Kill the Queen (Crown of Shards #1)

by Jennifer Estep

  He whipped around and stalked away. The long tails of his gray coat nipped at his bootheels, as if they were bristling with the same anger that he felt. Sullivan shoved through one of the gates and vanished from view.

  “What was that about?” Paloma asked.

  “I have no idea,” I muttered.

  She shook her head, then went over to grab her sword. I started to do the same when I spotted a gleam of glass out of the corner of my eye. I turned in that direction.

  Serilda was watching me.

  She was sitting on the second-floor balcony of her manor house, wrapped in a white silk robe and sipping a mug of mochana. Judging from her amused smile, she had seen my little spat with Sullivan. Of course she had. I sighed, then turned away from her and picked up my sword.

  “Come on.” I lifted the weapon and faced Paloma again. “Let’s get back to work, and see if we can figure out some way to save my miserable life.”

  * * *

  For the rest of the week, Paloma did her best to train me. Getting me up early, working with me during regular training, even dragging me back to the ring after dinner. I didn’t know that I made any real progress, but it was nice to have someone who cared whether I lived or died.

  But the days passed by all too quickly, and before I knew it, Saturday night had rolled around.

  Instead of trudging up and down the bleachers, selling cornucopia and other treats, like I had during the other shows, I was in a dressing room deep in the bowels of the arena, getting ready for the black-ring match, which was the final event of the night.

  Vanity tables with lighted mirrors ran down one side of the dressing room. Scissors, needles, spools of thread, and bottles of makeup and perfume littered the tabletops, while leotards, masks, and feather boas stuck up out of the overstuffed drawers. Metal racks full of costumes lined the walls like guards, each brightly colored sequin winking at me like an evil eye.

  Paloma had helped me get ready, and now I was sitting at one of the vanity tables, staring at my reflection and trying to make sense of the person looking back at me in the mirror.

  Oh, I was wearing the same sort of fighting leathers that I always wore—a tight, fitted, sleeveless shirt, a knee-length kilt, and sandals with straps that wound up past my ankles. The only difference was that they were made of black leather tonight. Still, the clothes were familiar enough.

  But my face was entirely unfamiliar.

  Normally, the gladiators fought in the arena just as they were. But for a black-ring match, each gladiator’s face was heavily painted. I wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps to make us look more like characters, creatures, these abstract things, instead of real people fighting, bleeding, and dying for others’ amusement.

  My face had been painted to look like a black swan.

  Midnight-black makeup ringed my eyes in thick, heavy circles before fanning out into thin, delicate streaks that resembled shard-like feathers. Bright slashes of silver had been painted over the unrelenting black, adding to the feathery look, and several small blue crystals had been glued at the corners of my eyes. Bloodred gloss covered my lips, while silver glitter shimmered on my arms, hands, and legs. For a final touch, my black hair had been pulled into three separate knots that ran down the back of my head. Black feathers bristled up out of each knot. They had been glued in place, along with more blue crystals.

  The paint master had finished working on my face five minutes ago, and I had been sitting here staring at myself ever since, wondering why Serilda had wanted me to look like the embodiment of her crest. Why me instead of Emilie, who was far more likely to win? It was probably just a cruel joke on Serilda’s part.

  “Are you okay?” Paloma asked. “You’ve been fiddling with that bag for a while now.”

  My gaze dropped to the black velvet bag sitting on the table. I’d had to remove it from its usual hiding place on my belt loop when I had put on the fighting leathers. I couldn’t leave it here, but I couldn’t take it into the ring with me either. That left me with only one option.

  “Here.” I handed it to Paloma. “Keep this safe, will you?”

  She hefted the bag. “What’s in here?”

  “Nothing much. Just a bracelet, along with a memory stone. But if I don’t make it through this, keep the bracelet for yourself and give the stone to Serilda.” My mouth twisted. “She might find it interesting.”

  She would probably find it much more than that. I still didn’t know if I could trust Serilda, but at least if I died, the memory stone would be her problem, instead of mine.

  Paloma slipped the bag into her pocket. “I’ll hold on to this for you, but I’m not keeping anything, because you’re going to win, Evie.”

  I gave her a flat look.

  “You are going to win .” She poked her finger into my shoulder for emphasis, and the ogre on her neck glowered at me as well.

  Before I could respond, a soft knock sounded, and the door opened. Sullivan stepped inside the dressing room.

  He glanced at me, then Paloma. “Can you give us a moment, please?”

  She nodded, then smiled at me, left the room, and shut the door behind her.

  I got to my feet and faced the magier. We hadn’t spoken since our fight, and he hadn’t singled me out during any of the regular training sessions this week. He had watched me spar with Paloma, though, just as I had watched him work with the other gladiators. Despite how angry he had made me, I couldn’t take my eyes off him whenever he was around, and he didn’t seem to be able to look away from me either.

  Sullivan studied me, his gaze tracing over the makeup and crystals on my face and the feathers in my hair. “You look lovely,” he said, an odd rasp in his voice. “Strong and fierce. Like a true gladiator.”

  I snorted. “Don’t you mean like a gladiator who’s about to die in a few minutes?”

  His face hardened. “Not if I can help it.”

  He glanced around the room, making sure that we were truly alone, then pulled something out of his pocket, stepped forward, and held it out to me.

  A single white feather.

  “Here,” he said. “Take this.”

  My nose twitched, and I drew in a breath, tasting all the scents in the air. The soft, powdery makeup on my face. The faint tang of sweat that permeated the costumes.

  The stench of poison on the white feather.

  I squinted. A small needle had been attached to the tip of the feather, one that reeked of poison. It didn’t smell like wormroot, but I could still sense the death in the harsh aroma.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Tuck it into your hair with all the others,” Sullivan said. “Take it into the arena with you, and use it, when the time is right.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I can smell the poison on it. You want me to kill Emilie with it.”

  He winced, but he didn’t deny it.

  “You don’t think that I have even the smallest chance of winning. That’s why you want me to use your pretty little poisoned feather. That’s why you want me to cheat .”

  His wince deepened. “It’s my fault that you’re in this position. If I had listened when you told me about Emilie, none of this would be happening. I told you that I would fix things, and this is how I’m doing it.”

  “By cheating?” I gave him a disgusted look. “That’s exactly what Emilie did when she poisoned Paloma. She couldn’t win on her own, so she took the easy way out. And now you’re telling me to do the same thing. Well, guess what? I won’t do it.”

  Anger sparked in his eyes. “Emilie is a trained gladiator. She will kill you. Is your stubborn pride worth more than your life?”

  I looked at the feather. I could pretend to be injured, wait for Emilie to lean over me, and then pluck it out of my hair. Given how strong the poison smelled, all I would have to do was scratch her with the needle, and the fight would be over. Sullivan was right. I could kill Emilie, I could survive, if I used the feather.

  But I didn’t want to win�
��not like that.

  Because it was just like something that Vasilia would have done. It was just like a dozen things that she had done to me. And it was exactly what she had done during the massacre. Vasilia knew that she couldn’t defeat Cordelia face-to-face, magier-to-magier, so she had poisoned her mother with wormroot to take away the queen’s magic.

  The shock, the screams, the blood, the death. Memories of the massacre flashed through my mind, hardening my resolve. I might not be a gladiator, and I might die in the arena tonight, but I would not be like Vasilia—not even if it cost me my life.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, stepped back, and shook my head. “No. I won’t use it.”

  Surprise filled his face, and he opened his mouth, probably to argue, but I shook my head again. He stared at me, emotions crackling like lightning in his blue, blue eyes.

  “I’m trying to save your life,” he growled, a desperate edge to his voice. “Why won’t you let me save you, Evie?”

  Evie. That was the first time that he had ever said my name, ever called me anything other than the mocking highness, and it resonated through the air between us like the last note of a sweet, sweet song. My heart did a funny little lurch, and suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about the match, the poisoned feather, or my own principles.

  I was thinking about how much I wanted him.

  About how much I wanted to crush my lips to his. To run my hands through his silky brown hair, along his broad shoulders, and all the way down his chest. To draw his rich, vanilla scent deep down into my lungs. To feel his warm, bare skin next to mine. To touch him, and have him touch me in return. To move with him. To lose myself in him and finally satisfy this electricity that continuously hummed, sparked, and crackled between us.

  For a mad, mad moment, I seriously considered it. Why shouldn’t I fuck Sullivan? Why shouldn’t I wring every single drop of pleasure I could out of this moment? It wasn’t like I was ever going to get another chance.

  The other gladiators did it all the time. They were always sneaking off after training bouts and before and after the arena matches. Fighting and fucking made them feel alive, and I knew that it would do the same for me. I wanted to feel alive tonight, I needed to feel alive tonight. Even more importantly, I could sense how good it would be between Sullivan and me.

  I drew in a breath to tell him exactly what I wanted, and the scent of poison on the feather filled my nose again. The harsh stench made me hesitate.

  “Please, Evie,” Sullivan growled again. “Let me help you. Let me save you.”

  Save me? No one had ever fucking saved me. Not from my parents being murdered, not from Vasilia’s cruelty, not from the massacre. And Sullivan couldn’t save me now, either. Not really. Not from going into the arena.

  And I didn’t want him to.

  The old Everleigh would have taken that poisoned feather without a second thought. She would have been so grateful that someone was trying to help her that she would have done whatever they wanted without question. But I was the new Evie, and I did things on my own terms. The new Evie didn’t want to cheat. Even more importantly, the new Evie believed that she was strong enough to win all by herself.

  My resolve hardened again, along with my heart. I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. “I am perfectly capable of saving myself.”

  His anger and all the other emotions in his gaze snuffed out, replaced by sad, weary resignation. “Then you’re a fool.”

  “Probably. But at least I’ll die an honest fool.”

  Sullivan’s lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line, but he stepped forward, his body inches away from mine. He loomed over me, and I stared up at him. Neither one of us said anything, but tension crackled in the air between us, along with other, deeper things that I didn’t want to think about. That I couldn’t let myself think about.

  Sullivan leaned forward and laid the white feather on the vanity table. Then he moved away from me. “In case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  His lips lifted a bit. “I know. That’s one of the things I like about you, highness.”

  Before I could respond, he turned around, stalked across the dressing room, and opened the door. I thought he might slam it shut behind him, but he closed it softly instead.

  I stood there, frozen in place, listening until the sound of his footsteps faded away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A minute later, a knock sounded on the door, and Paloma stepped inside the dressing room. She didn’t say anything, but the look on her face—and the one of the ogre on her neck—told me that she had heard everything.

  I sighed, picked up the white feather, and handed it to her. “Here. Put this in the bag too. And be careful. It’s poisoned.”

  Paloma twirled the feather back and forth in her fingers. “He’s just trying to help.”

  I snorted. “By telling me to cheat? Some help. Besides, even if I managed to kill Emilie with the poison, isn’t the penalty for cheating in a black-ring match automatic death?”

  “Yes, but Serilda would probably overlook it. She knows that Emilie is guilty. She just can’t take your side. Not without definitive proof.” Paloma held the feather out to me, like Sullivan had. “Are you sure that you don’t want this?”

  I shook my head. “No. I might kill Emilie with it, and Serilda might even let me get away with it, but I would know that I cheated. I won’t fight like that. Not in the ring.”

  Paloma nodded, accepting my decision, and dropped the feather into the bag.

  A trumpet blared, so loud that it seemed to shake the walls, signaling the end of the regular show. I grabbed my sword, and Paloma held up the matching shield so that I could slip my forearm through the straps. They were the only things that I was allowed to take into the ring. They were the lightest weapons Paloma had, but both objects still weighed me down in more ways than one.

  The trumpet blared again, signaling that I had five minutes to get to the arena or forfeit the match. If I forfeited, the other gladiators would hunt me down and drag me out to the ring, where Emilie would have free rein to execute me on the spot. At least if I went of my own volition, I had a fighting chance.

  Before I could think too much about the fact that I was most likely heading toward my own death, I marched over, opened the door, and left the dressing room. Paloma walked with me through the tunnels until we reached one of the entrances to the arena floor.

  I had been to the gladiator shows before, but I had never seen them from this angle. The stone bleachers rose up all around the floor, seeming much larger and higher than I remembered, and they were absolutely packed with people. Still more people were standing on the bleacher steps or along the wall. I suddenly felt very, very small, like an ant surrounded by gargoyles, just waiting for one of the creatures to step on and crush me to death.

  Normally, three low rings would have been sitting on the arena floor, but the outer two rings had been removed, leaving only the center one behind, and the wood had been painted a slick, glossy black, indicating the blood, pain, and death to come.

  Cho stood outside the black ring, wearing his red ringmaster’s jacket. He glanced up and made a signal with his hand. The lights slowly dimmed, then abruptly cut off, plunging the arena into darkness. The audience went still and silent, knowing what was coming next.

  “And now . . .” Cho’s voice rang out. “Introducing the White Swan!”

  A spotlight popped on, illuminating the opposite end of the arena, and Emilie strode forward. She was wearing white fighting leathers and sandals, and she too had a sword in her hand and a shield on her forearm. Her face had also been painted, only with a different creature and color scheme than mine. White paint ringed her eyes before thinning out into the shard-like feather pattern. Gold streaks shimmered on top of the white paint, while gold crystals winked at the corners of her eyes. Gold glitter gleamed on her skin, although her lips were bloodred, like mine. White feathers bristled from the three knots of her auburn hair, co
mpleting her ethereal look.

  A sick feeling filled my stomach. We were mirror opposites. A white swan and a black swan, a seasoned gladiator and a newb, battling to the death. The only thing we had in common was the blood we were going to spill.

  Cho waited until Emilie had entered the black ring before he spoke again. “And now . . . introducing the Black Swan!”

  A spotlight fell on me, and I had no choice but to squint against the harsh glare and plod forward into the center of the arena.

  The crowd had stayed quiet this whole time, but once I appeared, everyone surged to their feet, screaming, clapping, and whistling at the top of their lungs. Emilie loved the attention, and she stabbed her sword into the air over and over again, encouraging the crowd to cheer even louder for her.

  “White Swan! White Swan! White Swan!” the chants reverberated through the arena.

  I had always loved all those old stories about my ancestor, Bryn Bellona Winter Blair, and her gladiator history. I had always thought that it must have been so wonderful to be a gladiator, to be a hero like she had been.

  There was nothing wonderful about this.

  The chants, cheers, and screams that twisted people’s faces, the sharp, shrieking whistles that spewed from their lips, and especially the sour, sweaty eagerness that soaked the air. They all made me sick, and I wanted to vomit, even though I hadn’t eaten anything today. Somehow, I managed to push down the thin, watery bile rising in my throat, along with my disgust. I had brought this upon myself, and all I could do now was see it through to the end.

  Even if that end was most likely going to be my death.

  I stepped into the black ring. Emilie kept firing up the crowd, but I looked at the troupe box. Serilda was relaxing in her plush chair, a glass of sangria in her hand. Sullivan was sitting on the edge of his seat, his body tight with tension.

  Our gazes met and held. For some reason that I didn’t want to think too much about, the sight of him loosened some of the tight knots of disgust, worry, fear, and dread in my stomach. I snapped my sword up, silently saluting him. After a moment, he nodded and forced himself to smile back at me. He didn’t relax his tense posture, though.