Malik had nearly frozen with fear when he had walked onto that stage to fifty thousand pairs of eyes staring down at him, and almost bolted when his idea to thank the princess had backfired.

But then he had remembered Idir’s claws at Nadia’s throat, and that had given him the strength to speak. He’d called for his magic and it had called back, like a song that built with each verse. He’d learned a lot about his powers in the process—how his tone could change the way an illusion took shape, how he could trick every sense except taste and touch, how he could create a sensory experience as vivid as a trance.

For a single moment, Malik allowed himself to feel the adulation of the city. As far as the audience knew, all he’d done was tell a story very, very well. There were no rules against that.

Good job, mouthed Leila from where she stood with the other family members of the Champions, and that one bit of praise felt better than all the rest combined.

As soon they were back in the wings, Tunde threw an arm around Malik’s neck and ground his fist into Malik’s head. “Somebody’s anxious butt has been holding out on us! That was incredible!”

Malik tensed on instinct, but he forced himself to relax. He and Tunde were friends now. This was what having friends was like.

Tunde called over his shoulder, “Hey, Driss, normal human beings usually congratulate the winner when they lose.”

Driss shot daggers at Malik. “We weren’t allowed to have anyone else on the stage.”

“And he didn’t,” argued Tunde, while Malik shrank back. “Go check it yourself if you’d like; there was no one else on the stadium floor.”

Malik could practically see Driss picking apart the performance in his head, and before he could come to a conclusion that might make things worse, Malik blurted out, “Actually, it was magic.”

The other two Champions stared at him, and Malik’s heart twisted into itself. Stupid, he was so stupid, how could he have told the truth, he had to—

Tunde burst into raucous laughter. “Magic! You hear that, Driss, all your training, yet you lost to sparkles and magic. Too funny, Adil.”

Malik sighed in relief. How lucky he was that the truth of his performance was far more ridiculous than any lie he could have told. Tunde rolled his eyes as Driss stormed off. “Ignore him. He gets cranky whenever he has to share the spotlight for more than five minutes. But seriously, you did an amazing job.”

Malik searched Tunde’s face for bitterness and found none. He had been worried that Tunde’s history with Karina would sour their friendship now that Malik was actively trying to get her attention, but the Water Champion didn’t seem bothered.

“I’m just glad this is all over and we can get some sleep,” said Malik, though sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. Because tomorrow was a nonchallenge day, he planned to use tonight to explore Ksar Alahari after everyone else had gone to bed.

“Sleep?” Tunde shook his head in exaggerated horror. “My nervous friend, sleep is the last thing either of us is getting tonight. After the Second Challenge always comes the Midway.”

“The Midway?”

Tunde clapped him against the back, accidentally hitting the Mark and causing Malik to wince.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

The Midway, Malik quickly learned, was a carnival.

It was hosted every Solstasia by the living Champions from the previous one, and always on the fourth day of the week, hence the name. From midnight to midnight of day four, Earth Day, the entire court engaged in a revel the size of which had not been seen in fifty years, and would not be seen again for another fifty. Only the best of the best among the Zirani nobility were invited.

“By the Great Mother,” whispered Leila, her eyes wide as she exited the palanquin that had brought her and Malik to the fairgrounds. For once, he and his sister were in complete agreement as they stared dumbfounded at the scene before them.

This year’s Midway was on the grounds of Dar Benchekroun, the ancestral home of Mwale Omar. Spun silver hung from the trees like honey drizzled over fried dough, and laughing people buzzed around stalls stuffed with prizes and fortune-tellers promising sweet fates. Oyinka flew overhead, shrieks of delight falling from the lips of those who flew the winged gazelles. Every person was in a costume—some traditional, others risqué, most simply just weird. Thankfully, no one was dressed as a Champion this time.

But the crown jewel of it all was the man-made oasis in the center of the grounds. The water sparkled like a newly polished sapphire as dozens of people danced on a floating dock near the middle. Small boats bobbed through the waves, pulled by braying dingokeks. Just like the chipekwe, Malik had only ever heard of the jungle walruses in stories, and he wondered how the vizier had managed to get so many this far from their natural habitat.

Wait, he was getting distracted. The Midway was incredible, and he was here because all the Champions had to be, but there was no point wasting time if Karina wasn’t here either.

“Come on. The princess should arrive any moment.” Malik strode purposefully toward a large tent where Mwale Omar greeted his guests. Even a princess had to greet the host, so Karina had to come by eventually. Malik’s best bet would be sticking close to the council member for the evening.

Leila struggled to keep up with his long strides. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting strange since this morning.”

There was no way Malik could tell her about his meeting with Idir—it would only distress her, and he was already distressed enough for the both of them.

“I’m just tired,” he lied as they approached the tent. “Remember, tell me if you see Ka—the princess.”

Kill Karina. Save Nadia. No more distractions.

They found Mwale Omar seated on a large divan surrounded by an army of servants holding mountains of food. His face beamed when Malik and Leila delivered their greetings. “Ah, just the Life Champion I was hoping to see! Tell me, are the parties in Talafri even half as marvelous as this?”

Malik shook his head. “The hospitality I’ve received from your wonderful household is unparalleled.”

Mwale Omar laughed, as did everyone near him. Had Malik said something funny? Was he supposed to laugh too? He did just in case, only to realize the others had already stopped. Heat rushed to his face.

It was just a party. A loud, overwhelming rush of a party, but still just a party. If he had survived Idir, he could survive this.

“Why does this boy have no drink?” Mwale Omar snapped his fingers, and a servant thrust a goblet of a sweet-smelling wine into Malik’s hands. Too nervous to deny their host, he downed the whole cup in a few gulps, and Mwale Omar rose to his feet with a booming laugh.

“There’s a boy who knows how to hold his liquor!” The vizier took him by the arm and hauled him toward the fairgrounds. “Come, there are several people you absolutely must meet.”

Malik shot a pleading look at Leila, but she had already been accosted by several daughters of the court, eager to hear about her supposed life in Talafri. The vizier called for another drink for Malik, and this one he drank in two gulps.

It seemed the people Malik absolutely had to meet were every member of the court. Jurists and scholars and artisans and philosophers and so many more introduced themselves in a jumble of names Malik knew he’d never remember, the ridiculousness of their costumes belying the seriousness of their titles. One man introduced himself as the head of the ideonomy department at the university, while wearing nothing but a leopard-print cape with matching trousers and jingling shoes.

However, Karina had yet to make an appearance, and Malik took note of this as he drank another glass of wine.

“Will Her Highness be attending tonight?” Malik asked nonchalantly as Mwale Omar steered him toward a length of stalls, half the court trailing behind them.

The vizier snorted. “Who knows? She was invited, of course, but no one can ever predict where our princess is going to be.” Mwale Omar gave Malik a lecherous grin. “Or who she is going to be with.”

Malik’s face flushed, and he chased down his embarrassment with his third—or was it his fifth?—glass of wine. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No need to be shy, boy. I was quite the hunter when I was your age, and my bed was never cold when I was at the Azure Garden. If you are ever in need of a more discreet form of entertainment, I know all the best spots in Ziran. I still visit a few of them myself.”

“That is—I mean, I . . .” Malik had just met this man’s wife thirty minutes ago, yet here he was talking about visiting brothels with a boy he barely knew. But Malik had promised himself he’d be bolder, so he swallowed his embarrassment and said, “You know how it is.”

The vizier howled. “Ah, how much you remind me of my younger self. Did you know I was the runner-up at my Solstasia?” Mwale Omar chuckled. “Speaking of, will you humor an old man and tell me how you pulled off that marvelous illusion during the Second Challenge?”