The king nodded almost reflexively, as if he were used to agreeing with this courtier. It reminded me that the king was much younger than he seemed with his cold, cruel eyes.
“Power matters,” the king agreed. “All other qualities are merely decoration.”
So in their eyes, people like my mother who were gentle and spent their lives healing others didn’t matter at all. Heat bubbled up in my chest, but the throne whisked it away so quickly it made me ache. I struggled not to put a hand to my chest.
“Well,” I said, “by your measure, I’m worthy because I defeated your beast. I was more powerful and should have a chance to win again.”
He regarded me for long seconds, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Yesterday, I was certain you were weak.” Another pause. “I don’t like being wrong.”
“No one likes being wrong,” I replied, forgetting to hide the scorn that burned my throat.
Something glittered in his eyes. Primitive fear tightened my spine and sharpened my senses. But I held the king’s gaze. The room seemed to narrow until it contained only the two of us.
“You speak with reckless freedom, Fireling,” he said in a low voice. “And yet I could kill you with very little effort.”
At his words, the shadows in the throne sprang to life, swirling up behind the king in a thick, smoky cloud. He suddenly looked older, harder. His eyes darkened.
I had nothing to bargain with, no leverage against the king. I needed to show him I had value to him. And the only thing he valued was strength.
“Yes,” I said. “You could. But then you would never know how powerful I am.”
A smile lit the young woman’s face. The bearded man next to the king took a step forward. “This will not be like facing a witless beast. His Majesty’s champions have fought their way to the arena and will stop at nothing to kill you.”
“You can’t win against my champions,” the king agreed. His tone was dismissive, his conviction so strong, as if the matter was already decided.
I changed tack, attempting a tone of brave unconcern. “If you kill me now, you’ll miss the pleasure of watching me lose in your arena. My death might be the most spectacular you’ve ever seen. Surely you can’t resist the prospect of watching my blood spilled for your entertainment.”
Something dark flashed over his face. His gaze swept over me in the pulsing silence.
If I wanted to destroy the throne, I had to live. To live, I had to win. And to win, he had to give me a chance to fight. I waited, barely breathing.
The young woman with wheat-gold hair gave a light laugh, breaking the thick tension. “She argues well, Your Majesty. There is nothing worse than a quick, boring death in the arena. She would give a champion good sport, I’m sure.”
The king relaxed visibly, his eyes glittering blue with mirth and making him look younger again. He addressed the guard. “Put her in the room reserved for a challenger.”
I clenched my muscles to hide my shaking relief, though I knew I would have to face highly trained and merciless enemies. No matter how much I had trained at the abbey, I wasn’t prepared to go up against that level of skill.
“And, Fireling,” the king added with a glint of steel in his eye, “I will hold you to your promise of a spectacular death. Don’t succumb too quickly. The sport is in watching the struggle.”
I curtsied low. “I will do my best to die slowly to please Your Majesty.”
As the guards turned and took me from the room, his dark laughter followed me.
The guard led me to a windowless room with a simple wooden bed and a washstand. So another prison, albeit a more comfortable one. When the door shut behind me, I turned and knocked on it experimentally. It was thick, but it was made of wood. I could burn my way through. Then again, even if I managed to escape and somehow made it past the guards, my goal was still to destroy the throne. And I had no idea how.
I lay on the straw-stuffed mattress and stared at the stone ceiling, trying to recall everything Brother Thistle had told me about the throne. But I couldn’t remember anything about it stealing my power and how to overcome that. Maybe he hadn’t known.
The door swung open and two guards stepped in. One put a tray of food on the floor, then they swung out. On the tray, a large wooden bowl held a thick stew with a hunk of bread on the edge. I rushed over and took a bite, closing my eyes in pleasure to find it piping hot.
I was back on the straw-stuffed mattress when the door opened again. I slid off the bed and found my feet, my limbs moving automatically into a pose of readiness, knees bent, fists raised to defend myself.
A woman swept in, her full, deep plum satin skirts swishing around the door before she closed it behind her. Her eyes widened as she took in my stance, her wheat-gold eyebrows lifting.
“Ready to fight, I see,” she said in her elegant voice. “Good. But save your strength for the arena. You’ll need it.”
It was the young woman from the throne room, the one who had helped persuade the king to let me fight. Forcing the muscles to relax, I lowered my fists.