The noisy spectators, the wide blue sky, the dusty heat penetrating my throat: they spur me on as I balance and swing through rope and beam and bar and trap.
More quickly than I expected I find myself poised on a narrow beam looking down on the tipping bridge, which I have to cross next. Sandstorm still clings there, upside down with his back almost touching the ground and his jacket stained with sweat. From his furious look I realize he hoped the tipping bridge would be the bottleneck and that he could stop all of us from crossing by hanging there.
Except there is another way across the gap for an adversary bold enough to make a leap from the narrow beam to a slightly less narrow platform, high enough up and far enough away that if you miss you will hurt and maybe kill yourself. I calculate how much speed and arc I will need to get across the gap, and then I catch his eye, him all helpless caught up in the wobbling rope ladder. His glare wishes me crashed on the ground all bloody and broken. His fingers are turning white as he clings to the rope bridge.
“Kiss off, Adversary,” I call down. The blood flows high in me. “I’ll show you how a real adversary does it.”
The height of my starting point gives me momentum and opportunity. I throw a somersault into my leap, knees tucked and unfolding as I hit a perfect landing, the kind that doesn’t even jar.
The crowd roars.
The rest of Traps flies past as if I truly have spun a web through it. The approbation of the crowd lifts my feet. I show off, which is always a danger because you’re more likely to miss, but I no longer care. I can’t fall.
When I reach the resting platform I see no sign of Firecat, but I catch a glimpse of Kalliarkos clambering down from Rivers and therefore headed for Pillars. I drop to the dirt and run for Trees, hearing the chime of a gate bell. He’s still ahead of me.
My plain brown mask has slipped a little, and as I pause to adjust it I risk a quick look at the royal balcony. It’s too high and far away for me to see faces clearly, but the king and queen lounge on a grand sofa under umbrellas held by servants. On a lower level of the balcony, at their feet, sits the man who won the victory at Maldine. I would know my father anywhere by the way he holds his back and head confidently upright. The honor shown him today takes my breath away. If only Mother were here to celebrate it with him.
On Garon Palace’s balcony they stand silent, watching.