Sani and I pause just inside the white picket fence. All around us are smells of baking bread and roasting meats. People are laughing, their gems jangling and their heavy cloaks swishing. Silk fans work furiously against sweaty faces, and decorated parasols open and close as the nobles carrying them weave in and out of tents and canvas awnings.
The tiny stone paths are packed with colorfully-dressed nobles and what must be servants in white silk livery. They move to-and-fro, crossing the regimented pathways simultaneously in a hurry and at leisure. The servants seem to move more quickly, their tight-lipped expressions showing their displeasure, but the nobles take their time. They pause at every new (or old) face and say hello.
I can feel my head jerking from left to right, unsure what to look at first.
A woman in an ice-blue gown with diamonds sewn into the hems stops and stares at me. She takes in the fabric on my cloak and the strands of dirty hair escaping from beneath the hood's cover.
I slip my arm free of Sani's and smooth the teal cloak over my thighs. Rogue was right. If I'm going to pass scrutiny here, I'm going to need a new outfit.
Sani advances forward along the path. I watch as the eyes of men and women slide to her, watching her lithe body move with every step.
Voices flit past me as I follow her, snippets of conversation that seem far too benign for this day.
"Oh do you like it? I paid three coins for it." One woman says. She tugs at a yellow scarf stitched with pink flowers.
"Delia is the top of her grade which Barth and I are absolutely thrilled about. I mean, of course she was Fated to be intelligent, but it's always nice when these little things work out, don't you agree?" Another woman says to her companion. From beneath my hood I see them both holding twin parasol with handles of faceted crystal.
"An Un-Fated tried to claim they were more deserving of the job. Can you believe it? An Un-Fated. The Goddess didn't even think them worthy enough for anything!" It's a man who says this. I look at his feet as I go by. He's wearing crocodile skin shoes that buckle on the sides. His pants are tapered at his ankles and have thin lines of silver thread stitched vertically against the black fabric.
I keep my head bowed as we move through the nobles. We reach the end of the path, and Rogue stops suddenly, swearing beside me.
I look up to see what's wrong, and I freeze, my whole body going rigid. I'm pinned by my own face staring back at me from half-priced banners, my painted Fate bared for all to see.
I grip my left arm instinctively, but it's hidden beneath bandages and my teal cloak. It's invisible, but my face isn't.
Merchants stand beside wooden stalls. They sell everything from small replicas of our duel banners, to tiny metal clappers that make a thin smacking sound when shaken, to play weapons, blunted and child-size.
My face is on everything. Not only does it decorate the miniature banners, but it's on tunics, playing cards, blankets—anything that can be painted seems to have my face. There's a regimented structure to it, as if a stencil was made and artists simply painted in the spaces on the fabrics and papers. Nearly every item has a read "half-price" tag attached. The shirts and cards that don't, have added black mourning shrouds to my face and written the date of my death beneath my head.
"What did I tell you," Sani says, leaning in. "Liability."
I grit my teeth. "Don't worry," I tell her. "I'll get a disguise. I'll meet you at the entrance to the arena."
"If you don't get arrested first," Sani says, stalking away up the path.
I'm tempted to stick my tongue out at her, but I stop myself.
I look around at the merchants. Every tuft of orange I see makes me stop, my heart soaring, but none of them are Rogue. He's not here, and I sigh.
Gripping my cloak tightly around my shoulders, I move toward one of the far merchants. She has cloaks displayed on a coat rack made from a tree balanced on a carved wooden stand. There's one that's inky black with a splatter of tiny diamonds that looks like stars sewn into the back.
Taking a deep breath, I close in on the cloak and finger the fabric, watching the merchant out of the corner of my eye. She turns to speak with a customer, and I slip the cloak over my shoulders, placing the teal cloak in its stead.
My heart's pounding, but I throw my shoulders back and try to walk with confidence.
Someone taps at my shoulder, and my stomach just about drops through the ground. I turn, ready to hear the word "Thief" thrown in my face, but instead the woman who looks at me appears innocently friendly. She smiles at me and tucks a strand of hair behind her dark ear. She has the nerves of youth, and I frown slightly, unsure what she's going to say. I look warily past her head, but no one seems to have followed her. Still, I can feel my hand curling into a fist, just in case.
"Excuse me, but where did you get that cloak? It's lovely," she asks.
It takes me a moment to tamp down my adrenaline before I can answer. "Oh, at the merchant," I say, aware of my awkward heavy breathing. "Just there." I hook a thumb over my shoulder.
She glances in the same direction. "Thank you," she says, briefly turning back to give me another smile before walking away. She's clothed in a dark purple gown with a gold brocaded corseted front. The gown has sheer purple sleeves that billow out at the shoulders before tapering to her wrists. It's the first noble outfit I've seen that makes sense for this weather.
I turn back around and keep walking down the path. I want to put as much distance between myself and the cloak vender as possible. The vendor will either be too flattered by the noble girl coming specifically to her stall, or she'll immediately notice the cloak in question is missing and will come looking for me. Either way, I don't think she should see me again.
The cloak is long enough to cover my feet, but when I walk, I kick the cloak out before me and I'm nervous someone will see that I'm not wearing shoes.
I keep the cloak's hood up high around my head and focus my eyes on the ground. I know it's an absurd thought, but I wonder if the nobles might keep their shoes outside their tent. Perhaps they're concerned about the smell, or bringing dirt inside, or it's just customary, or it's...
A pair of pale pink slippers sit primly just outside the entrance flaps of a crimson tent. They beside a sturdier pair of leather boots and three child-sized yellow shoes made from some sort of dyed water-repellant oilskin.
I sidle up to the tent and strain my ears toward the canvas. I don't hear any sounds coming from inside, and the flaps themselves are tied shut. The family who lives here must not be concerned about theft within the tent village. Looking around quickly, I don't see any guards patrolling within the fence. They're either in plainclothes, or...they're not here. There might not be a need for guards. If everyone is vetted before they enter the tent village, then there might be an implicit trust amongst the nobles. And besides, who would be crazy enough to steal from one this close to the prison's walls?
Me, I think, as I step swiftly into the slippers. They're constrinctingly snug. The fabric cuts across the tops of my feet, and I can't feel anything through the soles. It's an uncomfortable disconnect between my feet and the ground and I'm unsteady. It's been years since I've worn shoes.
I take a left and cut through the middle grouping of tents. Here the crowds are thinner and less ostentatiously dressed. I keep my eye on the little marketplace square. I want to enter it from the opposite end so the vender with the cloaks doesn't recognize one of her pieces.
I take another left and cut into the marketplace square exactly opposite of the vendor with the cloaks. The teal Scout's cloak is still hanging from its hook. I'm pleased to see that the cloak vendor is engaged with a small collection of shoppers admiring her wares. It frees me up to explore what the other stalls have to offer.
Four of them have mouthwatering sweets with icing done up in all different shapes and vignettes. Baked goods tower from shelves and sugar-coated candies stack up in glass bowls of every color. My hands itch to grab a loaf of bread and shove it in my mouth, but the longer I go without covering my face, the more chances I have of being recognized.
I head to a central vendor with a stall bedecked in various hats, bejeweled tiaras, and face masks. The tiaras are too gawdy to have ever been selected by the warden for Alani, but the sight of them still sends a chill through my bones. I have to blink my eyes a few times to get rid of the phantom image of the blood-tipped circlet of thorns dripping against a head of white blonde.
There's a mask sitting atop a red velvet pillow that catches my eye. It's made of silver mesh so fine it could be lace, with floral patterns woven in between the grid. It provides just enough coverage so my face will be mostly unrecognizable, but it's also transparent enough for me to see through it well enough. Plus, the silver will go nicely with the diamond-encrusted cloak I've found, and that seems like a noble thought to have.
I pick up a nearby half-mask made of white porcelain. It's ceremonial and worn for holidays, and I don't intend to wear it, I just need something to drop down on the pillow the moment I slip the silver meshed mask up my sleeve.
I keep the mask vendor in the corner of my eye. He's dressed in a fine black tailcoat trimmed in purple-dyed feathers, a billowing white silk blouse spilling out from beneath the coat. He's helping another gentleman select a hat. The vendor turns just enough to adjust the way the hat sits on the customer's head, and I slip the silver mesh up my sleeve with one hand while setting the half mask down on the pillow with the other.
I walk quickly but surely away and slink back onto the pathway between the tents. There's enough of a space between neighboring tents off the path for me to squeeze through and drop the mask from my sleeve into the palm of my hand. I take my hood off and comb my fingers through my hair, enjoying the feeling of the cooling evening breeze against my skin.
There's a sturdy wire around the back of the mask, and I slip the mask over my face, setting the wire above my ears. It cups the back of my head, keeping the mesh in place. The space around me seems darker, yet friendlier, with blurred flowers blooming around the edges. I can see well enough if I keep my head slightly bent so I can watch my steps, but I don't need to pull up my hood.
I close my eyes and take a breath, smelling the nearby roses and the faraway cinnamon. The breeze kisses my face and it's cool. It's not stiflingly hot or suffocatingly damp, it's light and sweet.
With a small smile painting my lips, I open my eyes and throw back my shoulders. I step out onto the path and though the nerves skitter up and down my spine, I walk with my head held high.
Not a single noble gives me a second glance. They nod their greetings at me, treating me like they would anyone else of their status. It's a buoying sort of feeling and I let myself indulge in the bubbliness of it. It fuels every step and I have to force myself to slow down. Everyone here walks at a leisurely pace, none of them take stagger steps and look over their shoulders, haunted expressions clouding their eyes. They walk as if they've never known to hide, and I emulate it, walking as if I, too, have never had a reason to fear a knife between my shoulders.
I listen closely to the voices I pass, trying to pick out any information about the coming duel.
"I heard Thackery say it's the Devastator," a deep, hushed voice says. I turn my ear toward it. I imagine Sar's toned muscles hefting a broadsword.
"Against who?" a quieter, mousier voice responds.
"The Seducer."
I stop. Camden. No, I think. Not Camden with his pleading eyes and his never-ending love for Binks. Not Camden with his terrible, yet earnest pick-up lines.
Not Camden.
"Ah, scrawny sort with the pretty face?" the quieter voice says with wistful enthusiasm.
"The very same. But odds are good for Devastator. Thackery says Seducer's health is bad, so he probably won't stand up to Devastator." There's a hint of murderous excitement to his words.
I cast about for the speakers, but they could be any of the nobles clustered around me.
My heart clenches in my chest. Camden's health is bad, the speaker said, so the medicine hasn't helped him, and now he'll have to face Sar in a Death Duel with infection riddling his body.
Stealing myself, I take a steadying breath and keep moving forward. Tiny drops of dew coat the stalks of grass between stones on the path. I can feel the hem of my cloak growing damp, and the silk of the pink slippers darkens with it.
I meet every noble glance head-on. They give me neighborly nods as I pass, and I return the favor, watching their heads bow down with gems as their chins meet ermine and otter ruffs.
Sweat is already beading at the foreheads of some of the nobles, and I see a handful of women waving silk fans before their faces. Their gowns are made of richly embroidered linen that must weigh as much as I do. Some of them have added cushions around their hips to accentuate their curves, and I wonder if that's the new style.
I walk slowly past them all, waiting for one of them to enter into a conversation with another about the day's duel. I'm hoping tickets will exchange hands, and then I can watch which pocket they disappear into.
I place myself firmly between a group of people and follow them toward the central marketplace. I tuck the hood up around my ears, hoping it hides the silver mesh enough that the mask vendor won't recognize one of his pieces have gone missing.
As we pass the stalls, I see a few nobles pausing to purchase banners with Camden's and Sar's faces. It makes me sick.
We cross the central marketplace and walk toward the entrance of the tent village, filtering in between the more modest tents, and moving toward the more elaborate.
No one is checking tickets at the exit to the tent village. I can see food vendors lined up ahead, and so I trudge forward, keeping myself firmly within a chattering group of nobles my age. I laugh when they laugh, and it seems to be enough to make them think I'm one of them. I half listen to their conversation while I keep my eye out for Rogue.
I spot a flash of fiery hair, and I crane my neck to get a better look.
It's Rogue, standing tight to the limestone wall. I break away from the group and make my way toward him, a giddy smile spreading across my lip.
"Hey," I say, sidling up next to him and lacing my fingers together with his. my hand into his.
He jumps. "Mira," he says, staring through the silver mesh to my face. "I didn't recognize you at first."
"Oh phew, so the disguise works." I breathe a sigh of relief. "How did...how did it go with your mother?"
Rogue's face hardens. "I shared the news, and I left," he says, not leaving any room for follow-up questions. I nod. Now's not the time to pry.
"Where's Sani?" I ask, looking around.
"She's keeping watch on the other side of the door."
I look through a gap of passing nobles and see a swath of red leather.
"They're checking tickets," Rogue says.
I frown. "I thought as much." I watch the crowds pass, each attendee stopping just outside the arch to have his or her ticket checked by a black-coated guard.
Rogue palms me a piece of paper. I life it up to read what it says.
It's a ticket. The paper is thick, golden words printed across the front. "Moon Day Death Duel. Admit One. 12 Ilios, Sovereign Year 17."
I gasp. "How did you get this?" I ask.
"I'm a Lodenstone, aren't I?" he says. He gives me a humorless wink.
He must have taken the ticket from his mother.
"Are you comfortable using that to get into the arena and take the keys from Alani? I figure you know the lay of the arena much better than either of us would," Rogue says. He's looking at me serious.
My stomach ties itself into knots, but I nod. My palm's sweaty against the ticket, and I move the paper to my thumb and forefinger, worried my hand will smear the ink.
Rogue dips his head and kisses my forehead through the cloak's hood. "Good luck," he whispers in my ear. "I believe in you."
I give him a quick smile, and slip into the line before I lose my resolve.
Guards in dark prison uniforms stand along the limestone wall of the arena. The two furthest from the entrance watch the nobles sourly, their poleaxes ready to strike. The guards closest to the entrance stand with their spines erect, their hands on the golden pommels of their swords. Plumes of red feathers sprout from silver pins over their hearts. I recognize one of the guards and I shrink into my cloak, looking only at my feet.
Smells of buttery popped corn and heavily spiced drumstick get stronger as I climb the steps and draw closer to the archway. I hold the ticket tightly in my hand maneuver my way to the guard on the right, the one I don't recognize.
There are three nobles ahead of me.
Two.
One.
"What do you mean I can't go in? I have a ticket!" someone shouts beside me.
I look over to see a woman waving a ticket in the guard's face. The wide sleeves of her navy-blue gown have dropped to her elbows, exposing her left forearm. It's blank.
"I paid coin for this ticket!" the woman says.
The guard before her stands unfazed, her face an unconcerned mask. "I'm sorry, Madam, but the rules state that no Un-Fated may enter the arena."
That's new.
"Since when?" the woman snaps, echoing my thoughts.
The guard takes a breath. "These rules were established yesterday evening. In fact, we should be doing Fate checks on all attendees to the arena."
There's a cumulative groan from the people behind me, followed by snatched whispers. Most people sound simply annoyed, but a few are outraged. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the angry few begin to push their way forward, looking to argue with the guards. The guard in front of me must notice, he adjusts his footing and closes his hand more tightly around the hilt of his sword.
"Excuse me," I say. I take advantage of the rising commotion behind me and flash my ticket at the guard.
"Go ahead," he says, his attention diverted.
I slip past before he can stop me and step beneath the archway.
My mind is whirring, and I can barely register the jaunty welcoming tune the band is playing. I pause and rest my hand against the stone, catching my breath.
"I paid for my ticket! I have every right to be here!" the Un-Fated woman screams behind me.
I look over my shoulder to see guards standing on either side of her, taking hold of her arms.
The people behind who were also protesting now grow quiet. I see a few of them tugging at their left sleeves and glancing at their companions, as if wondering if they should chance entry, or leave before being forced to go.
The king must want only the Fated here watching his Death Duel. Their deaths will be more tragic when the Ill-Fated are unleashed.
Every shade of orange catches my eye and I have to work to keep myself focused. I take a centering breath and look around me. I've entered the archway on the second level. There are two sets of stadium seating below me before reaching the sunken arena floor, and there's a third level above me. I step out and to the right and take the stairs down, moving toward the Warden's Box.
Silver and blue streamers wrap around balustrades and flowers of every color and size pour out of boxes lining the rows of seats. The smell is so powerful it's almost toxic. I have to keep from gagging as I step over a box and into the row. I choose one that's already fairly full, leaving me a seat near the stairs. I want an easy exit the moment I see my chance.
Other nobles file into the arena, looking like multicolored tea spilling into a white cup. None of them give me a second look, but I keep my hand near my knife just in case.
The band is playing from its usual place against the far-left wall. I don't see a conductor, but they seem to be playing in sync all the same.
It feels strange to be watching the duel from above. I can feel the morning heat beginning to bake through my cloak, but my feet are cool. I shuffle them around on the ground, almost missing the feel of hot pebbles beneath my toes.
There's movement below on my right and I look down. A silver tiara-clad woman walks into the sunlight, the beams winking off the newly cleaned metal. The breath hitches in my throat. I thought she would've stopped wearing the tiara, but there it is, its deadly thorns still digging into her blonde hair. I half expect it to start oozing the warden's blood.
The king walks up behind Alani and my heartbeat quickens. I wasn't expecting him to be here. I thought he'd want to hide, in case his scheme goes wild and the Ill-Fated attack him, too.
I watch him move and wait, my muscles tense.
There's a small bald spot in the direct center of his scalp I've never seen before. It's always been hidden behind the tall gold crown he wears. Today he's pairing that crown with heavy gold necklaces pinned to his shoulders to make them drape, rather than hang. They sit against a vest made of ermine, and a coat of rich purple velvet. The king turns to look at the nobles behind us and I duck my head, pretending to adjust my shoe. Alani doesn't look around. She moves to the front of the box and places her hands against the balustrade.
Alani's always had impeccable posture, but here she looks regal. Her shoulders are thrown back, letting the satin blue cape flow prettily between her shoulder blades. The blue gown she's wearing hugs her figure with a square neckline showing off her pale collarbone. She's not wearing something with a high neck. Her neck is exposed, her chin held high. She looks strong. Strong...and dangerous.
As the last remaining nobles trickle into the arena, Alani picks up the voice amplifier by her feet.
"Nobles," she says, the sound carrying. The band quiets down and the audience stops their buzzing. Popped corn vendors respectfully wait against the back walls, wooden trays of stuffed papyrus bags in their hands. I remember ogling them my first duel in the arena. Papyrus was such a revered commodity in the Laplands, and here the nobles were using it to hold popped corn.
Alani looks to the king. He nods and places his hands atop the golden cane by his side.
"It is with a heavy heart," Alani says, addressing the audience, "that I must announce to passing of my dear husband, our prison's warden."
There's a collective gasp from the crowd. I notice that Alani doesn't say the warden's name.
"And so, at the king's request, I have humbly taken up the mantle of warden myself."
The reaction to Alani's words is neither positive, nor negative. If the king approves the move, then it must be a good decision. Besides, what do the nobles care who runs the prison as long as they feel safe at night?
There's a brief hesitation. I watch as Alani's fingers tighten on the voice amplifier. I watch as her head jerks back ever so slightly with a quick breath. And I watch as she rolls her shoulders back, steeling herself.
Say it, I think. Tell everyone that now the warden is dead and no other Ill-Fated have to die. Tell us all that it's the king who's asked for this. Tell us that you'll stop him. That you'll change everything.
I wait on bated breath for Alani's next words. I'm willing her to make a stand, but I know she won't. She can't. If the king is threatening her with the lives of those she cares about, then of course she'll choose them over any of us. She already has.
"Today's Death Duel will be one of deception and destruction," Alani says, her voice quavering slightly.
I lean back in my seat, trying hard not to feel disappointed.
"It will pit two of our most illustrious prisoners against one another," Alani continues, her voice gaining strength. "Our Seducer and our Devastator."
Pockets of nobles go wild at the titles. It sickens my stomach.
"May this duel mark the dawning of a new era at Tromos Prison!" Alani calls out over the cheers and shouts. She claps her hands, and two massive banners unfurl across the arena. Camden's sweet face looks comically seductive in his depiction. He bites his lip and stands with a hand around the back of his neck. I've never asked anyone what they think of their duel banner paintings, but I bet if I were to ask Camden about his, he'd tell me he loves it.
The smile that blossomed on my face at the thought sinks as I shift my gaze to take in Sar's banner. The colors are still bright from the new paint. Sar looks off in the distance, her expression fierce. There's a bulge to her muscles that matches their real-life strength.
I swallow. Oh Camden, I think. I don't dare say the words out loud. I imagine Binks beside me, clutching my hand. It's what we used to do when Camden was called for a duel and Binks and I had to wait in the dingey cell to see if he came back.
"The bets are as usual," Alani says. She looks over her shoulder, and two guards step forward from the wall. One is holding a blue velvet bag, the other a red one.
"I've heard Seducer's injured. I'm putting my coin on Devastator. She looks like she'll rip him limb from limb!" the man says on my left. He's grinning, and I have the urge to slap the smile right off his face. Thankfully, he's speaking to the man on his other side, so I don't have to contribute to their conversation. I just have to listen to them wish for the ugly death of my friend.
The guards with the betting bags work their way up to our row of seats. There's a clambering to my left as nobles shuffle through pockets for coins and betting chips. They send them along the row in handfuls, laughing amongst each other and saying lurid things about the bodies of Camden and Sar. Heat blooms in my cheeks as I take their blood money, my hands full of silver and gold that feels like it could burn my skin. I hurriedly check the numbers on the tokens and the color, placing the requisite coins into their proper bags. I don't want to hold the metal any longer than I need to.
The guards turn their backs on me to collect from the opposite row, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"So, what'd you bet?" the man next to me asks.
I cringe. "Ah, two-to-one on Devastator," I say, trying to make my voice sound lower. There's no reason why he would recognize the sound of it, but just in case, I don't want to give anyone an opportunity to look beyond the mesh.
"Two-to-one?" The man laughs. "You should've bet more than that! Devastator's going to crush him! Ain't that right, Claron?" The man elbows his companion.
His companion wears a pair of thick spectacles obscuring dark, heavily lidded eyes. He's fiddling with a deck of cards in his hands and I lean over the foul-smelling man on my left to get a better glimpse.
They're player's cards. Loris in the Laplands had a deck, but the characters on the faces were figures from legend. Each one had strengths and weaknesses and powers that one player could levy against another player. The cards could be pitted against one another in a game, or simply collected.
But the cards in this noble's gloved hands are not figures of legend. They're the Ill-Fated contenders in the prison duels. The edges of the cards are worn, as if the young man's flipped through them many times. Our banner paintings look out in miniature, with lines about our fighting techniques and numbers of duels won below. On a few of the cards, the man seems to have added his own annotations. I can't make out his scribbles, but they seem to be adjusting prisoner stats.
My face pops up and I suck in a breath. "Thief" the card says across the top, followed by nonsense numbers and vague fighting tactics. I can see the man's written-in his own numbers here, along with the word, "DECEASED" at the bottom of my image.
Deceased.
I try to keep myself as calm as possible as I watch the man rapidly flick through his cards. Faces I knew very well flash before my eyes as Myles and Triane and Jak continue to smile forth from tiny rectangular paintings. The word "DECEASED" appears too many times to count and my fingernails dig into the limestone as I grip the bench at the side of my thigh.
"Oy," the man on my left says. He elbows the bespectacled noble—Claron—again. "Did you hear me?"
Claron startles, the cards spilling from his hands and landing on the ground. Sar's card flutters on top Camden's, and I wonder if that's symbolic. I hope to the Goddess it's not.
"Yeah, yeah. Devastator's going to crush Seducer," Claron says, but in an unexpectedly breathy voice. He seems more nervous than bloodthirsty, and I wonder why he's even here.
"The bets have been placed," Alani says. The guards jangle their bags, and the audience cheers at the sound of gold and silver clanking together. The blue bag is clearly much fuller than the red, and it makes me worried.
"Friends, nobles, fellow citizens of Choravasi," Alani continues, sounding eerily like the warden. "Today is the day we honor our Great Sovereign King who has come to share his Moon Day with us." Alani has to pause for the eruption of cheers.
Alani looks to the king, and grins. I can see the shimmer of her white teeth from here. If she's acting for him, then she's certainly making it seem real.
The crowd dies down, and Alani raises the amplifying cone to her lips once again. "Guards. Please bring out the Seducer, and the Devastator."
Chains drag against rusted winches. It sounds so much quieter up here than down on the arena floor. There, it was a sound to be feared. Here, it's simply a minor annoyance, something to be drowned out by the sounds of the band.
The man next to me rubs his hands together. His companion, meanwhile, keeps his gaze pinned to the cards before him, almost as if he's afraid to see the real thing.
From my vantage point, I can look directly at Sar's holding cell. I have to twist my neck slightly to see Camden's. I watch as the wooden door is pulled open, exposing Sar to the sun. She struts forward, looking exactly the same as I left her. She's wearing a baggy, beigey grey tunic over pants that are too short for her. She looks smudged and dirty, and I wonder if it's rained since she arrived at the prison.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Camden shuffle into the arena. His hair is perfectly coiffed, despite the heat of the day and the dampness of the prison. To an outside eye, he looks unscathed. But I can the way he's holding his left arm, the way he's carrying it stiffly so that it won't jar unexpectedly. That must've been the arm he needed to stitch back together. There are no scars on his skin, so the wound must be beneath the sleeve of his tunic. His neck looks darker than usual, and I don't know if it's dark lines of infection spreading throughout his body, or if I'm seeing things that aren't there.
Oh Camden, I moan internally. I turn my gaze to Alani. Please stop this, I tell her. Please fix it.
Alani grips the balustrade with one hand. She brings the amplifying cone to her mouth. Over the slurs and jeers of the crowd, I hear her shout, "weapons!" Duel Guards in limestone-colored uniforms break away from the walls they were hiding against and make their way quickly toward Camden and Sar. The Duel Guard closest to Camden hands him a hatchet, and the guard closest to Sar presents her with a broadsword on a red velvet pillow. So, her patron paid the extra.
I look to the people behind Alani. Tenlus is indeed standing there, his stomach stretching the red velvet cloak clasped at his chest. An equally broad, but stronger looking man stands beside him. Camden's patron. They both watch the proceedings with interest, but neither looks at the other.
The Duel Guards melt back against the wall. I can feel my chest rising and falling rapidly as I take shorter and shorter breaths. I stare at the back of Alani's head, willing her to do something—anything—to make this all end. She can protect all of the Ill-Fated. She make this torture stop.
There's an anticipatory hush moving around the audience. The man next to me scoots forward to the edge of his seat. I keep my hands firmly clamped around the stone bench, my heart pumping beneath the heavy cloak.
"Let the battle begin," Alani says coldly, ruthlessly. She swipes her hand down, and it's begun, Sar whirring her blade over her head before Camden can even move.
Despite the floral mesh encircling my vision, I can still make out the pattern Sar is making with her feet. It's clearer up here than it was in the training ring.
"Move left," I mumble to Camden under my breath. He does, but too slowly. Sar slices down and shears the knuckles from Camden's right hand. He screams in pain and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming out myself. The hatchet drops to the ground, red flowing down Camden's fingers in rivers of blood.
I can't watch this. I stand up, my stomach churning. The man next to me gives me a look, but Camden screams again, and I close my eyes against the sound.
I'm sorry, I think to Camden. I'm so sorry.