by Melissa Marr
When Aya reached the entrance gates for the fight yard where she’d stand against Belias, she stopped to look at the line snaking past the pleasure stalls. It was probably meant to be an insult—or extra titillation—to set her fight here at the pleasure field, where coin typically only bought chemical or physical decadence, but perhaps it was a gift of sorts. She’d fought here once already, so she had field familiarity that Belias wouldn’t have. She smiled at the customers lined up waiting to get into the pit seats, and she walked to the front of the line.
“I’m here to kill Belias,” she told the gatekeeper.
Gasps and barks of laughter erupted down the line as her words were repeated and passed around.
“Smart money’s on the boy,” the gatekeeper said in a loud voice.
“Belias will lose—or if it’s before fifth blood, he can forfeit.” Aya turned to face the line. “Tell him for me: I’ll accept his forfeit if it’s before fifth blood.”
Nervous laughter and bloodthirsty cheers mixed in the growing cacophony.
“Tell Belias,” she repeated, louder this time, and then she turned away.
The gatekeeper lifted the bar for her to pass. “Someone ought to put you back in your place.”
She stared only at him, ignoring the line now. No one would dare speak so to a proper upper-caste woman, but she didn’t behave as women of her stature should. However, she couldn’t pretend that she was anything other than upper caste, not if she intended to rule. “I know my place: I was born to the highest caste in The City. I was born to make The City safer and stronger.”
“Women have no business ruling anything but the home,” someone yelled from the line.
She looked steadfastly at the gatekeeper, but spoke loudly so as to be heard by those in line. “Unlike most every remaining contestant, I am already ruling class. They all fight for what Sol, Belias, and I were given by birth.”
She knew the crowd watched her attentively now. She glanced at them and reminded them, “We fight to prove our worthiness to have what is our birthright already.”
“Women don’t rule. They are too soft,” someone called.
“Tell that to the fighters I’ve defeated.” Aya turned back to the gatekeeper who had started this argument. “I outrank you without winning, and even if Belias or someone else gets lucky and kills me, I will still outrank you.”
The gatekeeper bowed his head.
Quietly, she suggested, “Take a piss.”
He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes.
“Now.” She pointed at the dirt.
Eyes downcast, he obeyed. The alternative was calling for judgment, but he had insulted a ruling-class woman in front of several hundred witnesses—many of whom had heard every word. Some of those witnesses would speak, and so any judge at the carnival would rule against him. The right of class allowed her to offer immediate punishment.
“Kneel,” she ordered.
Just as the gatekeeper dropped to the ground, Aya saw Belias walking toward her. He raised his brows in silent question, but he knew not to vocalize that question in public—not that he had to ask. People in line were filling him in on the events that had just transpired.
Aya told the gatekeeper, “If I order you to drink from the ground, you will do so or face judgment. If I order you to ask for seconds, you will do so.”
The gatekeeper looked up at her. “What do you want me to do?”
“Ask me for mercy.” Aya glanced at Belias. “I have very few options, but if you ask me for mercy, this will go easier.”
The smile on Belias’ lips said that he understood that her words were for him too. He shook his head once; he would not ask for mercy. It wasn’t as if he thought he needed it, but she’d thrown the offer to him so that he could speak the word midfight.
The gatekeeper, on the other hand, said, “Mercy.”
“The difference isn’t in how cruel women can be.” Aya spoke louder now so that the line of people could hear her again. “If by action you tried to ‘remind me’ of what place some think a woman deserves, I would break you, but I won’t kill you for ignorant words. I can be a lady and still rule. One does not negate the other.”
A few people in the crowd jeered. Others cheered.
“The ground seems wet,” Aya said mildly, as if the urine-wet mud were a surprise. “I’d hate to soil my boots.” She looked down at the kneeling gatekeeper. “Do you have something I could step on so I can cross?”
“I . . . I have no coat, but”—the guard started to pull his shirt off—“I can offer you this.”
“That’s not good enough,” Belias said as he walked behind the gatekeeper, put a foot on the man’s back, and pushed him flat to the ground. Then, he turned to Aya and bowed. “Please.”
When she didn’t reply, he held out a hand to help her over the fleshly bridge that now spanned the puddle of mud and urine. “Your servant,” he murmured.
Aya ignored the proffered hand and stepped on the gatekeeper.
“I believe we need another gatekeeper,” Belias called. “This one is otherwise occupied.”
As Aya walked toward the ring, Belias assumed control of the crowd with practiced ease. She could hear him appointing a replacement and assisting girl after girl over the prone gatekeeper’s body. He had co-opted her example and neatly established his own dominance. Worse yet, he had done so with the same charm that had once made her grateful that he’d been chosen as her betrothed when she was born, the charm that made her fall in love with him, the charm that made her heart break when she refused their wedding ceremony. Aya pressed her lips together tightly to keep words better not said from boiling over. She’d entered this competition to change her future, to attain the power she needed to improve The City, and she was going to do just that.
CHAPTER 3
THE MEN NODDED AT Belias as he helped the girls and women over the back of the gatekeeper. They gave him the attention befitting his caste and his fight standing, and he accepted it without drawing attention to it. Not everything has to be a show. Belias couldn’t get Aya to understand that. He could accept her need to make her way in the world, respected it even, but she seemed determined to choose the hardest possible path to do that. Highborn girls didn’t brawl in the street, and they surely didn’t enter death matches. If her father had survived a few years longer or if her brother were older, she wouldn’t have been able to risk herself so foolishly, but the way things had unfurled, Aya had achieved her majority—eighteen—and with no one to stop her, she’d refused their wedding and entered the competition. Once entered, there was no way out save forfeiture or death.
“I hope you kill her,” a girl murmured as she stepped gingerly on the gatekeeper’s back.
Belias remained silent. He’d entered the competition to prevent Aya from dying. If she weren’t so obstinate, he’d have teamed with her publicly. It wasn’t the way the contest was structured, but he was ruling class, and with or without these wins, he’d be a general in Marchosias’ government. It was what he had been raised to do. His father had died in the service of their ruler, killed by a supposedly tamed witch’s treachery, and Belias had been raised to know that he had two functions in his life: to fight as bravely and ably as his father had and to have sons to carry on their family line. Preferably with Aya by my side. She’d been chosen for him, selected for her lineage, and she’d been trained to fight in order to be strong enough to help protect his future children.
Unfortunately, his chosen mate had decided she’d rather kill him and a slew of other people than be by his side. A growl of frustration slipped from between his lips and caused an older scab to tremble as he took her hand. Belias offered her his most comforting smile.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t go too hard on Aya. She’s doing what many of us wish we could. Things need shaking up.”
Belias nodded.
Too hard?
He wasn’t sure he could strike her with intent to kill. Of course if he didn’t, she’d be even mor
e aggressive. There was no way to win this fight that wasn’t also a loss—unless Aya forfeited.
Once the last of the females crossed the gatekeeper, Belias turned to face the remaining line, bowed once, and then walked into the fight zone. The space for their match was clearly marked by a fresh chalk-and-salt circle. The wooden seats that spanned the fight grounds were almost filled, and the stink of too many bodies in the heat mixed with other equally unpalatable stenches.
“Forfeit, please,” Belias murmured as he came to stand beside Aya.
She ignored him as she slipped her arms out of her jacket, stretched, and checked her cache of weapons again. She removed a cloth-wrapped blade from her bag. Two knives were sheathed at her hips, and the hilts of two smaller knives protruded from her boots. Her left boot had a razor edge at the toe, and her left glove had jaw-busters built in.
He held her gaze as he peeled off his shirt.
Her right hand tightened on the hilt of the falchion she withdrew from its cloth, but she didn’t look away. The daimons in the crowd were watching for her reaction, but Belias knew she wasn’t going to give them—or him—that satisfaction.
“We can announce our reunion right now and walk out of the fight.” Belias reached out to touch her cheek, but she raised the wicked curved sword as if she’d start the fight now. “We don’t have to be here. We’re already ruling class.”
“I’m not meant for being a wife, Bel.” Sorrow flashed in her eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for hurting you.”
“If you don’t marry me, you’ll be given to someone else eventually. You can’t avoid your duty.” He looked up as the gate slammed shut with a thud. “Be with me, Aya. You know I love you.”
“And you know I won’t breed.” As the last of the audience took their seats, Aya snapped a choke guard over her throat. “Tell me we can marry and never breed.”
If he could agree to such an absurdity, he would, but they both knew that he couldn’t. He needed to have an heir; it was his duty. It was her duty—that was why marriage and breeding ceremonies made female daimons fertile; it was why marriage entwined a couple’s lives so that the death of one was the death of both unless the woman was pregnant. Children were essential to the survival of The City. He could wait for a while—had waited—but eventually, if she didn’t marry him, she would be given to a daimon of Marchosias’ choosing. Marrying her but never being with her wasn’t really an option, either. If they were married but failed to produce a child, the marriage would be dissolved. He’d considered every possibility.
After a moment of staring blankly at her, he shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, Aya.”
“If I win the competition, I’ll rule. Why would Marchosias force me to wed or breed then? He follows the laws too.” She looked away from him to take in the crowd assembling to watch their match. “I have to win, Bel.”
“You can’t beat me, and I won’t throw the fight.”
“I know.” She smiled sadly at him.
“At least leave the collar off,” he pleaded.
“No.”
Belias shook his head again. Aya hadn’t ever made his life easy, but this was beyond unreasonable. He was fond of throttling his opponents. With his strength, it was a reliable way to incapacitate a fighter, maneuver them into an unforgiving position while they were unconscious, and then when they regained consciousness invite them to forfeit. It was legal, albeit not a crowd-pleaser. A lot of far less humane things were legal, too. Those were the crowd-pleasers. The fight rules were pretty basic: at least fifth blood had to be drawn before a kill, no outside aid, stay within the designated fight zone, and try not to die.
Fifth blood will be harder tonight.
Killing Aya wasn’t going to happen, and he was certain she couldn’t kill him, either. That meant that their fight would go until one of them had no choice but to forfeit. He felt a pang of regret for bribing the judges so that he could fight Aya, but better that than have someone else eliminate her by killing her. He’d had no doubt she’d make it to the final rounds, but now most of the remaining fighters were good enough to defeat her. She needed to forfeit before she faced a fighter like Kaleb or Flynn.
“It’s time,” Aya said as she laid her falchion just inside the edge of the ring.
With a lingering look at the girl he’d spent the last year fighting to reach, Belias walked to the center of the circle and called for her: “Aya.”
She stepped over the sword and entered the circle.
As the lower-ranked of the fighters, she walked to him, clasped his hand, and bowed her head. While her head was bowed, she whispered, “I wish we hadn’t been matched.”
“You can forfeit at any time,” he answered just as quietly.
She lifted her gaze to stare directly at him. “Likewise.”
He released her hand reluctantly.
The witch waited just beyond them to raise the circle. Belias scowled at him. The presence of witches—even controlled witches—made him want to behave in very ungentlemanly ways. They should’ve been barred from The City centuries ago. It was one of the things he intended to put into motion once he took his place in the government.
The witch bowed his head, and Belias turned his back to him and to Aya in order to address the crowd. “Aya has stood against and defeated as many fighters as I have. She is an honor to the ruling class already.”
Addressing the crowd was not typical, but he was ruling class. He turned to face Aya again and bowed deeply, as if they would dance.
She said nothing.
Together, they both reached into the bucket and took a handful of salt and chalk. Walking in opposite directions, they followed the perimeter of the already-drawn circle; when they met at the opening, they used the mixture in their hands to close the circle.
They stood face-to-face for a moment as the circle lifted around them. In a low voice only she could hear, he offered, “We can both win this. You can advise me, share my rule in secret, and we can . . . abstain until you’re ready. All you have to do is say how long you need.”
Aya slammed the flat of her palm into his face, breaking his nose, drawing first blood. “Forever. No children.”
“When I win the match, I will offer again,” he promised. “You’ve never beaten me before. You won’t do so today, and I will not kill you.”
She didn’t answer, and Belias’ crosscut slammed into her mouth, not with the force he could use, but still hard enough that he drew second blood as her teeth tore her lips.
Betting-house hawkers called out bloodpoints as Aya and Belias faced each other. Nothing mattered beyond this fight. The pleasure of standing against her filled him with the same thrill it had for years: she was unlike any other daimon he’d met.
He blocked a kick, and she dropped to her haunches to dodge a punch. They continued avoiding and blocking each other’s blows for several minutes, and then Belias caught her in the stomach with a kick that knocked her to the ground. She rolled, and as she came to her feet, she ran to the edge of the ring and lifted the falchion she’d left there.
“Do you really want to do this, Aya?”
She charged him, shifting at the last possible moment and trying to catch his thigh with the edge of the blade. Belias knew her every cue, though, and easily dodged her. Twice more she approached and attempted to draw third blood, and twice more he avoided her.
Belias ducked her blows and watched her tire herself chasing after him. He was faster, better trained, and patient. If not for the angry looks she shot at him—and how furious she’d be when she had to forfeit to him—he’d be enjoying finally standing in a ring with her again. Unfortunately, defeating her was going to make her even less likely to forfeit graciously.
“Fight me, Bel,” she demanded.
He dived out of the way as she slashed at him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Fight me,” she repeated. “You insult me by not even trying.”
“Forfeit.” As he said it, though, he withdrew a pair of throwing knives and launched them at her.
As she moved to avoid the first blade, the second sank deep into her thigh, as he’d known it would. Aya’s cry of pain was hidden under the cheers of the crowd. Her gaze found him, and she looked happier now that he’d injured her. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t the injury but the fact that he’d struck out at her as an equal that resulted in her smile.
“Third blood to Belias,” the hawkers called.
“That’s better.” Aya shifted to put her weight on her uninjured leg. “Only one out of two? You’re not as good as I remember.”
“Liar.” Belias advanced on her. “Incapacitate your opponent. Go in for the close kill. You remember that lesson. You can’t run now.”
“Don’t need to.” She held up the falchion. “You’re coming to me, aren’t you?”
With a growl, he swept her feet out from under her. She landed hard, but he followed her to the ground. He had his not-insubstantial weight supported on his knees and one arm. With the other arm, he pinned her. His left hand flat on the middle of her chest, he demanded, “Forfeit.”
“I can’t.” She withdrew one of the knives from her hip, but she paused before striking.
Belias yanked the throwing knife from her thigh as she stared up at him.
“You can’t kill me with that,” he said.
He stabbed the throwing knife into her arm, causing her to draw in a sharp breath.
“Fourth blood,” the hawkers called.
The crowd cheered his name.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then he felt a blade sink into his stomach.
“That’s not—” Belias gasped as cold rushed through him in a terrifying wave. His eyes widened as he stared down at her. “Poison? You’d poison me, little bird?”
