Page 46 of Shifter King
"Yeah. Six Abliatos." Phobos chewed on the end of the grass blade, continuing to shake his head. "Enver's worth like ten alone even though he only creates illusions. He's one of the Withercrown contenders too. He never carries any weapons except that staff. Some of the novices, they'll have weapons and have their attendants carry laser rifles and bolt rounds. And here, they do this because the natural stones give resonance so it's all the more powerful. I don't know why Enver's here. He's already guaranteed. Umit, on other hand, he probably needs more training if he's going to contend, but he's more than cruel enough."
The arena had been built into the high side of a natural gully, lined with rocks on the sides and a floor divided into sections. Three-quarters was lined with a textured grey stone that would make kneeling on it similar to kneeling on grains of rice. Rocks and rubble lay scattered about as well. Then another portion was lined with marble, smooth, glistening, and clean. What remained between the smooth and the coarse was a broad bed of rough-grained brown sand.
The Vawtrian youths knelt at the far end, heads bowed and arms behind their backs. They all wore baggy grey shirts and darker grey trousers without shoes or boots. Scrapes and bruises abounded. A few had busted lips. Simple wounds that were apparently too complex for them to heal right now. To suggest that they were truly skinchangers was ludicrous. Even if they entered their most monstrous forms, these youths weren’t even strong enough to have a surge. They might be raging, but they would be brittle. From this angle, it did not appear that any had fire or acid in their souls. They’d been rounded up and driven out here for an exercise in humiliation and torment.
Nothing had been their choice. Most likely not even their appearances. That impression was as strong as if someone had whispered it in his ear. Two of them had hyper vitiligo, one having cerulean and yellow mottled skin and the other having orange, red, and purple. Most of the time, vitiligo was seen as a sign of great talent and capabilities, but when it veered into such such intense and bright coloration, it suggested a lack of control. Likely a control that had never been attempted.
Could these Vawtrians shift? Their muscles weren’t even twitching or their eyes lighting in a way that suggested even an inclination toward it. They avoided eye contact with both the Abliato strutting at the nearest end of the arena and the one sitting behind him.
Unacceptable.
They acted as if even a dozen of them working together couldn't handle the two Abliatos and their attendants. Somehow, even after all he had seen, this sickened and infuriated him. "So no weapons."
Phobos tilted his head, his eyes screwing up. "You aren't the sharpest, are you, friend? What do they need weapons for?" He gestured toward the arena and then leaned on the boulder. "No. At this point…we're just praying they decide no one needs to die here and this practice is enough."
"Tell us what happens," AaQar said. "We are dealing with illusionists, but—"
Phobos flicked the grass away. "I'd have said everybody knows why, but apparently you two don't. You're lucky you ran into me. Listen. Everyone here—man, woman, and child— knows better than to cross an Abliato. It only takes two seconds for most of them to grab you and drop you into your worst nightmare, and Enver can sometimes do it faster if you're scared, which my cadre mates are. Everyone in that arena is. If you two were smart, you'd be scared. Crelspa, I'm scared!" He struck his chest. "And the reason they've got those two Abliatos here is to practice for Withercrown. If no one interferes and leaves them be, then by evening, the prisoners'll be loaded back in. And hopefully Enver won't get bored and leave more than a few to be eaten by the sand kraken. Noki saw the sand kraken on the far side of Darmusky, so there's a decent chance it won't be here for awhile unless blood gets on the sand. But if you try to charge in there and fight, they'll lay you down as soon as your feet touch the sand. And then if you're lucky, all they'll do is trap you in a nightmare. But as soon as they are done with you, whether they leave you for the kraken, make you slit your throat, or just leave you, they will execute four other prisoners at random. Just to make a point."
"All right." AaQar nodded. He placed his hand on Phobos's arm. "We are not from around here, and we have not dealt with this. So to be clear, the only weapons they have are their skills of illusion."
"Do they need anything else out here?" Phobos drew his head back rapidly, holding up his hands.
Naatos studied the Abliato strutting back and forth. This Enver had an almost familiar bearing. The turquoise triangles and white lines down the temples to the cheeks reminded him of the White Star Sodiwa, a bloodline of Tiablos with a particular skill with light illusions. They would never have participated in or sanctioned this. His long black robes caught in the wind, shimmering just faintly with purple. Large dragon-like wings rose from his back, stretching out and expanding his presence. The turquoise aura that surrounded him extended to the tips of his clawed wings. Utter fraud.
The second had interlocking black squares and red looped circles that passed halfway beneath the eyes and reminded him of the Thread Moon Sodiwa. Their bloodline led to those with telekinesis so powerful and yet precise that thirteen of the descendants had helped to secure a dimensional rift with no more than their minds and wills and special cloth woven by the Unatos. For centuries afterward, people could see the remnants of the once pulsing wound, a fading ridge that cut through the air itself. By this time, it had likely faded away entirely.
It would take far less time to wash away the stench of these fallen descendants.
The youth was right though. Of the two, Enver was obviously the biggest threat and appeared to take great pride and perhaps even pleasure in this if his slow strut was any indication.
Umit remained sitting at the back of the arena, smoke wings flared out and his dark-orange aura close but intense. It was possible he didn't want to be there. Perhaps he was even having second thoughts. Which would most certainly be unfortunate because today was the day he would die.
"Very well," AaQar continued, likely responding to something Phobos had said. "We both understand how dangerous these two are. What is this Withercrown?"
Phobos's nostrils flared. "So they don't even have word of Withercrown from where you were? Even the cadre farthest into the wilderness knows about Withercrown."
AaQar shrugged. "Apparently not. So tell me."
Naatos shook his head. Thank whatever good there was in this world for his brother.
"It happens about six or seven months after the Grey Season is stopped and always in the dead of winter, and it's a demonstration of their power. The worst dissidents or whoever they can gather up are brought into this enormous amphitheater in Batuhan. And the best contenders get to compete against the Order of the Phantom Touch. They take the prisoners, divide them up, put these crowns on their heads, and then…they do their worst. Trap you in your own skull and then put it up for everyone to see. Sometimes there’s as many as ten going at once, playing out on screens. Anyone can log in and view any of them at any time, and all the city squares play them. A few die of heart attacks or something similar within the first day or so. Others make it longer before thirst destroys them. If they really want to punish you though, they hook you up so you can’t move and have fluids pumped into you to keep you alive. Days and days." He clenched his jaw, a muscle jumping in it. "Out here, they’ll choose a few to make examples of. They’ll kill most of them before evening if they're in bad moods. Otherwise they let you go since they can get more by working you out in the sand pits. And no one can see everything you fear. You aren’t on display as much. Not that any one out here would judge you for being afraid."
"So Withercrown is an execution in which the executioners compete for something," AaQar said. "What do they get?"
"Yeah." Phobos nodded, his lips pressed tight. "The winners of Withercrown get the skulls of the executed and may eventually be invited into the Order of the Phantom Touch. There haven't been any rebels for a long time. So time they'll probably just grab whoever they can. Enver has the most skulls of anyone not in the Order of the Phantom Touch. And he won't take any from today or any days like this. He leaves the whole body for the kraken." He covered his mouth. "You know I'm glad you two don't know about all this because it means somewhere in this godforsaken world there are people that don't have to experience this torment. But we do here. So you need to be careful—"
Naatos stood and picked up his spear. "Caste of the Eternal Waves."
Phobos frowned. "Do those words actually mean something?"
AaQar sighed. "Just." He waved his hand and rolled his eyes. "You're right. I have the perimeter."
"What are you—" Phobos started up, hissing now.
AaQar placed his hand on his shoulder and pressed him back to the rocky ground. "Just watch and remain still. Your cadre mates will be fine."
"You don’t even know which ones they are," he whispered fiercely. "They’re in the middle—"
