Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Raul
L ively music flows through the sunlit fields outside the palace walls. Thousands of Darium citizens from Ubetta and the neighboring towns have flooded the terrain, chattering and laughing, waving streamers of imperial purple and hollering the emperor’s praises.
But not only the emperor’s. As I’ve prowled along the edges of the area cordoned off for the court nobles’ use, I’ve heard nearly as many voices calling out blessings and gratitude to Empress Aurelia.
Every time, I have to hold my expression in its careful nonchalance, as much as I’d like to grin. The buoyant enthusiasm for the woman I adore—the devotion she deserves from everyone whose life she touches—has nearly washed away the horrific images of her clambering through that patch of vicious vines two days ago.
Her whole dress was splattered scarlet by the end. It took all my self-control not to charge in and carry her up the side of the damned hollow rather than watching her swaying steps.
I may be tutoring her in combat, but I’m learning all kinds of lessons from her in the patience my parents fretted I’d never be capable of.
She still managed to give off a perfectly serene air as she handed over most of her collected bounty to the needy families whose neighbors called them forward. She looked like a godlen brought to life—a moving, breathing manifestation of the divinity of peace.
I already knew she was incredible, but watching that demonstration, I could believe she really will conquer the entire empire through the sheer goodness of her heart. Clearly an awful lot of Darium’s common folk were equally affected.
Even now, in a new airy dress of dove gray, she’s standing at the edge of the imperial area, beaming at a couple who’ve approached and resting her hand briefly on their young daughter’s head as if in benediction. Her guards remain poised on either side, braced to leap in at any sign of threat, but Aurelia shows no sign of concern.
This is the role she’s meant to fulfill. Not a lesser princess bullied and tormented at the emperor’s whim, but a ruler in her own right, one who leads through respect and honor rather than brutality.
A few months ago, I’d have said that idea was a fanciful dream. Now…
Even though I can’t risk ambling close enough to hear her words, even though I may never get to caress her skin or summon her sighs again, more faith is stirring in my chest than I’ve felt in my entire life before.
In the midst of our reserved area, Marclinus hops up onto the temporary dais and claps his hands. The amplification charm he’s donned pitches his jovial voice over the entire festival grounds.
“We’ve had a wonderful time celebrating with you all these past days! I thank every one of you for your joyful welcome. My court and I must return to the palace for the afternoon to see to the well-being of the empire, but you may continue to partake of all the refreshments and entertainments through nightfall. We look forward to joining you again tomorrow.”
Thank the gods. I might appreciate the affection that’s being offered to my woman, but the extended celebrations that come with the confirmation rites get tiring after a while. And I’d rather not have to listen to one more civilian gushing about Marclinus’s greatness.
We proceed out from under the baking rays of the summer sun into the slightly cooler halls of the palace. Savory smells of the upcoming luncheon feast trickle from the kitchen, but it appears Marclinus isn’t ready to dine just yet. He leads the lot of us into this palace’s hall of entertainments.
There’s a spring to his step that’s a little unsettling. He’s giving off the kind of manic energy I’ve become uncomfortably familiar with in my many years as his foster brother—the kind that usually produces some sadistic idea of “fun.” I drift to the edge of the large room, giving him a wide berth.
Marclinus veers from one cluster of nobles to another, his mouth stretched in a wide grin. His laughter peals through the room with a harsh edge that sets me even more on guard. He taps his fingers against his sides, his gaze darting this way and that.
Something twitches in his expression, and he draws aside one of the footmen. In a matter of minutes, a few of the staff have pushed the chairs and card tables at one end of the room toward the walls, clearing a wide-open space.
I catch Bastien’s gaze where he’s lingering by the dart boards. The tensed set of his mouth suggests he’s just as apprehensive as I am.
Another servant arrives carrying a bundle of fabric he spreads out on a table beyond my view. Marclinus beckons us all over to the cleared area of the room. He tucks his hand around Aurelia’s elbow, tugging her close.
His lips curl with an especially wicked smirk. “My court, I’ve thought up a special entertainment just for us! Why should the commoners have most of the fun, am I right?”
The nobles let out several whoops and exclamations of agreement, but many of the faces around me look wary too.
“My empress and I have put ourselves through tests of mind and might while the rest of you loaf around,” Marclinus goes on in a teasing tone. “And as my wife has rightly pointed out, the other royals in our midst haven’t truly made themselves part of this court. If they enjoy setting themselves apart from the rest of us, I think we should make our resident foster princes at least offer a little amusement.”
A chill condenses in my gut.
I know what’s about to happen wasn’t Aurelia’s idea. She may have made a comment during our trek that prompted Marclinus to separate the four of us and force us to socialize with only the other nobles, but that would have been with an eye to deflecting suspicion.
She’d never have encouraged any course of action likely to do us real harm. Her expression now is perfectly placid, but her hand mostly hidden in the folds of her skirt has balled.
Marclinus is already waving us forward. “Come on now. Let’s see all four of our princes. It’ll be a good test of your own mettle for whatever roles you find yourself in with your royal families.”
All four of us. As I trudge out into the cleared area, my gaze slides to Neven, who’s emerging from the crowd of nobles with a scowl slashed across his face.
He had a hard enough time keeping his cool when it was Aurelia being harmed by Marclinus’s machinations. If it’s the rest of us…
I need to keep a close eye on him.
Bastien and Lorenzo join us, Bastien grim and Lorenzo’s forehead furrowed with worry. Marclinus draws Aurelia off to the side of the open floor, near the table I can now see glints with several weapons: blades of various lengths, a mace, a battle hammer.
The imperial prick motions to the offerings. “You’ll each choose your weapon, and then we’ll have a thrilling melee. The last one standing will be announced the prince of princes and receive a special meal at our luncheon.”
My stomach flips over. I’d rather starve than attack my foster brothers. What fucking madness is Marclinus playing at?
Aurelia glances at her husband. She keeps her tone light and good-humored. “Husband, this challenge hardly seems fair when one of their number is an experienced victor of the arena battles and the others, I assume, have rarely fought.”
Marclinus chuckles. “I suppose those three will need to be strategic and try to topple Prince Raul as a joint effort before they battle it out between themselves. Go on now. Pick your weapons.”
Aurelia’s jaw flexes as if she’s held back something else she’d want to say. I flick my hand by my side in a hasty gesture I learned from Lorenzo, the one she’s warned us off with more than once. It’s okay.
She can’t intervene more without leaving him wondering why she cares that much about our well-being. The consequences for her and us will be so much worse if he ever guesses her true feelings.
I stride over to the weapons table. My foster brothers follow more hesitantly.
“You’d better not think you can get one over on me,” I declare, as much for our audience’s benefit as theirs. “I know exactly how to take each of you down.”
With our backs to Marclinus, I risk a longer chain of gestures. I’ll look after you. Fall when I strike.
I am the only one with much combat skill. Neven has plenty of strength, but he lacks the discipline to be strategic in a fight. Bastien’s main skill is with arrows, his awareness of the air currents helping him judge the best shots. At hand to hand, his missing lung will leave him depleted before he can put up much of an attack.
And Lorenzo has always hated even the controlled sparring of our periodic workouts. He’d rather be sitting in a corner strumming some instrument.
So if we’re going to put on a performance for Marclinus’s enjoyment—and that of however many nobles enjoy seeing us bash and stab at each other—I need to take charge. I can drop them to the floor in a way that looks painful but with injuries more superficial than deadly.
Bastien gives a subtle nod to show he understands. Lorenzo grimaces and replies with a gesture of his own: Be careful.
Neven huffs as if insulted by my bluster, but when he glances at me as he picks up the mace, worry has darkened his bright brown eyes.
“We’ll see what you can do,” he says, waggling the weapon at me. I know he means that he’ll follow my lead.
I pick up a short sword with a thick pommel at the end of the grip. As I step back from the table, I give it a few experimental swings that draw a couple of gasps from our spectators.
Marclinus clicks his tongue, sounding giddy with delight. “Let’s not have any outright murder take place in front of us, Your Royal Highnesses. I don’t want to be making awkward explanations to your parents. Hit hard enough to leave your opponents unconscious or at least incapable of standing up, not dead, or I won’t be able to call it a win after all.”
Wonderful to know he has some standards of propriety. Does he really think we’d have slaughtered each other for his stupid game if he hadn’t mentioned that rule?
Bastien picks up a slim sword that suits his slender frame. Lorenzo grips one of the daggers awkwardly. We eye each other across our misshapen circle in the cleared area of the room.
It’s a strange sensation, finding myself needing to take the lead. I’m used to handing that role over to Bastien with all his older brother airs and cool-headed practicality.
They’re counting on me to guide them right this time. I need to be worthy of their trust.
My stomach knots, but I swipe my blade through the air. “I’m not going to stand around and wait for you to find your guts.”
Then I charge at Neven.
It’ll be easiest to knock him down first—and easiest to avoid any questions about how I’m fending off all my attackers if it’s the other two I have to keep at bay. I dodge the kid’s first tentative swing of the mace, smack him across the ribs with the flat of my sword, and circle him to keep away from Bastien and Lorenzo.
Neven winces at the impact. Guilt jabs through my chest, but the blow can’t feel worse than an actual sword shoved through his flesh if I were really invested in this battle.
The watching nobles start hollering out encouragement and insults, egging us on and wagering on who’ll come out victorious. I focus all my attention on the shifting of my muscles and the thump of my heart. I have to ignore them, the emperor, and Aurelia standing rigidly by.
All the training from my first stumbling lessons with the head of the Lavirian royal guard to the brutal lengths the imperial arena master pushed me to rise up from the depths of my mind. The imagined prickle of sand in the back of my throat grounds me.
Neven whips around as if giving the fight his best effort and lashes out at me again. I deflect his mace with a clang of my blade, nicking a small cut across his cheek at the same time.
With a growl, he heaves toward me. I can’t tell whether he’s purposefully making my intentions easier for me or he’s letting his temper get the better of him like I worried he might.
With a sidestep, I kick his legs out from under him. He tumbles forward to sprawl on his hands and knees. As he rolls over, I aim another kick at his belly—checking my force at the last second so it looks as if it’ll have landed harder than it actually did.
Neven grunts all the same and flails out with his mace. I leap around him and bring the pommel of my sword slamming down on just the right spot on his forehead.
The kid’s arm drops. His eyelids flutter and drift shut as his head lolls with his stupor.
I think I’ve actually knocked him unconscious. I didn’t want to—I just didn’t know if he’d actually play along with the way he was fighting back.
A surge of nausea bubbles up to the base of my throat, but I can’t give in to my horror. I whirl around, my sword at the ready, in time to deflect blows from both of my other foster brothers .
Bastien offers a feigned sneer to offset the anguish in his gaze. “You think you’re so much tougher than the rest of us. We’ll give you a challenge, all right. Come on, Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo’s face is fixed in a distraught expression, but he slices his dagger toward me. They move around me at opposite sides as if trying to throw me off.
Bastien adjusts his grip on his sword, a hint of warning right before he springs at me. Lorenzo launches forward at the same moment.
I duck and spin around, jamming my heel into Lorenzo’s knee and smacking my weapon against Bastien’s wrist. The sword spins from his grasp; blood streaks across his pale skin where I couldn’t help cutting him even using the flat of the blade.
As Bastien scrambles after his sword with his first rasped breath, Lorenzo makes a disgruntled sound and throws himself at me again. It’s too easy to shove him backward, aiming a punch at his chest where his ribs will absorb most of the impact.
I dance around him and ram my elbow into his spine. As he stumbles, I whack the back of his head with my pommel.
A thin whimper seeps from his lips as he falls flat on his face.
I didn’t hit him hard enough to really rattle his brains, but his body goes totally limp. Good man. He understands the real challenge is in the performance we give, not any actual battle.
Bastien is already sprinting at me again despite the wheeze reverberating from his chest. “You asshole!”
“I do what I have to do,” I snap at him, channeling my anger at Marclinus into the words.
It only takes one swift swipe of my leg to knock Bastien’s feet out from under him. He gasps and lashes out with his sword, drawing a shallow scratch across my side .
With a forced snarl, I wrench his arm aside and smack his head in turn.
Again, I hold back my full strength. Bastien helps by rolling his eyes upward and sagging onto the floor as if I’ve cracked his skull.
My stomach is roiling now. I straighten up and face Marclinus, willing my foster brothers to keep up their act. Willing the emperor to buy it.
The sight of the prick’s smug expression makes me want to slam my sword straight through his skull. My fingers flex against the grip, remembering his victorious smirk when I competed in my first arena exhibition—as if the triumph was his rather than mine for letting me join in.
Remembering how much I wanted to carve open his arrogant face and drowning in the urge to do that right now.
I can imagine it so clearly. I can hear the cries of horror from the crowd, the light snuffing out in Marclinus’s eyes, the blood gushing down across his slackening features.
I tense my legs against the surge of fury, gritting my teeth.
No. I know an attack wouldn’t actually turn out like that.
The guards right behind the emperor would block me with their magic before I drew a single drop of blood. Then it’d be mine spilled all over the polished floor.
I have bigger dreams now that I’m not willing to give up.
So I stand still and rigid while Marclinus begins the round of applause. “Nicely done, Prince Raul. You shall have your prize.”