Chapter 34 #2
The three other winning teams strolled into the arena with unhurried confidence.
Lady Cresta and Lord Bernardo took the position to our right.
Cresta’s glossy black braids sparkled with tiny diamond clips that caught the light every time she moved.
She looked bored, as if their victory had been expected and barely warranted celebration.
Bernardo stood at her shoulder, his sun-streaked curls falling across his forehead, grinning and waving to his friends in the audience.
Neither of them so much as glanced in my direction.
The third winning team mounted the dais. Fifth-years Lord Jofre de Bellmont and Lord Berengar de Rocafort were both scions of Espola’s oldest and wealthiest noble families, according to Elio.
Lord Jofre was tall and narrow-boned, with the expression of someone who found the world mildly disappointing. Lord Berengar was built like a solid oak door, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. His hands rested on his hips as he surveyed the amphitheater with smug satisfaction.
And then there were Lukhan and Damien.
They took the position farthest to the right, as far from Elio and me as the dais would allow. Lukhan’s gaze moved over the crowd with calculated indifference. He ignored Elio and me.
Damien stood at his right hand, a half-step behind as always. Unlike Lukhan, he gave us a long look. His mouth set into a hard line, and a muscle in his jaw jumped once, visibly, beneath the skin.
Beneath my dislike and resentment of all the misery the pair had caused me, a fierce, calculating hunger stirred.
Nemara, Bringer of Vengeance, I want to face them in the arena tomorrow.
With the entire academy watching, I wanted to make Lukhan’s composure crack.
I wanted to show him what I could do in a place where his sabotage and wealth wouldn’t help him.
Assistant Chatelaine Julissa mounted the dais, carrying a velvet-covered tray. Chatelaine Lirelle followed, her pale oval face composed in an expression of measured pride.
“The Imperial Academy,” Lirelle began, magic carrying her words to the highest tier, “congratulates the victors of the quarter-final round of the Aurelian Trials. From this day forward, proudly display these medals on your academic gowns.”
The ceremony proceeded with smooth, practiced efficiency. Julissa moved down the line, presenting each team member with a small box. Inside mine, nestled in a bed of dark blue velvet, was a gold medal engraved with the academy’s seal and the words AURELIAN TRIALS QUARTER-FINAL VICTOR.
“Additionally,” Lirelle continued, “each quarter-final team is awarded twenty-five denarii.”
Another velvet purse, heavier than the last. Elio gallantly handed me his pouch. Whispering my thanks, I tucked both purses into the pocket of my academic gown. Fifty denarii. Just a fraction of the lab fine, but every bit helped.
The formalities concluded. Lirelle offered a few closing remarks about tomorrow’s semi-finals, about the honor of competing, about the eyes of the Dominion being upon us.
As the officials descended from the dais and the crowd streamed towards the exits, Damien’s voice cut through the ambient noise. Cool. Measured.
“You’ve been extremely lucky so far.”
I turned to see him and Lukhan still standing at the other end of the dais.
Damien’s gray eyes swept over Elio and me in open assessment. He looked oddly tense.
“Oh, lucky, is it?” Elio asked in a mocking tone. “Is that really what you think?”
“You stumbled through the first round on desperation and a fluke. You won the second because your opponents were arrogant and you exploited it. You won this last match because you were matched against your friends, who—” Damien’s mouth twisted.
“—evidently decided that friendship was more important than victory.”
The accusation landed like a slap. I felt heat rise in my face.
“We won,” I snapped, “because we were the better team. Not because Dante and Mavia handed us a win.”
Damien’s gray eyes turned pale and cold as the winter sky. “We’ll see about that tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Lukhan said, the word sounding like something carved from ice. He had turned to face us with the deliberate focus of a duelist squaring up. “In the arena tomorrow, Damien and will show you what we can do when we’re not holding back.”
“Holding back?” Elio’s dark brows lifted in surprise. “Because from where I’m standing, Lord Lukhan, you’ve been throwing everything you’ve got at us for months now. And we’re still here.”
Something flickered across Lukhan’s face—a crack in his mask. Anger, maybe. It vanished too quickly to read.
His emerald eyes moved over me slowly, from my face to the hem of my academic gown and back again. “Before you’re expelled, Miss Fishwife, use your twenty-five denarii to buy some decent gowns and shoes, so that you don’t look like a peasant when you have to return to your island.”
Elio’s hand found mine. The contact grounded me and kept me from doing something I would regret in front of the academy administration and imperial officials.
“And what happens,” Elio said, his tone bright with insolent cheer, “if you and Mr. Corvellan here are matched against Lady Cresta and Lord Bernardo instead of us tomorrow? Or you draw the two Espolan lords?” He gestured toward De Bellmont and De Rocafort, who were strolling out of the arena.
“They’re both fifth-years. Both considerably more experienced than you.
And closer to graduating, which means they’re more invested in making a good impression on the officials of His Imperial Majesty’s court.
” His smile widened. “However will you cope with the disappointment, Lord Lukhan?”
The question hung in the air between us.
Then Damien made a sound. Low, rough, almost inaudible. Not quite a laugh.
Lukhan’s expression hardened into something that didn’t pretend to be pleasant.
“We’ll cross that bridge,” he said, “if we come to it.”
He walked away. Damien followed, a half-step behind as always, his broad shoulders blocking Lukhan from view like a shield.