” Wembleton waited for Tobias to speak and cleared his throat when he said nothing. “The tournament begins underground. We call this phase the labyrinth, though I would argue such a title is a bit misleading.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s so much a labyrinth as it is a tunnel—one equipped with plenty of exciting features.” He chuckled. “I imagine years ago, it was a maze with various passages, but times change. It’s fascinating how the theatrics have evolved, and for the better, really. People grow bored with simple combat. Suspense, indulgence, dramatics—that’s what captivates the masses.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Never mind the details.” Wembleton waved his wrist dismissively. “You’ll spend the first half of the tournament in the labyrinth. Or the tunnel. Whatever you’d like to call it. There will be challenges along the way. Some will be observed by the Proctor—”
“The Proctor?”
“You’ll meet him inside,” Wembleton said. “Others will be observed by The Savior Herself. And a select few will be open to spectators in this very arena. Those are the most exciting, if I do say so myself.”
A bilious pang shot through Tobias’s gut. “These challenges, are they all…?”
“Deadly? They’re certainly precarious. Some are far more lethal than others. You’ll encounter challenges that shower their winners with rewards and others that punish their losers with solitude. Dismissal. And death, naturally. But I couldn’t give you specifics. In fact, I’m not quite sure what’s waiting for you beyond this arena.”
“Wait, you don’t know?”
“No one does. The tournament is designed by the Sovereign. Only he can tell you what to expect. But I will say, it’s remarkable. All those years spent planning, building, just for this moment—these next thirty days.” Wembleton leaned in closer. “There’s magic in that labyrinth, young man. It’s a beautiful thing.”
Tobias gripped the edge of the bench, fighting to stifle his nerves, while Wembleton continued with unmitigated spunk.
“Now, for the best part. At the halfway point of the tournament, the remaining men will be released from the labyrinth and resume the competition on the palace grounds. It’s quite a treat—if you last that long, of course.”
“Of course,” Tobias grumbled.
“Challenges will resume. But between them, there will be feasts, there will be parties—oh, and the dancing. It’s truly a wonderful time.”
The door flung open, and a stream of servant girls flooded the cell, surrounding Tobias. They went to work fastening leather straps around his chest, his arms, and he anxiously glanced back and forth between them. “What are—?”
“Don’t mind them, they’re simply fitting you with your armor.” Wembleton stepped back, allowing the girls to fill the room. “The crowd certainly loves their men all done up just like real warriors. You’ll be looking like a contender in no time.” He watched the girls work. “Let’s address this ceremony, shall we? You’re familiar with our categorical system, yes?”