Underlord (Cradle #6)(60)

“And after that?” Lindon asked. He had intended to distract Yerin, but now he was getting drawn in.

“After three rounds, we’ve whittled it down to eight fighters,” she said. “From there, they fight solo matches, one-on-one. Everybody who makes it into the top eight gets the mark of the Uncrowned. It's like a tattoo of a broken crown, and it's unique in all the world. Anchors to your spirit, so it can never be removed. Somebody wants to fight you, you show them that, and they'll think twice. On top of that, you get personal lessons from a Sage.”

“Not a Monarch?”

Yerin's head jerked back as though he'd slapped her. No, if he'd slapped her, she wouldn't have budged an inch. “You think Monarchs are like dirt farmers? If one or two of them show up to watch, and you hear a whisper of their voice, you'll be lucky. Add to that, Sages don't take disciples, so this is a once-in-your-life chance.”

At Lindon's look, she added, “Most Sages. You can’t pass on Sage techniques, but they’re still peak Archlords. With my own eyes, I’ve seen my master turn down land, cloudships, Remnants, secret Path manuals, and a fistful of marriage proposals from Ladies who wanted his word on their techniques.”

Yerin pulled her hand away, setting her sword aside. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and she was moving her hands when she spoke, eyes sparkling. Like the Yerin from yesterday.

She continued without his prompting. “That’s top eight. Now, top four? My master talked about top four, but he scraped himself to the bone making it to the solo rounds at all. The honor and glory from top four are more than nothing; they’d stretch your name all across the heavens.”

“Honor and glory are—” Lindon began, but she cut him off.

“Not your sorts of prizes, that’s a truth. See if this doesn't light a fire in your shoes: the top four each get a gift from all the other teams. Seven gifts, each one hand-picked with your name on it. Not even mentioning that everybody who has ever made top four in the Uncrowned King tournament has ended up as a Sage, a Herald, or ascending to the heavens.”

“What does the winner get?” Lindon asked. He realized he was leaning forward, waiting for the final prize.

Yerin leaned back against the stack of pillows behind her, folding her arms. “You're asking me, but who am I supposed to ask? Sure as the sun rising, they get something worth burning your own soul for, but I don't know what it is. And I'm not likely to find out.”

Lindon's breath stopped. Had she given up? Did she expect to die before the tournament?

“First place is just a dream,” she went on, and Lindon started breathing again. “Akura Fury won one year, and he's a legend. Reigan Shen won, and he ended up as a Monarch, though that was an age and a half ago. First place is for freaks who were born eating Truegolds alive.”

“I’m surprised to hear that coming from you,” Lindon pointed out. “Why fight if not to aim for victory?”

“Victory is making it to the solo fights at all. That's as far as my master made it, and he was older than me when he did. If I pushed that far, he’d be...I mean, I'd...”

She ran a hand roughly through her hair. “Ah, bleed and bury me if I know what I mean to say. Too soon for me to be dreaming about eighth, anyway. I've got a long trail to walk before I'm the eighth strongest anything in this Blackflame corner of nowhere.”

“Underlord is the first step,” Lindon said, as casually as he could manage.

Yerin nodded along. “Yeah, and you've got a wall in front of you, that's sure and certain.”

“Me?” He’d been trying to keep her from realizing how difficult her journey looked; he hadn’t expected her to turn it around on him.

“Somebody stitch your ears shut? That prince and his...crazy bodyguard, or whatever she was...they were after you. Don't want you to make it to Underlord, I'd say, though I couldn't tell you how the prince of another country heard your name in the first place.”

Someone had directed them to him specifically, but he didn’t know anyone who had contact with the Seishen Empire. It could have been Akura Charity, but she wouldn’t need to act through surrogates.

“They failed,” he said. “Next time I see them, I'll be an Underlord.”

“You sound sure and certain, but they knew where to find you. Best make preparations for them to pop up at the worst time. And I...” Her face fell. Her gaze grew long again. “…you might be walking alone this time.”

Lindon spent a long moment wrestling with his thoughts, trying to figure out what to say. Dross stayed quiet and let him think, for which he was grateful.

What does he tell her? Does he say he can't go on without her? Or how there was no need to worry, because they'll make it?

He realized she had returned her hand to her sword, and he had never moved his. His fingers rested on hers.

She looked into his eyes again. He couldn't read anything from her expression, but she was waiting for him.

[He is truly an artist when it comes to lurking outside doorways,] Dross said. [Do you think he’d teach me?]

Though Dross had to use Lindon's senses, the spirit seemed to get far more use out of them than Lindon did. Lindon felt nothing until he directed his perception backwards and found a presence of pure madra poised outside the tent. There was a train of people, of all different strengths and madra types, stretching out behind him.