One in Ten

A silver band fashioned like a crown adorned the brow of the man who would wear the iron crown.

The silver band was magnificent and exquisite, yet it only made Peturabo feel that the craftsman who had forged it had wasted his skill.

"Who are you?" Peturabo demanded loudly.

"Harkon, a prince," Harkon said humbly.

"I know you are Harkon, Lokos's eldest prince. Everyone knows your reputation." His sarcasm was biting. "But in whose capacity do you stand here and speak today? Do you represent justice or fairness, that you dare claim there was no underhandedness in this contest?"

Harkon's courteous demeanor immediately cracked. A gloomy look entered his eyes, and the hands hanging at his sides tightened with force.

"How could I represent such noble concepts?" Rarely, he did not mention the gods of Olympia again. Perhaps Harkon himself knew that he could not win an argument. "I speak with the voice of the people of Lokos, Peturabo."

He gracefully spread his right hand, his silk robe fluttering with the motion. "Every judge pondered deeply before giving the reasons behind the votes they signed with their names. Though I am not a master craftsman like my brother, I possess some understanding of the arts, and I can hear the genuine admiration for both works in every one of the judges' eloquent remarks."

"As for the current result, it is precisely proof that the two of you possess equally extraordinary skill."

"You possess some understanding of the arts. Then are you capable of giving your own evaluation?"

Behind Harkon, Calipha silently rose from her seat and whispered something at the tyrant's side. Few noticed her movement.

"The statue of Hephaestus is kind and dignified, while your work is daring in conception. Both are masterpieces." Harkon stared at Peturabo as he spoke, then waved a hand. A servant stepped forward and waited nearby, holding a pottery jar coated in gold lacquer.

He had the servant pour him a cup of clear water first. Holding the cup with both hands, he offered it to Peturabo. "This spring water was drawn from Lake of Hephaestus' Birth in Kardis and delivered by envoys. It is a gift sent from afar by Prince Adolphus of Kardis, kept cool by fans of quartz feathers and snow from the mountaintop, transported in a tall golden vessel. It is specially bestowed upon our glorious victor, the genius Peturabo."

"Enjoy your victory, friend of Lokos," Harkon said, his noble face gleaming with artificial splendor.

Peturabo stared at Harkon. His ears burned, and his teeth clenched tightly.

Glorious? That word did not burn through his tongue? He wants me to acknowledge the victory he deigns to grant me?

Peturabo's mind was more feverishly alert than ever, because the scheme and the situation before him had become far too clear.

Every judge in the hall, every citizen in the streets, even the visiting scholars and envoys, all watched every movement he made.

What was reflected in their eyes was not two static stone sculptures on a platform, but a living performer making his debut before the masses of Lokos.

His talent lay too far beyond the public; his victory was only natural. It was his conduct that would truly be judged, discussed, and recorded in countless eyes.

Mors had foreseen this day. That was why he had not come to teach him sculpting techniques.

Because at this very moment, sculpting techniques did not matter.

"Will you accept Olympia's blessing, honored Peturabo? Or has the goodwill of the people of Lokos somehow offended you so deeply that you would refuse it?" Harkon said.

Yet from Harkon's relentless embellishments, Peturabo caught only disgusting calculation and greed. No matter how often Harkon called him honored, all Peturabo felt was a growing wave of nausea.

He saw two black, bottomless roads opening before him: accept this "blessing" and choose for himself a coffin of power and authority; or refuse the highest-ranking man in Lokos before all these people and plunge into an ocean of infamy, branded arrogant and obstinate.

At some point, Andos had risen from his cushion. His steps were steady, carrying more power than hammering iron or carving stone.

"My brother," the Prince said as he stood beside Peturabo. His voice was soft, not meant for those around them, but only for the few within their circle. "When did you prepare this lavish gift...? Keeping spring water that came from so far away clear must have been quite a burden for Kardis's couriers."

He turned his head toward his sculpture, sorrow stirring in his eyes. "If it was prepared after you visited me... then perhaps the water should be returned to the goddess of Olympia's blessings, reenacting the myth of Hephaestus being born from the water."

Calipha left Dameks's side and joined them around Peturabo. "What do you think? Shall the spring water be blessed at the goddess's fingertips?" Yet she was not asking Harkon, but Peturabo.

"Little sister, I do not think—"

Calipha did not even raise her head. "Today's victor is Peturabo. Then you should not be the one making the decision."

"But I have not won yet," Peturabo said.

He raised his head and killed Harkon's smile with a harsh look. "Today's judges are the citizens, yet I have scarcely seen any citizens come onto this high platform. You say you speak with the voice of the people of Lokos, but I have not clearly heard the voice of Lokos at all."

"Calipha, explain it to me and the tyrant."

He turned beyond the platform and gazed into the distance: at Lokos's houses, the streets divided by those houses, the people carried along those streets, and Lokos itself, formed from countless individuals.

"From those below this platform, I want one person chosen from every ten to come up here."

Peturabo swept his gaze over the spectators, who still did not know what was happening on the platform. In his mind, he calculated their height and strength. His brain told him that these people were no shorter or weaker than he was.

He thought of Mors. Then he thought of the tiny number among these people who were even larger than Mors.

That sudden thought quietly made it easier for him to endure his anger, until he remembered that Mors still had not appeared.

Displeased, he vented his frustration by glaring at Harkon.

"They do not yet know who made these two works, correct?"

He announced loudly, "Then I want to hear their words. I want their anonymous votes."

Peturabo stepped forward, snatched the cup from Harkon's hand, and poured the clear water back into the golden jar holding the water from Lake of Hephaestus' Birth. "A gift brought from afar need not be wasted in the palm of a stone statue. Since it is the victor's prize, let the victor drink it."

"Since this contest was held before the citizens, let the citizens judge it."

After doing all this, he openly sneered at Harkon. "Besides, I can see that the only difference between your so-called slight understanding of art and other citizens' lack of understanding is whether one boasts about it. Since you have come to evaluate it, I do not mind having a few more people judge my stone sculpture."

The boy who had claimed victory said, "I demand a recount."

Harkon turned his head from Andos to Calipha, his eyes full of incomprehension at seeing both his blood relatives standing on the other side.

"We are not prepared," he replied stiffly. "Peturabo, you are making things difficult for Lokos."

Calipha's gaze remained fixed on Peturabo, the hem of her skirt spinning like a flower in the breeze.

Only after hearing Harkon's refusal did she grant her brother a light, restrained smile. "I asked Father in advance. Peturabo is wise beyond his years and understands reason. If he has a request, we should satisfy it."

She looked toward the tyrant in the distance, and the tyrant nodded to her.

Calipha passed Harkon and spoke with the host in the pale yellow robe. Andos had already returned to his cushion, palm open upward as he invited Peturabo to sit and rest as well.

Peturabo swept his gaze through the crowd once more, deliberately noting every person's clothing and face. Then, with barely perceptible disappointment, he sat down with proper posture.

The amplifying device began operating again. As the host launched into an impassioned speech, the people at the scene jostled and pressed together, their eyes shining with excitement as they discussed this newest thing no one had ever heard of.

Though some deeply apprehensive and fearful people tried to move themselves out of the range of selection, even more surged forward, until the host had to repeatedly shout Lokos's rites and precepts, dispatching unarmed guards to maintain order.

"Would you mind if we changed the number to one chosen from every hundred?" Andos asked him. "One in ten... is a little too many."

"Of course I mind," Peturabo said, yet he merely fixed his gaze on the tide of people, examining them closely without rushing out to object.

Andos blinked, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.

After a long while, the boy beside him suddenly uttered a single sentence: "I can recognize a blessing."

He then pressed his lips tightly together, clearly having no intention of saying another word before the citizens' evaluation began.