“We all got out together,” I say, trying to speak loud enough for all of them to hear, without alerting the guard. “They went on while I tried to get Aemon. I can’t say for sure, but I’m hopeful.”
Tears draw a line down Leina’s cheeks, but she nods, a small smile playing on her lips. The redhead bites back her own smile while the last girl wipes surreptitiously at her eyes. I open my mouth to ask them more about the girls—were any of them friends or family or lovers—but Raiden chooses that moment to step back into the box, a handsome fae, with bright periwinkle-blue eyes, walking alongside him.
Raiden holds his arm out, presenting the four of us to the pretty fae. “Commissioner Garrick, here are the ladies I told you about.”
The smile the commissioner gives us is nothing short of salacious. “Yes. They are lovely,” he says, dragging his long, black thumb nail across his bottom lip as if imagining it on our skin. A shiver snakes up my spine.
“Katya, move down,” Raiden spats. I hop out of my seat and sit down on the other side of Leina, leaving the seat between her andthe other two girls open for the commissioner. He flops into the chair, arms thrown over the girls’ shoulders. They smile and giggle and pretend to enjoy his attention under Raiden’s watchful eye. I do my best to mimic the other girls, but I’m not sure I’m very convincing. Luckily, my back is to Raiden, so he can’t see what a terrible actress I am.
The commissioner takes hold of Leina’s wrist, first sniffing, then dragging his tongue up the bluish veins. I recoil at the vulgarity of it. Beside me, Leina trembles so hard her seat vibrates, but she somehow manages to keep a smile on her face, even as the commissioner stabs his ashari into her wrist. She lets out a tiny squeak at the jab of pain. A bead of blood swells from the wound and he laps it up like a dog before moving to the redhead on his other side. What is this, a blood taste test?
Just then, the arena goes strangely silent, then a smattering of laughter and applause as the same chubby announcer, Bene, walks to the center of the arena. Even the commissioner pauses his blood licking to see what’s happening. The redhead sags back into her seat.
“Esteemed guests,” Bene says, his voice booming through the arena by some strange sort of magic. “Ledi’Nochte has spoken through her anointed, King Khalmos, and she has demanded blood.” He thrusts a fist into the air, and the crowd explodes into applause that quickly peter away as though this was just a part of an even greater show, each moment choreographed for maximum impact. “Tonight, we have emptied our prisons of the many thieves and murderers who have preyed upon the good people of Ümbros.” The crowd boos. Bene shakes his head and smiles as if he finds this all rather amusing, then he holds up his palms to quietthe still shouting voices. “May the mother lay her claim to their souls and lead them into the eternal darkness.”
The spectators break out into thunderous applause as Bene exits back through one of the tunnels and a line of prisoners, shackled to a metal pole, are led onto the sandy floor. My eyes snag on one in particular—his scruffy black hair, broad shoulders and lean frame as familiar to me as my own skin—and I scream out for him.
“Aemon!”
42
When I was a boy, one of the servant’s children—a pretty girl I followed around like a puppy—asked me, if I could know the date and time of my death, would I want to? My answer then was “yes” so I could go on adventures and live life to the fullest until I died. I’ve since concluded that that boy was an idiot because knowing you’re about to die is fucking terrifying. It’s not the being dead part I’m afraid of. It’s the way I will die that has me trembling in my boots.
How will it happen? Will I be swallowed whole by a basilisk or eaten alive by a horde of giant lizard creatures, like those poor bastards were the last time I was here? Or maybe they’ll dunk us head-first into a vat of boiling oil and shout and clap as our skin melts from our bodies. Gods, this is doing a number on me. I’ve always considered myself a strong man, but right now, I feel every bit the fragile human.
I look up and down the metal pole we’ve been chained to while we wait to be led into the arena, for our turn to die. I’ve counted eleven people—some fae, some human—their expressions ranging from abject horror to resignation. There’s a fae woman in the back of the line wailing hysterically, and a human a little ways up from her reciting prayers under his breath. I wonder if he’s praying to Casmir to save us or to Morgana for a quick death. I wish I had faith like that, but I stopped praying a long time ago, when I finally realized no amount of prayer would ever bring my parents back.
Footsteps approach us from behind, and all the prisoners twist around as far as our bound wrists will allow to watch a fae male step from between the mass of guards at our back. He’s got that self-important air about him all rich assholes seem to exude, like the rest of us should be honored simply to be in his presence. His thin hair hangs limply to his shoulders, framing his sharp features in white. Silver chains like spiderwebs dangle from the points of his ears and every single one of his long fingernails is lacquered a bright red and festooned with gems. All except the index finger of his right hand where he wears the ashari—the point already crusted with blood.
He raises his hands like a prophet of the gods and speaks to us in Ümbrian. The prisoners surrounding me let out a collective breath, and I watch as one of the guards—a male with stringy white hair braided halfway down his back—begins lowering thin chains over their heads, each of them bearing a key. I’m fairly certain I can deduce what’s happening, but I lean toward the bald male in front of me anyway and ask, “What did he say?”
He glances over his shoulder, and with a calm I can’t even begin to surmise, shakes his head. Right, he doesn’t speak Ferinees.
“They’re giving us a key to our manacles,” says a female voice behind me. I twist around to find a fae lady with matted white hair, her eyes swollen and red from crying. She gives me a grim smile and continues, “We have to get out of them first.” She pauses while the guard places a chain with an unremarkable silver key around her neck, then waits for him to do the same for me. Once the guard has moved on to the bald fae, she continues in a low voice, “Then we have to fight off whatever they have in store for us, if we want to live.”
A tiny ray of hope swells in my chest. “How often do prisoners survive this?”
Her eyes soften. “They don’t.”
Well, she snuffed that out quick. “Ever?”
“Not that I know of.”
Fuck.
I’m so caught up in our discussion, I don’t notice the guard with the braided hair walking back down the line, but she does. With a squeak, the fae female ducks her head like she’s suddenly become fascinated with our bare feet. A crack of pain on the back of my skull thrusts my head forward, while a voice shouts, “Ishka,” in my ear, which I’m guessing means something akin to “Shut the fuck up.” I whirl around, ready to fight the bastard with my forehead, if necessary, but he just backs out of my reach, a self-satisfied smirk on his pasty white face.
“Oh, yeah. You’re really tough when the other guy’s in chains. Let me go, you fucking coward, and see what happens.” I lunge at him, and the guard startles back a couple more steps. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
That pisses him off. He leaps at me, grabbing the chains connecting my wrist to the pole and jerking them, hard. The metal shackles cut into my skin as pulls me down, so we're nose to nose and spatting the words in brokenFerinees, says, “You see the glogameth hunt, human?” He slowly drags the point of his ashari down my cheek, leaving a line of blood in its wake. I could yank my head away, but I don’t. I hold that bastard’s stare without so much as a flinch. “They like playing with their food,” he continues, “which makes for a great show. You never know if they roast you or tear you apart. Maybe they start with your toes and”—he walks his fingers up my chest—“chew their way up, or they bite your feet and pull until your hands rip off in these”—he taps the manacles circling my wrists—“then leave you to bleed in sand. But one thing is certain, I will be happy to see you die.”
He gives me that fucking smirk again, and I want to punch it off his smug face, but seeing as my hands and feet are chained, I go for the next best thing. “Fuck you,” I say, leaning in just a hair before I draw back and slam my forehead into his nose. There’s an audible crack and blood gushes down his face. He wails and stumbles away, his hands cupped around his nose as if trying to collect the blood before it hits the ground. I grin at him, ignoring the way the movement tugs at the cut on my cheek and sends blood trickling down my face.
The guard runs off—for a towel, I suppose—but the exhilaration from that small victory dies a quick death when the arena erupts in applause, signaling the end to this last bout, and lucky me, I happen to glance through the iron gate just in time to see a male ripped in half between two giant wolves.
Exactly what every fighter wants to witness moments before they go into battle. The wolves settle in for their dinner, but soon a few fae dressed in red race onto the arena floor. They aim their bull whips at the ground, just short of the creatures’ feet, each strike cracking against the hard stone and sending up tiny plumes of sand into the air. The wolves refuse to give up their prize, however, dragging the two halves of the dead man along with them, as the fae herd them into another arched tunnel.
They don’t even bother to clean up the blood and guts littering the floor.
