We’re led over to where I’d seen the others changing. Other guards shove uniforms into our hands. Gin and I slip on the jackets and button them. Across the courtyard, where we’d just come from, the other servants strain to see what’s going on. I want to assure them it will be okay somehow, but I don’t know how. And besides that, I can’t guarantee anything. I have no way of predicting what’s about to happen at House Dominant.
After we have our uniforms for the evening, we’re brought together, along with the rest of our small group, and instructed to walk. We’re led through a concealed door, masked to look like the fresco wall around it, and down a bare service passageway. We pass the enormous kitchens, one situated on either side of the passage, where dozens of staff are already busy at work preparing a banquet. It’s hot, smoky, and chaotic. Pots and dishes clang, and cooks in long aprons shout at their harried assistants. They run back and forth, carrying bowls full of chopped vegetables and jugs of water, which splash over and drip on the floor. Teams of servants stand by huge cooking hearths, continuously turning roasting spits.
From there our group moves into a sort of mechanical room. It’s dim, and smells damp and earthy, like wet stone. Alongside the furnace, and various pipes and tubes I can’t identify, there are tall steel boxes with blinking lights, and gears of various sizes, clacking and screeching as they rotate. It’s almost as loud as the kitchens, though there are very few workers present. Except they’re hidden in the shadows, seemingly manning the wheels that make the gears turn.
As my eyes adjust, I notice there’s a large platform in the center of the room, with thick steel cables at each corner that reach up to the ceiling.
“Step here,” the guard commands. “Everyone together.”
Strange. I consider saying no, though at this point, what choice do I have? Gin and I share a glance. She’s thinking the same thing. She shrugs. Maybe we’re needed to power some type of automaton. Maybe there will be a show.
Bodies bash into me. We’re all being herded onto the platform. My heart races.Calm down.Nothing bad is going to happen. After all, we’re necessary for this holiday celebration to succeed.
The guards shove us closer together to make room for more. We’re all pressed up against one another. I can smell the skin of everyone around me, their sweat and the musky scent of unwashed hair. Some murmur to each other, wondering what’s going on, what will happen next. Most are silent, though, their muscles tensed, anticipating something, though they aren’t sure what.
Finally, we’re all on the platform. Nothing happens. The seconds drag on. How long will we stand here? More murmurs rise up from within the jam-packed servants on the platform. The guards stroll back and forth lazily, with no urgency or interest. Even I’m getting angry. “What do you think we’re waiting for?” I ask Gin.
Her body heaves forward as someone pushes behind her. “Watch it!” she calls back over her shoulder. Then to me, she says, “I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”
There’s a wrenching jolt from the floor beneath us. Gin exclaims “Oh!” and grabs on to me. I put my arms around her to steady her. Those around us also shout out and grab on to the person beside them. Others reach for the steel cables and use those to brace themselves.
Because suddenly, the platform begins to rise.
It’s hard to breathe. People squish toward the middle of the crowd, trying to avoid the precarious edge of the platform.
Then a hush falls over us. As we ascend, we hear noises. Voices. A crowd. Cheers echo in the distance.
“What is that?” Gin asks. Her voice is shaky.
I have a pretty good idea what it might be. But I hope I’m wrong. Before I have a chance to say, the ceiling above us slides open. Light pours in. We squint and look up, unsure what’s about to befall us.
Then I see. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people seated all around us. Once they see us, the audience begins clapping and stomping their feet.
It’s… an arena.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWOGIN
At the other end of the arena, another platform is also rising, that one filled with soldiers, dressed in an older type of costume. I squint to try to get a clearer view. Then I realize they’re wearing Lacon military uniforms from five hundred years ago. Whereas we’re dressed in the traditional robes of Ophir. I start to suspect I know exactly what kind of tournament House Dominant is hosting and it’s not a tournament at all. There’s no sportsmanship here. Not today. My heart leaps into my throat and I reach for Eban’s hand.
He squeezes it. He knows what’s happening here, too.
“It’s all right,” he says. “You’ve got this.”
I’m struck then, by the realization that, until now, I was always waiting. Waiting for someone to rescue me. Waiting for someone to help me out of my predicament, out of my life. Rollo had been that savior once. I waited for him to pick me up from the street, allowed him to bring me to his home, to hide me. I was always waiting to be saved and Rollo was happy enough to do the saving.
But Eban—Eban isn’t going to save me. Instead, he believes in me. He believes I can save myself. Is this what love is after all? Not waiting to be saved, but being with someone who lets you save yourself?
I turn back to the arena. Sure enough, when the announcer blares, “Lords, ladies, and gentlemen, welcome to Liberation Day!” my fears are confirmed.
We aren’t here to be servants at all. Instead we’d volunteered to be prey. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t realize their true intentions earlier, when they culled the weak from the strong. They’re staging a reenactment of the last battle of Ophir. When the soldiers conquered the city and slaughtered almost everyone in the kingdom.
My stomach sinks and my fingers twitch, itching for the blades I usually carry.
The platform finally lurches to a full stop. There’s a brief moment of silence all around—from the crowd, from those of us huddled together. Even the soldiers stand eerily still. And then, with one breath, it all changes. The soldiers draw their swords. The blades shimmer in the light, menacing, razor sharp. I see the flashes of our colorful woven tunics reflected in them. The arena teeters on the edge—excitement and apprehension, and a thirst for blood in the air.
“They want a show,” Eban growls. “Let’s give them one.”
A cheer breaks out across the arena as another platform begins to rise from the ground. Only there aren’t more Ophir on it, nor soldiers, either. As it comes into view I see metal and wires and gears—it’s an enormous automaton.
