“Please can she stay?” she had begged the master. Anoor clutched onto Sylah so tightly and she didn’t care who saw. Sylah shrugged her off with a look of disgust.
“Stop being a baby. You can do this.” Such words of wisdom from her trainer.
The last three weeks had been grueling. Anoor couldn’t remember the last time her muscles didn’t hurt. If they weren’t running, they were stretching; if they weren’t stretching, they were aerofield training.
Anoor smiled. Though she was sore, she’d had fun. The walls around Sylah were slowly coming down, especially when Anoor was teaching her to bloodwerk. It was in those moments that Anoor saw Sylah’s raw inquisitive nature so clearly.
Now Anoor missed her presence as she stood alone and apart from the other contestants. They didn’t so much avoid her as pretend she wasn’t there at all. They all seemed bigger than her, stronger than her. Even the ancient ones who had signed up on a whim looked like they could outrun her. They were built like her grandmother.
Anoor glanced at her grandmother in the stand, sitting behind the newly appointed wardens. The wig she wore—the preferred fashion from a few decades ago—curled around sharp features as she surveyed Anoor below. At sixty-eight, Yona’s muscles corded around her limbs like the branches of a joba tree. Uka had kept Anoor as far away from her grandmother as possible, but when Anoor did get to see her during special occasions, Anoor found herself liking her, vying for her approval.
After all, how could she win this? She wasn’t born to compete, she didn’t even have red blood. What if the Embers were right, and Dusters weren’t meant to rule?
“No,” she said softly to herself. “I can do this. I can prove them all wrong.”
A tall woman moved to stand in front of her and blocked Anoor’s view of her grandmother. Anoor looked at the skin of her hair parting, the scalp stretched taut into two plaits, dyed red with henna.
“Hello, excuse me, do you mind moving to the left?”
The woman turned around and looked down—it was a fair distance to Anoor—and grinned. Anoor found herself smiling back, until the woman spoke, and her grin soured.
“Oh, hello there, little mango. Am I in your way?” The woman was fierce, a silver scar puckered by the side of her eyes.
Anoor choked on the automatic greeting that nearly bubbled up.
“Yes, and I’m trying to hear my mother speak.” She dropped her voice in an attempt to sound like Sylah.
“You’re the daughter?”
“Yes, now can you please move to the left?”
The woman scoffed, but she moved. Anoor still felt her gaze on her, but she’d turned her attention to her mother.
“Each contestant has a choice of aerofield weapon. They have ten chances to hit five targets. The top hundred contestants will make it through to the next round. The rest will be eliminated.” They cheered again. “The trial of tactics will commence next mooncycle followed by the trial of stealth, mind, bloodwerk, and ending with combat.” They were almost frothing, they were so hungry for the violence. Anoor rolled her eyes, a gesture she’d picked up from Sylah. Her mother was suddenly staring at her, but there was no way she could have seen that small act of rebellion.
“I will only accept the best. I will only train with the best. So, to the best, if you’re down there, I look forward to you becoming the next Disciple of Strength.” Anoor shivered. Her mother was definitely looking at her. “And should you not be the best, because after all, there can only be one, hold your head high as an Ember of the Nar-Ruta empire and tell your children and your children’s children that you were a competitor in the greatest trials the world has ever seen. The Aktibar.” The threat was clear.
“Curse the blood, I wish she would hurry up,” Anoor murmured to herself, but she heard the woman beside her scoff again. Anoor glanced at her, and the woman winked. It was more unsettling than her scorn from earlier.
Anoor turned away; she needed to clear her head in order to reach the state of battle wrath that Sylah preached about. She was ready, ready to win this. Or at least come in the top fifty. She just needed to stop being a “spoiled brat” and hit the bull’s-eye. As simple as that, really. The words in her mind were spoken in Sylah’s voice, but they gave her a twisted sense of hope.
—
The crowd finally quietened, and the first contestants were called forward. Jond was itching to begin. This was the culmination of his life; every second spent training with every weapon imaginable was worth it, just to stand there knowing this was it. This was his time.
He felt the weight of an empire on his back: of the hopes of a community oppressed. He would change things when he was warden. He would change them for the better, just like he was taught. The Sandstorm had grown despite the massacre of six years ago.
“Anoor Elsari.” A young woman was called forward, and Jond perked up. A murmur swept through the crowd as they watched her pick up the bow and quiver. Her garish clothes drowned her, making her seem larger than she was and hiding all sense of the curves underneath, but Jond could still see how sure her footing was. She was sucking on her bottom lip, glossing it with saliva, but it was her eyes that intrigued Jond the most. They were a warm hazel, like her flawless skin, and behind them was a fierceness that contradicted her skittish demeanor, a fierceness so bright it hurt to stare at her too long.
Sylah clearly had her hands full with that one.
Anoor walked up to the target podium and raised her bow. The wooden targets were easy for Jond. He could have done them with his eyes closed when he was ten years old. The circular targets varied in height and position ranging fifty to a hundred handspans in distance. There were five targets in total, and after every competitor, they swapped them out with new ones and the spacing altered slightly.
Jond watched Anoor as she drew back the bow. Sylah had convinced Jond that Anoor was ready for it, but he still sent her luck.
For a few brief seconds all was quiet. Uka Elsari leaned forward in her throne.
The arrows flew, one after another. Each hit its target, or close enough that she certainly wasn’t going to be eliminated.
“Nice,” Jond said, causing a few competitors to look at him sidelong. He ignored them and let out a slow breath. Jond needed Anoor to continue competing because he needed Sylah to keep learning about bloodwerk. Without that knowledge he wouldn’t make it through the bloodwerk trial.
Anoor didn’t know it, but her success had gotten the Sandstorm one step closer to the Keep.
A polite patter of applause followed. Those who knew her were shocked; those who didn’t assumed the skills ran in her blood. Twenty more competitors took to the podium, one failing so badly he left the arena in tears.
“Jond Alnua, you’re up.” There were no nerves unsteadying his hands as he walked toward his weapon of choice. A few competitors gave him dubious looks as he selected the throwing axes. It was difficult to get the range required to hit the targets with such weighty weapons, but Jond preferred the solid metal in his hands over a bow. He twirled the axes in his hand. They were well balanced, if a little worse for wear. He was cold steel as he walked up to the podium.
Jond threw the axes without ceremony, all flying true in quick succession. He knew without looking that he’d be top of the leader board.
The words that slipped out were said to himself: “A dancer’s grace, a killer’s instinct, an Ember’s blood, a Duster’s heart.”