27. LION
27
LION
Lion groaned as consciousness seeped back in, every inch of his body throbbing with a fiery ache.
“He’s up,” someone said.
“Put him in decent clothes,” a familiar voice grunted. “Hurry up!”
Rough hands grabbed Lion’s arms and pulled him up to a sitting position. He screamed in pain. When he opened his eyes, he saw bandages covering his upper arm, the left side of his stomach and his back. Sand mixed with blood had dried hard on his skin. He was swimming in a sea of agony. His head felt heavy. Unconsciousness threatened to take him back, but a forceful slap brought him back to where he was.
Karhad. That was whom the familiar voice belonged to.
He was back in Castle Brinescar, in a room he didn’t recognise. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with jars of strange herbs, dried roots, and vials of liquids. The air smelled faintly of burnt sage and something bitter he couldn’t place. This wasn’t Vanalten’s room, though it looked similar. The head physician’s room, then? Lion’s head throbbed with a dull ache. He felt too heavy to even think.
Karhad’s earring jingled when he turned to the other man. “Give him something to sober him up. He looks like he’ll faint at any moment.”
He was right. Lion was on the verge of passing out and he was looking forward to it. Each breath was an agony. He wanted to close his eyes and never wake up.
“I could give him pemitoin , but the aftereffects will kill him, even with the antidote. He’s too weak,” the bearded man — the head physician — responded.
“Anything else?” insisted Karhad. “Anything to keep him awake for twenty minutes, at least?”
The head physician sighed. Nevertheless, he went to his workbench to mix up a drink for Lion. “You better not need him after half an hour,” he said as he worked. “He’ll be out for three days.”
Three days break from pain and misery? Fantastic!
Lion closed his eyes for a moment and woke up with a slap on his face. The head physician brought a cup to his lips. Lion coughed and spurted. Rough hands pinched his nose and grabbed his mouth, forcing the drink down his throat. He passed out again briefly while they dressed him. When he opened his eyes again, his mind was somehow clearer, the pain dulled. He remembered his fight against Marzul, then he remembered the riot that broke out in the arena. His name was chanted throughout the Switchblade Arena.
Oh, he was fucked.
With Karhad’s gesture, two guards appeared and dragged Lion out of the bed. He tried and failed to suppress a scream when one of them grabbed his left arm.
“Quiet,” the guard snarled and punched his midsection, which elicited a louder cry.
“Stop it!” scolded Karhad. “They want him conscious, dimwit.”
“I apologise, Master Karhad,” the guard said sullenly. He moved his hands away from the arrow wound, but his fingers tightened like clamps.
They took Lion to the King’s living quarters of the castle. Beyond the massive double doors that separated the King’s living area from the rest of the castle was a vast room furnished with useless decorations: tapestries, statues, paintings and other junk. Lion ignored them all. His attention was focused on the two dozen Vogros soldiers and knights, all glaring at him with open hatred.
A familiar face amongst them caused Lion to look twice.
Sir Gennald!
The knight who used to be assigned to protect Lion during many public events and feasts stared back at him. He looked comfortable in his bear-engraved new armour. Sir Gennald frowned at Lion until he was forced to look away.
They made their way to the door at the far left of the room, where heated voices could be heard arguing on the other side. One of the four knights guarding the door stepped forward. He had short, black hair, a trimmed beard, and a missing ear. “We’ll take it from here,” he said, placing a firm hand on one of the guard’s chest.
If the guard was annoyed or offended at this take over, he didn’t show it. “Yes, Sir Gwodd,” he said without a hint of resentment.
Sir Gwodd motioned two of his knights to take the guards’ places. When he knocked on the door, the arguments behind it ceased as if cut by a knife.
“Master Karhad and the slave are here, Your Majesty,” Sir Gwodd said, sticking his head inside.
“Send them in.”
Sir Gwodd stepped back to let Karhad pass. Two knights followed him, with Lion between them.
This was the King’s private library and study. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with towering bookshelves, each crammed with leather-bound volumes. The smell of parchment and leather filled the room. A fire crackled in the heart, and dozens of candles lit the room. Several tables and chairs scattered the room, but no one was seated. Less than ten people crammed the room, all too tense and uneasy to sit. Lion recognised Kastian’s family from the feast. His short-haired queen was standing in a corner. Two princes frowned at Lion from where they stood. The others were the advisors, high lords, and other important figures whose duties Lion neither knew nor cared for, all piercing him with unfriendly eyes.
The two knights dropped Lion in the middle of the room. He fell on his knees and bent over, his forehead on the cold surface and hands on both sides. Not that he hoped grovelling would lessen his punishment. He simply didn’t have the strength to sit up. The silence continued, stripping him of any hope he had for a peaceful death.
“Well…” The older prince broke the silence by stating what Lion already knew: “He has to die, that’s for sure.”
“I agree with my brother,” said the younger. “Your Majesty, say the word, and I will make arrangements for his public torture and execution.”
Lion’s stomach twisted.
“Your Highness, with all due respect,” said an old man in silk clothes, “a public execution at this stage will only agitate the riots even further.”
“Fine. Then we kill him in the dungeons.”
“I advise against that as well, Prince Dienus. If the public finds out how we murdered the Lion of Zarall for no reason other than fighting and winning in the arena, this will anger them even more, not to mention making House Vogros look insecure.”
“He has to go down in the arena,” the Queen spoke.
“Your Majesty is right.”
“But we can’t risk allowing thousands of people getting together in the arena again,” said a large man in a velvet suit. “That would be begging for another riot.”
“Lord Klaren is right,” the older prince said. “People are already fuelled, looking for a single spark. If the slave doesn’t go down exactly the way he should go down…” He didn’t finish and nobody asked him to.
“Girl, fetch him some water, will you?” the Queen mumbled to someone nearby, and Lion heard a hint of a foreign accent in those last two words.
There was a soft shuffle of feet across the floor, followed by water being poured into a cup.
“Then we’ll order him to go down,” Prince Dienus continued.
“And what do you suggest we do if he decides to disobey orders once he’s out in the arena?”
A gentle hand touched Lion’s shoulder and helped him to sit up. He recognised her scent before even seeing her face.
His heart stopped.
He remembered the tale of Elrimandel and Galeahil; how their first sight had stopped the time, filled their ears with sacred music, and their bodies with pleasure and devastation at the same time. Although those things hadn’t happened to him the first time he had seen Saradra, they happened now.
The room disappeared with everyone in it. His physical pain went away. This moment was the only time that existed in all three Homes; there was no past, no future; just this moment and them in it.
She’s alive, was the only thought he had. She’s alive!
Saradra’s red hair was tied in a tight bun. Her skin had a healthy flush and her clothes were neat and clean, but her expression was cold. No, not cold. Cautious. She didn’t look at him, she didn’t smile, she didn’t show any indication that she knew him. There were eyes on them and any communication between them, verbal or nonverbal, would not go unnoticed.
Lion managed to keep his face still. He should have followed her example and stopped looking at her, but his eyes betrayed him by savouring her beautiful face just a couple of seconds longer.
“Disobey?” the younger brother retorted. “He won’t disobey. He’s a purebred !”
“We know he killed free men under suspicious circumstances. What if he disobeys? We can’t take the risk!”
As the argument heated up, Saradra held an earthen cup to Lion’s lips. He drank, not really tasting the water despite his thirst. He would give his right arm just to embrace her one last time. Breathe her in, kiss her lips, or even just to touch her.
As if sensing his longing, she shifted closer, until their knees almost touched. Lion moved his hand slightly forward and stroked her leg with the back of a finger.
“Lotheris is right,” King Kastian spoke for the first time. “The slave has lied, killed, and I suspect he also attempted to escape before. I cannot rely on his obedience.”
“We can drug him or injure him before the fight?” someone suggested. “It’s not something that hasn’t been done before.”
“If the public sniffs a ploy, the repercussion will be even worse than before,” the old man in silk clothes objected.
Saradra took the empty cup and withdrew to the back of the room. Although Lion’s eyes yearned to follow her, he closed them shut and bent over again. He would welcome death with peace, now that he knew she was alive. That he hadn’t killed her in his Rage.
“Then we’ll wait out until people forget about him,” Prince Lotheris suggested. “We can send him to the mines to rot.”
“No, no, no, Your Highness,” the old man objected again. “We can’t risk anyone who has a remote claim to the throne getting their hands on him.”
“What claim? There is no one left to claim the throne. Lord Thansor? He’s married to a third degree Zarall, not even blood related. Lord Matthor is not rich enough to build an army, nor bribe allies. Anyone with the name Zarall is dead.”
“Except him .”
The prince scoffed. “Come now, Master Ulrian. What do you imply? Those idiots who call themselves public would prefer seeing a slave sitting on the throne rather than my father, just because he is called the Lion of Zarall ? Is that it?”
“No, Your Highness. What I imply is, you have to understand, this slave has become a symbol in the public’s eyes now. We kill him, we turn him into a martyr. We lose him, anyone who isn’t even related to Zaralls might use him to rally people behind their cause. That genius who shot that arrow at him has made him a hero who defeated a full-grown bear, unarmed, injured, and naked. Now we have to deal with this mess carefully before…” He stopped when the door opened and a pair of timid feet walked in.
“Daddy?”
A small figure ran through the room.
Lion shifted his head, expecting to see a little girl, but found a mature woman of sixteen years snuggling in Kastian’s arms.
The King’s face softened instantly. He caressed the woman’s dark hair gently. “Lareani,” he said with a firm but tender voice. “What are you doing here? You should be in bed.”
“I see triangles,” the woman said in a flat voice. She buried her head in Kastian’s shoulder, refusing to release her hands.
“Where is Min?”
“Triangles are pink.”
A mixture of love and devastation etched on Kastian’s face. “You shook her off again, huh?”
“Come on, sweetie.” The Queen stepped forward, untangling Lareani’s hands off the King. “Your daddy is in a meeting now. You should go back to bed.”
Lareani looked around at the room, blinking her eyes. Her lips trembled. She covered her ears and started singing a nursery rhyme quietly: “ It’s raining, it’s snowing, rainbow winds are blowing…”
The Queen curled a finger at Saradra. “Take her to her room and make sure she doesn’t leave her bed.”
“Yes, Owner.” Saradra slid a hand through Lareani’s elbow and led the little girl who was trapped in a young woman’s body outside. The joyless nursery rhyme faded behind the doors.
No one in the room dared breaking the silence to pick up the argument where it was left off. Kastian walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of wine.
“Until the name Zarall and anything symbolising them is completely destroyed, my family’s claim on the throne will not be secure,” the King declared after drinking half the cup in one gulp. He sat on one of the armchairs, leaning back and extending his feet. “Now, my advisers advise me. How do I destroy this symbol without causing any more damage?” He pointed in Lion’s direction with his half-empty cup.
The old man — Master Ulrian — cleared his throat. “I believe Queen Inoeveth is right, Your Majesty. The slave has to go down in the arena. And it has to be a great event.”
“The Serpent's Grip Tournament?” the older son suggested. “It’s two months away.”
“That was supposed to be his next tournament anyway, wasn’t it?” the other man said, nodding slowly. “He fights there, he dies. It would quench the mob’s thirst.”
“But we have to make sure he makes a full recovery and gets a fair chance,” the old man said sternly. “Then we have to make sure he loses indeed.”
“And how do we do that? He won four grand tournaments. And he won the last one, Unraged and injured. How do we make sure he won’t win the Serpent’s Grip too?”
“I think I know how,” Queen Inoeveth said. She crossed her arms, gazing at Lion with a slight curiosity. “We’ll make sure he’ll be begging to die by the time he walks out into the arena.”
More torture. Great.
A sudden dizziness swept over Lion. His muscles lost all their strength, and he slumped to his side. A soft and fuzzy cloud pressed down on his mind, inviting him to sleep.
“We had to give him something to keep him awake,” Master Karhad explained apologetically. “His injuries…”
The rest of his words were drowned under the fog of sleep. Lion escaped into the darkness, leaving them to argue and decide on his fate.