Yechvan had watched with rapt attention as Grask employed the Tandai Illusion to perfection during his opening match of the Thrice contest. The boy’s young human opponent had overloaded his right flank, setting himself up for a crushing defeat. The qince’s second match against a bright blooded girl was just as lopsided, though in that one he used the Soft Mountain approach, pummeling her forces from the center of the board. His third and fourth games ended so quickly Yechvan had missed them, as he’d stepped out to the courtyard for an early lunch. He and Zu were trying their best to stop Ulula from sulking about missing the jinki competition.

  Upon Yechvan’s return, Grask was bursting with excitement. He chattered about his matches with such enthusiasm that anyone might have thought he’d already won the day.

  The preliminary round afforded the young Thrice players around Banx an opportunity to compete against the best minds in the game. With their conclusion, Grask had but to await his draw for the second round, to be held that afternoon. With a good draw, he would sail through to the third and final round of the competition taking place on the following day. If he were unlucky, he would face Ota. While that wouldn’t necessarily mean an end to his tournament run, it would make his path to the finals less certain. He’d need decisive victories in his remaining two games to progress.

  “Are you hungry?” Yechvan asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Grask said, wiggling as though he had to pee.

  Yechvan chuckled. “Relax, would you? You’re making me nervous.”

  “You’re not already? I’ve been nervous all day.”

  “Come on. Why don’t we take a walk so you don’t sit here obsessing over the draw?”

  “Good idea. Let’s talk about something else.” Grask took one final look at the blank board and sighed. “What did you think of the opening celebrations last night? It was too crowded for my liking.”

  “You did invite the whole of Banx to the Inigan.” Yechvan laughed, hoping the boy hadn’t noticed his absence. “You impressed me with your attention to detail.”

  At least three score soldiers had been recognized on the first evening, with more to follow for each night of celebration. The quince must have spent countless hours reading and listening to reports to prepare the list of accolades.

  Grask had grown during the war, mentally, physically, emotionally. He now stood proudly to Yechvan’s shoulder. His body had filled out, leaving behind the lanky boy who was naught but twigs. He’d also grown out his hair, which he wore braided against his scalp—though he would likely have to shave it at the tournament’s end, to honor his inevitable loss to Ota.

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  Yechvan didn’t see Grask beating her. Ota had honed her game brilliantly. Ruthless when it came to Thrice, she’d crushed her opponents in the preliminary round and sent not one but two novices fleeing from the table in tears. She also made it clear that she would be angry with Yechvan for years to come if she traveled to the capital and didn’t have the chance to play against him. So, he’d agreed to a friendly match in his room on the following evening after Solonia descended into the mountains, happy for any excuse to miss the drums and the dancing.

  Yechvan and Grask chatted as they walked the ramparts, but the boy’s heart wasn’t in it. He kept one eye on the courtyard below. When a crowd began to gather, they returned to the entrance for Grask to await his fate with the other competitors.

  Once the names had been written and the board hung, Grask waited for all the others to go before him. Whether out of nervousness or kindness, Yechvan couldn’t tell. The boy was nothing like his father, who would have pushed his fellow participants aside to be the first in line. Grask was coming into his own. He was quiet, reserved, appreciative, congratulatory, respectful—and the greatest disappointment the qish would ever know. Grusk hadn’t attended a single one of Grask’s matches. The qish might be indifferent to his son, but Yechvan was determined to be there for all the boy’s triumphs, and his defeats.

  As the crowd thinned, Grask and Ota met at the board. Their eyes moved from the draw to each other, then back to the board. Yechvan couldn’t see the names from where he stood; his vision was still blurry.

  Grask returned to Yechvan’s side, Ota following in his wake.

  “Good luck, Qince,” she said as she brushed past.

  “You too.” He remained silent and sullen until she was out of earshot. “Bad draw.”

  “Oh, come now,” Yechvan said. “You are but thirteen. You can’t expect to win your debut tourney.”

  He steered Grask towards the market, thinking perhaps some food would cheer him up. Grask relented, dragging despondent feet.

  “You won your first Dubao when you were a little older than me.”

  “So I did,” Yechvan admitted. “Though the competition was far less fierce. But you aren’t me, and thank the gods for that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Yechvan stopped walking and leveled his gaze on the boy. “Zu told me he informed you of my spirits.”

  “It wasn’t his fault, Yog,” Grask said defensively. “I made him do it.”

  “I am not upset,” Yechvan reassured him. “It isn’t a secret, but I don’t tend to share matters so…personal.”

  “I worry about you, that’s all. And it isn’t only me. Zu and Ulula do, too.”

  “I know. And I appreciate your concern, I do,” Yechvan said, patting the boy on the head. “But you needn’t worry about me. Best worry about Ota for the time being.”

  Grask’s chin fell to his chest.

  “Even if she beats you, you’ll have a chance to move on if you do well in the following matches. Who do you play after her?”

  “Tatori.”

  “And then?”

  “Ziggy.”

  “I will peek in on them while you are playing Ota,” Yechvan said.

  Grask was more adaptable and skilled, but not as comfortable with his game as Tatori, who played the slow-to-build Five Nations style, giving up ground early to amass as large an army as possible before descending on her opponent. Yechvan had explained the strategy to Grask seasons ago, but he preferred the counterplay style that Yechvan employed. Ziggy was aggressive; his technique relied on setting his opponents on edge to fluster them from the start.

  As long as his match with Ota didn’t ruffle him, Grask could come out ahead, but a loss sometimes festered in the mind, causing no end of second-guessing and doubt. The contest would be as much a test of Grask’s perseverance as his skill. Yechvan was eager to see how the boy would handle his first public trial.