I don’t trust Bran, and I can’t ignore the other potential reasons he may have brought me here.
Not to truly kill the emperor.
But to provide some kind of distraction during the attempt. Bran would still get whatever it is he wants, and I’d be killed.
What if … what if Bran wants to pretend tosaveVallius Corvus from my attempt on his life? He could be using me to prove his own loyalty. Why else would he be so specific aboutwhenI need to make the attempt on the emperor’s life?
My head spins with possibilities, none of them good.
A Praesidium guard steps into the pulvinar, where he bows low, murmuring something to Vallius. Rorrik strolls in, forgoing a chair and leaning against the purple-clad balcony. His own novices trail after him, joining the others at the back of the pulvinar.
The gladians who survive the Sundering will become novices—given to members of the royal family and expected to follow them around, obeying their whims. Ostensibly, it’s a way to ensure loyalty to the empire. In reality, it’s another power play.
Even I’ve heard of the sigilmarked who traded in secrets after spending so much time in close quarters with the emperor. And everyone has heard of the consequences for those who are caught sharing those secrets. I suck in a breath, and Maeva sends me a questioning look.
The emperor returns his attention to the guard and nods. Within moments, the guard melts away and the emperor lifts his hand.
The crowd quiets instantly.
“Welcome.” Vallius Corvus smiles, his voice magically altered once more, reverberating through the arena. “While our enemies continue their relentless campaign to weaken this empire, lashing out at our most vulnerable citizens, I have pledged to cut them off at the knees. As always, these games are a way to thank each and every one of you for your resilience while my imperius ends any who would kill citizens of this empire.”
My jaw aches, and I force myself to stop clenching my teeth.
Translation:Times have been tough, so I’ve arranged for some people to kill each other as a distraction. You’re welcome.
Next to me, Maeva’s expression is placid, her gaze on the sand below us.
“Now,” the emperor says with a wide smile. “Let the games begin.”
The crowd roars. To my left, a woman lets out a jubilant scream, the toddler in her arms pressing his hands to his ears. Next to her, an older child waves his fist in the air.
I scan the people surrounding us. More children of various ages are held in their parents’ arms or stand elbow to elbow with their siblings, expressions of anticipation on their faces.
The emperor’s entertainment is about keeping the masses happy, keeping the privileged engaged, and reinforcing the emperor’s reputation as someone to be both feared and adored.
I force my attention down to the sands. The wide gate closest to us slides open, and an enforcer steps through. Unlike the Praesidium guards who protect the emperor, or the city wardens who are responsible for Lysoria as a whole, the enforcers are usually little more than grunts, taking care of prisoners, helping within the arena, and occasionally joining the soldiers at the front lines. Most of them are armed with a throwing spear, a sword, and an aetherwhip that can be used to strike from a distance.
At least ten men and women follow the enforcer, their feet bound in chains that force them to march in unison—or stumble and fall.
Suppression cuffs encircle their upper arms, ensuring even the half-crowned silver at the back of the line will be forced to fight with only the weapons allocated to him.
All of them are thin, filthy, in no condition to fight. One man’s face must have been white, but his skin is purple with bruising, and so swollen I doubt his mother would be able to recognize him. Another has lost an ear, the wound dripping blood and pus.
Criminals. Enemies of the empire. Now they’ll be used for the emperor’s amusement. And for the amusement of his subjects.
The enforcer leads them on a loop around the arena, and the crowd roars. One woman walks near the front, the pale skin of her forearms covered in rough stitches. Defensive wounds. Someone was slashing at her—likely at her face—and she used her arms to protect herself. She holds her head high, her expression placid, as if refusing to allow the crowd to touch her.
The criminals are led out of the arena, until just two men remain,chains wrapped around their waists and connected to each other. An enforcer hands each of them a shield and a sword before stepping away to stand near one of the metal gates.
It’s the man with the heavily swollen face, forced to fight someone twice his size. His opponent’s shoulders may be as broad as a warhorse’s flank, but he can barely walk—his knee is seriously injured.
A ball of dread begins to expand in my gut, until I can barely breathe.
The emperor waves his hand, and the death match begins.
The chain connecting the men is just one more cruelty, forcing them to engage with each other immediately. Purple Face attempts to take a step back, but his opponent is pulled forward, the distance between them narrowing.
The first man surveys the crowd, and the light plays across the puffy, engorged lines of his face. Some of the people surrounding me begin to quiet, their screams turning to mutters. Maeva sucks in a breath.
