Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Aurelia
I ’ve never been inside a building so enormous before. The smoothed stone tiers sprawl out on either side of our cushioned benches, rising dozens of rows above us and encircling a span of packed bare earth that could contain the entire imperial palace.
Our cluster of nobles sit in leisurely fashion along the cushions: all eight of Marclinus’s remaining prospective brides and some thirty of the court nobles, with Their Imperial Eminences on a pair of matching thrones in our midst. On the narrower, unpadded benches that fill the rest of the vast arena, the spectators squeeze much closer together.
There must be thousands of figures crammed into this venue to watch the spectacle their emperor has arranged.
I rest my hands against the velvet fabric on either side of me to aid my balance. My gift-brought cure had completely alleviated my fever and aches by the time I woke this morning, but between the earlier starvation and the illness, I expect it’ll take another day or two before my body truly feels well.
My fellow ladies don’t appear to be as daunted by our surroundings as I am. I suppose they’ve attended these arena shows many times before.
At my left, Lady Giralda peers down at her gown’s sky-blue sleeves against the peachy skin of her arms and lets out a disgruntled huff. “I swear this color looked good in my chamber’s mirror. This much sun makes it look wretched on me.”
Rochelle leans forward at my other side to study our companion. “With your complexion, I think you’d do best in pinks or oranges. If you want something really vibrant, maybe a bright yellow?”
Giralda shoots her a cautious glance and then hums to herself. “My mother always discouraged yellow. ‘Too sunny,’ whatever that means. I’ll have to try it sometime.”
None of us mentions that we have no idea whether we’ll actually get the chance to add to our wardrobes again—or if Marclinus will cull us first.
One of the palace staff comes by with a carafe of wine and a platter of goblets. Rochelle hesitates before reaching to take one. As she cups it between her hands, she lets out a shaky laugh. “After the past two days, I keep thinking I’ll still be punished if I take any food or drink.”
I offer a crooked smile. “That kind of lesson sinks in fast.”
“Yes.”
Her expression when she peers down at the wine turns so desolate it wrenches at me. I didn’t check on my friend after dinner last night to make sure she was recovering well. Maybe she’s not feeling at her best either.
If so, it doesn’t seem wise to draw attention to that fact in public. Instead, I opt for potential distraction, lifting my chin toward the immense yard below us. “Does Emperor Tarquin hold these exhibitions often?”
Rochelle blinks out of her momentary daze and nods. “Once every month or so, I think. I only happen to be at court when they’re held a couple of times a year. It’s quite a spectacle.”
Something about the way she says those words makes me tense up inside. I’ve gotten a sample of the sorts of spectacles the emperor and his heir enjoy, and I can’t say I share their tastes so far.
Marclinus is in his most energetic form today. He ushered us all off on this trip into the city with jovial comments that showed no trace of concern for the women he deprived. As soon as he sat in his throne, he grabbed the nearest lady to toss her in his lap.
Possibly by design, that lady was Bianca. She looks nothing but pleased to be sprawled across him, trailing her fingers over his jaw and chest, giggling when he leans in to kiss her neck or nibble her ear.
I notice her husband is keeping his gaze fixed very rigidly on the arena grounds.
Lady Giralda sips her own wine and shifts impatiently on the cushion. “When are they going to begin? The stands are full.”
I look toward the thrones and frown as if in thought before lowering my voice. “The emperor looks a little wearier than usual, doesn’t he? Perhaps he’s not quite ready to give the exhibition his full attention. ”
Both Giralda and Rochelle follow my gaze, Giralda letting out a pensive hum.
Before we can talk any further, a man in a bright red jacket and trousers walks into the yard in front of us. He glances toward our part of the stands, and it’s Marclinus who waves his hand in a Go on motion.
The announcer must have an amplification charm, because his resonant voice booms through the entire arena. “Welcome, fine citizens of Vivencia and beyond! Today, our great emperor has ensured that you’ll be awed and thrilled by feats of might and courage. Let us ask for Sabrelle’s blessing for all today’s fighters. May they do our godlen of war proud.”
Even the emperor and his heir dip their heads in respect to the gods, Tarquin flicking his hand through the gesture of the divinities. The announcer does the same before lifting his voice again. “First, some of our most skilled warriors will battle each other. Let them and our Imperial Eminences hear your approval!”
Applause reverberates through the arena, bouncing off the tiered walls. In the bright sunlight streaming through the uncovered roof, several armed figures in leather and chain-link armor stride out from doorways set on the ground level.
My pulse hitches as I realize I recognize one of the fighters. Prince Raul is unmistakable with his brawny frame and cocoa-brown hair, which is drawn back in its usual short ponytail.
Swinging his sword casually, he strolls over to face off against another warrior who’s nearly the same size.
I can’t suppress my startled curiosity. “Is it normal for the princes to compete in these exhibitions?”
Giralda giggles. “Only Prince Raul. He almost always does. He’s very good—obviously, or he’d have been cut down by now.”
A chill seeps under my skin. Is that a real possibility? Surely Emperor Tarquin wouldn’t risk losing his hostage in a bit of entertainment?
Or maybe he’d find it amusing to see one of his conquered royals die in the dirt.
A horn sounds, and the five pairs of warriors around the arena rush at each other.
Blades clang and spiked clubs thump together. Yells break out throughout the crowd in a cacophony that’s impossible to pick apart, but they’re obviously egging one or another fighter on.
The pairs shove apart, circle each other, slash and dodge and stab.
It’s hard for me to drag my attention away from Raul to consider the other battles. Both because he’s the only one I know, the only one whose fate I can’t help feeling some personal stake in—and because he is very good.
Great, even.
Despite his massive body, he sidesteps and lunges with incredible speed. Even at a distance, I can see the muscles rippling through his arms with unleashed power.
He only has an inch or two over his opponent, who can’t weigh much less than him either, but he drives the other man back pace by pace with a growing sense of inevitability. When a swipe of the other sword draws a bloody line on his forearm, Raul simply bares his teeth in a grin and pushes harder.
The emperor watches with a serene expression. Does he realize how much of that normally bottled aggression must be actually aimed at him?
Raul isn’t the first to end his fight, though. At the other end of the arena, one in the pair of female warriors heaves her rival to the ground. She plants her boot on the other woman’s chest and aims her sword at her opponent’s throat.
More cheers blare from the stands. Through the furor, the announcer declares the fight in her favor.
For a second, I think the winner might simply walk away, leaving the other woman bruised, bleeding, and beaten but alive. Then Marclinus leans around Bianca toward a metal fixture on the arm of his throne, which has an amplification charm of its own.
His voice peals through the arena. “Let’s see this fight properly ended. Don’t hold back on the losers. We came to see the strong conquer the weak: blood, guts, and all!”
His eager tone makes my lungs constrict, but apparently plenty of his citizens agree. A louder roar sweeps through the building.
The woman adjusts her grip on her sword with a flourish and plunges it through her opponent’s neck.
Raul doesn’t wait for a similar admonishment. If he’s been participating in these shows regularly, I suppose he already knew what to expect.
The second he’s knocked his rival’s legs out from under him, he’s springing at him. He kicks aside a jab of the other man’s blade and slams his own sword deep into his opponent’s chest.
As the other man’s body goes limp, I restrain a wince. At least it was a quick death.
Which apparently isn’t enough for the voracious imperial heir. When one member of another pair starts to falter, staggering between bashes of his attacker’s club, Marclinus speaks into his amplification charm again. “Make him dance! Let’s see a real show.”
With one smack of the spiked club and another, blood sprays over the dusty ground. My wobbly gut lurches. I avert my gaze to one of the pairs not yet at the outright-slaughter stage.
Rochelle’s hand slips around mine where it’s braced on the bench. She speaks in a murmur so low no one could overhear. “With your dedication, this must be especially hard for you to watch. Pretend we’re having a lively conversation about it.”
I focus my attention on her with a grateful smile. “It is quite the spectacle. Do they always follow the same pattern?”
My friend nods with more energy than the question really deserves. “From what I’ve seen, pretty much. The people know what they like.”
And so do their rulers.
At another thud of a body that I’ve thankfully missed witnessing, Marclinus whoops in approval. I flick my gaze toward the thrones and catch Emperor Tarquin’s lips curved in a thin smile.
When there are only the five winners of the warrior-to-warrior fights left standing, the announcer declares that it’s time for the animals. Several wild beasts I’m familiar with and a few others I’ve never seen before hurtle into the arena with snarls and snorts.
Most of them charge straight at one or another of the fighters. I can only imagine how their keepers have been mistreating them that their first instinct is to attack.
As cries and squeals mingle with the thunder of applause, I turn to Rochelle again. She gamely chatters with me about the sorts of animals we’d consider the greatest threat and which are most impressive to look upon, the strain in her expression suggesting she doesn’t find the spectacle much more appealing than I do.
By the time the exhibition is over, more than a dozen animal carcasses lie slumped on the arena’s grounds along with seven human corpses. Raul has taken a gouge to his lower leg, limping as he heads to one of the doorways. I suppose the imperial medics will heal up the victors.
Those of us who are the emperor’s special guests rise and take our leave through a private exit before the main mass of spectators departs. In the broad street outside the arena, the carriages that brought us have pulled around to collect us.
I move to beckon Rochelle to join me in one, but she’s no longer standing next to me. My steps slowing, I scan the mass of nobles around me.
Her cloud of blond curls is nowhere in view.
Where could she have gone? I veer a little to the side where I last remember her being, searching for her familiar form.
As the other nobles start piling into the carriages, an urgent shout catches my attention from farther down the street. I hurry over and spot one of the imperial guards ushering Rochelle out of a neighboring street.
Her face is flushed, her hands fluttering aimlessly in the air. “I saw a kitten run off that way, and I thought maybe I could bring it back to the palace. I didn’t mean to wander off so far.”
The guard answers in a gruff undertone, but he lets Rochelle continue on alone as soon as we’re close to the carriages. She notices me watching and offers an embarrassed grimace, but there’s a frantic cast to her eyes that makes me hesitate.
“Here,” I say gently, and motion her into one of the carriages that still has room.
We’re tucked in with a few other court ladies, who rave about the excitement of the battles while the carriage rattles through the streets toward the palace. I hold my silence, studying Rochelle from the corner of my eye. The way her hands fidget with her skirts, twisting the fabric. The way she worries at her lip as she stares out the window.
When we disembark within the palace gates, I touch her arm. “I feel like I need a walk after all that sitting. Join me for a stroll in the gardens?”
Rochelle summons a smile. “That sounds lovely.”
I wait until we’re well out of hearing range of any imperial staff, meandering close to one of the warbling fountains. “Are you all right? What happened back there by the arena?”
A flash of panic crosses Rochelle’s face. Her hands ball at her sides.
“I’m not going to judge,” I add quickly in a hushed voice. “Whatever’s going on—I’ll help you if I can.”
She stares at me for a long moment as if weighing my honesty. Then her shoulders sag. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you. I’m stuck either way. If you go tattling to the emperor, it’ll just speed along the inevitable.”
The hopelessness in her voice makes my throat tighten. “What do you mean, Rochelle?”
She ducks her head to gaze at her hands instead. “I thought maybe I could slip away. Run off, pay someone for a ride back home, hide out there until Marclinus has his wife and maybe wouldn’t care anymore about the rest of us who were supposed to vie for the spot…”
But the guard spotted her and dragged her back.
My spirits sink, but I make myself ask the obvious question. “Have you asked about being released from the competition?”
Rochelle lets out a shaky sigh. “Not directly. I talked to my father a bit, and when he was done berating me for not appreciating the opportunity he created for me, he told me he’s heard the emperor saying a refusal to participate will be taken as treason. I just thought—if I wasn’t even here for them to think about me… I don’t know. It was probably stupid.”
What can I say that would provide any comfort? My gift doesn’t show me how to conjure cures for impossible terms set by tyrant emperors.
The best I can tell her is the truth. “I don’t blame you for trying. The trials, everything he’s putting us through… You never asked for this.”
“Neither did you. None of us did. Although some seem happier about it than others.”
Her eyes narrow briefly, maybe thinking of Fausta. Then she shakes her head. “The ridiculous thing is, even if I won, I wouldn’t be happy about it. He isn’t who I want to marry.”
Her phrasing tips me off without her saying more. A pang fills my chest. “There’s someone else you do want.”
Rochelle’s voice drops to nearly a whisper. “There’s a man in the town by our estate… Not noble, but his family have been the main medics in the area for generations, and he’s trained into the same calling. It’s an honorable profession. Father wouldn’t accept it, not yet, but I thought—maybe in a few years, if I haven’t found a better match. If one of my sisters makes a particularly good one. Then he might ease up.”
And there’s no chance of that now. Now her only options are failure and death or success and marriage to a different man.
A rush of emotion wells up inside me—echoes of love, frustration, grief, and anger I can no longer separate apart.
It isn’t fair. But it was never meant to be “fair” for me. Fair for a princess is an utterly different thing.
Rochelle is only a minor noble. She shouldn’t have to put her entire happiness aside over her father’s selfish power play, over the sadistic inclinations of the emperor and his heir.
If anyone should get to break the rules, it’s her.
“Maybe there’s still a chance,” I find myself saying. “Maybe we can uncover a way out.”
I just have no idea what that could possibly be.