//------------------------------// // Chapter 15: Tournament of Freedom // Story: The Last Migration // by Starscribe //------------------------------// Velar wished very much that Starlight Glimmer hadn’t insisted on attending the tournament today. He'd tried to convince her it wasn't worth seeing, tried luring her away with promises of the library or trips to tour the other cities. But she'd somehow heard just how important the tournament was. Once placed on the path, Starlight Glimmer could not be persuaded to give it up. If she could've been, she probably wouldn't have been as interesting to him. He could still remember the last time he had sat with her in a stadium. Granted, last time this had happened his father had been putting his life in danger—for that tournament had not been with blunted weapons, but Voidsteel and fought to the death. At least in this fight no one was expected to die, and the fate of the empire was not about to turn. Starlight Glimmer’s attitude was different too. Last time she had been a stranger, obviously frightened of Accipio and the consequences her mistakes might have for their relationship with Equestria. She had barely been off her ship for an hour before wandering into the Grand Arena to sit in the imperial box and watch the fate of both nations turn. The pony sitting beside him on the hastily-erected wooden benches barely seemed like the same person. She didn’t look upset, didn’t look on the edge of anger or vomiting. She’d even found herself one of the colorful wraps many birds were wearing to support their houses, albeit hers was not in the color of any house. Given her position as ambassador for Equestria, it would’ve been improper for her to support one house over another in these games, which she had recognized without needing anyone to explain for her. His father had been right when he said that all ponies were like females, constantly jostling and politicking with words instead of claws. “So explain it to me again,” Starlight said, tossing the remains of another vegetable kebob into the bin with her magic—perfectly accurate, as always. “Slaves can earn their freedom in this tournament, but why would they want to? You said that you have to pay them. They can just buy themselves free, can’t they?” Velar looked away, a little awkwardly. “Well… yes. Easier for some than others, though.” He kept his voice down in the royal box—the “stadium” was a set of wooden benches this year, raised as high as something might be at a youth’s academy. Most birds were watching from low clouds, which filled the sky with openings periodically to give them a view down to the stadium. That meant most on the benches weren’t birds, but slaves. This was their tournament, after all. The clan lords each had boxes though, one at each of the four cardinal points. Now that there were only four clans, it was easier to make separations like that. His father and mother were engrossed in conversation, but still these kinds of questions weren’t polite for important company. As often as Starlight Glimmer demonstrated she had mastered one griffon guideline, she would ask something like this, and show how ignorant she was in others. He whispered, wings shifting uncomfortably at his sides. “Every slave has a price of freedom—based on their age, and their species, and sex. But they get paid based on the work they do. One tenth what a regular worker would make.” “It’s too high?” Starlight guessed, bitterness in her voice. “They don’t have any other way of escaping?” “Some don’t,” Velar agreed. “Suppose a scribe gets buried in debt and is sold as a slave to pay it. Scribes make good money—odds are, she’d be free in a year, if she saved. More if she didn’t. But those down there aren’t scribes. They’re ditch-diggers, laborers. It might take then ten years to earn their freedom, and that’s assuming they can hold on to everything they earn.” “Oh.” Starlight fell silent, brooding as she watched the various battle lines drawn out. There were six little circles on the ground—room for the many lesser contests that would lead to the final event. He could just make out the mass of slaves assembled behind the seats on the other side—wearing red, for house Vengeance. His own house’s slaves would each wear something green, just as Valor would wear orange and Victory blue. “There’s nothing sinister about it,” Velar continued. “It’s just… one small consequence of our history. Griffons have always believed in the right of blood above everything else. When you’re charged with a crime, you can fight to prove you’re innocent. Same thing here—if you’re a slave, you ought to have the right to take your freedom.” Starlight shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to him, edging just a little distance away. There was a strange expression on her face, a mask. She got this way whenever she wanted to argue. Eventually, she forced herself to look back at the arena. “And nobody dies anymore, right? They’re just fighting for… sport?” “Yeah,” Velar said, though he felt a little guilty as he did so. “Well, nobody’s supposed to die. Each stage of the contest has different rules. First round doesn’t even have weapons—it’s a contest of strength. Get him out of the arena, and you win. Only time I ever saw anyone die that early was a minotaur…” He trailed off, remembering the brutal day. It had been the first time Velar had ever seen a person die. There had been so much blood… “After that?” Starlight prompted. “After that, the winners get into teams. One of each race.” He went through the details. The contest was complex, with different abilities tested at each stage. In that way, this arena was very much like the griffon religion. Any victory was possible, so long as it was earned. It was also officiated like a religious service, which is why his father rose at that moment. He cleared his throat and looked to Starlight. Her horn began to glow—obliging his request. The emperor had asked her only the night before if she would consider helping make up for the inadequacy of the arena with a little pony magic. In an earlier age, they never would’ve dreamed of accepting pony magic for anything, no matter how dire the need. But watching their homeland burn was a harsh lesson. Watching the stores of supplies dwindle by the day was another one. Velar could only hope the other clan lords had been as prudent, and would be accepting pony help in their cities. The gold it cost was exorbitant—but when the food ran out, what good would their gold do them? There was no concern of starvation today, though. Velar could smell food in abundance throughout the stadium. Once every year, the slaves would not be eating porridge and gruel, but the finest they had. The reverse was supposed to be true for the birds who owned them—but that half of the ritual was quietly ignored, with a single small bowl of porridge generally served (and not eaten) at breakfast to fulfill that requirement. “PEOPLE OF ACCIPIO!” Gaius’s voice bellowed out from every corner of the stadium as though there were thousands of him—much more impressive than a simple volume-enhancement spell. It was more impressive than wearing the Voidsteel armor, though Gaius did not have it today. There would be no members of the royal family fighting to the death during this tournament. “Citizens, freemen, and slaves. Honored guests. We welcome you all. “On this day, we remember our unity. We thank the strength of all of you for bringing us here. Your valor, your courage, your diligence. This tournament will take place in lands ceded to us. You will fight as our ancestors did—not in a glorious stadium, but in the dirt. With each event today, you reenact a battle that is sacred to us. Your sweat and blood allow us to remember those who have come before—to remember the pasts we have forgotten. Our ancestors are pleased to be remembered, and Unity is pleased as we bring all things together in one.” Gaius rapped his staff down loudly on the ground, signifying the beginning of the games. Referees began shouting down below—but in truth, the crowd was still more focused on its conversation. At this stage, there were many enrolled who lacked the skill to be worth watching. They would be weeded out in these early events, so that only the most dangerous remained. Velar hadn’t mentioned how this had become a recruiting event for the guard. A laborer might take twenty years to buy their freedom, but they could do it in three as soldier. Not this time, though, Velar thought, as he scanned the lower ranks of the arena. He didn’t expect to see army recruiters down there—but he recognized them in one camp. Victory’s lower box was filled with them, a retinue almost as big as it would’ve been back home. Or maybe these cramped wooden seats only make me think it is. Even so, he didn’t see a single bird from any other clan, not even his own. They just didn’t have the gold to spare paying troops they didn’t need. What are you thinking, Victory? He leaned to one side, waiting for his father to notice him, then gesturing with a wing across the way. “What do you make of that, father?” Gaius made an uncomfortable sound, eyes narrowing. He immediately glanced to the same position in front of Vengeance, but found the box filled with more slave onlookers. They were packed in so close down there that many were sitting in the place reserved for the legs of the watchers above. Given the quality of the fighters below, it seemed more likely anyone who died here would be suffocated by bodies, not beaten with a blunted sword, or gored by a minotaur horn. “I recently heard Victory has suffered a crop failure—the land was too damp for their corn,” Guinevere whispered. “Seems a strange time to be recruiting soldiers.” “Or the best time.” Gaius turned away, gazing back down at the contest grounds. “Grain already costs more than the pay of common birds. Without firearms, Victory may hope to overwhelm its enemies with numbers again.” It was a painful thing to think about. Velar withdrew, returning to his seat beside the pony ambassador. Starlight seemed concerned as she watched him, though her tension from the moments before was mostly gone. She kept glancing back down at the fighting, as though checking to be sure the slaves weren’t killing each other. They weren’t, obviously. The wrestling would go on for hours. “You noticed something you didn’t like,” Starlight said, as soon as he sat back down. “What was it?” Velar looked away. “Internal matter. These events are… a chance at glory for the great clans as well as the slaves who compete. You can see those empty rows in the front of each section. Those are for the slaves who lose. The clan with the mostly empty rows will be the winner—normally, father provides training for interested slaves for months before one of these. Sometimes a slave will practice for years to be able to compete—even losers who stay in until the end can bring honor to the house, and get rewarded. Better jobs, less work, buying a family member owned by another clan. High prizes.” Of course, he hadn’t answered her question. Velar waited for Starlight to stab back with a comment to that effect, but this time she didn’t. “Do you think clan Virtue will win this year?” He shrugged. “Clan Virtue wins if birds have food on their plates.” He lowered his voice a little more, as he had done before when discussing things he knew he shouldn’t speak about in polite company. “If we weren’t already struggling for the gold to keep this empire running, I wouldn’t be against freeing the whole lot of them. But we need the labor, and all those wages… it just wouldn’t work. You can’t turn an empire in a day.” “No,” Starlight said, visibly relaxing. “I guess not.” She returned to her seat, close enough for him to feel her comforting weight against him. What had he said? Ponies were so strange.