When Copper Suns Fall (11 page)

Even if I had to face thousands of
contenders.

If they wanted to use me as an example, then
I planned to use them as my pawns.

Snickers and hisses came from the kids
sitting behind the stage. I stared straight ahead. I focused on the
microphone, willing my nerves to steady. Somebody whistled. Another
one called me a ‘not too nice’ name, and someone else called me the
runt girl. I turned to see that my admirer was the buck-toothed boy
in the suit from the tour.

“Don’t you look humbled all dressed up like
us?” he said. “Where’s your pretty white suit?”

The girl sitting beside him could be his
sister with her drab brown hair and beady eyes. There were about
three or four kids in their group. His ruffled hair and spandex
outfit meant he’d entered the competition, too.

Oh, get this humiliation over with
already.

I, Castle Hayne city brat, translation dead
and doomed, stood out like an oddball with my purple suit and gold
saber. Luckily for me, Ms. Fuquay, was intrigued with the girl who
used a saber covered in gold cherubs, a relic passed down through
Mother’s family. She’d already offered sponsorship to me. All I had
to do was beat the crap out of my opponent, and I’d be all set.
Easy enough.

Standing at the center of the arena, I
thought this must be how ants felt as they moved along among a sea
of lizards, boots, and wheels. The heat inside my mask burned my
cheeks.

After the most agonizing moments ever, a tall
figure dressed in a glossy, dark green suit trudged up to the
steps. As we stared mask to mask, I fought the déjà vu crowding
into my head again. He, or I assumed it was a guy from the way his
super sculpted body rippled inside his suit, stepped up to the
stage.

He stopped on the other side of the announcer
and made some fancy triangular motion with his sword. It was a
champion’s move, a you’re-so-dead Chela move. Applause roared
around us. After saluting me with two fingers, he shook his long
arms and legs out just before he slung something like a spiked
staff over his shoulder.

Was exhaling an option? How did I get myself
into a situation where I faced someone who could stomp me with one
well-timed move? Jalen said to use my tracking gift. Just don’t let
the Judges know that’s what you did. He wanted to believe I would
be a Tracker like him one day. One problem, though. I wasn’t
chromosomally gifted. I inherited Mother’s seraph-blood.

The announcer, Mrs. Humpledinger was an odd
woman wearing a green blazer, orange blouse, purple pants, and a
bush of burgundy hair to complete the look. She spoke over
microphone squeaks, rubbing a hand across her forehead each time
one squeaked over her voice. Her husky, but dramatic voice was
perfect for announcing the highlight of costing week, the main
reason people came from all over Castle Hayne. They wanted to watch
the current champion defend his title.

“In honor of the 50th annual Costing
Ceremony, I now present the reigning Castle Hayne champion,” Mrs.
Humpledinger said. He stepped forward, the defender without a name;
but he still didn’t remove his mask. Applause thundered around
us.

“We are most excited to introduce a new twist
into this year’s evaluation kickoff. Miss Chela Prizeon, daughter
of esteemed Historian, Doctor James Prizeon, will face our champion
and protector, sponsored by the honorable Governor Winthrope.”

Glancing toward the place where Jalen and Lex
sat, I stilled the bees buzzing around my chest, positioned my hand
on the guard, and prepared to greet my opponent.

Traditional rules used to require our faces
be visible during the greeting. Champions had the right to remain
nameless and stay hidden behind the mask. But the reigning champion
standing there imitating moves with an iron staff, chose to hide
his face. No one knew what the governor’s title holder looked like.
He had entered the competition last year while hidden behind a
mask, and finished it the same way.

“In this champion’s match, there will be no
bloodshed. That will be reserved for the next rounds.” Mrs.
Humpledinger glanced back and smiled at the contenders, her
microphone squeaking. Shaking it, she made the squeals get louder
before they faded.

“Bruises, yes. Broken bones, of course
accidents will happen. One of you is a Tracker pledgee and the
other is, well, unclassified as of this date.” She glanced at me.
“Under no circumstances whatsoever may either of you use any
special gadgetry. Immediate disqualification will follow such
disobedience and your punishment will be severe. Are the rules
clear?” We both nodded.

“The winner is the one cunning enough to
pierce the red heart symbol on your breastplates. And remember no
bloodshed. You must defend the heart without hesitation. Or you
forfeit your sole right to defend our city,” she said to the
champion, and then turned to me. “And your family will lose one
costing card.”

My mask felt as if I were baking inside a
pot, swelling with angry liquids. I wanted to throw it at Suit Boy
and crew laughing at me. “That’s not fair,” I said without
thinking. I could almost feel Father cringing from where he
sat.

“Questions, Miss Prizeon?” the announcer
said, silence closing in on me. I shook my head. “Let us move along
to the contest, then.” More applause.

After saluting each other, we walked off the
stage and down to the grassy area in the center of the arena where
the face off would take place. My opponent strolled out into the
open and stopped at about twenty feet from me. I studied the
champion. Broad shoulders, confident head tilt, a bit of head
shaking as if they felt sorry for me, and something else I couldn’t
quite figure out. Yeah. Definitely a boy.

The moment arrived. The stadium silenced.
Only a crowbot squawked. At first, my hand trembled on the saber.
Uncertainty seized my feet, gluing them into the grass it seemed.
So much rode on this evaluation, and I didn’t want to let Micah
down. I glanced at my opponent stalking toward me. He made a slight
nod. I could only imagine his smug grin behind that mask as I
lifted my saber, working hard to steady it.

“Can a girlish girl like you wound with that
oversized knife?” a boy’s voice said.

“If you can move your big stick, mouthy
champion.”

I was right. The mystery champion was male. I
circled him, wondering what he’d do for my lack of tongue control.
The voice sounded raspy, deep, and familiar. I almost pictured a
face smiling behind the mask.

I flexed my knees, pressed my hips down, and
inched forward to reduce the distance between us. I lunged at him
first. My saber slipped past his shoulder. He kicked out his right
foot, lunged at me, missed my left shoulder blade by a hair. I
parried and tagged the area under his chin.

“Ha! Score one for the girly girl,” I
said.

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” he said and
whipped his staff under my saber. He scooted back and put the
starting distance between us—a personal space all fencers used to
plan and attack.

We moved back and forth for what seemed like
an eternity. At least, until forever reached the parry stage. My
best move, my show off time soon became my embarrassment moment
when, I parried too large a circle and tripped over a rock of all
things for someone to leave on the ground. Laughter from the
contenders sitting by the stage fueled my determination.

My opponent made a move similar to a windmill
and jabbed his saber toward my chest. He was on his game, and
wanted a rough fight. I could play hard all day long. I rolled
backward until I came up to a squat on my feet, stood, lunged
forward, and aimed at his face. The audience and Judges gasped.
Shouts came from the kids on evaluation row. They probably thought
I’d lost my mind. Good. I didn’t want anybody to use the term
“girlish girl” to describe me ever again.

For me, arrogance was never a good thing,
though. He kicked my left foot from under me. I thudded to the
ground and clamped down on my tongue. The pain brought tears to my
eyes. He brought his staff’s sharp end to my throat, clearly
missing the heart on my chest. Did he aim crooked on purpose?

“What are you trying to prove? Give in,” he
said.

“No freaking way.” I circled the saber around
my head, metal from mine clinking on his, flipped my body up in a
single motion, and elbowed his hand holding the staff.

Then it happened again, the something from
Friday night. Oh no. This wasn’t the time or place.

At once, I envisioned the staff dissolving
from his hands to mine. But his weapon didn’t mysteriously zoom
into my hands, though. My power didn’t work that way. Instead, he
stared at the staff in his hands, experiencing a little tickle no
doubt. Big mistake. His hesitation gave me just the few seconds I
needed to attack.

I flicked my saber around his left hand. His
staff flipped into the air and landed by the announcer’s seat just
outside the stage. I didn’t understand how I made these moves. It
was as if a warrior’s spirit had entered me, leaving a rush of
adrenaline in its quest to take my body.

But the champion wasn’t ready to lose.

Spinning around, he elbowed me behind the
neck. I plunged face down into the turf where, he pinned me to the
ground and wrenched the saber from my hand.

A strong wind gusted around us. The crowd
started. He made the mistake of hesitating to glance around. Idiot.
What did he think the wind would do? Send a tip on how not to lose
your title to a girl? I bucked up, lifted him just enough for me to
flip over, and shoved him with all my strength. He rolled backward,
giving me time to stand. I charged toward him, shoved a knee into
his chest, and held him down the way he’d done me.

“Now you give in,” I said with my blade on
his emblem, the sweet spot that determined the winner. “Because
this girlish girl beat you.”

He scoffed. “I think not. You cheated. You
had to take my weapon. The one I took from you first.”

“You shouldn’t have made it so easy,” I said,
listening to the accented way he pronounced the word ‘not.’
Applause roared around us. Smoke bombs gunned through the air. I’d
disarmed and secured my opponent and was considered the winner. I
glanced around but kept my blade in its position. Yolanda Fuquay
and her assistant, Kirkland, trudged over to us. He lifted me by
the forearm.

“Remove your masks,” Kirkland said. I did. My
opponent lifted his, too. Shiny black hair fell loose around his
shoulders, framing gray eyes that studied me with too much
pleasure. Governor Winthrope’s designated champion was Faris
Toulan.

I gasped. “You were the—”

“Congratulations. You now have them under
your spell,” Faris said to me without moving his lips.

My smile faded. I frowned. Daydreaming about
the guy of your dreams was allowed only in private. Or, at least
wait until he’s not standing there covered in mud after getting the
crap beat out of him by you. But I hadn’t been daydreaming, and I
did hear him speak,
in my head.
It was something only those
with angel-blood could do, not chromos.

He bowed to the crowd, smiled with his eyes,
turned, and left the field.

Chapter Ten – Kindred Spirits

Over the next few days, my family tiptoed
around me like soldiers ordered into silence. Wednesday morning.
Only a couple of days were left before camp started.

The scent of soy links and boiled oats rolled
the nerves balled inside my stomach. I dreaded the first encounter
with Audrina since Saturday. No one mentioned the upcoming
Swordfest activities, or Minders Camp. They ignored my bruises and
the grunts I made from all the aches and pains. We ate breakfast in
a melody of clinking silverware. Three taps at the front door
echoed through the silence. Relief in Bermuda Three form had
arrived. Lexa and I planned to spend the day doing best friend
things.

I’d made it through the entire morning
without a single confrontation...almost.

“Don’t worry, Chela. I’ll tell everybody at
school you said hello from Minders Camp,” Audrina said with a
smile.

“Great, and I’ll be sure to bring a rude, new
outcast guy home for you. I heard they’re just your type,” I
said.

“Uh-huh, right,” Audrina said. “Leave it to
you to know all about rebels.”

Before I hit her with a comeback, Father put
down his newspaper. “Enough, girls.” He stared from over the rims
of his glasses. We’d worked hard to avoid each other over the past
few days, especially since I still felt guilty about the Micah
statement. He was always telling me the accident wasn’t my fault,
even though I was just as determined to convince myself that it
was. “How long will you be out?”

“Please don’t do the twenty-question thing,”
I said.

Father had been this way ever since Yolanda
Fuquay’s visit, when we indirectly agreed that I would go into
Minders Camp as her spy.

According to Governor Winthrope’s assistant,
a crooked Thoughtmaster or two had worked their way into the good
ones at the camp. They wanted me to look out for suspicious things
while I served my term. There was nothing to indicate what
suspicious things meant, but I agreed to do my best. I still
couldn’t shake the feeling the two of them agreeing to let me do my
spy thing was somehow linked to Micah’s condition, even more so
than fishing out crooked Thoughtmasters.

“I thought maybe you would stay in today, for
safety reasons,” Father said.

“I cannot sit around like a prisoner waiting
for the death bell.” I gathered my plates. Lexa’s taps increased.
“I have to go.”

“Keep your cellereader on at all times,
please,” he said. I held it up, showing him the flashing orange
light, and walked out before he tried to stop me.

Lexa waited outside the door where she
pointed to her new metallic green unicar sitting in the driveway.
Right away, she lit into me because I’d ignored her messages over
the past few days.