Chagra’s lips raise into a tortured grin, and it bats at Lor again, sending him flying into the arena wall. Lor collapses, his face pressed into the dirt.
This time he doesn’t stir.
A few members of the crowd break into slow applause, thinking the Match is over. Chagra has won, as always.
I feel sick.
Chagra slowly approaches Lor’s body, its hackles lying back down. I swear the beast looks smug. But it’s cautious as it pads toward the body, taking one deliberate step after another.
I wait for Chagra to rip into Lor’s body, but it doesn’t. It’s waiting for something.
Lor stirs and blinks, and then tries to push up from the ground. Chagra lets out another howl, and I’m sure my ears are going to start bleeding. So this was what Chagra was waiting for; it wants Lor to be conscious when it makes the final blow.
Chagra crouches, preparing to leap at Lor’s prone body. Lor manages to roll over and look at the beast. His fear is gone, and in its place is fury.
That’s when I notice it. The tattoo. I remember seeing a glimpse of it in the prison, the very edge of the ink poking out from Lor’s shirt. Now, with his shirt gone, I can see it all.
It starts at his mid-back, swirling around his spine before the black ink snakes over his right shoulder. The tattoo is of flames, and it looks so real, I wonder how Lor isn’t burned.
My eyes follow the ink-work, trailing along the familiar lines of the tattoo. I look for something different about it, but it’s just the same as I remember it.
Maybe all Angels have this tattoo. Maybe that’s why Lor also has it.
Then I remember Ashe’s killer. He didn’t have a tattoo, and neither does Jackal, or any of the other non-humans I’ve seen.
But Ashe did. And he didn’t just have a tattoo. He had this one.
“He lied,” I whisper. It can’t be coincidence that both Ashe and Lor have the same tattoo. What are the chances that Lor shares the mark with a random demon? No, that’s not possible. Lor lied; Ashe wasn’t just a demon. He was an Angel, just like I always believed.
An Angel somehow connected to Lor.
I have one moment of sheer excitement. Did Lor personally know Ashe? Can he lead me to Ashe’s killer?
But none of that matters if Lor dies.
“Stop the Match,” I say.
Father doesn’t hear me, so I raise my voice. “Stop the Match!”
Father waves his hand at me, like he’s trying to flick away a bug. He gazes intently down at the arena, his smile growing as Chagra nears Lor. Lor shakes his head, as if to clear his mind, and drags himself away from Chagra.
“Father!" I scream. “Stop the Match! Now!”
Father finally glances over to me, but only for a second. “Calm down, Faye. Don’t make me have to restrain you.”
His voice is toneless, but the threat is real. I glance over my shoulder at Jolik, hoping he’ll shake his head at me and smile, telling me that he’d go against Father to protect me. But he does none of those things, and just stares blankly out into the arena with his arms crossed over his chest, like he’s warding off my gaze.
I bite my lip, glaring at him, and then look down at the arena. I don’t have any choice but to watch the rest of the Match. Watch as Lor dies, as Chagra rips his tattoo to shreds. Watch as I lose my last connection to Ashe.
Lor is still backing away from Chagra. I taste blood in my mouth, but refuse to stop biting my lip. It’s the only way I can keep myself from screaming out directions to Lor.
He’s still dazed, unable to pull himself to his feet. But he manages to drag himself through the dirt with his arms, away from Chagra.
But he’s not going the right way. Lor should be going towards the center of the arena, where he can’t be cornered. Instead, he drags himself toward the far corner.
Chagra increases its pace, slinking forward until it’s only inches from Lor. Lor yells something at it–his words are in a different language, and I can’t tell what he’s saying. But it sounds furious.
Chagra snarls and bristles, making me wince. Lor should know better than to yell; Chagra likes playing with its victims, but not when they talk back.
“Father,“ I say. ”Please.”
He doesn’t even look at me.
Chagra crouches, its tail lashing back and forth, and prepares to leap. Lor desperately grabs at dirt, but a handful of sand won’t stop Chagra. Even another stone probably wouldn’t stop him, now that it’s scented blood and is closing in on the kill.
Chagra leaps. I want to look away. I should. But then I see Lor’s hand grasp around something and throw it forward. There’s a glint of metal, a shrieking howl, and a second of silence that lasts an eternity.
Then noise so intense I feel like I’m drowning in it.
Everyone stands from their seats, clapping, whistling, cheering. They point towards the arena floor, as if all eyes weren’t already on it. Most of the crowd is grinning while they cheer, their eyes wide with the after-effects of adrenaline.
Father yells something, but I hardly notice. My eyes are on the arena floor. Lor lies there, his blood pooling on the ground as it seeps from the claw-marks on his side. Chagra lies beside him, the hilt of the long-sword protruding from the beast’s mouth, and the tip of the blade poking out from its skull.
I replay in my mind what I saw, trying to piece the scene together. Lor had moved toward the corner because his sword was there. He’d dragged himself to the weapon just in time. And when Chagra leapt at him, he’d simply held up the sword and let Chagra’s momentum do the rest.
I smile.
“Kill the prisoner,” Father says.
And my smile disappears. I whirl toward Father’s seat, finding him leaning forward with his hands still trying to strangle the armrests. He looks ready to pounce on Lor himself.
“Kill him?” Jolik repeats.
I’ve never heard Jolik question an order, but now there’s genuine confusion in his voice. My own voice is gone, stuck in my throat along with the quickly-retreating relief.
“Yes!” Father snaps. “Give the order. Kill that prisoner.” He stands from his chair and faces Jolik, his face twisted into a snarl. “That’s the point of a Match, isn’t it? To dispose of unwanted criminals?”
I choke back a hysterical laugh. Disposing of unwanted criminals? Does Father really expect anyone to buy that? The entire point of Matches is vicious entertainment, pure and simple.
Jolik nods and replaces the confusion with his usual stoic expression. He’s not going to disagree with Father, not if he doesn’t want to be slain on the spot. He steps to the edge of the booth, and holds up a hand. Below him, other guards move into place.
I can’t see them, but I know how this works: All Jolik needs to do is lower his hand. It’s that simple. The other guards, hidden in turrets at the top of the arena wall, will fire off their arrows. Eleven archers usually surround the wall. Eleven arrows through Lor’s heart.
“You can’t do this,” I say to Father.
He turns to me, his jaw gritted so hard it looks painful. "I can do anything I want.”
Lor is still lying on his back, a tired grin on his face. He’s staring up at the sky, oblivious to the archers surrounding him. I see his chest move up and down. He’s laughing, probably too relieved to care about the pain that must be ripping through his side.
Father’s expression hardens when he sees Lor’s laughter. “Give the order!”
“No,” I say.
Jolik’s hand wavers, his eyes intent on Lor. I can picture the dilemma running through his mind: Kill Lor, now a hero in the eyes of the crowd, and face the anger of a mass of citizens. Or let Lor live, and face Father.
He starts to let his hand fall.
“Wait!” I scream. I can still save Lor. There’s only one way to do it, and it’s the one thing I swore I’d never do.
But I have to. Ashe would understand.
Wouldn’t he?
Jolik’s hand stops. One of
the guards below lets loose an arrow, confused by the order, but it goes wide. Lor doesn’t notice as the arrowhead impales the ground just feet from his head.
“Don’t listen to her,” Father says. “Kill him! That Angel has no right to breathe the air of my country.”
I turn to Father, reaching over and grabbing his arm. He tries to shake me off, but I dig my fingers in until he whirls toward me.
“What is wrong, Faye?” he demands.
“By the power bestowed onto me by my royal blood, I now choose my Guardian,” I say.
Father does his best to smile at me, but it looks more like a snarl. “It’s not time for that yet, Faye.”
I point down to the arena floor, raising my voice so everyone in the surrounding booths will hear. “I Choose Lor, Angel of the Forbidden Lands. Let him be my Guardian now and for eternity.”
NINE
I never knew how much chaos a few simple words could cause.
The moment Jolik hears me, he calls off the archers and turns to face me. He looks shocked, stunned, maybe a little angry.
“You what?” Father growls. His voice is low and gravelly, his eyes narrowed. He grabs my shoulders. “Take it back. Take back what you just said, or I swear I’ll disown you and cast you out of this kingdom!”
My stomach churns, even though I know the ancient laws protect me from his threats. Besides, everyone around me must have heard what I said. They won’t let me take back my words; the penalty is death for defying a tradition as strong as the Choosing.
“No,” I say, my voice a little quieter, but still loud enough to carry. “I Choose Lor.” I point again to Lor’s prone figure. He’s finally noticed the arrow next to his head, and frowns at it with a perplexed expression.
Father shakes me, making me bite my tongue. Wonderful. Now both my lip and my tongue are bleeding.
“I told you,” he hisses. “You could Choose any of the three men I selected.” He follows my gaze to Lor, and his face twists with disgust. “That Angel is not one of those men.”
I widen my eyes and look down, doing my best to look like an innocent child receiving a scolding. But my heart won’t stop pounding, and my lungs just keep gasping for air. It takes me a moment to realize I’m shaking.
I’m not sure what does it. Maybe it’s the shaking, or maybe my attempt at a pitiful look. Whatever it is, Father lets go of my shoulders and pulls away.
He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "I should have known better than to let you Choose. You’re a disgrace to Irrador and the throne. You’ve been ruined for years, ever since you Chose that Angel boy.”
I keep my eyes on the ground, refusing to look up and meet his words. If I do, I’ll lose it. He can’t just talk about my Ashe like that. He can’t pretend that anything is Ashe’s fault. He can’t.
“Sire?” Jolik says quietly. “I… I don’t think I can give the order. Not if she’s Chosen him.”
I’m glad I’m looking down; I might not be able to hide my vicious smile if I wasn’t. As my Guardian, Lor is now a part of the royal family. The guards are bound by the ancient laws to protect him, just like they protect Father and me. They can’t harm him, not without forfeiting their own life.
Father opens his mouth and pauses, as if he’s not sure how to respond. It’s a new sight for me. Father always has something to say.
I hold my breath. Father could always tell Jolik to kill Lor anyway. It would mean the end of Jolik’s life, along with every single one of the archers.
But Jolik would listen. He always does.
It would also mean the end of the support the people give Father. Half the city would be here to witness him forfeiting twelve men to take down one. One man who is now a hero to this crowd.
Father closes his mouth and shakes his head. He points a finger at me, his narrowed eyes accusing. “Jolik,” he says, his voice deadly quiet, “take Faye back to her chambers. Make sure she stays there. I don’t wish her to leave unsupervised.”
I bite my lip, keeping a curse from escaping. Father has always given me freedom; as long as I stay out of his way, he doesn’t care what happens to me.
But now I’m in his way. Now he cares.
“Of course,” Jolik says. He grabs my arm, his hand much gentler than Father’s, and leads me toward the exit of the booth. “Come along, Miss Princess,” he says quietly. “I’ll get you back to your chambers safe and sound.”
As we move past the two guards standing at the exit, Jolik hesitantly turns back to Father. “Sire… What of the Angel?”
Father doesn’t turn, his eyes focused on Lor’s prone form. “What of him?”
“Should I direct the arena guards to see him back to his cell?”
Father turns around, a small smile on his lips. “No. The Angel is Faye’s Guardian now, remember? Have the guards bring him to her chambers.”
My stomach twists. I hadn’t thought my plan out this far; saving Lor is one thing, but rooming with him? He’s an Angel. He has a natural grudge against humans, especially the royal ones. And, as he’s proved to the entire Amphitheater, he could easily kill me.
“Goodbye, Faye,” Father says as Jolik leads me away.
I don’t respond, other than to glance back one more time at the arena. Lor has been taken away, and nausea scratches at my gut as I realize that tattoo is now out of my reach. A pool of blood remains where Lor lay, and I take a deep breath, hoping he survives.
And hoping I do, too.
PART TWO
TEN
“Where shall I put him?”
The castle guard sounds exaggeratedly polite as he glares at me. I don’t know his name—he didn’t bother to give it to me, and I didn’t bother to ask.
Lor is slung over the guard’s shoulder, unconscious and dripping blood onto the stone entrance way. I shudder, remembering Ashe’s blood in that place. Lor’s is the same color, a deep maroon almost as dark as wine, both pretty and disturbing at the same time.
I shake away the thought, realizing No Name is waiting for an answer. Somehow, his expression has managed to darken even more in a matter of seconds. I’m not sure if he’s mad because he’s carrying around a filthy, bleeding prisoner, or because I disgraced Father with my Choice—again.
“Here.” I gesture for him to follow me and head toward the room next to mine.
I take a single step forward and then freeze. Was I really about to have the guard put Lor there? Right there, right next to my room? Where Ashe used to sleep?
I take a shuddering breath and then let it out, dispelling the sickening thought. I haven’t been in Ashe’s room since he died, and I’m never going back in there. It’s the one part of him that remains, and I won’t ever disturb it.
And that’s one promise to myself that I will never break.
I walk to the spare room two doors down from my bedroom, counting each footstep I take. It’s not enough to kill the swirling thoughts in my head–about Lor and Ashe and his killer–so I also start counting No Name’s heavy steps.
I enter the spare room, holding open the door for the guard. He glances around, taking in the bare walls and cold stone floor. I’ve never decorated the place, or even bothered to lay down a carpet.
No Name looks to Lor, and then to the dusty bed. He nods approvingly and smirks, and I have the urge to flip him off.
“Leave him on the bed,” I command.
He raises an eyebrow, as if wondering why I’m willing to give Lor even a dusty, old mattress. I point to it, holding my ground. No Name shrugs and dumps Lor on the bed.
“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess,” he drawls, that arrogant smirk playing at his lips.
He’d never speak that way to anyone else in this castle, but he’s smart enough to know his place. He’s a royal guard, while I’m nothing but a royal pawn. He can get away with anything he wants to say to me.
I ignore him, and also try to ignore the knots in my stomach. Instead, I focus on Lor. His chest moves, but more slowly tha
n before.
I grit my teeth, not wanting to feel the pity in my chest. I still remember the way people looked at me after Ashe died–even people who accused me of being a witch looked like they were sorry. It was maddening. Infuriating. They acted sad when they didn’t even know why they should be mourning. Who they should be mourning. And yet every time I saw one of them, with their sorrowful expressions and shaking heads, the memories would come rushing back, and I’d want to cry again.
Their pity was almost as cruel as Ashe’s death.
“Well,” No Name says, “ I suppose I’ll be going now.” He walks past me out the door. I wait until I’m sure he’s gone and then drop my head into my hands. What am I doing? That should be such an easy question to answer; I always have a goal, always know what I’m supposed to do to achieve it. Half of me is convinced that this is just another simple step toward avenging Ashe’s death, but I know that’s a lie. Taking a Guardian can never be simple.
Jolik pokes his head into the room, startling me. I pretend to brush something out of my eye, and hope he buys that my head was in my hands because I was clearing my vision, and not because I was starting to panic and fall apart. Yeah, right…
I’m not exactly sure where Jolik has been; the trip back to my chambers is a blur, and my head is just starting to clear. I think he’s been in my sitting room, guarding me from there. Typical Jolik, always avoiding emotional situations. Not that I’m any better…
“I suppose you want me to leave, too?” he says. When I nod, he sighs. “I shouldn’t leave you alone with that Angel.”
“The healer will be here soon. I won’t be alone.”
He purses his lip and then nods sharply. “Alright, then you’ll have at least one man around to protect you. That’s a bit better.”
I don’t tell him that the healer is a woman. Instead, I just wait for him to take the hint and walk away from the room, his footsteps heavy and resigned.
I close the door after him. Air comes rushing out from my chest, and I lean against the doorframe for support. My mind swirls, and I can’t figure out if I’m relieved that Jolik is gone, or bracing myself because Lor is here.
Counting Shadows (Duplicity) Page 6
