Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Verna dressed at dawn and hurried downstairs.
After a quick bite to eat, she went to the stable yards, finding Kalen was already there.
The mare was tacked up and standing quietly while she checked the girth.
She was dressed in her competition leathers with the Eclipsian emblem on her vest, her hair bound back from her face, and the short sword at her hip.
She looked, Verna thought, exactly what she was: dangerous.
Her Abrensian guards were there as well to escort her over.
Kalen looked up when she heard Verna's step. "Ready?"
"Yes. Come on. I want to get you in before the officials arrive."
They crossed the street in the early morning quiet, Kalen leading Sera by the rein, followed by the guards. The city was not yet fully awake, the shopfronts shuttered, and only a few people in the street. The amphitheatre loomed above them, its banners fluttering in the breeze.
The gate guard from the previous evening had returned for the early shift. He recognised Verna and stood aside with a thump to his chest.
The tunnel below the stands was dark, their footsteps echoing hollowly as they walked through. Sera tossed her head at the sounds.
"Easy," Kalen said quietly, and the mare settled immediately.
They emerged from the darkness into the arena, blinking at the light.
It seemed more menacing today to Verna than last evening. The stone seating rose all around them like the inside of a vast bowl, and the silence seemed deafening. Kalen stood at the edge of the sand, her hand on Sera's neck, and looked down at it. Then she led the mare forward onto the surface.
Sera’s stride shortened, her head came up, and she took cautious steps in it. Kalen let her take her time, walking her forward slowly, talking in a low voice.
After a minute the mare's stride lengthened again, accepting the surface, and Kalen walked her the full perimeter of the sanded area and back at a slow pace.
Then again, a little faster. Then she mounted in a single fluid movement and took her into a trot, then a canter, the sand rising in small puffs behind the hooves.
Verna watched from the edge, noting that Kalen kept to the outside of the arena so as not to disturb the raked sand in the middle.
She could see Kalen making adjustments, feeling for the difference in how Sera moved on the deeper surface, asking her for transitions and turns and watching how she responded. Then she turned Sera at the far end and came back at a full gallop and smoothly pulled up ten paces from Verna.
"She's ready," Kalen said.
"Good. Take her to the competitors' section while I go and dress." As Kalen turned to go, she whispered to her, "Be careful. Come back to me safely."
Kalen nodded and turned Sera toward the arch at the base of the western wall, where the corridor led to the holding areas below the stands. The sound of the mare’s hooves gradually faded as they disappeared into the corridor under the arch.
Verna stood in the arena a moment longer, then walked back through the tunnel to join her guards on the street.
When she arrived back, Marleen was waiting in the room with her wine-coloured gown laid out on the bed.
"Sit down, My Lady, and I’ll do your hair," she said, and produced a brush.
Marleen worked quickly, pinning and twisting to produce an arrangement of braids and curls that was very elegant.
"The amber necklace?" Marleen asked.
"Yes," Verna said. "And the silver clips."
The gown was cut close through the bodice and full from the hip, with long sleeves that came to a point at the wrist. She had bought it two years ago in Castine for a grand wedding and it had sat in the wardrobe ever since.
It was, she thought, looking at herself in the glass while Marleen fastened the back, exactly right for a woman who intended to be noticed. The ring glowed on her finger today.
Marleen smiled at her in admiration. "You look lovely, My Lady."
"Thank you, Marleen. Today I represent my House and I mean to be counted," Verna replied. Then resolutely, she put on her fur cloak over everything, pulled on her gloves, and went downstairs.
The two guards assigned to box duty were waiting in the inn yard, dressed in the Eclipsian blue and silver, and their weapons on their belts. They had the bearing of soldiers who understood they were on display. Verna looked them over briefly and nodded her approval.
By the time they left the inn, the road to the arena was thick with people, nobles in carriages, merchants on horses and the ordinary people of Castine on foot.
The house boxes were accessed from a separate entrance on the northern side, away from the public gates, and a palace steward was stationed there with a list. He found her name, bowed, and directed her up a private staircase that emerged into the covered section of the western stands.
She was in the box next to the emperor. It held cushioned seats with a low rail in the front, over which there was a clear view directly down onto the arena floor. A small table at the back held a wine jug and cups, and a servant stood ready beside it.
Thom was already in the box. He rose when she came in and gazed at her admiringly. "You look magnificent."
"You look like you haven't slept," she replied.
He laughed. "Fair exchange."
He was smartly dressed, in a deep blue coat with the Lanath crest on his shoulder. He looked like what he was, a man of property who took the occasion seriously without being overwhelmed by it. With Bain just across from her, she was relieved to be next to Thom today.
Also in the box were Lord Carlton of the house that bordered Thom's vineyards to the north, and his wife. She was particularly fond of Lady Marie Carlton, who pressed her hand and murmured, "I’ve heard about your champion. The whole city is wondering how she will perform."
Verna smiled. "Then I trust she doesn’t disappoint you."
"I’m hoping she won’t," said Marie, with a twinkle in her eye. "It’ll do all those condescending men good to be defeated by a woman."
"I couldn’t agree more," Verna replied with an answering gleam.
She looked out over the rail at the arena below.
The sand was still smooth from the morning's raking, the target posts standing at their measured intervals.
The competitors' arches on either side of the oval were closed, their heavy wooden doors shut, but from behind the western arch she could faintly hear the sound of horses moving in the holding area below.
The stands were filling around them, the noise of the crowd building from a hum to a loud chatter. The imperial box remained empty, its purple and red canopy vivid against the pale stone.
Verna leaned back on the cushion, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at the closed archway where Kalen and Sera were waiting.
Then a fanfare of trumpets cut through the noise of the crowd. It died down, all heads turned toward the imperial box.
The procession came in from the rear, moving with pomp and ceremony.
First the herald, a tall man in purple, banged an iron-tipped staff on the floor three times.
Then came six imperial guards in ceremonial armour, their breastplates so polished you could do your hair in them, and their red cloaks falling in perfect folds.
They moved into a line along the back of the box and stood to attention.
The empress entered next.
Lysandra was around fifty, and had been beautiful once.
She still had good cheekbones and the upright posture, but she looked exhausted in the way that had nothing to do with a bad night's sleep and everything to do with thirty years of marriage to Borgine.
Her gown was imperial purple, her jewels were enormous, and she walked to her seat with grace.
She sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and fixed her gaze on the arena floor.
Verna felt sorry for her. For all her power and money, she was still a downtrodden wife.
Then the trumpets went again and Borgine entered the imperial box.
He had grown fat.
He had been a big man in his prime, broad and athletic, but decades of over-eating and drinking had done its work.
What settled into the imperial chair now was considerably more of him than there had been twenty years ago.
The jaw that had once been strong had disappeared into a double chin.
His face was florid and his hair, now grey, receded from his forehead.
His imperial red coat strained over his large belly.
But his eyes were sharp. People tended to think he was an aging man run to seed, but his eyes said something else entirely. They were pale grey and cold, missing nothing as they moved across the arena and the boxes and the crowd.
When he passed near the Eclipsian box, he didn't appear to look at Verna. She had been in enough rooms with powerful men to know the difference between a gaze that genuinely skipped over something and one that pretended to. She knew he’d seen her, so kept her own expression neutral as she looked at him.
Borgine accepted wine from a servant, ignored Lysandra and said something to an official, then settled in his chair with the air of a man who was looking forward to his morning's entertainment.
The rest of the imperial party filled the remaining seats, advisers and military men and a couple of younger courtiers. Then Bain came in with his sister, Fatima.
He was dressed in a deep purple coat that fitted well across his broad shoulders, the imperial crest on his chest. He looked like a younger version of his father before the years had got to him.
He scanned the boxes as he sat down and when he reached the Eclipsian box, he looked straight at Verna and smiled.
It was the same smile as the dinner. The one that said he was looking at something that would be his shortly and he was content to wait. He held it a beat longer than necessary and gave her the nod of a man acknowledging something he already owned.
Verna looked back at him with an impersonal expression, then turned away deliberately. She picked up her wine, took a sip, and looked down at the arena.
The doors of the eastern archway were starting to move. When they swung open, the crowd rose to their feet with a roar.
The first horse came through at a canter, carrying the champion of the Velmart house, a young man in his early twenties dressed in his house colours of green and yellow.
He was good-looking and sat his horse well, and the crowd gave him a warm reception.
The second came close behind, then the third and fourth in quick succession, each one announcing their house colours to fresh noise from the stands.
The fifth was the palace champion, Borgine’s second son, Olag.
He rode a grey stallion that was worth a fortune, seventeen hands at least, and he knew how to display both himself and the horse to maximum effect.
He came through the arch at an extended trot that showed off the stallion's movement, and the crowd responded accordingly.
He was a big man, dark, with the kind of physical presence that filled a space even at a distance.
The palace colours of purple suited him.
He looked, Verna thought with a shiver, extremely dangerous.
Horses six, seven and eight followed, each drawing their share of noise from the crowd.
Then Kalen rode Sera through the eastern archway at a walk.
Nothing showy, no extended trot, but simply a walk, straight-backed, as though she and the horse were an extension of each other.
Sera's coat was gleaming in the morning light, her stride long and unhurried, her head carried with the natural elegance of a well-bred horse.
Kalen wore the Eclipsian blue and silver on her competition leathers, and her dark hair was bound back from her face. She looked straight ahead, not at the crowd, or at the imperial box, or at the other competitors. She looked at the arena as if she was simply taking stock of what she had to do.
The crowd took a moment to find its voice, then it burst into applause.
Lady Marie Carlton leaned forward in her seat and stared. "Good God," she said, which from Marie, who was not given to strong expressions, was considerable.
"They do look rather good," Verna said, not bothering to keep the pride out of her voice.
"Rather well is an understatement," Marie repeated, turning to look at her.
"Verna, your champion looks magnificent.
I had no idea." She stared back at the arena where Kalen was completing her entrance and joining the line of competitors forming along the eastern wall.
"I thought she'd be, I don't know, rougher.
More like a soldier and less like…" she waved a hand vaguely at the arena, "that. "
"She is a soldier," Verna said.
"Yes, but she sits on that horse like she was born on one." Marie narrowed her eyes with the assessing look of a woman who was a top rider and knew what she was looking at. "Where did you find her? She can't have come from the auction house looking like that."
"She was from the auction house, though not quite like that. She was rather worse for wear."
Marie shook her head slowly. "I still can't believe you put her on Sera. That horse cost you a great deal."
Verna spread her hands in the air. "Who else would I give her? I want to win this damn competition."
Thom, on her other side, said nothing, but she felt him look at her sideways with the expression she had learned to recognise as him deciding something.
He turned back to the arena when the last, his horse came through the arch.
It was a magnificent bay gelding, the colour of dark honey, and the crowd cheered him in.
Thom’s champion, Petro, was in the saddle, a powerful man, broad through the chest and short in the leg.
His face was a map of lines, a nose that had been broken more than once, and a jaw that looked like it had been carved from the same stone as the arena.
A white scar ran from his left cheekbone to the corner of his mouth that he had acquired in the Nine Moons Pits.
He wore the Lanath house colours of brown and copper, and he handled the bay gelding with the no-nonsense way of a man who regarded horses only as useful. He didn’t look around the arena or acknowledge the crowd, but simply rode to his place in the line to wait.
A herald stepped to the centre of the arena and announced the order of the day in a loud voice that reached the upper tiers. Verna had already heard the format from Bain at the dinner and listened only for anything that had changed. Nothing had.
When the herald finished and stepped back, all eyes in the arena went to the imperial box.
Borgine rose from his chair.
He looked out over the arena with the air of a man who owned the competitors and the crowd.
He raised one hand.
When he dropped it, the amphitheatre erupted.
The competition had begun.