Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Aurelia
I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy or my general level of apprehension, but every sensation in the arena has heightened. The tang of old blood lingers beneath the crisper scent of the dry earthen ground. The warbled voices clamor from the crowd that’s packed into the stands all around the imperial box. A wisp of hot breeze touches my face, more a taunt than a comfort. The sun blazes overhead like a rod straight from the forge.
The cleric of the Temple of Triumphant Valor, the Sabrellian temple built next to this stadium of battle, lays out a strip of red silk across the temporary altar set up in the steps below us. The staircase is temporary too, made of steeply layered wooden boards to allow Marclinus and then me to descend into the arena directly from our honored seats.
Cleric Turentan climbs up the rest of the stairs, carrying two gleaming bundles. When he hands the first to Marclinus, my husband unfurls it into a plated mail vest with chain link across the shoulders and falling to thigh-length.
As Marclinus sheds his jacket to pull on the ceremonial battle armor over his violet tunic and black slacks, the cleric turns to me. The slant of his mouth suggests he’s at least as uncertain about my participation as High Commander Axius is.
“Do you still intend to complete the rite, Your Imperial Highness?” he says in a low voice only Marclinus and I will hear.
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I mean to honor Sabrelle and earn her approval before our people. I’m prepared for whatever lies ahead.”
I hope. I adjust the bit of ruddy root I’ve been periodically sinking my molars into against my cheek, letting it settle another twinge of nausea.
“You may as well don your garb now, then.” Turentan hands me the vest and motions to my slim belt. “You should remove all accessories, including that knife. I’ll return with Sabrelle’s chosen weapons.”
I glance down at myself with a twist of my gut. I expected this request, but it’s still unnerving to be faced with the reality.
I simply have to stay calm and subtle, and no one will realize I’ve done anything unusual.
My belt unclasps easily enough. I set it at the edge of my cushioned seat with the pouch’s flap facing upward. The plate mail slides over my rose-pink dress—what seemed like a fitting merging of Sabrelle’s red and Elox’s white—with a hiss of the chain links.
The vest weighs on my shoulders and chest, but not as heavily as I feared. I flex my arms experimentally and find the short sleeves don’t encumber them any more than the puff of my gown’s .
The purple scars splattered across my forearms stand out starkly in the intense sunlight. They’re proof of how much I’m willing to risk and sacrifice for my goals.
I reach for my pouch as if I’m checking that it’s securely fastened. As I fiddle with the flap, I dip my hand past it just for a second.
My fingers press against the scrap of fabric I soaked with the gel-like potion I brewed, squeezing out all of the substance I can. When I straighten up, I tuck the slick digits against the folds of my skirt to keep their wet gleam out of view.
Cleric Turentan presents Marclinus with his weapon first: a broadsword with a gold-gilded hilt that looks made for an emperor. Does the Temple of Triumphant Valor keep a large collection of fancy swords, or was his choice a foregone conclusion?
To my relief, the weapon the cleric offers me is significantly smaller though hardly small . The narrow blade with its slight curve stretches the length of my forearm.
I grasp the sword’s leatherbound grip in my good hand, tilting the blade to the light and then drawing it closer to me as if I merely want to feel the blade. My fingers slide across the sharp edge as swiftly as I can manage without slicing my own flesh open.
The steel shines with an extra, faintly yellow glint, but when I glance up, the cleric has already focused on Marclinus again. No one appears to have noticed my furtive gesture.
As far as I can tell, at least. My pulse keeps thudding at a hurried rhythm. I wipe the remainders of the sedative gel on my dress beneath the fall of the chainmail where no one will be able to see it until after the battle. At that point, any lingering mark can be blamed on sweat, dirt, or blood.
Now all I have to do is slice a woman’s forehead open and convincingly pretend to stab her to death, all while she does her best to carve me open instead. Simple enough.
Ha.
Cleric Turentan leads Marclinus down to the altar. An amplification charm projects the cleric’s emphatic voice all through the vast arena. “His Imperial Majesty will demonstrate his might and military prowess before our godlen of battle and the hunt.” He turns to Marclinus. “May you do Sabrelle proud.”
My husband brandishes his sword in a sort of salute, handling it with an ease that reminds me of the second trial he subjected me and his other potential brides to. The way he swings the weapon in his grasp, you’d think it was as light as one of those throwing knives.
He marches down the steps without a trace of concern, exuding confidence. The sun beams off his golden hair in a ring that might as well be a crown of light.
I did hear that he took to the battlefield himself when putting down the rebellion in Rione several years ago, when he was all of nineteen. This may be one confirmation rite where he needs no additional help at all.
As far as I can tell, he’s gotten the exact same equipment as I have, if a larger sword that I couldn’t have wielded well regardless. And when he stops on the span of red fabric stretched across the middle of the arena and his opponent emerges, it’s clear he hasn’t received any favoritism in that department either.
The Lavirian rebel escorted out by a host of four soldiers is the one I noticed pacing in his cell yesterday morning. He matches Marclinus’s substantial height and may have twenty or thirty pounds on my husband’s well-built frame besides, his shoulders and chest even burlier.
He walks forward with a stormy expression that shows no sign that he means to throw this fight. When the soldiers draw him to a stop across from his emperor, he gnashes his teeth and spits on the fabric.
Boos echo down from the stands, along with hollers about “foul traitors” and “stinking rebels.”
A cool grin has curved Marclinus’s lips. He flicks his free hand through the gesture of the divinities and motions to the soldiers to release their prisoner.
One tosses a mace on the sheet in front of the man, which I presume is his assigned weapon. Another unlocks the shackles that bind the rebel’s wrists. They give him a shove toward the weapon and back up a few paces.
I suppose they’ll intervene if it looks as if their emperor’s life is in danger—even if that failure means he can’t rightfully claim his title as emperor anymore.
Marclinus doesn’t need their protection. He holds his sword casually as his opponent picks up the mace, but the second the other man lunges at him, he springs into motion.
I don’t want to think anything positive about the callously sadistic man I married. All the same, I can’t deny that he’s impressive to watch on the battlefield.
Marclinus doesn’t have quite Raul’s imposing strength, but he makes up for it with deftness. He feints and dodges, always moving, always slicing his sword this way and that to find his attacker’s openings.
It only takes a matter of seconds before he’s drawn first blood in a deep cut across the rebel’s upper arm. The man snarls and hurls himself at Marclinus even more aggressively, but brute force is clearly not going to win the day.
Marclinus sidesteps him and knees him in the ribs. As the man starts to spin around, Marclinus bashes him in the back of the skull with the pommel of his sword.
The rebel staggers and lurches to his knees. In one swift stroke, Marclinus plunges his blade straight through his torso, piercing the man’s heart .
He wipes the blade on the man’s tunic and backs away from the growing puddle of blood beneath the limp corpse. Watching the scene, bile rises in my throat that the ruddy root isn’t enough to contain.
At least I can take a little comfort in the fact that my husband showed enough mercy to end the man’s life quickly rather than toying with him.
Though that’s probably only because he wanted his completion of the rite to be as clear and clean as possible, not because he wouldn’t have enjoyed it.
Marclinus raises his sword in the air to a roar of applause and eager voices that reverberates through the arena. Cleric Turentan strides over to lead him back to the altar and proclaim his worthiness in Sabrelle’s eyes.
My mouth goes dry. Now it’s my turn.
I stand straight and steady, feeling the gazes of the nobles on the imperial seats fix on me. My princes sit among the figures of the court, but I don’t dare look their way. Seeing even a hint of fear in their eyes might unravel me.
Marclinus returns to his seat and tips his head to me. I force a smile and walk partway down the steps to where the cleric is beckoning me to the altar.
Turentan clasps my free hand and holds it in the air. “Our empress will also carry out the rite to earn Sabrelle’s favor! If our godlen offers her blessing, one more of the treacherous traitors from Lavira will fall to Her Imperial Highness’s blade.”
A round of cheers that’s not quite as thunderous as that for Marclinus rolls through the stands. The soldiers are already leading my opponent out to the now rumpled red sheet that marks our battleground. The other rebel’s corpse has been carted away.
I recognize the woman from my prison visit, but after just a few seconds of observing her approach, my heart sinks .
Her steps sway oddly, as if she’s slogging through ankle-deep water rather than air. Her head bobs to one side and then the other. Her gaze drifts across the arena grounds without appearing to focus on anything.
Oh no.
If I actually wanted to end this woman’s life, I’d be grateful. Either Marclinus or the temple staff have arranged for my opponent to be drugged so she won’t put up much of a fight.
I’d imagine the effect isn’t so strong that she won’t attack me when I’m right in front of her, but the clumsiness will make it easy to cut her down.
Except cutting her down isn’t what I want to do. I meant to save her life.
Whatever drug they’ve given her when combined with the sedative on my sword will almost certainly overwhelm her body. Just the swipe of my blade across her forehead could kill her without my landing another blow.
A chill spreads over my skin. Cleric Turentan is finishing the rest of a speech I’ve lost track of. Any moment now, he’s going to direct me the rest of the way down the stairs and onward to this battle I can’t conquer.
What more can I do? I’ve lost before I had the chance to even try.
That thought sends a surge of defiance through my veins. My fingers tighten around the sword’s grip.
I didn’t come all this way, go through all the trials and struggles I have, just to give in to the full brutality of the empire now.
I know who holds the real authority even in this rite. I spin toward my husband while gesturing at the woman with my sword. “I need a different challenger. Fighting that one would be an insult to Sabrelle. ”
The cleric gapes at me. A few seats over from Marclinus, I see High Commander Axius frown.
My pulse hitches faster, but I focus all my attention on my husband.
Marclinus cocks his head. “How so, wife? You approved of her yesterday.”
I don’t even have to accuse anyone of willfully rigging the odds in my favor. There’s an alternate explanation. “I’m very familiar with the signs of illness. She’s out of sorts, weak and sick. Look at the way she moves. It would hardly be a fair fight. There were four other prisoners. Let me fight one of them, one who’ll be able to fight back properly.”
One who’ll have a much better chance of harming me. But better that I take the risk than take the life of one of these people on purpose.
It’ll be better that than betraying everything I stand for, whether I can voice those qualms to anyone around me or not.
Marclinus studies me through several thuds of my heart. I can’t tell what’s going on behind his chilly gray eyes.
Axius clears his throat, his frown deepening. Does he suspect I have ulterior motives?
Before the high commander can speak, another voice, sultry but resonant, lifts from the swarm of nobles. “Let her have a real battle! We should get to see just how mighty Her Imperial Highness can be. The wild princess obviously isn’t afraid to show her worth.”
My attention snaps to Bianca, who’s looking at Marclinus rather than me, her lips set in a coy smile. She’s giving him even more excuse to accept my request, framing it in selfish terms that won’t sound too odd to anyone listening.
Perhaps she really does think it’ll be more entertaining to watch me stand off against a fiercer foe.
Bianca’s nerve appears to have emboldened others among the court. Vicerine Saldette speaks up too, in a more brittle tone. “Yes, she’s never shied from the struggle before. Why should she be forced to take it easy this time?”
My breath snags in my throat. From her taut expression, I suspect she’s hoping I’ll meet the same fate that her daughter did in the trials months ago, but her animosity might work in my favor for now.
Marclinus lifts his eyebrows at the two noblewomen. Then he meets my gaze with a satisfied smirk. “You deserve every opportunity to prove yourself. Guards, fetch one of the other prisoners—and make sure they’re in good health.”
As Bianca turns away, her gaze catches mine just for an instant, with a flicker of a softer smile. An ache forms in my throat.
She doesn’t know exactly why it matters to me, but she understood that it did. She spoke up for me.
As far as I know, she’s never revealed her suspicious about my possible dalliances to Marclinus either. Is it possible… I can actually trust this woman?
That’s a question for later. Because thanks in part to her, I now have to face an even more perilous battle than I expected.