Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Aurelia
A s I lunge and sidestep, another wave of fatigue rolls over me. My sword-arm wavers, and Raul smacks the blade aside.
His frown looks more worried than annoyed. “You need to keep your weapon steady. Your opponent isn’t going to care about politeness—he’ll be hitting you as hard as he can. Trying to do as much damage as possible before the inevitable.”
While I’m doing my best to prevent the inevitable outcome of the rebel’s death.
This scenario might play out easier if we could convince the prisoner ahead of time that I’m not aiming to kill him, that we’re going to see him safely out of the emperor’s hands. But there are too many things that could go wrong.
We don’t know which of the rebels being transported to the capital I’ll be set against in the arena. We can’t be sure the secret won’t slip out, accidentally or out of skepticism.
And the battle for the rite needs to look real, or someone will suspect foul play.
Which means I need to be a good enough fighter to look as if I’ve killed a man without actually killing him.
I bite my lip and adjust my grip on the hilt of the short sword Raul lent me. “It’s taking time to get used to the weight.”
“You need to get used to it fast. The prisoners are supposed to be here any day now. There’s no way you’re winning an arena battle with that tiny blade you like.”
I glance down at my dress—will I be given any armor for the rite? I don’t even know that much—and the slim belt that holds the small knife Marclinus gifted to me.
My opponent will probably have a proper sword, maybe one significantly larger than even the subdued version I’m training with. I need to get close enough to him to land a few blows and not find myself fatally stabbed in the process.
It’s not that late in the night, only a little past the tenth bell, but the exhaustion that’s dogged me all day seems to seep right down to my bones, dragging at my limbs and turning my next breath ragged. “I’m sorry. I’m doing my best.”
Raul’s face falls. He tosses his own sword into the mess that scatters his bedroom desk and tucks his arms around me, his voice softening. “I know. I don’t mean to harp on you. I just— Gods help me, it’s going to be the worst torture watching you walk into that battle.”
I tip my head against his broad chest, soaking in the musky smell of him, wishing I could stay here in his embrace instead of going back to our illicit training session.
This is the third night I’ve slipped away from my chambers through the secret passages to the vacant room just a few doors down from Raul’s. He waits for me there, confirms the hall is empty, and ushers me over to his rooms where we can slash and lunge at each other without worrying about disturbing the draped furniture in some way the cleaning staff might notice.
We also arranged a couple of official training sessions during the day with Neven assisting, but we’ve only been able to focus on general techniques then. The guards are watching too closely for us to practice the key elements of our scheme.
A spark of hope kindled in my chest when the princes first explained their plan to me. It burns on even now, when all I feel like doing is falling into bed and sleeping for a year or two.
But with each passing day, my energy has faltered. The fatigue weighs on me like the sword does on my arm.
I want to believe we can pull this complicated deception off. I want to believe it’ll be enough to prove myself as empress to both my husband and his people.
I want to believe I’m not going to die out there on the arena’s sandy earth.
Some part of me must not fully believe any of those things, though, because I still can’t seem to completely shake the hopelessness that gripped me when Marclinus announced the details of the rite.
What if he’s beaten my spirit down so many times that something inside me has broken for good?
I push away those thoughts and ease back from Raul, bobbing up to give him a quick kiss before I retreat completely. “Then we’d better make sure I’m as ready as I can be for that battle. Let’s go again. If I’m just defending myself, that’s fairly straightforward. The most important parts are making it look like I’ve attacked effectively.”
Raul nods. “We can focus on those moves. Slashing the forehead shouldn’t be too hard. I don’t think you have the power to split right into a skull even if you intended to. A shallow gash there will bleed plenty, which’ll blind your opponent and make any other wound you deal look gorier.”
I lift the sword and swipe the tip carefully through the air just an inch shy of Raul’s forehead. We’ve practiced that move many times already. It isn’t the part that makes my gut clench up.
“Then I have to stab him somewhere in the torso, where it’ll look to the spectators as if I could have killed him, but without actually doing any fatal damage.”
“You should get an opening once your potion kicks in, if it works the way you expect,” Raul reminds me. “Stab off to the side rather than center, and to the chest rather than the gut. Chances are the blade will glance off a rib, but that won’t be obvious at a glance, and no one’s going to check very closely when he’s lying in a bloody heap.”
Chances are I’ll only hit a rib. That means there’s still a chance I’ll accidentally pierce deeper.
And attempting it at all depends on me getting into the right position without my opponent stabbing me first.
I inhale and exhale slowly, attempting to dispel both my nerves and another wave of fatigue.
I can do this. It’s the only way I can do this.
I have to get it right, or I’ll be dead one way or another.
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin. “Let’s run through those moves again, and then we’ll go back to general sparring.”
By the time the next bell rings, my limbs feel like lead and my eyelids are drooping. I rub them and force a smile onto my face, but Raul touches my cheek. “We’ve done enough for tonight. It doesn’t help you to run yourself ragged.”
A raw laugh hitches out of me. “I can afford to be tired when I’m finished with this rite and still alive to enjoy the rest. I’d rather not neglect my efforts when getting to that point is far from a guarantee.”
Raul lets out a choked growl and pulls me in closer. He tucks his head next to mine. “You’re going to get through this sick ceremony, Shepherdess, just like you did all the psychotic trials Tarquin and Marclinus came up with. We’re going to get you through, together. And then you’re going to claim the entire blasted empire and clean up its horrors.”
My smile turns into something more like a grimace. “It’s gotten harder to imagine that day.”
“You’ve made a shitload more progress than anyone else ever has.”
Raul pauses and then slips his arm around my waist to lead me over to the wall across from his bed. A couple of long tapestries hang from close to the ceiling down nearly to the floor, depicting scenes of Kosmel carrying out two of the tricks the sly godlen is most famous for.
Raul holds out his other hand, flexing his fingers so the mottling of pale scars on the knuckles shift across the knobs of bone. His jaw tightens. “You’ve always wanted to know why my hands keep getting messed up.”
Is he finally going to tell me? I tip my head against his shoulder. “You’re allowed to hold on to a few secrets if you must.”
He chuckles roughly and reaches to grasp the side of the first tapestry. “It’s not all that thrilling a story.”
Pulling the woven fabric to the side, he reveals a span of the crimson wall—which is broken with cracks and missing shards of plaster across nearly two feet of its surface.
As I stare at the battered plaster, Raul tucks his arm more firmly around me. “It started as a stupid way to blow off steam when I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me. Punching the wall until my hands bled… Then the cracks started forming, and it meant more. Someday when I’ve moved out of here, the next person who stays in this room will find that spot and know this palace isn’t impervious.”
My own throat chokes up. “And you said you weren’t a poet.”
Raul snorts and nuzzles my temple. “Only for you, Lamb. We’re going to beat this place. We’ll break down everything that’s wrong about it one piece at a time until it’s all rubble.”
He pauses and turns fully toward me, dropping the tapestry back into place. A deeper intensity than usual flares in his pale blue eyes.
“I still haven’t said it. I keep meaning to, and then…”
I frown at him. “What?”
A crooked smile crosses his lips. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this to anyone. I had some strange idea that the moment had to be perfect. But it being said matters more. I love you. I think I started loving you the first time you told us to fuck off, and the feeling hasn’t let go since. I’m never going to offer Bastien’s smarts or Lorenzo’s dreaminess, but no one will fight for you as fiercely as I will.”
Raul touches the thumb he sliced open when all three of the princes made their vow to me. “You’re in my blood. Every beat of my heart belongs to you. I’ll spill it all if it keeps you safe.”
Tears well in my eyes. I’m already nervous enough about my princes’ secondary part in our scheme without him talking like that.
I pull him close, pushing up on my toes to claim a kiss. His mouth melds with mine with all the passionate furor the prince of Lavira can offer.
“I love you too,” I murmur afterward, feeling the need to say it now even though I have before. “And you’re exactly who I need as you are. But let’s keep you safe too, please. ”
Raul’s answering snort sounds a little ragged. “I make no promises, but I’ll do my best. For you.”
I ache at the fervor in his words, but my eyelids are drooping again. I sway in Raul’s arms.
He clicks his tongue at me. “Right now we need to get you back to your room so you can sleep. We’ll train more tomorrow. Let me make sure the hall is clear.”
In the abandoned room, he kisses me once more before seeing me off. I carry the heat of his mouth with me into my trek.
As I walk farther through the passages toward my bedroom, I start to feel as if I’m trudging through mud. But when I reach my bedroom, I don’t crawl into bed the way I’m longing to.
I need to perfect the potion that’s going to lace my blade when I enter the arena.
It’s a variation on the sedative that’s kept Marclinus knocked out for hours, but that concoction always turns out vividly green. I can’t have anyone wondering what I’ve smeared on my sword.
My gift has trouble accepting color as a key factor in any kind of cure, so my first several attempts have only resulted in a paler shade rather than the transparency I’m seeking.
Sprite ventures over to watch me pull out my brewing equipment. When I light the flame under the miniature cauldron, she puffs up her fur and backs up a few steps.
I waggle my finger at her. “That’s where you should stay.” Then I inhale slowly and focus my gift.
I’m halfway through the brewing when I add one last pinch of powder to the cauldron, and the acrid smell that rises up flips my stomach over. Bile rises in my throat.
Clamping my lips tight, I scramble up and dash for the bathing room. The remains of my dinner lurch up my throat just as I bow over the toilet .
I cough and sputter a few times before sitting back on my heels in a tired daze.
What was that about? I’ve concocted brews with the same powdered mineral dozens of times, including just this morning, and it’s never had such a discomforting effect on?—
My stance stiffens with a jolt of possibility. I count back through the days in my head.
The renewed churning in my gut shifts into fraught anticipation rather than nausea. Wetting my lips, I push to my feet and return to my brewing materials.
From the bottom of my ingredients box, I retrieve the packet our head medic back home gave me before I left. Because it’s good to know early so you can take every necessary care.
I fish out one of the dried leaves within and study the yellow hue. As my heart thumps faster, I carry it to the toilet, where this time I sit down to relieve myself.
I dip the leaf briefly in the stream and then simply stay there, leaning back against the wall and closing my eyes so I’m not tempted to look. I count a full minute in my head.
Then I hold up the leaf.
The damp material now gleams unmistakably orange in the lantern light that seeps from my bedroom.
A laugh tumbles from my lips, propelled by a surge of joyful relief.
I haven’t been exhausted because of despair or melancholy. I’m tired because my body’s been hard at work on its own part in my plans.
My other hand comes to rest on my belly. But as I keep staring at the evidence of my condition, a tendril of uneasiness unfurls through my nerves.
I’m pregnant. I’m carrying the key to claiming the empire within my womb .
And that means that in the coming rite of blades and blood, I have yet another life to defend.