Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Aurelia
C leric Turentan pitches his voice toward the stands again. “Her Imperial Highness fears that her opponent is unwell and would not make for a fair fight worthy of Sabrelle’s approval! We will bring out another of the Lavirian traitors for her to prove her mettle against.”
Murmurs pass through the audience along with scattered applause. As the soldiers lead the drugged woman away, Cleric Turentan guides me down the steps and across the long stretch of sand-strewn earth to the swath of scarlet fabric.
He turns to me, and his weathered face tightens. I can’t tell whether he’s disapproving of my choice or simply concerned for how I’ll fare.
He bobs his head. “May you do my godlen honor.”
Then he walks back to the staircase, and I’m left alone with a mob of thousands staring down at me .
The arena feels even more immense now that I’m standing in the middle of it. The stone walls loom far off and yet still unnervingly high. I’m no mightier than a pebble thrown into the middle of the ocean.
Is this how we mortals always appear to the gods who watch over us?
I flex my fingers around the grip of the sword, getting more familiar with its weight. The sun glares from the east, so I step around the fighting ground until it’s burning into my back instead of my eyes.
My fine leather slippers, meant for strolling around the palace rather than combat, slide on the silky cloth. Marclinus wore boots.
After a moment’s debate, I slip the slippers off and kick them over onto the packed dirt behind me. My bare feet will give me better traction.
I suspect I’m going to need every advantage I can get.
The dry heat seeps down my throat and into my lungs. By the time the soldiers reappear by the doorway they’ve been using, my mouth is utterly parched.
The four of them are shoving along one of the male prisoners. Before they’ve even gotten close, I can tell he’s at least a few inches taller than me and plenty bulkier.
His dark eyes sear into me with fury from his pale, dirt-smudged face.
My pulse thumps faster, but I hold myself still and unyielding. Those eyes are alert; his steps are steady. This prisoner hasn’t been drugged for my benefit.
I can let one of the rebels who fought for their country’s freedom go free himself. As long as I survive the battle with him.
Will the soldiers intervene if he gets the upper hand, like they would have for Marclinus? I don’t know what orders they’ve been given .
Perhaps my husband would rather see me fall than return to his side beaten before the godlen he himself is dedicated to. For all I know, every citizen and soldier in my audience would approve of that decision.
As the escort reaches the edge of the fabric, I brush my fingers down my front in recognition of the gods and brace myself.
As with Marclinus’s opponent, one of the soldiers tosses a mace onto the cloth as the rebel’s weapon. They release him from his bonds and retreat a short distance, but their solemn expressions don’t give me much hope of their protection.
I asked for this battle. I promised I’d serve the principle of peace rather than violence, cleverness rather than stark brutality.
But gods help me, I wish there didn’t need to be so much violence to reach even a shred of that peace.
The man snatches up the mace and then studies me. A ragged but mocking laugh tumbles from his lips. Apparently he’s sized me up as an easy target.
He strides across the red fabric toward me, raising his mace.
With his first swing and my swipe at him as I dodge to the side, I realize the full extent of my trouble. This rebel’s head is those few inches higher than the woman’s would have been; his reach is longer.
He isn’t going to offer me the kind of openings Raul would have when I simply needed to practice my positioning. The sword I trained with was longer than this one besides.
How in the realms am I going to manage to slash my opponent’s forehead without getting so close I let him bash my entire skull open?
I’m a little faster than him, at least. He might not be drugged, but he’ll be stiff and weakened from his time imprisoned. Adrenaline can only overcome those effects so far.
Which means I can duck and scramble away from his powerful blows, but only just. Not swiftly enough to leap in and carve open his flesh.
I could try to cut his arms, which are the parts of his body most within reach, but I’m not sure how much force I’d need to use to sever the rough fabric of his long-sleeved tunic. I’d risk wiping off most of the potion on his clothing rather than getting it into his bloodstream.
Maybe if I could nick one of his bare hands…
I attempt a few jabs, but my opponent is hardly slow . He whips the mace around, feinting and then blocking. The metal base slams against my sword with so much force the impact wobbles into my bones.
Gritting my teeth, I push myself to the side. The red cloth of our battleground is bunching beneath our feet. Sweat trickles down my neck and beneath the back of my gown.
Shouts of encouragement ring out from our audience, some as simple as, “Empress! Empress!” and others demanding that I “kill the traitor!” or similar sentiments.
How patient will they remain if I continue to struggle?
The rebel hurls himself at me so abruptly I don’t quite dodge in time. His mace clangs against the plate mail on my side, hard enough to send a jabbing pain through my chest.
I think he might have cracked a rib.
I inhale sharply and keep pacing around him, clutching my sword. If I can turn the same tactic against him…
I lunge forward with a swing of my blade upward, but the element of surprise isn’t enough. My opponent lurches backward and then lashes out with his weapon.
My sword merely whips through the air several inches shy of his face. The spikes at the end of his mace scrape across my arm just above my elbow.
A cry breaks from my throat. Stinging pain radiates from the gouge in my flesh alongside the patter of blood onto the matching fabric beneath me.
The sword suddenly feels twice as heavy in my grasp, but I can’t relieve the strain. With another harsh laugh, the rebel charges at me, pressing his advantage.
I barely scramble away from his brutal swings. One catches me on the thigh just below the fall of the chainmail. The mace’s spikes tear through both my skirt and my skin.
I stumble, my leg wobbling under me. The wound throbs with the pulsing of spilled blood.
For a second, my head swims with dizziness. I propel myself farther away, trying not to stagger, my pulse kicking up to a frantic pace.
Before much longer, I’ll be too weak to have any chance at all. The soldiers don’t seem inclined to step in—and if they have to, then I haven’t really won at all.
Most of the spectators have fallen into an uneasy hush. They’re watching now to see if their empress is about to be murdered.
I wasn’t trained for combat. I’m not as large or as strong as the man I’m up against, and now I’m injured on top of that. How the fuck am I supposed to succeed?
This is why they drugged the woman. They didn’t think I could conquer any of the rebels while they were clear-headed, even if all I was trying to accomplish was killing my opponent by whatever means possible.
They assumed I was too weak, just as the man striding toward me does. Disgust is written all over his face.
He spits on the fabric like his fellow rebel did and glares at me. “Looks like I get to take down one part of this blasted empire. ”
He might not be wrong. I can’t even imagine how the princes must feel watching this scene.
Picturing their horror while the rebel trudges grimly toward me, I jolt back to another time when it was two of my now-lovers confronting me. When Raul and Bastien stood in the abandoned bedroom, accusing me of manipulating Lorenzo to some horrible end and of toying with all their affections…
I knew then that I couldn’t defend myself with might. I had to play the lamb. Be the soft, simpering princess so many expected.
What if I can turn the tables the same way today?
The possibility steadies me despite the continuing blare of pain and the blood seeping through my gown. I limp back a few more steps, facing my opponent. I let my shoulders hunch and my sword lower.
“I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my voice soft so no one in the distant stands will hear it. “It shouldn’t have been like this. You shouldn’t have been treated this way.”
The rebel slows with a sputter of an exhalation. “What shit are you talking? You and your fucking empire brought me here.”
I hold his gaze, willing all the sympathy I can summon into my eyes. It isn’t hard, because I do feel awful for him. I feel awful for what I’m doing to him, even if it’s better than murder.
“Whatever people you hurt or crimes you committed, you were trying to help someone, weren’t you? You must have been thinking of your family and your friends, wanting them to have better lives.”
The rebel stares at me. His lips pull back in a snarl. “You don’t know anything about any of it.”
I offer him a tentative smile. “I know that no one fights this hard without believing it’s the right thing to do. You cared so much about so many people. There’s something admirable about that.”
His jaw falls slack before he snaps it shut again. He shakes his head. “You’re not making any sense. Shut up!”
The aggression in his stance has faltered with his confusion. He closes his eyes for a second, perhaps to collect himself, and that’s all the opening I need.
I spring forward with all the strength and speed I have left and slice my sword tip across his forehead.
As I heave myself backward at the rebel’s furious groan, blood gushes down over his face just as Raul promised it would. He rams his mace into my shoulder, one of the spikes digging through the chainmail sleeve, but it can’t cut through my elation.
I back up, parrying my opponent’s wild blows as well as I can. I only need to dodge a little when he can barely see where he’s striking, but I want to look as if I’m still engaged in the fight.
The audience has woken up again with a wave of cheers. A booming of stomping feet reverberates through the arena.
The eager voices wash over me, flipping my stomach. They’re baying for more of this man’s blood.
And I have to look as if I’m giving it to them.
I note the first moment he starts to stagger. His body sways to the side not much differently from how his drugged associate looked.
I have to move now, before his declined state becomes obvious to anyone else.
With my jaw clenched against the wounds searing at my limbs, I heave myself to the side. Then I ram into him, scraping my blade along his upper torso.
The cutting edge rips through his tunic and pierces his flesh. I feel it jar against his ribs with a flicker of relief.
The sedative and my assault knock the rebel off his feet. He topples backward and slumps on the ground. His head lolls from side to side as if he’s trying and failing to clear his head.
I stand over him, restraining a wince, and slam my sword into his side one more time.
A small grunt huffs out of him at the shallow wound. After a moment, his face drifts to one side so his cheek rests against the earth. His body stills.
If I checked his neck and waited long enough, I should still pick up a faint, sporadic heartbeat. But I’m hoping the soldiers who cart his body away won’t bother searching for a pulse when he looks so very dead.
Exhaustion rolls over me along with the din of the crowd’s excitement. Part of me wants to collapse too, but I know I have to squeeze every bit of significance I can out of this moment.
Through a sharper flare of pain, I raise my sword into the air above my head in a pose of triumph. The cheers fade with an air of anticipation.
I raise my voice as loud as I can, hoping at least the lowest tiers of the stands will hear me. “For every one of our gods and the All-Giver! For Dariu and all this empire’s people! We can conquer everything that would destroy us!”
I happen to believe it’s men like Marclinus causing most of the destruction, but I don’t have to mention that detail.
Another roar of applause sweeps over me. I lift my chin high.
Elox, I did all I could here. I still stand for peace and healing, no matter what else I do.
As if in answer, a cloud drifts past the sun. The arena ground briefly darkens—except for a single beam of light that flares straight onto me like a divine caress.
The sunbeam’s warmth flows over me, and my throat tightens. The renewed surge of the crowd’s furor sounds even more distant while I’m draped in the approval of my godlen.
As the cloud passes and the sunlight evens out, my sword arm drops to my side. I only barely manage to hold on to the sword rather than letting it fall to the ground.
The soldiers rush over, two going to collect the body, two others coming to flank me, as if I need their protection now that the danger is over. A medic in white Eloxian robes hustles behind them. He offers me a reassuring smile and bends to set his hands against the deepest wound on my thigh.
As the warmth of the medic’s healing gift spreads through my flesh, I glance toward my husband. Marclinus is standing, clapping his hands alongside our audience with a wide grin.
He’s fully confirmed himself as their emperor, and I’ve confirmed myself as their empress. Now it’s time to discover where our triumphs will take the both of us.