They have arranged themselves in wedges, leaving three paths between the doors of the contestants and the throne. My path was determined before these doors ever opened. No sooner has the thought occurred to me than I hear the herald announce the three of us in a voice both clear and deliciously soft. It fills the room like a song.
“Lord Bluethorn, Lady Caswell, and Lady Mayhew!”
I step into the court like the consort I intend to be, strong and bold and capable of commanding the attention of all who stand near. After enduring so many previous trials, being the center of all this focus does not unsettle me, but as I travel through the crowd, I become aware of the two figures moving down similar paths to my left.
My competition, I remind myself as I spot Rabi, her dark hair hoisted into a braided bun. It wasn’t up when we met on the Silk Bridge. There it had been loose, hanging long enough to brush her shoulders and twist into soft curls by her jaw. If it weren’t piled high now, I wouldn’t be able to see her at all.
Which would be better. I shouldn’t be concerned with her hair. I should only be concerned with her skill.
Beyond her, Lord Bluethorn stands a head above the crowd of courtiers craning for a peek at him. If it had been he I’d met on the Silk Bridge, I wouldn’t have been taken off guard. Charlish Bluethorn, who’d made himself a star in the early rounds by inviting five competitors to engage him at once and defeating them all, was a crowd favorite. I couldn’t have avoided learning his face if I’d tried. But Rabi? She’d been a name on a piece of paper, a complete mystery until she’d found me whispering benedictions to the pressed silk of the bridge.
The crowd has left an open space near the dais, and as I approach the end, I have no choice but to look upon the Bloom of Everdale.
He sits lightly upon the throne blossom as though his limbs float on the air. His skin is a cool, earthy brown, the mark of the Astera region where the royal family keeps its roots, and his eyes are even darker, two deep wells. Diaphanous sleeves open around his shoulders like the thin wings of a moth, and around his waist is cinched a skirt, flowing and layered in the colors of the sunset. His upper lip is painted a pale frothy green, and the color is echoed in the delicate ties that hold his black hair in an artful tangle of loops and braids. He is the picture of grace, a flower in full bloom to the sun, open and glorious and beautiful in his vulnerability.
Six guards stand at perfect intervals around the throne, providing a stony backdrop to his radiance, and behind them the dais lofts once more. Three more steps lead to the Court of Roots, where the Bloom’s mother sits to observe the proceedings. Like her son, she is a vision. Her brown skin is made darker by the pale-blue gossamer of her dress, her sky-and-stars hair woven into place with the thinnest threads of silver. On her right sits her own consort, whose story I learned when I was a small girl choosing the way of the sword. She once stood where I do now, and though she came from beginnings more secure than my own, an accident in her youth required the removal of her left leg from the knee down. She fights with and without the use of a molded limb, and I have long wished to see this woman who is grace in the might.
I stop halfway to the dais, where a podium has been placed to display a vase, inside of which stands a single summer star flower. From the corner of my eye, I note that both Rabi and Bluethorn stand before their own vases, each of us awaiting instructions.
The Bloom lets his eyes drift down the line. He is unhurried in his assessments, unconcerned by the number of courtiers waiting for the show to truly begin. Instead, he is contemplative, studious.
When he reaches me, I do my best not to look away. The consort is meant to balance the Bloom, not be subdued or intimidated or awed by his presence. If I am to take his hand, to win him, he should be just as awed by me.
I hold his eyes and tell myself what he sees before him. He sees a warrior who made it through the trials and all the way to his court. He sees a girl from the shallows, her edges rough from fighting for every scrap of food she’s ever had. He sees someone who believes herself strong enough to be his balance in the world, to be the sword at his side, the blade to his bloom. I have no wealth or influence to offer him, but without speaking a single word, I promise him that what I do have will be all he needs.
The Bloom removes his eyes from me, and I feel the cool release like a cloud moving across the sun. He tilts his head in a movement so graceful I feel the power of our nation reflected in it.
“Begin,” he says, his voice as light as nectar and just as sweet.
The three of us move as one, loosening the ties of our overskirts to let them fall away. We are left wearing only our singlets, the formfitting suits that hook over our shoulders, hug tight to our torsos, and cinch around each thigh to display our bodies and our strength.
I make the mistake of looking to my left, where Rabi stands in a deep-purple suit, her ochre bands like smears of spring pollen over her arms and legs. Again, my breath hitches in my throat, and I force myself to look at her head-on until my heartbeat returns to normal. If I can’t look at her, I sure as hell can’t fight her. And if I can’t fight her, then I can’t win.
And I came here to win.
A herald steps before the dais with a small paper in her hands. With great care, she raises her young voice. “Let these final games reveal the consort to our Bloom. In their strength our nation will find balance, and with balance we will endure and thrive.” She pauses as the courtiers cheer their approval, tossing handfuls of fragrant petals into the air. “Lord Bluethorn will defend first!”
The crowd murmurs and rearranges itself in anticipation of the first fight. Rabi and I move into offensive positions while Bluethorn places himself between us and his podium. His goal is to protect; ours is to threaten. And while on the surface that makes allies of me and Rabi, I gain nothing if she is the one to successfully destroy Bluethorn’s vase.
There are no weapons in this challenge. We have already demonstrated our skills with blades, arrows, and spears. Now we must show that when steel is not an option, we will become a shield. Here, our weapons are our bodies.
The herald moves to the lower step of the dais, positioning herself near the pendulum clock.
“Three pegs!” she announces, holding the bronze pendulum between her fingers. “Beginning now!” She releases the device, giving it momentum to travel in a slow circle, knocking down pegs to mark the passage of time.
Keeping Rabi in my peripheral vision, I circle wide, forcing Bluethorn to spread his attention between the two of us. Rabi moves in the opposite direction, using me as well as I’m using her, until we make a straight line, with Bluethorn between us.
He is tall, with muscles that bunch around his shoulders and thighs. His skin is the same pale cream as my own, marking us as descendants of the Lilia region, and it all but glows against the cerulean blue of his singlet. He holds his chin down, his face forward, as he tracks our movements from the corners of his eyes. His body is coiled and ready, everything about his defensive posture communicating sharp strength.