Tournament of Losers (25 page)

Tears fell down Tress's cheeks. "It wasn't like that. We had fun that first night and I thought that would be it, but I couldn't forget you. My every thought kept coming back to you. I thought I'd find you and have a bit more fun, but you just sunk deeper and deeper into me. I wanted you happy, but I couldn't tell you who I was because then they'd punish you for cheating if we got caught. It all got out of control and into a tangled mess, and I was hoping I could explain everything when it was over." He fell silent a moment, then in a barely audible voice added, "I really wanted you to win."

Rath grabbed up his bags and left, slamming the door shut behind him, flinching at the broken way Tress called his name but resisting the urge to return. He need to calm down and think, and he couldn't do either of those things while Tress was nearby.

Isambard. He needed to think of Tress as Isambard.

No wonder he'd never really known anything about Tress. Even without the tournament, it would have been the height of foolishness for Tress to let anyone know he was really a prince.

Rath lingered in the street, trying to decide where to go. His mother? Toph? No, he didn't feel like listening to other people right then, even people he loved and trusted.

Heaving a sigh, he headed for the temple, where a priest led him to a small bit of floor where he could sleep.

Rath pulled out some leftover bread and raisins snitched from the last meal he'd had with Tress. His stomach clenched as he remembered Tress throwing them at him, catching at least half in his mouth, teasing Tress for being such a spoiled brat that he'd waste food.

The way that had somehow turned into Tress feeding him.

He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth, but it stuck there, his mouth too dry to chew. He forced it down, then put the food back in his bag, leaned his head against the cold wall, and stared at the statues of the Fates in the middle of the sanctuary.

The one he faced was Sacred Temina, Goddess of Loving Fate, she who decided the relationships each person was destined for, be they romantic, platonic, parental, or otherwise. Unlike the other two goddesses, she was intersex, and of the three was said to be closest to those under her care. Many believed she walked amongst people from time to time.

He wished she would make it a bit more fucking clear what his fate was regarding Tress. Prince Isambard, whom Rath would marry if he made won the tournament. But he wouldn't even know if he'd made it to the last challenge until he arrived in the morning to hear the verdict.

What if he did win? Why would he want to marry Tress? Fates fuck him,
Isambard.

"Tress," he said softly, the word echoing faintly in the mostly-empty room. No matter how many times he told himself it was Isambard, no matter how angry he was, he could only think of Tress as Tress. The spoiled brat who had tolerated Rath's rudeness the night they met. The man who had bought him for an entire night just so Rath could rest. Who gave him money and bought him clothes and took him to parties just because he wanted to spend time with Rath. Who'd never really asked for much of anything and had always been willing to give in to what
Rath
wanted.

Who'd eagerly and happily encouraged him every step of the way to try to win the tournament. Every single time he'd though Tress was pushing him away, Tress had been encouraging his own marriage.

Rath stared at the ring on his finger, heaved another sigh, then gathered up his belongings and left the temple to haul back to the inn.

But when he arrived, the room was dark and empty, save for a small, paper-wrapped package on the table, a folded piece of paper on top of it.

Rath,

This was meant to be your wedding present. Whatever you choose to do, I would like it to be yours.

Love,

Tress

Rath tucked the note away in his jacket, then ran his fingers over the delicate paper, decorated with flowers and ivy, far too pretty to waste on wrapping a present, surely. He picked it up, started to tug at the ribbon holding it all closed—then stopped. Set the package back down.

Bad luck to open a gift before the moment it was meant for, even if Tress had already decided that moment would never come to pass.

For which Rath couldn't blame him; Rath hadn't exactly been willing to listen or forgive. He was still angry. But maybe not as angry as he thought.

At the very least he could show up, see if he'd even made it to the final round. If he had…

He still didn't give a damn about marrying a prince. He did give a damn about losing Tress over stupid mistakes and misunderstandings and lost tempers.

Rath tucked the present into one of his bags, then stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed, but it was some time before his roiling thoughts and pounding heart calmed enough to finally let him sleep.

Rath wolfed down his breakfast as he headed for the stable, the guard who'd reappeared sometime in the night following close on his heels. The one day he'd needed to be awake on time, if not early, and he was bordering on being late.

He threw open the stable doors and strode inside—

Cried out when something slammed into his face and sent him stumbling back to crash on the courtyard cobblestones. Blood streamed from his nose, but Rath ignored it, save to use the sleeve of his jacket to staunch the worst of it. Behind him, the guard had thrown aside his own breakfast and drawn his sword, moving to stand in front of Rath as five men came out of the stable.

Rath scrambled to his feet, swearing when he saw three more men coming in the gate. "Fates curse you all."

The guard screamed as he lunged at them, one man not getting out of the way fast enough to avoid a blade to the gut.

Rath fled as the three from the street and one from the stable came at him, going until he was in a corner where they at least couldn't get behind him. He picked up a slop bucket that was half-full of sludgy run off and swung it out as hard as he could, catching one man dead in the face and sending him stumbling into another.

That didn't keep the other two from surging in to start swinging and kicking, but it was something.

Rath tried to protect his face, kicking out as best he could, blocking with the bucket where he was able, until it was yanked from his grasp. He used the chance to shove hard at the man pre-occupied with the bucket and bolted past him, careening into the other two so hard that all three of them went down in a tangle of limbs and pained cries.

Squirming, kicking, rolling his way free, and biting down hard on the hand that grabbed his arm, he got to his feet—and barely ducked a fist coming at him, throwing himself to the side to land on top of sacks of feed that had yet to be properly put away.

A bellow of rage gave them all pause, and then two more men were cut down by the guard. "Go," the guard snarled. "Get on your horse, hurry up. I'll finish tending these knaves."

Rath didn't waste time arguing, just bolted for the stable where his horse was thankfully waiting, held by a scared boy with a bruised cheek. Rath spared precious seconds to fumble out two pennies and pressed them into the boy's palm. "Get out of here. Find a city guard to bring help, then go see a healer, understand me?"

The boy sniffled, but nodded, and Rath swung up onto the saddle and rode out, forcing the men who'd come after him to get out of the way or get run over.

Rath tried not to let his emotions affect Thief, but he still trembled the whole way, vision blurring from tears, blood dried and sticky on his face. His nose felt like it had been smashed by a hammer. Probably a shovel. He was lucky the bastards hadn't thought to begin proceedings with a pitchfork.

He didn't slow until he reached the fairgrounds, and then only because there were too many people in his way. Cries and shouts went up as people who recognized him realized it
was
him, and then the crowds finally began to part.

Finally he reached the stage, where everyone else was already gathered and staring at him. He noted the spectator stands out of the corner of his eye, that something was different, but all his focus was on the stage. Dismounting, he headed for it, desperately trying to wipe and scrape away blood as he mounted the stairs. Brushing tears from his eyes, he blinked several times at Quinton. "Am I too late?" He winced as the words came out garbled and warped due to his damned nose.

But Quinton seemed to understand. She frowned. "You just barely made it. Who did this to you?"

"Men in the stables jumped us," Rath said, speaking each word slowly and carefully as more officials clustered around them. "The guard stayed behind to take care of them. I'm sorry for my unseemly arrival."

"You have no reason to be sorry," Quinton said. "Nobody was giving up on you until we had to. Go stand in line. I will take care of the rotten bastards who did this." She pushed him along, then strode off, bellowing out orders to guards who hastened to fall in line around her.

Rath shuffled over to stand with the other three. Sarie and Benni stared at him wide-eyed. Jessa didn't look at him at all, but his mouth was pinched with anger.

For the first time, Rath looked toward the spectators, smiling as he saw his mother. He blew her a kiss, waved to his friends clustered around her, then looked at the rest of the stands, which were more crowded than ever. It didn't seem like anyone had room to so much as shift a foot. And instead of being all the way at the top behind a silk screen, the royal family was arrayed right front and center.

Rath's throat felt scraped raw as he stared at Tress, sitting beside his mother and staring back at Rath with wide eyes, more emotions than Rath could follow flickering across his slightly-blurry face. He looked even more handsome than usual, dressed in court finery of green and gold, long heavy braids decorated with gold bands at the end, jeweled flowers scattered randomly about, gold hoops in his ears. There was a small gold something painted just beneath his left eye; Rath wished he knew what it was, wished he was close enough to touch it, kiss it.

"Your royal competitors!" Montague boomed out from behind him, making Rath jump.

Deafening applause filled the air.

Rath jumped again as a clerk touched his arm, but forced himself to relax when he saw the woman had bandages and other healing items. "Thank you," he said as she began to gently clean his face and apply a numbing ointment.

As the applause faded off, Montague continued. "Now to announce the two who will continue on to the final challenge. The first one is Rathatayen Jakobson!"

Rath startled, relief rushing over him, eyes stinging. He swallowed, tried to stand up straighter.

"Lift your arm," the clerk murmured. "Smile."

Rath did as she said, though the smile hurt—but everyone cheered even louder than before as he raised his arm, and they didn't quiet down until the horns finally trumpeted an order to do so.

Montague then bellowed out Jessa's name, of course, and Rath bowed his head to Sarie and Benni. They exchanged a strange smile, like they knew something no one else did, then nodded in reply to his bow. Benni then turned and let a clerk escort him from the stage. Sarie gave Rath a hug and gently kissed his cheek. "I'll be cheering for you," she said quietly. "Don't let that barn rat win."

"I won't," Rath said with a quiet laugh and waved farewell as she walked away.

"Your final competitors!" Montague bellowed out, and Rath grit his teeth against all the noise that was rapidly giving him a headache. His heart felt like it was going to shatter, it was pounding so hard. The only thing that kept him from going mad was the way Tress's gaze never left him.

Montague drew Rath and Jessa to the middle of the stage, then strode to the edge of it and bowed low. "Your Majesty."

Even the rest of the royal family, minus the queen, looked alarmed when King Teric leapt from the stands and strode to the stage. Though it couldn't have been much of a surprise, given that five guards moved with him without pause or hesitation.

Climbing the steps, Teric moved to stand between Rath and Jessa. He squeezed their shoulders, then strode forward to replace Montague at the front edge of the stage. "People of Dennarm, one last cheer for your remaining competitors!"

Once the latest round of cheering had died down, Teric continued. "The last and greatest challenge is my duty and honor to oversee. Throughout this tournament, we have tested the mettle, the honor, the kindness, patience, and dozens more qualities so vital to those charged with the care of the people." His voice rang out as clear as a bell, across a crowd gone silent and intent as they attended every word. "But the final decision for who joins my family belongs to those who will be trusting our champion with their care. Therefore, the final challenge of this tournament is The Heart of the People Challenge!"

"That's not—" Jessa said, then snapped his mouth shut.

Teric spun around to face Jessa and Rath. "Competitors, the challenge is simply this: all those with whom you've dealt with previously, the people of this city, the representatives from the villages, the temple, and so forth, will cast their vote. Whosoever gains the most votes will be named champion. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Rath said quietly, so nervous he could cry.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Jessa echoed, though he was much stiffer about it. For a merchant, he was terrible at hiding his thoughts.

Teric stepped back, motioning to Montague, who stepped forward and bellowed out, "Merchants, present yourselves!" When the seven merchants of the first challenge had arranged themselves in front of the stage, Montague said, "You were the first challenge, and so the first vote is yours. How do you vote, Seven Merchants?"

The merchant in the middle stepped forward, cleared his throat, and pitched his voice to be heard across the field. "We respect the talents of a man who did not have to waste hours of time to know how much money he would need to spend. We do not respect a man who would bully his own to get the best price. We give our vote to Master Rathatayen."