Chapter 28 Promise
PROMISE
VEXAR
THERE’S SOMEONE IN the hall.
I move Amara off my lap and onto the bed before crossing the cell and positioning myself in front of the door. There are no voices, just footsteps. I pray this is a food delivery and not the guards, but I mentally prepare myself for the worst.
Gods, I do not want to leave her side. But I have to. There is no other option.
Discipline and control.
A small slot in the door falls open with a clang, revealing a glimpse of the darkened passageway beyond. I slap my palm against the door. “I need to speak with a guard,” I say in Vhorathi.
Bolts of fear flash through the back of my mind. I turn and find Amara, wide-eyed and shaking. “What is wrong?” I ask.
There is no response. No recognition in her eyes. Her heart pounds in my chest, and I am torn between comforting her and trying to communicate with whoever is in the hall.
Before I can make a choice, an intense instinctual urge pushes me to focus on our connection. So I do.
Chaos. That is what I find. Amara’s panicked chaos.
Something else pushes me now, urging me to calm her racing heart and organize the mayhem.
I think it is my shadow, and despite how wary I am of it, I listen.
My breathing slows, and I focus on settling the panic within Amara’s mind.
In less than a second, her heart rate steadies, and familiarity ghosts across her eyes.
Did the shadow do that? Or me?
Footsteps. Metal rattling over stone. Something sliding. No time to think.
I turn back to the door. Drop to my knees. Peer through the small opening. Shadows move in the dim light beyond. Are they ignoring me?
My fist impacts the door in another attempt to gain their attention. The metal frame shakes violently, raining stone-dust from the ceiling and creating a sonorous bang. I glance down at my fist in confusion. I barely used any force…
Shaking off the wrongness of how the door reacted, I repeat, “I need to speak with a guard.”
Nothing but the sounds of shuffling.
Do they not understand me?
I repeat the phrase in seven different common languages before I receive a response.
“What do you want?” a slick, musical voice says in Temátu.
Strange. What is a Tèmtárh doing here? What is a human doing here? A knot forms in my throat as my thoughts travel back to Amara—the human who was taken from Earth despite a very stringent treaty.
I rake a hand down my face. “I need to speak with a guard,” I repeat.
“Why?” the Tèmtárh asks.
“I would like a meeting with the Magistrate before my next fight.” While my Temátu is not what it should be, the Tèmtárh seems to understand. “Can you deliver a message to the Magistrate?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him I would like to expedite my fights and complete them all today. Tell him I am willing to renegotiate my contract.”
Two metal meal-trays slide onto the shelf jutting out from the slot in the door, and the Tèmtárh and their cart continue down the hallway. I call after them. “When will the guards return?”
“Later,” they say.
When the hallway is silent, I stand and face Amara. Her eyes are still glassy, but her heart is steady, and the panic is gone.
“Did it work?” she asks.
I close the distance between us and cup her face in my hands. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah,” she says casually, “the sound of the meal-slot just freaked me out.”
Her emotions feel almost too steady, and I am not sure what to make of that. “Are you sure?” I ask. She nods, and I decide to trust her and answer her question. “I am not sure if it worked, but we will know soon. Are you hungry?”
Amara sits cross-legged on the bed, the bloodied sheet draped over her lap while she devours her food with surprising intensity.
I pick at my food with far less enthusiasm.
My mind is spinning, testing every assumption I have made about our next steps, looking for holes in our plan or errors in my reasoning.
“How many languages did you try?” she asks.
“Seven.”
She takes another bite off her tray. “You really weren’t exaggerating when you said you know a lot of languages, huh?” I hum and she asks, “What was that last language you used?”
“Tematú. It is the language of the Tèmtárhs.”
“Tèmtárhs… Do they have antenna?” She holds up her fingers above her head and wiggles them.
Unable to avoid grinning, I say, “Yes, they have antenna. And yes, I know the word.”
“I think Roveen is a Tèmtárh. That language … I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she speaks.” Her eyes go wide with excitement. “Wait, can you help me translate a message to add to my pictogram?” She points at the window where her carving is waiting.
“Of course.” I push a slice of graying meat across my tray. “I suppose we should have thought of that before you did all that work.”
She shrugs. “Sometimes you don’t think about the things you need until after you need them.
” She gives me an appreciative smile, and we dive headfirst into coming up with a suitable phrase.
It’s ingenious really, leaving a carving that is likely to only be found by other nurses or gladiators.
Hopefully, Roveen does find it. It will make our return much easier.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Amara asks, after we’ve updated her message to Roveen.
I glance at the questionable food and feel my stomach churn. “I am not sure I would consider this food.”
She smiles playfully. “I think it’s great.”
“You will eat anything, won’t you?”
Her eyes flick down below my waist, and her brows raise suggestively.
“Not what I meant,” I say.
“Still funny.” Another piece of graying meat disappears into her mouth. “And no, I’m not too picky anymore. Enough time in the military, or here, will do that to you.”
I hum a sound of understanding. “You should put your dress back on. I do not know when Gaius will want to meet, and the guards should not see you like this.” Our plan hinges on discretion.
She glances at the crumpled, stained garment on the floor, and an almost imperceptible shudder rolls through her. “I will. In a bit.”
Her reaction is painful to witness. That pile of fabric has become a symbol of her bondage, and I wish there was something I could do to protect her from it. Unfortunately, she will have to wear it. The illusion must be maintained.
Gods, this plan is foolish…
I push my tray to the side, no longer interested in it. The caloric injections I received will last another day or two, even if my stomach feels painfully empty.
Amara looks at my unfinished meal like I’ve lost my mind.
“Are you really not going to eat that?” When I shake my head, she proceeds to clear my leftovers with a hum of satisfaction.
“I feel so much better,” she says, as she leans back and kicks a leg out, readjusting the sheet in the process and revealing a strangely shaped blotch of blood on the white fabric.
“Is that …?” I ask, turning my head to get a better view of the stain. “Did you write on the sheet in blood?”
She glances down to where I am looking and shrugs. “Yeah. I didn’t have anything else to write with, and I needed to keep track of your heart rate.”
Sure enough, the smudges appear to be a series of base-10 numerals. Side-eyeing the ominous smears, I ask, “Where did you learn that trick?”
“Navy.” When she notices my raised brows, she elaborates. “We would write triage information, like the time a tourniquet was placed, on casualties’ bodies so—”
“In blood?” I blurt out, accidentally interrupting her.
“Well, no, you’re supposed to use a permanent marker, but when shit hits the fan, you use whatever you’ve got. Last deployment, some shitlicker shot my marker, and while blood doesn’t have much staying power, it works in a pinch. Or at least until you can get someone else’s marker.”
I swallow back my surprise. “You were shot?”
“Not that day.”
“You just said…”
“My armor—and I guess my marker—caught that round.”
I shake my head. “So you were shot another time?”
She lifts her arm and points to a scar beneath her bicep that I had not noticed before. “Just a little,” she says with a wink.
It takes me a moment before I can find my words. “What happened?”
Her brows knit together like she doesn’t understand my question. “I was shot.”
“By who?”
“An asshole with a death wish.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what happened to this asshole with a death wish?”
She nudges me with her toe and smiles. “You can’t hunt him down and kill him if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, clearly meaning the man is already dead.
Every conversation with Amara seems to further dispel the illusion that she is defenseless, and the more I learn about her past, the clearer her true disposition becomes.
She is more like one of my warriors than one of my sisters.
I have heard rumors about some humans being violent, but I did not expect Amara to be one of them.
I wonder how many humans are like her. She is caring and gentle, but behind her dark brown eyes, I can see the violence there.
I can feel it simmering beneath her surface.
“You ok?” she asks.
I smile. “Just nervous.” Everything about our plan has me on edge, but this is the only way to ensure I do not lose my throne or my ability to stop the Tusku slave-ships. “Are you ready for today?” I ask.
She blows a breath between pinched lips, puffing out her cheeks. “As ready as I can be.”
Sliding fully onto the bed, I grip her feet and pull her towards me, wrapping her legs around my torso and my arms around her waist. “I need you to promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“When you see Gaius, do not anger him. Do not let him see you as a threat.”
She scoffs like my request is ridiculous, but it is not. She is fire, and fury, and war incarnate, and it is clear she does not know this about herself. I am certain she could kill Gaius, but there are too many guards. She would not survive what happened after he was dead.
My hand moves to her chin, and a deep thunder vibrates my chest. “Amara, do not give them a reason to kill you.”
Her discerning gaze digs through me, and her expression morphs to one of concern. “Hey,” she coos, placing her hands on either side of my face, “it’s ok. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
Her words do little to soothe me or my shadow. The darkness in me would rather tear this galaxy apart than let her out of my sight. The instinct to protect is overwhelming. “Promise me you will follow the plan and do only what we discussed. Promise me you will not risk your life.”
She nods. “I promise.”