CHAPTER 13

We spend the rest of the day apart. Medrein leaves to allow me rest, though I can hear his heavy boots downstairs.

The following morning, he suggests we walk around the busy city before the Challenge and I eagerly agree. I need to see the sun, to feel air on my face and make sure the worst of my recovery is truly over. My hand is cradled by a strip of cloth tied around my neck.

The bustling city has never felt so much like a hive.

Medrein’s imposing figure, a head above the crowd, draws attention to us. I see alleyway thugs look at him, jostle each other, then look away. I feel stupid for never realizing he had levels. It’s easy now to see that I confused his Challenge-won power with the attributes of fatherhood.

Of failed fatherhood, I remind myself.

The hate of yesterday has sublimated into a red-hot pearl that I’ve secreted way deep inside my core along with my plan. It’s a plan without shape or form, made simply out of a destination. I’m going into the dungeon.

I prod Medrein for his memories, for the history of the Challenge. To keep him talking. To learn.

He obliges. I learn that when the Godtouched took over the Challenge, they did so in a concerted fashion, rapidly and decisively. This was after powerful groups had consolidated into guilds and showed everyone how effective they were at keeping a certain kind of peace. Acting together, they took control, deciding who got to participate in the Challenge and under which conditions.

“They said they would make it better,” Medrein says. “That all would be able to witness the Challenge. That the old ways were unpredictable, chaotic. They gave us new dungeons. And so they turned a test into a bloodsport.”

“You mean the new dungeons aren’t like the old?”

Medrein shakes his head.

“Not even in name. The old ones were called the Crucibles and answered to no one but the gods,” he says, eyes glazed over. I hear the respect in his voice. “They knew you for who you were and not two Challenges were the same. These dungeons… They’re instruments of death. The Godtouched amuse themselves creating traps and capturing monsters, then unleashing them on a gaggle of the hopeful and unprepared.”

“But people survive them,” I say, uncertain. “How?”

“The same way people survive wars and wildfires. Luck.”

Before I can scoff at his words, I catch movement in the corner of my eye, turn, and spot a figure keeping pace with us. We’ve walked into a quieter, poorer part of the city. The figure, a woman, is dressed in faded blacks, and her affected nonchalance doesn’t fool me. I look to my other side, and sure enough, find a similar figure dressed in the same pattern, his hood up.

“…they made it into a tourney,” Medrein is saying. “Saying a Champion couldn’t be a Champion without competition. As if that—”

I tug at his sleeve with my good hand.

“I see them, son,” he mutters, not breaking his stride, not looking around. “Don’t worry about those lowlifes. Just keep walking. They’ll get tired soon enough.”

And right away he goes back to telling me what he knows about the current iteration of the Challenge, like a broken dam spilling all its hard-kept contents.

I’m not listening. I’m too nervous. Flashes of a grin in the dark, of Rao’s business-like stabs, turn my stomach. My good right hand opens and closes, sweating. The thieves keep pace with us. They almost strut, enjoying their hunt, and there’s something in their confidence that makes me suspicious. Are these really common robbers?

“Ah,” Medrein says. I look up. A man, tall and wiry, with a long cane clicking along with each of his steps, walks out of another alleyway, sporting the same conspicuously inconspicuous colors as the other two. He saunters to the middle of the street and pauses there, inspecting his nails. There are other people in the street but they hurry along, eyes down. I look up at Medrein and find him steady, composed.

“Howdy. I can see you gents are from out of town,” says the man in front of us with an appreciative glance, leaning heavily on his cane. His speech feels practiced, his voice too high and excited. “Out for a stroll in the big city, huh?”

No, I think. They not robbers, not lowlives. They’re Godtouched.

Only a Godtouched can occupy a street as if it’s his, and yet never truly belong in it. Something in the way they move, the way they stand.

“Don’t ask me how I know,” says the man in front. “I have a good eye for people. We saw you walk past and we thought to ourselves: there’s a couple of souls who lost their way in the alleys, and we owe it to ourselves to be neighborly and set them straight.”

He takes a calculated step forward and the others close in behind us. Above the deafening drumming of my heart, I can barely comprehend what he’s saying.

“Son,” Medrein says. I realize he isn’t addressing me, but the Godtouched. “I have little coin and much less patience. Whatever you’re searching for, you won’t find it here. Just step aside.”

The man’s eyes widen in surprise and he looks over our shoulders to his two allies. I’m sure he isn’t used to be spoken to like this by a normal person.

“No money, no patience,” the man muses. “It’s a shame. Guess we’ll relieve you of your young companion, then, and call it a day. What do you think?”

Impossibly, my heart manages to speed up when the man refers to me. And then I hear Medrein say, as if to himself, “Godtouched insanity.”

He moves.

Medrein’s body shits forward, feet twist and legs bend, and his fist is a blur that cuts through the air and buries itself in the Godtouched’s throat. The man falls back, coughing, spitting, unable to breathe, his face going red.

The others are on us in a second.

Medrein pushes me away. Resisting him is as unthinkable as stopping an avalanche by planting your feet. I fall to the ground, rolling to protect my bad hand, and look up to see the other two thieves have pulled out stiletto knives, long and thin. They strike together.

The first attack slices a thin red line through Medrein’s chest and tunic. He doesn’t even flinch. Knees bent, arms close to his chest, he grabs the second man by his robes and pulls him close as his forehead descends. The resulting crash sends the Godtouched flying back screaming, his nose a broken mess of red. The woman gets in close and uses the distraction to strike with her own blade, hitting Medrein between two ribs and making me gasp. He grunts, but then grabs her wrist and twists. The snap echoes in the quiet street like a broken twig in the woods, followed by a faint yell as Medrein kicks her to the ground.

The two male Godtouched come up slowly. I scramble to my feet also, feeling useless, feeling awe. Medrein is bleeding profusely, the red drawing a river down his shirt. But his expression is calm. Serene. He adopts the same posture as before, knees bent, arms close, waiting for another attack.

But the thieves have gotten on both sides of him, one with his dagger at the ready, the other unsheathing a long, thin sword from the hollow of his cane. They tense like wolves preparing a final assault. But before they can manage, a whistle, thin and sharp, courses through the street, and the Godtouched look up with alarm.

I follow their gazes to the mouth of an alleyway where a new figure has materialized. This man is dressed and black cut with slashes of bright red, and an insignia over his heart depicts the Black Sword emblem. He steps into the light, pulling a short sword from its scabbard.

“Shit,” says the front man, his voice cut and ragged from the punch to his throat. “Swords. Go!”

They scramble. There is a flurry of dark shapes, and other black and red shadows appear, jumping from rooftops, emerging from alleyways. Some run off in hot pursuit of the thieves, others approach the woman who’s struggling to stand, clutching her wrist. They subdue her unceremoniously.

In the middle of it all, Medrein grabs my shoulder and pulls me into an alleyway, dragging me along despite my weak protests.

“Hey!” a voice calls. Medrein freezes, then turns back.

The first Black Swordsman is looking at us, short sword in hand.

“Oh,” says Medrein. His voice catches me by surprise, suddenly relieved and accommodating. “Thank you for saving us. They almost got my apprentice.”

“Doing our job,” the man says. “These types always pop up during Challenges. They’ll be rotting in a cell soon enough. You all right?”

I look at Medrein, covered in blood. Even a Godtouched couldn’t miss this much.

“Nothing a bath won’t heal. But I’ve been training the kid for a while, and it would have sucked if they’d gotten him,” he says without missing a beat.” Owe you something?”

“Nah,” the man waves his hand. “The Black Sword provides. Enjoy the festivities.”

We walk away. Medrein’s hand is tight on my shoulder, guiding me down the alley. He’s not supporting himself on me at all.

“Oh,” the man calls again. Medrein stops. The hand on my shoulder is tense as a vise. “Nice unarmed fighting. Not something you see every day.”

And then he leaves.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Godtouched insanity,” Medrein says, stone faced. “Talk the talk and they’ll leave you be. Nothing else to it.”

“You’re hurt—“

“Flesh wounds don’t mean as much as you might think after a few levels,” he interrupts, dismissing my worries. “Come. The thing will start soon. We should hurry.”

We rejoin the packed streets. It’s Challenge day all right. All over the realms in guild-controlled cities, people are streaming to arenas to watch the contestants. If they’re all so afraid of it, if it’s so terrible as Medrein says, why do they keep coming?

And they do keep coming. It’s a city-wide party. The crowd is so thick Medrein has to push a path open by force and I walk in the wake of his passage. There are dancers and performers, shadow plays and fire spitters, jesters and wine sellers. All races are represented in a blend of colors and shapes, towering height and stealthy minuteness. Exotic beastss are displayed inside cages, and their cries, their squawks, and the occasional projectiles all add to the chaos.

“All right. You can fight Godtouched. And your wounds just vanish,” I point out. It’s true. Even the deeper gash has reknit. “You’re like a hero from the stories."

“Keep quiet, boy,” he says, though the din around us is such that there’s no chance of anyone hearing us or caring about what snippets they catch. “I fought street rats, nothing else.”

I roll my eyes.

I’m surprised to see Godtouched mingling with people like myself. They toss dice together, they sing and dance, and they talk about the Challenge, discussing betting strategies. These are the areas where anyone can get along. Parallel to them, there’s a whole host of Godtouched-exclusive contests and activities. Strength tests where men wrestle and lift live bulls, archery demonstrations where the targets are miles away.

We pass by a small arena surrounded by a shimmering cube. Inside, two mages cast spells at each other. I see one of them, his hair singed, armor blackened, conjure tentacles to trap his opponent, and these being eliminated by an explosion of flame that leaves everyone watching blinking back afterimages. The man at the explosion’s center, unscathed, with dark skin and bright golden eyes, throws up his hands and a fiery sword falls into his hand. I miss his charge when Medrein grabs me by my good arm and pulls me along.

We follow the crowd and find a wide avenue where the masses are packed tight as chickens in a pen and yet flow like a river, all pressing forward towards the enormous, threatening walls of an arena decked with Black Sword banners.

The place where Katha and Rev await their fates.

Not much longer now. I’m coming, Katha. I’ll be there soon.