Chapter Seven
Three days pass before their suite at the inn becomes unbearable.
Throughout their journey, they've slept in huts swarming with pests, hovels with leaky roofs and rotting timber. More than once, they've had to choose between sleeping on the floor or on mattresses full of bedbugs. By comparison, their suite is remarkably spacious and hygienic. There's even a service bell by the door with which they can call someone to fetch them a meal or draw a bath.
No, it's not their accommodations that Syaoran takes issue with. It's the sense of being trapped that he cannot tolerate. After three days tiptoeing around his traveling companions, a ghost in their midst, his perpetual wariness has developed into acute anxiety. He's never been the sort to stay in one place for extended periods—he and his clone are much alike in that respect, though his case is perhaps more desperate, given his recent imprisonment at the hands of Fei-Wang Reed. Without their daily trips to The Red Band, he begins to feel confined, the walls of their suite inching closer and closer, until there's barely enough room to breathe, and when he wakes from a half-remembered nightmare on the third day after they register for the tournament, he can tolerate no more; he leaves the inn behind to explore.
The scenery is much the same as his last venture outside the inn: metal walkways, whirring machinery, dilapidated buildings. High above, the stone ceiling of the Undercity hangs over him, harsh lights strung in rows like artificial stars.
It's been weeks since he last saw the sky. Even in Fei-Wang Reed's dark prison, he never went so long without catching a glimpse of the sun.
Don't think about it, he tells himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as he proceeds down one of the wider walkways. Vendors selling everything from pastries to jewelry call out, trying to capture his attention, a constant press of noise that serves only to drive him away.
He's halfway to Ryuuo's apartment when he realizes where his feet are taking him. He stops in the middle of a walkway, stricken by the desire to seek solace in the other boy's company, regardless of the consequences. It's a foolish impulse. He'll be leaving this world after the tournament. If he ever returns, it will be many years from now and entirely by chance. Besides, Ryuuo deserves someone better, someone who can support him in his goals. Someone who hasn't been broken beyond repair.
It still hurts to walk away.
Four days later, the tournament begins.
"It looks like we're slated to go last," Sakura says, thumb tracing the edge of the ticket declaring their slot in the first round.
Syaoran nods. It's an advantage, though a subtle one. In waiting until the end, they'll have an opportunity to observe their competition, giving them greater insight into the upcoming trial. They can only guess at the games they'll be facing; any scrap of information they can gather is an asset.
"We'll be in the stands if you need us," Fai says, managing a faint smile as he looks at Sakura.
"Try not to get killed," Kurogane adds.
"Right." Syaoran wants to say more, wants to assure the others of his dedication, but he holds his tongue. The surest way to seem insincere is to offer unnecessary reassurances, and he cannot afford that. Not now.
They split up, Kurogane, Fai, and Mokona making their way toward the viewing area above the arena. The card tables have been pushed back or stowed away for the tournament, replaced by tiered benches padded with velvet, where spectators can watch the games in luxury. Even with the extra seating, there's barely enough space for the audience. Any late arrivals will either have to stand or bribe someone into giving up their seat.
There are more people here tonight than there have been for any of the Spectacles, Syaoran thinks, turning to follow Sakura to the stairwell at the edge of the room, where a pack of attendants wait, handling the last-minute preparations. A woman with wavy black hair reviews their registration forms, then escorts them downstairs, to The Red Band's lower level. "You'll enter through tunnel four," she informs them as they enter a rounded stone corridor. A faint, musky smell lingers in the dim passage, and with a jolt, Syaoran realizes that this is the same tunnel through which he's seen various vicious animals enter the arena. Nausea gathers in his stomach, thick and oily, and he barely hears the attendant's instructions. "There are several pairs ahead of you, so you'll have to wait until your name is called. Once each team has been introduced, you'll return to the tunnel, where you'll be briefed on the rules for this round. Any questions?"
"No." Sakura turns to him. "Syaoran-kun?"
He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "No."
The attendant nods, gesturing for them to join the line of participants near the gate before heading back upstairs to see to the remaining entrants. Syaoran forces himself to walk forward, despite the sudden clenching of his stomach. The crunch of sand underfoot, the play of shadow across the uneven surface of the walls, the light slanting through the iron bars of the gate—everything feels suddenly too real, a manic parody of itself. He drags a breath through his teeth, hands shaking. The walls are too close, pressing in on him, the light ahead pale and insubstantial, and he can't—
"Syaoran-kun?"
Sakura's voice jolts him out of the past, and as he meets her eyes, the sensation of being trapped recedes. Wherever they stand with each other, he has a duty to fulfill, a goal to accomplish. That responsibility grounds him, steadies his hands. "I'm all right," he assures her, moving forward.
They join the other participants at the end of the tunnel and settle in to wait. Five minutes slip by, then ten. As the announcer addresses the audience, Syaoran studies their competition. They've played most of the other teams as they collected money for the tournament, but he hasn't kept track of specific opponents, only statistics, and though he's no longer on the edge of panic, he's too keyed up to recall who they've beaten and who they haven't. We have Sakura's luck, he reminds himself, but it's a hollow reassurance. Luck will help them, but they'll need more than luck to win the tournament, and they've had so little time to practice.
A rattle of chains draws him from his distraction. One of the other gates opens, and the first team steps out onto the stands, pausing in the spotlight for a moment before making room for the next pair, who then move aside for the next, and on and on, a parade of elegantly dressed men and women displaying themselves for a bloodthirsty audience. When the announcer calls Souma's name, Syaoran's eyes flicker to either side of her, looking for Ryuuo, but he finds only a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her left cheek. Of course Ryuuo isn't here, he thinks, blushing as he realizes how foolish he's being. He told me he wasn't participating.
Once everyone in the first group has had their moment in the spotlight, they file back into their tunnel, and the second group enters the arena. Syaoran stiffens as Ryon saunters out onto the sands, a smirk stretching across his blocky face. Next to him, an alternate version of the Ryanban from Koryo does the same, hands lifted toward the spectators.
"I didn't realize the councilman would be attending," murmurs one of the women in line ahead of them. "Seems a bit risky, politically speaking."
"As if that would stop him," says another woman. "Everyone already knows he's corrupt. Him being here won't do much to damage his reputation."
Beside him, Sakura shuffles her feet. "Do you think they're going to be a problem?" she whispers, tilting her head toward Ryon and his father.
"I don't know." Ryon doesn't seem the sort to indulge his grudges personally; when confronted about his false accusations toward Ryuuo, he'd backed down, promising later retribution. But Ryon might hire someone else to make trouble in his stead, and that could be dangerous. "We need to be careful."
Sakura nods solemnly.
The gates on the third tunnel rise, six more teams marching onto the sands. He recognizes a few pairs from previous games, and he spots an alternate version of Chitose, from Edonis, paired up with a soft-featured blonde in a shimmering silver dress. As the last team retreats from the spotlight, Syaoran hears the chains attached to their own gate rattle, the iron portcullis rising. The announcer calls the first team forward, voice echoing strangely against the stone, and even in the shadowed confines of the tunnel, the swell of applause sends Syaoran's pulse thrumming. He takes a breath to steady himself as the next pair steps out into the spotlight, then tenses as Sakura laces her fingers with his.
"Is this okay?" she asks, hesitant in a way she hasn't been since Tokyo.
Syaoran frowns, confused. Why she would ask for reassurance now, when she hasn't required it in weeks? Surely if she can watch the Spectacle without flinching, she can endure a few moments of scrutiny from the audience. But then he realizes she's trying to comfort him, and something fractures inside him. He doesn't deserve her assurances; if anything, she should resent him for being an inadequate replacement for the one she loved.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, withdrawing his hand. "But I can't."
Sakura's eyes dance with a dozen different emotions before settling back into their usual cool neutrality. "Of course," she says, letting her hand drop. "My apologies."
They say nothing more as they await their turn in the spotlight. As the team before them pauses in the middle of the arena, they step out of the tunnel, onto the too-bright sand. Syaoran tilts his head back, searching the crowd for Kurogane and Fai, but the shafts of light lancing down from above leave him half-blind, unable to make out the faces in the crowd, and even with hundreds of eyes watching, even with Sakura standing at his side, he feels alone.
"Hey, Syaoran! Over here!"
His head snaps up, his gaze skittering across the sea of faces, even as the lights pierce his eyes. A flicker of movement catches his attention, and his gaze locks onto Ryuuo as he waves his arms over his head. In the harsh glow, he can make out only the broadest lines of Ryuuo's figure, but he sees the thumbs-up Ryuuo flashes him, and his crippling loneliness vanishes like mist under the heat of the sun.
"Who's that?" Sakura asks, squinting.
"A friend." He lifts his hand in a wave, applause rippling through the audience. Ryuuo's cheer rises above the din, and even half-blind and thirty feet away, Syaoran sees the other boy's grin.
They linger in the spotlight a moment more before turning around and heading back into the tunnel. As soon as they're past the gate, a rectangular platform descends from the ceiling, a quartet of attendants perched on top. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's have one more round of applause for our players!" the announcer yells, prompting a roar of approval from the spectators. The platform continues its descent, touching down on the sand. That must be where we'll be playing, Syaoran thinks, watching the attendants step off the dais and move to the corners, throwing a series of levers. A moment later, the platform unfolds, revealing a grid of translucent white squares. Syaoran frowns, leaning forward, then stiffens as he recognizes the layout.
Sakura glances at him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "What's wrong?"
"I've seen that sort of game board before," he says. "We're playing Trick Tile."
