The Grand Chancellor leaves his box and strides forward. He motions to the stone past the lit torches. Still without any hint of expression, the tarnished lays on it. In the dim light, she looks like she could be any girl I know.
“Sacrifice.” His voice booms through the field.
The cool night air sharpens. Realizing what the stone is, I clench my hands together. An altar. His words make sense. My mouth goes dry. I'm about to witness my first human sacrifice.
It was talked about. More rumors flowed about it than I want to admit. Boys bragging they had seen it done at tournaments. Girls wishing they had. I never wanted to hear it. Never wanted to pay attention. Never wanted it to be true.
I thought I could avoid it. Thought that maybe, somehow, it was a story meant to frighten us and nothing more. Right now, I wish it was a story. I wish my avoidance of it could continue. I wish there was some way for me to be anywhere but here.
Silver light seeps from the Grand Chancellor's fingers and slithers toward her. It sharpens as it grows closer to her neck. I tilt my head away from the scene and squeeze my eyes shut. The silence pulses through me. I breathe slowly, waiting for a scream.
And wait.
And wait.
I slide one of my eyelids up a touch, then open them both wide. The Grand Chancellor is glowing. Faintly, but even with the torches lighting the night, it stands out. Sometime while my eyes had been closed, his skin became luminescent. Next to him, the girl on the table lies dark, unmoving.
Chapter Five
The Grand Chancellor claps his hands. Sparks fly from them, darting through the night sky. “Let the feast begin!”
The memory of his voice continues to boom against me as the spectators break into a cheer. Father whoops. My insides hurt. A gnawing, uncomfortable feeling. I force it to stay inside.
“You girls make sure you're in the women's tent before curfew,” he says and steps out of the box.
No chaperon in public for the first time. Must be a perk of tournament excitement, not that I'll enjoy it. Keeping my gaze away from the altar, I try to gather a sense of normalcy, but struggle. There's nothing normal about any of this.
Cynthia's pale.
“Can I get you something?” I hope she doesn't ask for the calming tea. Mother's forced it on me so much I've grown to abhor it.
She shakes her head.
Grateful she's strong enough to not want the tea, but not knowing how else to help, I stay by her side and try not to think of the sacrifice. I can't help it though. The few images I saw keep playing through my mind, vivid and life-like. The tarnished. The altar. Her laying there, almost seeming human one moment then gone. Just gone.
People drift from their boxes, onto the field, and to the side where I can't see. The area will have entertainment and tables laden with food and drink. It no longer holds any appeal for me. In the growing dark of our box, no one seems to notice us. The jubilation of the crowd carries, faded by the distance, and the smell of rotten cabbage strengthens.
After a while Cynthia says, “I'm not hungry as I thought I would be, but you can go to the feast if you want. I think I'm going to lie down early.”
I sigh with relief. “I'll go with you.”
“You don't have to.”
“I want to.”
She stands and we make our way out of the box onto the grass. Just a few steps out, someone grabs my hand and wrenches me away from Cynthia. My chest tightens. I strain against the cloth covered muscles. The odor of sweat clogs my nose. Thomas. I stop struggling. A few people stop walking to watch us.
The Woman's Canon says his closeness is acceptable. Not only acceptable, but that I must submit to his wishes. It makes my stomach churn as if I was riding in a carriage. Despite his arms wrapped around me, holding me flush against him, the words are law. Shoving him away must only take place in my imagination.
“Where have you been?” Pungent wine is heavy on his slurred words as he dips closer.
Forget the law. I try to ease away from him, but he grips tighter.
“We've been in your box like we were supposed to be. We just decided to go to the women's tent for the night.” From the scowl on his face, I know that was the wrong thing to say. “I want to be rested before your duels tomorrow.”
“None of that. Your sister can go, but everyone will be expecting to see you with me.”
“I can come if you'd like, Serena,” Cynthia offers.
Her color hasn't returned yet. If she feels as ill as I do, I can't ask for her presence. I fake a smile. “It's fine. I'll see you before curfew.”
“If you're sure?”
“She said she's fine,” Thomas says. “Get on with you.”