CLAY SWUNG AT THE TIGER, HITTING it with the chain between his wrists. As I ran toward him, jeers and curses merged into an unrelenting buzz. I pulled my sword from its scabbard and brought the tip down on the tiger’s shoulder, cutting its side as it lunged again. It snarled and twisted away, baring its long, sharp teeth. I stood with my back to Clay, the sword held out.
“What are you doing?” he hissed from behind me.
“We come from the same place,” I answered while the tiger paced back and forth, its blue eyes blazing with fury. “That means I fight with you.”
Before he could reply, the announcer spoke from a balcony to my left. “So the Fireblood can’t wait to get into the fight. What do you say we make this interesting and throw in a challenger?”
The crowd roared their approval, and a figure came running out of the alcove, his face covered by a helm. At the same time, the white bull was released, its yoke falling to the ground. Its curved back rose into the air, followed by a flick of its feet, and then it rushed at the prisoner who was trying to climb up the sheer ice at the edge of the arena. People in the stands laughed and threw rocks. Some hit the bull, incensing it further. The animal’s sharp horns caught the prisoner in the back. He went down and stayed on the ground, unmoving.
Then the bull turned toward the helm-clad figure and charged. The man stood, sword at the ready, and at the last second, threw himself left, his sword pointed up and to the right, so the bull’s momentum pulled it over the sword’s tip. It bellowed in pain and rage and turned on him, muscles bunched for another run.
The tiger still prowled. Every few seconds it advanced and retreated as it paced. I had to keep turning to shield Clay, lunging at it with my sword. Up close, I could count the animal’s ribs. I felt a rush of pity for the poor, underfed beast, just another plaything in the king’s toy box.
I turned and saw that the bull was already on the ground, a sword raised above its head. I turned away as the warrior delivered the killing blow. The crowd cheered.
“You can’t save me,” said Clay. “Only one person will leave this arena alive.”
I shook my head, mentally shoving his words away.
The challenger wiped his bloodied sword on the bull’s white fur and advanced toward me. I changed position, shoving Clay behind me so I could keep both the tiger and my opponent in my sights. When my sword was pointed at the warrior, the tiger took the advantage and rushed forward. With my left hand, I sent a blast of heat at the animal. It backed off. I laid a line of fire between us.
“Save some for me,” said the challenger. I recognized the voice even before he removed his steel helm. When his face emerged, a cheer erupted from the seats.
Captain Drake.
I raised my sword, but he sheathed his own and showed his palms. I waited as he came forward and stopped a few feet away.
“You burned my soldiers and then led me on a merry dance across half the kingdom,” he said. “Some of the men you scarred are in the stands today. They’ll be cheering as I avenge their pain.”
“You killed my mother,” I said, heat pulsing through my fingers and into the steel. “Today I take your life for hers.”
“You can try,” he said, raising his voice above the drone of the crowd. He made a few smooth movements with his sword, showing off his dexterity. Then he turned and bowed low to a woman leaning over the stands behind him and a girl who had the captain’s eyes and the same shade of sandy hair. His wife and daughter, I thought. The girl he had bragged about at dinner with the king.
Did you ever have to fight an innocent? I had asked Braka. Well, the captain was no innocent. He had the blood of countless people on his hands. And yet… to kill him in front of his wife and daughter. I didn’t want that. I’d been raised to value life, to preserve it. I couldn’t put the captain’s daughter through the pain of witnessing the death of her father.
My desperate gaze found the king on his balcony, his gold-trimmed robes and hair making him shine like some kind of celestial vision. His eyes were dark and steady, his posture relaxed.
“I don’t want this,” I said clearly, the words echoing in the expectant hush.
The king’s lips lifted on one side, his look of mocking disbelief cutting through me. You do want this, his look said, his eyes somehow both caressing and triumphant. You just don’t want to admit it.
Marella sat next to him. She leaned forward slightly, her hands gripping the arms of the seat, her violet eyes wide. She had to know this was wrong. But her face looked strange, a flash of something sharpening her delicate features. Anticipation? Excitement?