CHAPTER FIVE #2
Now that I’m sitting here, it’s sinking in.
I’m supposed to kill the emperor. But first, I’ll have to get through that huge vampire. The one who just disarmed me in the corridor outside and dropped my knife in front of me like it was nothing.
The Primus.
I really did this.
Evren is alive. He’s going to be cured.
My eye twitches and I lurch to my feet, suddenly nauseous.
“Are you …”
“I’m fine.” I give Maeva a smile that makes concern flicker through her eyes. “Thanks for the tour.”
She nods, opening her mouth as if she might say something, but I’m already striding away, dumping my bowl on the tray by the door, and attempting to ignore the numerous gazes I can feel on my back.
“You’re dead, voidborn,” Baldric calls, and his table bursts out laughing.
I turn my head, but it’s not Baldric I look at. It’s the Primus, who still sits, arms folded, his head canted. I don’t need him to remove his helmet to know that he’s watching me.
THE BOY IS better at climbing than I am.
I watch with awe and more than a little jealousy as he easily swings himself up from the ground, scaling the oak within moments.
He’s … beautiful. It’s a strange word to use for a boy, but no other word fits.
His dark hair curls at his nape, falling carelessly along his strong yet sigil-less brow.
He flings himself into the higher branches with such joy and abandonment, it’s as if nothing else matters but climbing as high into the canopy as he can.
When he turns his face to study the next branch, the sun slips through the leaves, as if even those warm rays can’t help but caress such perfection.
His grace, his speed, the way he seems to fit in my favorite place …
It makes my blood boil.
“You’re in my tree.”
The boy looks down at me, the sun highlighting eyes so blue, my breath catches. They remind me of the sapphire earrings I saw dangling from a noblewoman’s ears just a few months ago when Kassia and I were selling flowers to nobles in their carriages.
“Your tree?”
He speaks the words with disdain, and his diction is perfect. He’s not from the Thorn.
Fine. I don’t own the tree.
But I have so little time, and Kassia will join me later and we’ll sit up in the highest branches of that wide, welcoming oak, and make plans for when we’re grown.
The tree is special. It has been here since long before I was born—the closest thing I have to permanence in a world that often shifts beneath my feet without warning.
Every few days, Kas and I sit here and look down at the rooftops of the Thorn—the color and noise a world away from the silent majesty of our oak.
From this tree, on this hill, we can even see the arena far in the distance, can peer at the spires of the emperor’s palace.
The boy rakes me with a dismissive look. His gaze drops to my worn boots, sweeping up my torn leggings and dirty shirt. By the time his eyes settle on my face, I’m bristling.
His clothes are perfect. His unstained, unripped shirt even matches the dazzling blue of his eyes.
Rolled up over his elbows, it looks wondrously soft—almost like it could be silk.
He’s flung a finely tailored jacket over the lowest branch, the velvet studded with gold buttons that could feed my mother and I for weeks.
His leather boots are stiff, polished to a gleam.
“Why did you come here?” I snap.
He raises one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a noble. You don’t belong here.”
The boy sneers at me. “I belong anywhere I please. You want this tree? Take it from me.”
I’m up the first few branches before I’m aware I’ve moved. His eyes widen, amusement and shock warring within them as I hurtle up the tree, my hands and feet automatically finding handholds I’ve used every day for years.
By the time I reach him, I’m out of breath. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
“You’re fast,” he acknowledges. “But I’m stronger.”
“Get out of my tree.”
“Do you always get what you want?”
The question is ludicrous. I live in the Thorn. I’ve never had anything I wanted. And what little I do have could disappear any day. My expression must communicate the stupidity of his question, because the hint of a flush slips along his sharp cheekbones.
But I don’t go near the boy. I only climbed this high as a distraction from my true intent. Sweeping my hand down, I pluck his jacket from the branch. And then I jump.
My feet hit the ground and I roll to lessen the impact, the jacket clutched in my hand.
The boy bursts out laughing. It’s a shocked laugh, as if he can’t believe my audacity.
Later that day, I sell his jacket, and the money I receive fills both our aether stones and our pantry.
I REFUSE TO die in this place.
I won’t leave my brothers alone. I’m all they have left.
The promise is my last thought before I close my eyes in my narrow bunk, and my first thought as I crack them open to the sound of snores.
Today I’ll train with gladians who have worked for this opportunity their whole lives. Gladians who want to join the emperor’s guard more than anything. Gladians who have sacrificed and sweat and bled … all so they can step out into the emperor’s arena.
I’ll train hard. I’ll do whatever it takes to survive the Sundering. And I won’t let myself think about what will come after that.
I’ve done this before. Trained for something I loathed. Something that terrified me. I can do it again.
My mother’s generation never had to fight in the Sands. Back then, it was voluntary. A way for sigilkeepers to mimic the emperor’s arena in their own territories.
And then the emperor began plucking the winners from obscurity and offering them positions in his guard.
Positions many people took.
Soon enough, the Sands became compulsory. It wasn’t enough for the emperor to create a guard filled with the most well-trained fighters in the kingdom.
No, he wanted natural killers. Those with a knack for wielding death. It’s impossible to know who has that knack until their back is up against a wall and they’re forced to fight for their lives.
And so the Sands were formed. Most champions leapt at the chance to join the emperor’s Praesidium Guard. Because when you’ve trained for a decade to fight against your neighbors, why wouldn’t you put those skills to good use?
My mother’s sister Tancia was ten years younger than her, and one of the first who had to fight in the Sands. In the beginning, no one fought to the death. It was to first blood only.
Tancia’s death was accidental. A blade to her inner thigh, straight through her femoral artery. Back then, healers weren’t standing by, ready to jump in. My aunt died within minutes while my mother screamed for her sister.
But today isn’t about the Sands.
My eyes are gritty and dry after a night of tossing and turning. Sliding down from my bunk, I clutch the mirror. Hopefully my brothers will be awake. It’s still dark, the dim aether lamp on the wall providing just enough of a glow for me to slip past the women sleeping nearby and out the door.
The corridor is eerily quiet this early. But I make my way to the common room. Thankfully, it’s empty, and I position myself in a corner, holding the mirror as I think of my brothers.
“Velle.” Gerith grins at me, but there’s something fractured in his smile. I study his face. Is he struggling to deal with everything that has happened over the past few days … or is something seriously wrong?
“Where’s Ev?”
“He’s fine. He’s still sleeping. The healer likes him, and she gave him something to help him rest.”
“Feather or stone?”
He angles his head.
“Feather.”
I used to ask him this when I got home from training for the Sands. When he’d been with our mother all day. “Feather” was equivalent to a light day. Or a happy day. A mother who didn’t disappear at noon and go missing for hours.
Stone was bad news.
The relief is dizzying. “I’m glad you slept well,” I say, in case anyone is listening on his end. He gives me a stiff nod. So someone is listening.
“How’s Evren?”
“The healers said they can help him. But only …”
Only if I do what I’m told. “I know. It will be fine.”
Someone raises their voice outside the common room. For the past ten minutes, people have been filing toward the dining hall. But now, they’re all walking back in the other direction.
Maeva leans her head around the door and gestures at me.
“I need to go, Ger. I’ll talk to you soon.”
He nods.
“Tell Ev …”
“I will. We love you too, Velle.”
Maeva’s expression is uneasy. “We’ve all been called to the training hall. I don’t know what this is about.” For the first time, she seems nervous. “I hope no one else has died.”
“What do you mean?”
She bites her lip. “I forgot, you wouldn’t know. The rest of us have been here for a couple of weeks now. In that time, two gladians and a guardant have been killed outside of the arena. Their bodies were found a few days after they went missing.”
I wince at the visual. “Did they call a meeting like this last time?”
“No. If anything, we’ve been discouraged from speaking of it.”
We stop by our room, and I hide my mirror among my blankets and head back toward the entrance where Bran left Leon and me yesterday.
The darkness and narrow corridors are disconcerting. My first step needs to be to map this place. Then, I need to understand exactly how the emperor’s security works.
I can do this. I will do this. Evren will be healed, we’ll all live in the north, and our lives will be better.
The training hall is directly below the barracks—even farther belowground. It’s almost as big as the arena, and although the ceiling looms high overhead, I can’t forget just how far we are from the sun—one of the few vulnerabilities the vampires have.
Gladians group together. Several people begin murmuring in low voices behind us and Maeva sucks in a sudden breath.
A silver sigilmarked stands in the middle of the training hall, his hands bound behind his back. Two guards flank him, but my eyes are pinned to the vampire standing a few feet from them, an indolent look in his eye.
The vampire’s hair is thick, curled at the ends, and so dark it’s almost black. His skin is pale, and so are his hooded eyes—a blue as cold and frosty as ice.
He smiles at us, a hint of fang appearing and full lower lip curving invitingly as the light from the lamps caresses his sharp cheekbones and sharper jawline.
But his eyes are dead. I let my gaze drift over his dark gray pants, black silk shirt, and the blood ruby hanging around his neck.
The vampire is tall, clearly strong, and he radiates such a cold sexuality, it’s as if anyone who got close to him would risk freezing to death—but such a death might be worth it.
“Rorrik,” Maeva whispers. “One of the emperor’s sons. The eldest. Almost as cruel as he is beautiful.”
I haven’t heard much about the emperor’s sons. The eldest is said to be following his father’s brutal footsteps, and the last time I listened to hissed rumors about the youngest, he was at the front, targeting anyone who stands in the way of the empire’s expansion.
Rorrik waits, and the room turns silent within seconds. There’s a sense of grim anticipation in the air, as if everyone is holding their breath.
Whatever this is, Rorrik has chosen this little display for the early morning hours—when he’s at his weakest.
But he doesn’t look weak.
His gaze drifts over us, feral delight gleaming in his eyes. And a heavy ball of dread takes up residence in my gut.
“Cargyn has been sent here by our enemies,” Rorrik says. His voice is a silky caress. “To spy on my father.”
Oh gods.
Rorrik glances to my left. The Primus stands a few feet from the rest of us, surrounded by members of his imperius.
He folds his arms, staring back at the prince, and they seem to have a wordless conversation, despite the fact that the Primus is still wearing that black armor, his face and eyes entirely covered.
Rorrik slowly smiles. With a twist of his wrist, he shoves his hand into Cargyn’s stomach. Cargyn lets out a high-pitched scream. Several gasps sound behind me. Someone lets out a yelp.
I stare, uncomprehending.
I’d known vampires were strong but …
Rorrik pulls out his hand, revealing black claws jutting from the tips of his fingers. Something splatters to the ground. Something gray and pink and bloody.
He just disemboweled the sigilmarked with the flick of his wrist.
Cargyn slumps to the ground, still twitching. Rorrik gives the Primus a pleased grin. And then he brings the bloody hand to his mouth.
His tongue slides out, curling around one finger.
No one moves. I barely even breathe.
“Mmmm,” Rorrik says. “I love the taste of fear-blood in the morning.” He pulls his finger from his mouth, and a woman to my left sucks in a breath.
“Let this be an example for all of you. You are not special. Until you officially join the Praesidium, you are nothing more than entertainment. And if you’re stupid enough to be here for any other reason than to entertain …
well.” He nods at a sigilmarked guard, who flicks his hand toward the body on the ground. It’s instantly engulfed in flames.
My stomach churns and I tear my gaze from Cargyn’s corpse. The woman to my left is still staring at Rorrik, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with longing. Sickness claws at me.
Rorrik strolls away, and two guards trail after him. From their forest-green cloaks, they’re novices, personally assigned to protect the emperor’s son as their entry point into the Praesidium Guard. I can’t help but wonder how much carnage they’re forced to watch.
A fine trembling begins in my limbs.
This is what they do to spies. And I’m attempting to kill the emperor.
Bran brought me here to die.