And she had won.

She just wasn’t sure how.

III

Rhy was perched on the edge of Kell’s bed, rubbing his collar while Hastra tried to wrap Kell’s shoulder. It was healing, but not fast enough for a ball. “Suck it up, Brother,” he chided the prince. “Tomorrow will be worse.”

He’d won. It had been close—so close—and not just because beating Kisimyr by anything more than a hair would raise suspicions. No, she was good, she was excellent, maybe even the best. But Kell wasn’t ready to stop fighting yet, wasn’t ready to give up the freedom and the thrill and go back to being a trinket in a box. Kisimyr was strong, but Kell was desperate, and hungry, and he’d scored the tenth point.

He’d made it to the final nine.

Three groups of three, squaring off against each other, one at a time, only the holder of the highest points advancing. It wouldn’t be enough to win. Kell would have to win by more than a single hit.

And he’d drawn the bad card. Tomorrow, he’d have to fight not one, but both matches. He pitied the prince, but there was no going back now.

Kell had told Rhy about the king’s request that he keep to the palace. Of course, he’d told him after sneaking out to the match.

“He’s going to have a fit if he finds out,” Rhy warned.

“Which is why he won’t,” said Kell. Rhy looked unconvinced. For all his rakish play, he’d never been good at disobeying his father. Up until recently, neither had Kell.

“Speaking of tomorrow,” said Rhy from the bed, “you need to start losing.”

Kell stiffened, sending a fresh jab of pain through his shoulder. “What? Why?”

“Do you have any idea how hard this was to plan? To pull off? It’s honestly a miracle we haven’t been found out—”

Kell got to his feet, testing his shoulder. “Well that’s a vote of confidence—”

“And I’m not going to let you blow it by winning.”

“I have no intention of winning the tournament. We’re only to the nines.” Kell felt like he was missing something. The look on Rhy’s face confirmed it.

“Top thirty-six becomes eighteen,” said Rhy slowly. “Top eighteen becomes nine.”

“Yes, I can do math,” said Kell, buttoning his tunic.

“Top nine becomes three,” continued Rhy. “And what happens to those three, wise mathematician Kell?”

Kell frowned. And then it hit him. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Rhy parroted, hopping down from the bed.

“The Unmasking Ceremony,” said Kell.

“Yes, that,” said his brother.

The Essen Tasch had few rules when it came to fighting, and fewer still when it came to the guises worn during those fights. Competitors were free to maintain their personas for most of the tournament, but the Unmasking Ceremony required the three finalists to reveal themselves to the crowds and kings, to remove their masks and keep them off for the final match, and the subsequent crowning.

Like many of the tournament’s rituals, the origin of the Unmasking Ceremony was fading from memory, but Kell knew the story hailed from the earliest days of the peace, when an assassin tried to use the tournament, and the anonymity it afforded, to kill the Faroan royal family. The assassin slew the winning magician and donned his helmet, and when the kings and queens of the three empires invited him onto their dais to receive the prize, he struck, killing the Faroan queen and gravely wounding a young royal before he was stopped. The fledgling peace might have been shattered then and there, but no one was willing to claim the assassin, who died before he could confess. In the end, the peace between the kingdoms held, but the Unmasking Ceremony was born.

“You cannot advance beyond the nines,” said Rhy, definitively.

Kell nodded, heart sinking.

“Cheer up, Brother,” said the prince, pinning the royal seal over his breast. “You’ve still two matches to fight. And who knows, maybe someone will even beat you fairly.”

Rhy went for the door, and Kell fell in step behind him.

“Sir,” said Hastra, “a word.”

Kell stopped. Rhy paused in the doorway and looked back. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll catch up.”

“If you don’t show, I’m likely to do something foolish, like throw myself at Aluc—”

“I won’t miss the stupid ball,” snapped Kell.

Rhy winked and shut the door behind him.

Kell turned to his guard. “What is it, Hastra?”

The guard looked profoundly nervous. “It’s just … while you were competing, I came back to the palace to check on Staff. The king was passing through, and he stopped and asked me how you’d spent the day….” Hastra hesitated, leaving the obvious unspoken: the king wouldn’t have asked such a thing if he’d known of Kell’s ruse. Which meant he didn’t.

Kell stiffened. “And what did you say?” he asked, bracing himself.

Hastra’s gaze went to the floor. “I told him that you hadn’t left the palace.”

“You lied to the king?” asked Kell, his voice carefully even.

“It wasn’t really a lie,” said Hastra slowly, looking up. “Not in the strictest sense.”

“How so?”

“Well, I told him that Kell didn’t leave the palace. I said nothing about Kamerov….”

Kell stared at the young man in amazement. “Thank you, Hastra. Rhy and I, we shouldn’t have put you in that position.”