Chapter 19 #2
I open my eyes. Maxim has reared back, with his hands now clutching his own throat. I suck in a ragged breath at the same moment that I ram a knee upward, smashing his balls. He falls forward slightly with a strangled wheeze, and I slam my forehead against his mouth.
I use the scythe between us to shove him backward, its leverage overcoming his weight advantage. I scramble to my feet, but I’m dizzy. Instead of pursuing him, I fall back to regain my breath and my balance.
What … what was that?
Like my gaze is pulled there, I find Ryot again. He’s jumped into the pit, but he’s being held back by several other Altor.
“Eyes on the godsdamn fight,” Ryot snarls at me.
I rip my gaze from Ryot’s to find Maxim again. This time, when he lumbers to his feet, I can tell he’s moving slower. He also needs time to recover, watching me as we circle in the ring. He spits a wad of blood into the sand.
“How did you do that, bitch?”
I have no idea. My mind reaches out, trying to grasp back into that … place? But it’s gone.
Still, that jagged shroud surrounds my mind. Of course, I’m not going to tell him that. I manage a grin.
“How does it feel to know you’ve been unmanned by a girl? That a girl drew first blood?” I rasp out, my voice coming out mangled from my swollen throat.
“First blood is irrelevant. Only last blood matters.”
“Well, last blood certainly matters the most . But I will take that from you, too.”
We circle for several minutes, each waiting for an opening. His eyes shift to the right, and I take the opportunity to swing my scythe in for a kill shot, slashing it across his body.
But it was a trick.
Without even looking at me, he whips a hand around my scythe and uses it to drag me into him, his other arm coming up to punch me in the temple. If he gets my weapon, I’m dead, so I clutch the scythe with both hands and brace for the blow, praying to Thayana that it won’t knock me unconscious.
His fist connects with my temple, hitting my new scar. The force is near blinding in its intensity and I’m suddenly grateful to Thayana for the suffering she forced me to endure, because I find myself oddly separated from the pain. I’m sure I’ll hurt later, but right now it’s not real.
But the force of the blow doesn’t only affect me. Maxim cries out in pain and releases his grip on my scythe, immediately cradling the hand he used to punch my temple. His hand looks crushed. I stare at it, shocked.
“She’s cheated!” Maxim cries. “She wears adamas under her bandage!”
Adamas? What? I bring a hand up to tentatively touch my temple.
“Hold!” Archon Lyathin cries out. “The fight is over. The penalty for cheating is execution.”
Outraged murmuring breaks out from the audience.
I turn to face Archon Lyathin, making sure to keep Maxim in my peripheral vision. “Are you blind to the judgement of the gods?”
Lyathin’s lips curl in disgust. “We’re not fools, girl. We can all see Maxim’s hand. Remove the bandage and face your shame.”
Shaking, I drop my scythe to the ground and use both hands to unwrap the bandage secured to my temple. When the wool is fully loosened, I let the cloth flutter to the ground and raise my head high so they can all see the ugly scar that marks me as the gods’.
The outraged murmurs turn to gasps.
Lyathin’s face pales. King Agis has clenched his fists around his throne’s armrests. Even the other archons whisper amongst each other.
“It’s not adamas,” I say.
Archon Lyathin’s eyes light with something like reverence. “Where did you get that?” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.
I raise my chin higher. “I think you know. You all know.”
The murmurs swell before breaking into stunned silence.
I run my gaze over each of the men seated in the arena, lined up for a show. Well, I’ll give them a godsdamn show. Nyrica flashes a smile at me, his dimple winking. Thalric nods, looking relieved. But Ryot? He’s unreadable. He steps back, like he doesn’t know what to make of me.
I don’t let myself look at him for long.
Instead, I reach down, stretching out my fingers. My scythe answers, pulling free from the sand and snapping back into my grip, the heat of it fusing to my palm.
“Restart the fight,” I demand, my hoarse voice echoing in the now-silent arena.
Archon Lyathin hesitates, taking in my perfectly constructed scythe with new eyes. He shifts his gaze to Maxim, focusing on his mangled hand, before he looks back at the other archons for guidance.
“Perhaps we should re-eval—” Archon Nile starts to say, but I slash my hand through the air, interrupting him.
“You would defy the will of the gods?” I ask. “ You set us on this path. You determined the gods themselves should deliver judgment.”
I gesture to King Agis with my scythe. He tenses at the move but doesn’t flinch.
“You may have intended this fight as my doom, Your Majesty,” I spit his title out like the insult it is, “but I will finish it as my right, in accordance with the gods’ will.
The time for judgment is now. Start. The. Fight.”
It’s the Elder himself who stands. He throws his cane at the large, golden gong hanging at the top of the arena, several lengths away. The cane slams against the drum the size of a man. The Elder’s cane neatly returns to his hand.
“Proceed,” the Elder says with a nod, taking his seat once more.
I stalk toward Maxim.
For the first time, there’s fear in Maxim’s eyes.
No, not just in his eyes. I can taste his fear.
It’s pungent, the flavor an assault on my senses.
But lucky for him, I’m not one to toy with my prey.
When he shifts, starting an attack, I surge forward.
My feet barely touch the ground as I leap, my scythe arcing through the air, an extension of my own body.
It slices through his throat in one effortless motion.
Because if there’s one thing a baseborn serf knows, and knows well, it’s how to reap.
Only, instead of wheat, I reap death.
I land behind Maxim, light as a faravar’s feather.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. He stands there, frozen, his body catching up with the reality of what I’ve done. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes. Only blood. His eyes glaze as he slides to his knees, his fingers grasping uselessly at his gaping throat.
My breath is heaving and the injuries that I ignored until now throb—my swollen windpipe, my temple. There’s pain in my bones, in my joints. In my godsdamn teeth, again.
I watch him silently for a time, until the blood stops pumping from his throat. He’s the third man I’ve killed, and I vaguely wonder if I should feel something besides relief. I search for some other emotion, like grief or guilt, but I don’t find it. Does that make me a monster, too?
The Elder rises, his weight heavy on his cane. That sole motion in the arena drags my stunned gaze up from Maxim’s body. The Elder doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard, but still, he raises his hands in the air and shouts.
“The gods have passed judgment and found Leina Haverlyn innocent. Rejoice with her, brothers.” His milky eyes find mine. “Today is a day for celebration, for we have gained a sister. But tomorrow is for war because we are but humble servants to the gods.”
There’s a smattering of firm clapping in the area. I turn to find the clapping has been started by Thalric and Nyrica, then the others in Stormriven, until most of the men in the arena surge to their feet and clap.
I spin in a circle, my vision blurring over the men who watched, who judged, who waited to see if I was worthy. They see me now, but I don’t see them.
Because when the sound of their excitement reaches its peak, I stop spinning, my eyes on the archons, on the king.
Tomorrow is indeed for war. Because my brothers, my people, won’t be safe until this entire system is nothing but ashes at my feet.
The realization settles into my bones, sharp and searing.
I wasn’t put here just to survive.
I point my scythe toward the archons lined up in a row, toward the royals on their cushions seated behind them. The applause falters. The king flushes a bright red under his nearly white hair, so like Princess Rissa’s.
I look directly at Archon Lyathin when I speak.
“I’ll have my audience about Selencia. Now.” I scrape out through my mangled throat.
There’s indecision on his face as he wrestles with whether he’ll punish me for my insolence or reward my audacity.
A grudging respect wins. He inclines his head.