Page 63 of Of Songs and Silence

Because it doesn’t matter. It can’t.

Instead, I work on my shields. I imagine the strongest steel surrounding every emotion, every thought. I lock them away, too, and stare blankly ahead.

A satisfied smirk rests on the king’s lips as he looks from me to the crowd and I fortify my walls even more. He stands to address the arena, and more specifically the forty-seven Mayiman nobles who proudly await their chance to die.

“Today, you fight for your future,” he announces. “For the privilege of joining my family.”

The crowd cheers. I study each competitor, memorizing their faces, each shade of their hair, the vivid color of their eyes that I can make out even from all the way up here.

They may not be part of the Warrior class, but there is no mistaking their strength. I can’t imagine they would have entered this contest otherwise, not when their lives are on the line.

One man stands out to me in particular. His fair skin nearly blends with the pale silver strands of his hair. While the others are watching the king, his lime green gaze is locked onto me. He doesn’t leer, though, not like the others have.

There is something in his expression that I can’t quite read as he subtly dips his head toward me before looking away again. I carefully lock the exchange away, trying not to read into it as the first four names are announced.

“Koa Ione, Akamu Hale, Rangi Palakiko, Hohepa Lai,” Cepheus calls and the men step forward.

They are immediately fitted with scaled armor and helmets, each of them given a short sword and a trident while the rest are led to the sidelines.

A gong signals for them to begin and the Mayima cut through the water like marlins. Sword meets sword. Trident meets flesh. The cries of battle and pain resound in my head as blood is shed and bones are crushed.

The first to die is the youngest of the four—Rangi. His orange hair falls over his face like flames as his lifeless body floats above the other fighters. The sharks are already circling, called by the scent of first blood, waiting for their next meal to be delivered.

They thrash, and bite and tear skin from bone, and soon there is nothing left but the faint memory of the heir to House Palakiko.

I wonder if his family will mourn him. Or if they only feel the pang of failure.

The weight of my grandfather’s stare pulls my attention back to the battle below. Does he care who wins? Does he care what happens to me? Or to the future of his kingdom?

Is this little more than another test? A game? I tuck the questions away, carefully emptying my mind once again as I watch the next two men meet their deaths.

By the time we leave the arena, a dozen lives have been lost. All the needless bloodshed is celebrated and praised as we make our way to the dining hall to feast in their honor.

The four victors are seated at the royal table, their injuries only barely treated as they scarf down their meal like it might be their last. And it very well could be. King Cepheus toasts the families that lost their children, reminding them of the honor in their sacrifices.

Across the room, I catch sight of Lady Palakiko.

Sadness radiates from her entire being. Her husband smiles, though it is strained. He raises his glass to the king, but she sits rigid in her chair. Something passes between them, and with trembling fingers, she finally raises her glass as well.

But, beneath the table, they are squeezing each other’s hands so tightly their knuckles are white—grounding one another like anchors in a tumultuous sea. It could be grief, but it feels like something more fierce than that.

And why shouldn’t they be angry? They are just as helpless when it comes to the whims of the king as the rest of us are. For the first time today, I wonder if the twelve men who died today actually volunteered, or if they were chosen.

He will not win. Not this time.

I cling to those words, tugging them to me and wrapping myself in them, allowing myself to take the meager comfort they offer.

For me, and for everyone hurt by the senseless games of tyrants.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

MELODI

Gliding from one corner of my room to the other, I try to calm my raging thoughts. I try even harder not to look at the door that separates my room from Ari’s.

The temptation to go to him tonight is greater than usual, like it’s gnawing at my bones and setting my skin on fire, torturing me to suffer from his absence the way all those men today suffered for my presence.

It was just a little less unbearable when I thought they had a choice, but now…

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