Kill the Queen

by Jennifer Estep

  “Well, come on,” Sullivan said again. “Take your shot.”

  A cold fist of rage wrapped around my heart, squeezing tight. I wasn’t going to best Sullivan, but I had to try. I couldn’t afford for him or any of the other gladiators to think that I was weak. More importantly, I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to keep my mouth shut and plaster a smile on my face and stay in the background like I had all those years at the palace. I just wanted to be myself, for the first time in a long time.

  The shield was far too heavy for me to wield properly, so I tossed it aside. Surprise flashed across Sullivan’s face, but he kept his arms out to his sides. Then, before I could think too much about how badly this was going to end, I wrapped both hands around my borrowed sword, screamed, and charged forward.

  I raised my sword as though I was going to slash it across his chest, but at the last second, I went low, swiping out at his legs instead. But of course Sullivan still easily avoided the blow.

  For a moment, I thought I heard faint music playing in the distance, and I found myself moving in time to the beat. I whirled around, brought my sword up, and—

  Clang!

  I actually managed to block his counterstrike. We stood there, seesawing back and forth, our swords scraping together. More surprise filled his face, along with the tiniest bit of grudging respect. Then he smiled again, and I knew how much trouble I was in.

  Sullivan leaned forward, using his strength and weight to make me fall to one knee. I managed to keep my sword up in between us, although my arms shook from the effort.

  “Trying to fight dirty?” he mocked, looming over me. “That’s a bit desperate, don’t you think?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered.

  He smiled again. I tensed, realizing that he was about to attack, but he was still too fast and strong. Sullivan whirled around, knocked my sword out of my hand, and kicked my leg out from under me.

  An instant later, I was flat on my back in the dirt, and Sullivan had the point of his sword pressed up against my throat, just as he had when I had woken up in his house this morning.

  “You lose, highness.”

  I sighed. I always did.

  I thought he might slice my neck with his sword, to make sure that I really got the point, but Sullivan lowered his weapon, leaned down, and offered me his forearm. I hesitated, then reached out and grabbed it. He easily pulled me to my feet.

  We stood in the middle of the ring, our arms locked together like our swords had been a moment ago. Sullivan’s breath kissed my cheek, and the heat from his body mixed with my own, warming me far more than our sparring had. An answering warmth sparked in Sullivan’s eyes, which weren’t nearly as cold as they had been before.

  He cleared his throat, let go of my arm, and stepped back. “You dropped your shield and used your sword to attack me. Interesting.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Was this some sort of test?”

  “Of course it was a test. Everything here is a test.”

  “And what did it tell you?”

  He studied me with a sharp, penetrating gaze. “That there might actually be some hope for you yet.” He jerked his head at the sword and shield lying on the ground. “Give those back to Paloma, then pick out a lighter sword from the weapons racks.”

  Sullivan turned back to the rest of the gladiators and barked out more orders. I started to grab the fallen weapons, but Paloma beat me to them. The ogre morph easily picked up the shield and secured it to her forearm before grabbing the sword.

  She looked at me. “Not bad. Most newbs don’t last that long against Sullivan their first time out.”

  Her voice and expression were both neutral, and the ogre on her neck blinked its amber eyes, as if trying to figure me out. Paloma seemed a bit friendlier than she had in Serilda’s library, so I decided to take a chance.

  “What kind of test was that? What did Sullivan mean that there might be hope for me?”

  Paloma lifted her sword and shield. “You realized that my weapons were too heavy for you, and you decided to use the sword instead of the shield.”

  “So?”

  “So it means that you would rather attack then defend yourself.”

  “And why is that important?”

  She shrugged. “Because that’s the sign of a true gladiator.”

  Paloma jogged off to join the rest of the gladiators as they resumed their drills. Sullivan pointed at me, then over at the weapons racks. I sighed and limped in that direction. I reached the racks and picked out a lighter sword, although it still felt as heavy as a gargoyle.

  I started to limp back to the center of the ring when a glimmer of glass caught my eye. I looked up.

  Serilda Swanson was watching me.

  The back of the training ring butted up against the gardens, along with the manor house. Serilda was lounging in a chair on one of the second-story balconies, sipping a drink, and watching her gladiators.

  She stared at me, her index finger tapping against her glass. Her face was as blank as a canvas, and I couldn’t tell what she might be thinking about Sullivan’s test, or me—

  “Let’s go, highness!” Sullivan yelled.

  Whatever Serilda thought, it wasn’t going to save me from the training session. So I sighed, turned around, and shuffled back to the center of the ring, bracing myself for several more hours of hurt and humiliation.

  * * *

  A couple of other gladiators had recently joined the troupe, and I trained with them through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, although they were all far more skilled than I was.

  After that, I washed off the dust and dirt and returned to the dining hall. Theroux put me to work chopping carrots, onions, potatoes, and celery for some beef stew. By the time the stew was finished, I was so ravenous that I stood in a corner of the kitchen and ate three bowls of it, along with half a loaf of sourdough bread slathered with honey butter. Theroux didn’t comment on my appetite, but he did give me a piece of the second cranberry-apple pie that I’d made earlier.

  It was one of the best meals I’d ever had.

  Once dinner was finished and the dishes had been washed, Theroux pointed me over to the barracks for the female gladiators. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  The front of the barracks was a common area, with tables, chairs, and writing desks covered with paper, pens, and pots of ink. Flames crackled in a fireplace in the front wall, and a shelf in the corner held books, along with a few board games.

  Several gladiators were gathered in that area, writing letters, reading, or dozing in front of the warm fire. I shuffled past them into the back half of the barracks, which featured two rows of cots running down either wall. A wooden trunk sat at the end of each cot, with nightstands, lamps, and other pieces of furniture scattered here and there.

  The sleeping spaces might all be the same, but each one had a personal touch, like ribbons wrapped around the bedframe, or a pretty embroidered tunic lying over the trunk, or a framed portrait propped up on the nightstand.

  The only empty cot was in the back corner, far away from the heat of the fireplace but right next to the bathrooms that lined the back wall. So not only would I be cold, but I would also get to listen to the other women use the toilets all night. Terrific. Just terrific. But I supposed that it was better than sleeping in Sullivan’s house again.

  I still had the blue jacket and the pillow that I had stolen from Sullivan, and I laid the jacket across the foot of the bed. The pillow was a bit dirty and grimy from where I had carried it around all day, but the cot didn’t have a pillow, so I set it at the head of the bed. Then I leaned down and tested the mattress with my hand. Hard as a rock, but the sheets were clean. Good enough for me.

  The trunk at the foot of the bed was open, and I bent down and rifled through the items inside. A couple of white kitchen tunics, black leggings and work boots, gray sandals, and some gray fighting leathers, all of which looked to be about my size. S
omeone had already stocked the trunk with clothes, along with some soap, a hairbrush, and other toiletry items.

  I grabbed a black nightgown, a toothbrush, and some other things and shuffled toward the only bathroom that wasn’t occupied. Right before I was going to step inside, an arm shot out and grabbed the doorframe, blocking me.

  “Newbs go last.” Emilie gave me an evil grin, then stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut in my face.

  I sighed, but all I could do was stand there and wait. The other gladiators gave me curious looks, but no one talked to me, and I was too tired to make the effort to speak to them.

  Finally, another bathroom opened up, and I stepped inside and shut and locked the door behind me. It had been a long, long day, and I was bruised, sore, and utterly exhausted, but I forced myself to unwind what was left of my braid, shake out my hair, and strip off my dirty clothes.

  I untied the black velvet bag with my bracelet and the memory stone from the belt loop on my leggings. Even though I was bone-tired, I still hid the bag under my pile of dirty clothes before I got into the shower.

  Since everyone else had gone before me, the water was lukewarm, at best, although it quickly turned ice-cold. I ground my teeth to keep them from chattering and washed myself from head to toe three times, including my hair.

  Thirty minutes later, I had finished my bedtime routine and was standing in front of the mirror over the sink, staring at my reflection. Long black hair, gray-blue eyes, cheekbones, nose, lips. My features looked the same as always, and yet strangely foreign at the same time. Perhaps that was due to my injuries. Tiny cuts crisscrossed my chin like stitches on a rag doll’s face, while my right cheek was one massive mix of black-and-blue bruises from where the turncoat guard had punched me. My hair was just about the only part of me that had survived unscathed, but even it felt like a chilly, heavy weight dragging me down.

  I touched my hair and shivered. Given how far away I was from the fireplace, it would take hours for it to dry. If I had still been at the palace, I would have used a brush with heated bristles or crawled into bed and read until my long locks dried enough for me to go to sleep. But Lady Everleigh was gone, and so were all her books and other creature comforts. Evie the gladiator needed to do something different with her hair. Besides, the cuts and bruises on my face would soon fade, and the less that I looked like my old self, the safer I would be.

  Someone had left a pair of scissors sitting on the back of the toilet, and I picked them up. I turned the scissors over in my hands. Then, before I could think too much about what I was doing, I grabbed a piece of my hair, held it out, and cut it off.

  Snip.

  Just like that, it was gone. Just like my former life. Just like Isobel, Alvis, Xenia, Cordelia, and everyone else that I had ever known.

  Sorrow filled me, but I grabbed another piece of hair and cut it off as well, pretending that I was cutting the emotion out of my body at the same time.

  Snip.

  The sorrow vanished, but heartache rose up to take its place.

  Snip.

  Then fear, worry, dread, and helplessness.

  Snip-snip-snip-snip.

  I kept cutting, going as fast as I could. Piece by piece, I hacked off my hair until it just brushed the tops of my shoulders. By the time I put the scissors down, my hands were shaking, but I actually felt lighter, better, freer, as if I really had cut away the horrors of everything that had happened.

  Oh, I knew that it wasn’t true. That I had just cut my hair and nothing else. That the memories were still there, that they would always be there, right along with the sorrow, heartache, and rage.

  Especially the rage.

  That was the one thing that I hadn’t imagined cutting out of myself. That was the one thing that I didn’t want to get rid of. That was the only thing that had helped me survive, and it was the only thing that would keep me going through all the long days ahead.

  But I had made my choice, and this was my life—and hair—now, for better or worse.

  So I gathered up the wet locks and dumped them in the trash can, then grabbed my meager possessions and left the bathroom to go to bed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sounds of cots squeaking woke me the next morning.

  Even though I desperately wanted to stay in bed and rest my tired, aching body, I got up and put on one of the white tunics from my trunk. I also tied the black velvet bag with my bracelet and the memory stone to one of the belt loops on my leggings, then pulled my tunic down to hide it. I didn’t dare leave it in the barracks. Not until I found a good hiding spot for it.

  Three other female gladiators also worked in the kitchen, and I followed them to the dining hall. They chatted with each other, but I didn’t join in the conversation. Instead, I listened, putting names with faces and seeing who were friends, who weren’t, and how they all got along.

  “We have a good shot to win the Svalin city title this year. Maybe even the Bellonan national one too.”

  “With Paloma as our champion? Absolutely.”

  “Don’t forget about Emilie. She’s only a few points behind Paloma for the top spot.”

  I didn’t understand the talk about the gladiator rankings, but the women soon switched to a far more relatable topic.

  “Maybe I should ask Sullivan for a little one-on-one training. To improve my . . . technique.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting a little extra instruction from Sullivan.”

  “Me neither.”

  The gladiators’ giggles reminded me of the noble ladies tittering about how they would enjoy certain attributes of various lords.

  Getting instruction from Sullivan? He was so smug and arrogant that he’d probably expect his partner to climb on top and do all the work of pleasing him. Still, I couldn’t help but picture Sullivan lying in bed, white sheets draped low on his hips, his tan, muscled chest laid bare, his brown hair rumpled, his blue eyes glittering with desire. A sexy, devilish grin would spread across his face, and he would reach out, thread his fingers through mine, and pull me down on top of him, even as his lips rose up to meet mine . . .

  I shook my head to banish the unwanted thoughts.

  One of the women turned to me. “What do you think . . . um . . .”

  “Evie,” I said, when it became apparent that she had forgotten my name.

  She snapped her fingers. “Evie! That’s right. Well, what do you think about Sullivan?”

  All three women looked at me. I thought about their conversation so far.

  “Well, I had some instruction from Sullivan in the ring yesterday, remember? I got tossed onto my back for nothing,” I drawled. “He might have had fun, but it certainly wasn’t satisfying for me. Then again, isn’t that the way it always is with men?”

  The women howled with laughter, like I had hoped. It was always better to make fun of yourself first, rather than wait for other people to do it. Another survival skill that I had learned at Seven Spire.

  The trick worked, and the women included me in their conversation the rest of the way, although I still kept listening more than I talked.

  I followed the gladiators into the dining hall and back to the kitchen. I walked over to Theroux, who was sprinkling dillweed and other dried herbs into a cast-iron skillet filled with yellow, red, and purple potatoes.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  He grunted at me, then pointed over to another prep station that was covered with butter, flour, sugar, and more. “Can you make cherry-almond scones?”

  My heart ached. Those were one of my favorite treats, and I had made them with Isobel many, many times.

  “Well?” he snapped.

  “Yes,” I croaked. “I can make them.”

  “Good. Then get to work.” Theroux turned his back to me and focused on his pan again.

  I went over to that prep station. First, I mixed the butter, flour, sugar, and more together for the base of the scones, before submerging fresh tart cherries into a sweet almond
liqueur. Forty-five minutes later, I took several trays out of the ovens. The three gladiators I had walked over here with gathered around me.

  “Those smell delicious.”

  “Can I try one?”

  “Oh, it’s so good!”

  The scones helped to further break the ice, and soon, all the workers were gathered around and chatting at me. I smiled and nodded at everyone, still doing far more listening than talking, but I seemed to have earned my place. Even Theroux snatched a scone from one of the trays when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  Eventually, the rest of the troupe came into the dining hall to eat breakfast, and Theroux told me to start serving food. So I left the kitchen and moved from one table to the next, using a set of tongs to dish out the scones.

  Cho and Sullivan were sitting at a table by themselves. The dragon morph spotted me and waved his hand, an eager smile stretching across his face. Sullivan was far less enthused.

  I counted the scones on my tray and the people in between us. Then I headed in their direction, stopping every few feet to dish out another scone. Eventually, I made it to their table.

  Cho held out his plate, his black eyes locked onto the tray.

  “Here you go, sir. I saved two scones just for you.”

  I had never liked kissing ass, but I was new here, and I had to be smart, quick, and ruthless about carving out and securing my position within the group. Getting Cho, the troupe’s second-in-command, on my side was an excellent place to start. Besides, I had another ulterior motive in mind.

  I dished out the treats to him. Sullivan lifted his plate as well.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m all out.”

  His eyes narrowed. He knew that I had run out on purpose. I smiled at him.

  Cho took a big bite. “Mmm-mmm-mmm! This is just as good as that pie yesterday.” He shoved the rest of the scone into his mouth, then reached out and grabbed my hand. “Ah, if only I were twenty years younger, I would marry you in a heartbeat, Evie, and let you ply me with pastries until I was old, fat, and gray.”