Tournament of Losers (16 page)

Whatever they did, Rath could happily watch Tress the entire time. His breath caught on the sharp, hard pain twisting in his chest. He'd vowed not to think upon it, because there was little point, but the unhappy fact loomed all the same, waiting for a chance to foul his good mood with reality.

Enjoy it while it lasts
was a common utterance in Low City. Because nothing lasted forever, especially the good things. But enjoying Tress while he could wasn't going to make it any easier when he finally lost and went back to his ordinary life, and Tress inevitably drifted away to marry whoever won his hand in the tournament.

He startled when Tress abruptly turned and looked at him, and drew a sharp breath as Tress strode up and grabbed his arms, squeezing gently. "What's wrong?"

"That's what I was about to ask you," Tress said with a frown. "You look so sad, like you did that day we crossed paths after our fight. Are you all right?"

Rath nodded. "I'm fine, if starting to grow a little chilly. You should warm me up."

With a soft growl, Tress bent to kiss him, awkward with the masks, but searing all the same. They were both panting when they drew apart, and Rath did not even care about the ribald comments and cheers being tossed at them. "I think we should adjourn to a private party."

"I agree completely," Rath replied, and yelped as they moved so quickly that his wine cup went tumbling from his fingers to be rapidly lost in the crush.

Back on the street, Tress pushed him up against a bit of wall and tore off their masks, taking a hungry, toothy kiss that made Rath painfully aware that his pants were far tighter than he usually wore them. He pushed Tress back, if with greatest reluctance, and hissed, "You're going to get us arrested for obscenity. Behave."

"Fine, fine." Tress took his hand again as they headed back to their room for the night.

Rath's head was spinning from wine and dancing and illicit kisses. Tress made it far too easy to forget all the things he should be worrying about, made it seem as simple as breathing to banish the rest of the world and focus only on them. On stripping the clothes from Tress's body and kissing every strip of skin he could easily reach along the way. On letting Tress push him down into the soft bedding and have his every wicked way, because the only thing better than sinking deep into Tress's body and holding him close was the way Tress fucked him like he never intended to let Rath go, never wanted to be anywhere else.

They finally collapsed in a sweaty, messy heat, and Rath only grunted the barest protest when Tress plastered himself against Rath's side. "I'm not going to have any energy for whatever they're subjecting me to tomorrow."

"You'll be fine. I have every faith." Tress nuzzled against him. "Just watch, you'll win the whole thing."

"I will not," Rath grumbled, fighting the stinging hurt that rose up. Why was Tress so excited to see him doing well? Why didn't he want Rath to lose? Wasn't he at all upset that eventually they'd have to end their relationship? Did he care so little that if Rath won he'd marry someone else and they'd be driven that much further apart?

Rath cut the thought off with a soft snarl, grateful that Tress did nothing more than grumble in his sleep.

Stupid. They were having an affair, the sort of fun that was meant to be temporary. As sweet and fun and damnably endearing as Tress was, they both knew this would never last. Tress was probably just happy for him that he might have a promising life ahead of him. Who wouldn't want to become a prince?

Except Rath had no desire to be a damned prince. If he had to start over in a whole new life… he'd rather it be because Tress wanted him there.

But Tress didn't, or he wouldn't be so happy that Rath might win the tournament.

So, fine. He would work harder at simply enjoying the moments, make certain he lost the next challenge, and that would be that.

It was still a long while before he was finally able to fall asleep.

Rath could barely keep his eyes open. The downside to having an ardent, addictive lover was that sleep seemed negligible right up until he walked around in an exhausted daze the next day. He was old enough to know better, but where Tress was concerned, he seemed to have no sense at all.

He jerked, nearly toppling, as someone walked by him close enough to slam into his shoulder. Rath didn't even bother looking; he could smell Jessa's cloying perfume.

The other competitors had already set out on their challenges, the royals saved for last, as always. Rath felt like a griffon in a fighting ring.

Instead of Lord Sorrith, a huge, burly man with black-brown skin and a long, gray-threaded beard stood before them and boomed out, "Merry morning, competitors! I hope you're ready to work those muscles. Today is not going to be a light day of shopping for you! I am Master Montague, Seneschal of Castle Salvare, and it is my honor to present you with your second challenge: the Heart of Gold Challenge!"

Why had he expected it to be something
less
ridiculous sounding than the first one? What did a Heart of Gold Challenge entail? Who could perform the greatest number of good deeds in a single day?

"For this challenge," Montague continued booming on, "you are to travel down the temple path to the Faded Temple and there complete the three tasks given to you by Their Most Holy Eminence. Once your tasks are completed to their satisfaction, they will bestow upon you a token, which you are to bring back to me. Remember, competitors—swiftness is not always the most crucial element. How well you perform the challenges, the choices you make, count for much more than finishing quickly. The two lowest-scoring individuals will be removed from the tournament, and the remaining six will continue on. Any questions?"

Rath shook his head, glancing surreptitiously around at the other competitors. They all looked as exhausted as he felt, and most of them looked confused. Definitely out-of-towners, though the clothes had already given that away. He yawned as Montague explained the temple path to those who did not know it.

About a two-hour walk south of the city was the oldest temple in the kingdom. It had begun life as a simple lighthouse to warn ships of the nasty stretch of rocks that vanished completely up around Salvare. Over time, it had become first a small temple, then a great one, then a famous one. People from all over the world came to see the Temple of the Eternal Light of Fate.

Most just didn't know that the way to it was a long, rocky stretch of road simply called the 'temple path' by city folk, though it probably had some official name like The Path of Light. The royal temple in the center of High City was the seat of power for the followers of the Holy Fates, but the Eternal Light Temple, also called the Faded Temple because the dark stones from which it was made had turned pale gray over the years, was the second-most powerful.

It was also, in case they'd managed to overlook that part, a
two-hour walk.
On a good day, when the road wasn't especially busy and packed with foreigners and vendors and thieves and the occasional wild griffon desperate for food.

A few minutes later, the competitors were released, and Rath made certain to walk slowly in front of Jessa, who finally swore loudly and shoved him to the side, then tramped down the stage steps and bolted toward a horse that looked obscenely expensive, even for a horse.

Most of the others were mounting horses as well. Rath and the other competitor from the city were the only ones who would be walking.

At least he was guaranteed to lose the challenge. He waved at the other competitor, Sarie, if he recalled correctly, and then lingered a bit to see if he could see Tress in the crowd. But as before, if Tress was there, he wasn't where Rath could make him out.

Giving up, he let his eyes drift to the ominous silk screen at the top of the stands, heart twisting in his chest. What would Tress say or do if Rath
did
marry the prince? Fates, he was letting his damned affair and this stupid tournament get into his head.

Laborer. Occasional whore. Poor commoner. He wasn't anyone, tournament or not, that a prince—or a beautiful, confounding lord—would ever want to marry.

Turning away from the stands, he finally headed out and began the long walk back toward the city gates, where he could then take the road to the temple, set high on a cliff that made it visible from the highest parts of the city on a clear day.

He paused at the gates to buy food and munched on a belated breakfast as he began the long walk. The ring on his finger occasionally caught the sunlight, flashing in his eyes like some sort of taunt. It seemed idiotic to bother doing the challenge at all. He could go home, find work, return to the tournament in the evening and say he'd failed.

But if he was going to lose, he wanted to lose honestly. That sounded stupid, but the point remained: he wanted to lose because he'd lost, not because he hadn't even tried.

Rath finished off his pie and licked his fingers, fished out a kerchief to clean them and wipe his mouth. Sea air rustled through his thick hair, carrying the scent of salt and sand, clean air that did not smell of even a whiff of city stench or fish.

The road was busy, but not unbearably so, with people heading toward the temple and others returning from it. He picked up a tune from a passing woman and began to hum it, then whistle.

He'd just started to enjoy the walk despite himself, when the sound of crying caught his attention right before someone grabbed him. "Sir! Good sir! Won't you help me?"

Rath turned and caught the woman who stumbled into his space. "What's wrong, good miss?"

"My brother got angry and left me, and my ankle is in bad shape. I need to reach the city, but…" She sniffled. "Would you be kind enough to help me?"

"Of course," Rath replied and reached into his pouch for a clean handkerchief. He handed it over. "Do you have any belongings?"

She sniffled again, nodding toward a small tree and some scrubby bushes where he could just see a worn, faded pack tucked beneath them. "It's over—" she stumbled as she tried to take a step. Rath reached out and caught her, held her close, and helped her over to the tree. Once they reached it, he slung the pack over one shoulder—then shook his head and set it down again. "I'll carry you on my back. That's easier than you overstraining yourself on that ankle."

"Oh, no, I couldn't—"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "You don't look any heavier than the crates and sacks I sling around most every day, and your pack weighs next to nothing. Come on, up you go." He pulled the pack on so it rested against his chest, then knelt so she could climb on his back.

"What's your name?" Rath asked after a couple of minutes.

"Brina. You are?"

"Rath, pleasure to make your acquaintance." She didn't say anything in reply, but in her position, he would be completely out of words, too, so Rath filled the silence with some of the bawdy songs they sang at the docks, and she was still giggling when they reached the city gates a half hour or so later.

City guards came rushing over when he beckoned and were happy to help her from there. Rath tried to refuse the little hand-carved good fortune charm she pressed on him in thanks, but at last gave in and, with a parting wave, turned around and once more headed back down the temple path.

He got much farther the second time, at least halfway, when he heard someone crying for help and saw a small cluster of people standing at the edge of the cliffs that had begun to line the left side of the path as the road curved up toward the towering temple.

Frowning, Rath joined the cluster, heart dropping into his stomach as he saw a boy of ten or so years clinging to the side of the cliff. The drop wasn't necessarily fatal, but broken bones were close enough for most. "You all right, boy?" Why wasn't anyone doing anything?

"I can't climb up. I was trying to get my jacket when I dropped it, and I fell, and now I can't climb back up." He looked up at Rath with pleading eyes. "Do you have a rope?"

Rath shook his head. "No rope. Hang on." He shucked his jacket and tried to improvise a rope with it, but it fell a little too short of reaching the boy. He sighed and pulled it back, then removed his pouches, tucked his coin purse into his shirt, and left everything else bundled together by a large rock at the edge of the cliff. Hopefully, nobody would run off with his belongings while he was doing something stupid. "Watch my things," he snapped at the nearest of the gawking idiots. "Or Fates See you suffer the same." He drew a deep breath, then swung over the edge of the cliff.

"Sir, no—" One of the other men bolted over to him. "You should go back and find rope, or hasten to the temple to seek it out. I was about to do the same—"

"You should have done it immediately, not dithered while the boy grew tired," Rath snarled, then started to slowly work his way down the rough, jagged cliff face. He was going to heave up his breakfast. He closed his eyes, took several more slow, deep breaths, and tried to think about anything but the fact he was clinging to the side of a damned cliff.

When he was as not-terrified as he was going to get, he resumed climbing down until he reached the boy. Looked up, immediately felt nauseous and dizzy again. Rethought his original plan. "I think going up is probably a bad idea because there's no way I can carry you without both of us falling. So let's climb down instead, all right? I'll go first, guide you down. What's your name?"

"Yuri."

"All right, Yuri. Here we go." It took what felt like hours, but bit-by-bit they made their way down. Rath's heart stopped when the boy slipped, and it didn't really calm down even when he stabilized.

Then Rath slipped, and terror filled him, so cold and sharp that it drove out everything else—

And he landed on his back in the sand, hard enough to knock the wind right out of him. When he could finally draw a shuddering breath, he gingerly tested his limbs, eyes stinging with relief when everything worked properly, and the worst he seemed to have was a sore back. Standing, he finished guiding Yuri down.