CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE #2
It’s all just a game for the emperor. It’s all just a way to continue to relish in vampire superiority. When I lived in the Thorn, I was too busy surviving to care. But being here has allowed me to see just how the emperor plays with the sigilmarked—while sharing only as much power as suits him.
I take a long, deep breath, then slowly release it from my lungs.
“I’m just thankful we won’t have to step into the arena again,” Garet mutters.
Maeva leans across Kaeso and gives Garet a disbelieving look.
“You heard Nyrant. We’re novices now. Not yet guards.
Even while in the early stages of training for the Praesidium Guard, those who displease the emperor can be killed with the flick of his thumb.
And plenty of people die during training—or when stepping back into the arena. ”
Garet frowns. “What do you mean?”
“The populace is interested in gladians who become guards. In our training. The emperor still makes those who are training get into the arena and put on a show occasionally. And he doesn’t cry into his pillow if we die during those fights.”
There’s a hint of something in Maeva’s voice I haven’t heard from her before. Bitterness maybe. The weeks here have changed her. She’s no longer the bubbly woman I met on my first day here. Part of me is glad. That woman would have died within days.
But another part of me mourns the change.
“Look”—Kaeso points—“the race is about to start.”
Down the far end of the track, a magistrate appears, leans over the track, and drops a white napkin.
The gates slam open. Four chariots appear, each painted a different color—red, white, blue, and green.
They lurch forward, a sudden explosion of motion and sound, and the crowd erupts into cheers, drowning out the rumble of wheels on packed earth.
The horses’ hooves slam into the ground, kicking up sand and dirt.
The wind sweeps through my hair, carrying the shouts of the drivers and the crack of their whips.
Each driver controls four horses, which gallop across the long side of the track, wild-eyed as they strain against their harnesses. The green chariot pulls slightly ahead before the turn, the driver leaning to the left.
Edging ahead has given him the room he needs to take the turn wide, but he loses a little ground as the blue chariot takes his place on the inner position on the left.
Garet shakes his head. “There are seven laps. The green pulled away too soon.”
“It’s not too soon if he can get enough of a lead,” Maeva says, and Garet gives her a patronizing look that makes me want to punch him in the throat.
Garet is right, though, and the green falls behind, jostling with the white and red chariots. The crowd groans.
The chariots approach the bend once more, about to begin the second lap.
But the white chariot directs his horses, pushing the red chariot toward the stone wall in the center.
The horses are forced closer and closer.
The red driver’s expression twists into blind terror as he fights for space, his chariot inches from the stone that would shatter his wheel.
My heart quickens, my nails digging into my palms. This won’t end well.
The red chariot attempts to drop back, but the white chariot slows with him, staying close, the driver’s teeth bared in a feral grin.
The red chariot’s driver strains, his horses throwing their heads, desperate for room. But there’s nowhere for them to go. His wheel hits the stone, and the chariot flips, dragging the driver behind him.
A gasp ripples through the spectators as the driver disappears beneath his chariot. But I catch a glimpse of his hand wrapped around the hilt of a knife. He’s attempting to cut himself free from the leads tied around his body.
His horses round the corner, still galloping, still dragging him behind them. A cloud of dust rises in their wake, and the driver manages to escape the chariot, rolling across the track and narrowly avoiding the green chariot and its horses thundering toward him.
My lungs ache, and I let out a slow, shaky breath. The red chariot’s horses are still galloping, incensed. They turn the next corner, and the empty chariot bounces once. Twice.
The chariot goes wide, sliding across the track. And then it reverses course as the horses narrowly avoid the blue chariot ahead of them.
The red chariot swings back across the track and slams into one of the statues in the central barrier. The statue wobbles, but stays standing, although the heavy necklace around Umbros’s neck snaps, priceless jewels falling across the track.
“No,” Maeva says.
“I’m sure the emperor has plenty more,” I mutter, still focused on the driver of the red chariot. He’s curled around the feet of one of the gold statues, unmoving.
“No. Look.” Maeva points. Several spectators are fighting with the wardens at the edge of the track. More jump into the fray, until the city wardens are forced to sprint from nearby sections toward the scuffle.
Two men take advantage, leaping over the gate.
I shake my head. “They’re insane. They can’t possibly think they’ll get away with it.”
“They’re drunk. And desperate,” Maeva snaps. “You can’t put bread in front of a starving man and expect him not to take a bite.”
The chariots in the lead are already rounding the corner once more, whips cracking, horses galloping. The blue chariot is in the lead, the driver hunched in his chariot, focused intently on the track in front of him.
The men hesitate.
“Don’t do it,” I mutter.
The men charge across the track, eyes on the jewels.
The first man almost makes it. He sprints, arms pumping, eyes glazed, focused on the rubies scattered in front of them—each the size of a baby’s fist.
But the blue chariot has nowhere to go. The driver attempts to steer to the right, but it’s too late.
Four sets of front hooves hit the man with the force of a charging bull, riding over his limp body.
The chariot bounces and flips, throwing the blue driver free.
He must have chosen not to wrap the leads around his waist, and the decision saves his life as he gets to his feet, sprinting toward the safety of the central barrier.
The second man makes it across the track, hands grasping for the jewels.
A bolt hits the man in the throat. His body slumps to the ground as chariots stream past. At the edge of the track, a warden slings his crossbow over his shoulder.
The crowd breaks into angry shouts.
To our right, chants break out, a group of spectators waving their fists. The sound grows in volume until the words become clear.
“No more taxes!”
“Uh-oh,” Maeva whispers.
Even from here I can see the emperor’s displeasure as he gestures for a gold-crowned man to step closer. The man is thin and wiry, with dark gray hair thinning on top. Sigilkeeper Drugov Nistor.
The color has drained from Maeva’s face, and the look in her eyes makes my stomach spiral.
Nistor gives the emperor a sharp nod, before bowing low. When he turns to murmur something to a city warden, my skin begins to itch.
Maeva sucks in a breath. “Arvelle … maybe we should leave.”
“Leave?”
To our left, a handful of novices are attempting to do just that, and I spot Brenin among them. But the wardens stop them, fingers pointed as they gesture for them to return to their seats.
A wave of dread pours through me, drowning everything else.
A few rows below us, a group of bronze sigilmarked and a handful of mundanes have taken up the chant. A woman with long red hair holds her daughter on her hip, waving her fist as she screams her rage at the emperor.
“No more taxes!”
The little girl’s bright red hair matches her mother’s, and she lets out a belly laugh, waving her tiny hand in the air. She can’t be more than one or two years old. Next to her, a boy with hair a slightly darker shade stands next to his father, who frowns, scanning the crowd.
Maeva clutches at my arm. I follow her gaze to the left, far above our heads. Several wardens are barking at a group of mundanes who continue their chants. One of them throws an empty cup at a warden. The warden opens his hands, and fire roars toward the group.
They don’t even have a chance to beg for mercy before they’re engulfed in flames.