Kill the Queen

by Jennifer Estep

  And best of all, I didn’t have to take shit from anyone.

  If someone made a joke at my expense, I made one at theirs. If someone snapped at me, I snapped right back at them. I didn’t back down from anyone, not even Sullivan. Strength equaled respect here, just like it had at the palace. I didn’t have the physical strength of Paloma and some of the other gladiators, but I quickly made it clear that I would not be cowed, bullied, or intimidated in any way.

  At Seven Spire, I had kept my head down and stayed in the background so that I wouldn’t draw attention to myself, so that I wouldn’t be targeted, so that I wouldn’t be hurt. But a gladiator’s life was all about hurting others, and sparring with people, whether it was with swords in the training ring, or sharp words outside it, drew me out of my shell. Even when I lost a fight or someone cracked a better joke than me, I still knew that I had tried my best, and that made me feel stronger and more powerful than I ever had at the palace.

  Oh, it wasn’t all pies, scones, and sunshine at the Black Swan. An undercurrent of tension ran between the Bellonans and the Andvarians in the troupe, especially Sullivan, since he was the most visible. But the Bellonans limited themselves to dirty looks and snide whispers, so no real damage was done. For now.

  The acrobats, wire walkers, gargoyle and strix trainers, and other workers were split into various cliques, just like the royals, nobles, senators, guilders, and guards had been at Seven Spire. Most people were nice enough to me, but I didn’t go out of my way to make friends with anyone. Vasilia had taught me a long time ago that your so-called friends were the people who could wound you the worst. Besides, I didn’t dare get close to anyone, lest a slip of the tongue make the whole flimsy house of cards that I had concocted about who I was come tumbling down and reveal my true identity.

  The cliques were the most noticeable and the most difficult to navigate when it came to the gladiators, especially since they spent almost as much time fucking as they did fighting. Sex wasn’t a weapon here, not like it had been at Seven Spire, but it was still best to know who was currently sleeping with whom, and who was in it for casual fun, versus those with more serious feelings.

  As for the fighting, many of the gladiators were newbs like me, trying to learn how to better their skills in hopes of making a few more crowns to support themselves and their families. Others simply loved fighting, and the more pain and injuries they could inflict on their opponents, the better they felt themselves. And then there were the divas, men and women alike, with insufferable, overinflated egos that filled them with supreme confidence about their fighting skills and popularity. Adding to those egos were the flyers of the gladiators that were strung up all over the compound, as well as the fans who lurked on the plaza outside, waiting for the gladiators to appear and sign autographs after the daily training sessions.

  If anyone had the right to be a diva, it was Paloma, the troupe star and the highest-ranked gladiator in the city. But she never signed autographs on the plaza, and she was one of the few fighters who treated everyone equally, whether they were a gladiator or not.

  But the strangest thing about Paloma was that she never shifted into her ogre form.

  All the other morphs shifted when we trained, but not Paloma, not even once. She was strong and skilled enough with her shield and her spiked mace that she didn’t need the extra boost of magic, but I still found it odd. Most morphs loved being in their other, stronger, faster forms. By not shifting, Paloma seemed determined to stay in the background as much as possible, despite her wild success in the arena.

  I wouldn’t have paid nearly as much attention to Paloma if not for Emilie.

  For as humble as Paloma was, Emilie was three times as arrogant. She was always the first one to go to the plaza to sign autographs and the last one to leave, and she ordered everyone around like they were her own personal servants. Emilie’s mutt speed made her a formidable opponent, and she was one of the highest-ranked gladiators in the city. But she had one fatal flaw—she couldn’t beat Paloma, no matter how hard she tried.

  And she certainly tried.

  After signing autographs, Emilie would return to the ring and train for another hour or two, or sometimes longer. On the weekends, she was always the first gladiator in the arena and the last one to leave. But no matter how long she trained or how hard she tried, Paloma was just naturally that much better, and it drove Emilie crazy.

  Emilie’s frustration had long ago boiled up to jealousy and then condensed down to anger, although no one seemed to notice but me. Then again, I had seen her type many, many times before at the palace. Perhaps the saddest thing was that Paloma actually thought that Emilie was her friend. Paloma was always deferring to her, always stepping back and keeping quiet so that Emilie could be the center of attention. All Paloma’s niceness did was further infuriate the other gladiator, so much so that Emilie started cheating.

  At first, it was small things. Paloma’s favorite sword not being in the weapons racks. The soles on her sandals splitting apart during drills. The leather straps on her shield snapping and leaving her defenseless during sparring. Things that were overlooked or explained away as accidents, but Emilie was behind them all. She left the stench of her rose perfume on everything she ruined.

  I casually asked around, wondering how long Emilie had been sabotaging the other gladiator. The supposed accidents and bouts of bad luck had been going on for several months, although no one else seemed to suspect what was really happening. Of course I thought about speaking up, but no one would believe me, the awkward newb, against one of the troupe’s most skilled and popular gladiators, so I kept my mouth shut.

  A month after the massacre, I was standing in the training ring, watching Paloma and Emilie battle two other gladiators and wondering what petty thing Emilie was going to do today. It had become my own personal guessing game. I was betting on snapped shield straps again.

  For this match, Paloma and Emilie were teammates, and their goal was to disarm the other two gladiators. Paloma whirled around to attack one of the other fighters. Emilie was supposed to protect Paloma’s blind side, but instead, she pretended to trip over her own feet, and she sliced her sword across her friend’s back.

  Paloma screamed and fell to the ground. Everyone sucked in a surprised breath, then rushed forward. I grabbed some towels from a nearby bench and hurried over as well.

  Sullivan was already crouching beside Paloma, a concerned look on his face. He saw me holding the towels and waved me forward.

  “I’m going to roll you over so we can see how bad the wound is,” he said in a gentle voice. “It’s going to hurt, but just try to get through it the best you can. Okay?”

  Paloma gritted her teeth and nodded.

  “On three. One, two, three!”

  Sullivan took hold of her shoulder and rolled the gladiator onto her side, causing Paloma to snarl. Her leather shirt had been sliced open, and blood poured from the nasty wound that cut across her back. I drew in a breath, tasting the scent of her blood. A clean coppery tang, with no hint of punctured organs. A deep wound, but not a mortal one.

  “Help me get her up!” Sullivan said. “Quickly!”

  Two gladiators stepped up, grabbed Paloma’s arms, and set her on her feet. Sweat beaded on her forehead, pain glazed her amber eyes, and the ogre face on her neck scrunched up with misery, but she stayed upright. Sullivan gestured at me, and I stepped forward and pressed the towels up against her wound.

  “Paloma!” Emilie said, her voice dripping with fake concern. “I’m so sorry!”

  Paloma smiled at her supposed friend. “Don’t worry. Accidents happen.”

  Emilie touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes, as if fighting back tears. Duplicitous, treacherous bitch. She wasn’t sorry. She had done that on purpose. Her only regret was that she hadn’t killed Paloma outright.

  “Get her to the bone masters,” Sullivan barked out. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The two gladiators nodded and
helped Paloma limp out of the ring. I followed along behind them, still keeping the towels pressed up against her back.

  We made it to the building that housed the bone masters, and a bell over the front door chimed as we stepped inside, announcing our presence. Just like the dining hall, this area featured rows of tables marching down the middle of the room, while shelves full of herbs, medicines, bandages, and more hugged the walls. But these tables weren’t for eating, and the strong scent of lemony soap couldn’t overpower the sharp tang of blood that lingered in the air.

  The two gladiators helped Paloma lie down on her stomach on one of the tables. She snarled again, and her breath came in ragged gasps. The shock had worn off, and she could fully feel the pain of her injury now.

  “I’ll stay with her,” I said. “You two go back to the ring and see if Sullivan needs anything.”

  They nodded and left the building.

  A door in the back opened, and a woman with short black hair, hazel eyes, and lovely ebony skin hurried over to us. Aisha, one of the bone masters. She had healed my cuts and bruises more than once over the past few weeks.

  Aisha stared at Paloma with a critical gaze. “Training accident?”

  “Something like that,” I muttered.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Aisha said. “It’s a nasty wound, but nothing that I can’t fix.”

  Paloma nodded with understanding.

  Aisha turned to me. “Evie, get me some clean cloths, and fill a bowl with warm water from the pot on the stove.”

  I did as she asked and set the items on another table. Aisha grabbed a pair of shears and cut away Paloma’s bloody shirt so that she could see the entire wound. Then she pushed up the sleeves of her red tunic and laid her hands on either side of the deep, ugly slice. Power flared to life in Aisha’s eyes, making them glow like citrines, and the scent of her magic filled the room. Fresh, clean, and lemony, like the soap.

  Aisha stared at the wound, and her hands began to glow with the same bright golden power that filled her eyes. The glow spread out and sank into Paloma’s skin, like magic was running through her veins, instead of blood. That was exactly what was happening. Bone masters had complete control over their element, which was the human body. A bone master’s magic let her mend broken bones, stitch skin together, and fade out bruises—or cause them. Bone masters were dangerous in that they could heal you or crack your neck with a snap of their fingers.

  Getting healed was usually just as painful as getting wounded, and Paloma latched onto my hand, trying to focus on something other than the fact that Aisha was pulling her skin, muscles, and tendons back together. Paloma’s grip was so tight that it felt like she was crushing my bones, but I grimaced and kept quiet.

  Aisha was strong in her magic, and it didn’t take her long to heal the gladiator. She released her power, stepped back, and looked at me. “Help her get cleaned up. I’ll find a fresh shirt for her.”

  I nodded, and she went through the door in the back of the room and shut it behind her.

  I helped Paloma sit up, then turned my back while she took off what was left of her shirt and covered herself with a towel. When she was ready, I dipped a soft cloth into the bowl of warm water and washed the blood off her back. Neither one of us said anything. I couldn’t have spoken even if I wanted to. The smell of her blood reminded me of the massacre, and it was all that I could do to keep from vomiting.

  I cleaned her back, then dried it off and set the bloody cloth and bowl of water aside.

  Paloma turned so that she could see me. “Thank you for helping me.” She nodded at me, as did the ogre mark on her neck.

  “You know this wasn’t an accident, right?”

  The words popped out before I could stop them. I didn’t want to get involved. I shouldn’t get involved. Not if I wanted to stay here with my secrets intact. Maybe it was the sight of all that blood, or how Emilie’s cruelty reminded me of Vasilia’s, or even how Paloma had crushed my hand trying to hold back the pain, but I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  I didn’t want to keep quiet any longer. That’s what the old Everleigh would have done back at the palace, and I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I didn’t want to stand by while other people got hurt. Not if I could do something to stop it. In some ways, being quiet was even worse than being helpless.

  “Emilie cut you on purpose,” I said. “She was deliberately trying to hurt you. Maybe even kill you.”

  Paloma laughed. “What? That’s ridiculous. Emilie is my best friend. I’ve known her for years. She would never hurt me.”

  I shook my head. “Emilie is not your friend. She just acts like it. Deep down inside, she hates you. She’s jealous of your success in the arena and how easily it comes to you.”

  Paloma frowned at the conviction in my voice, and I thought she was listening to me. But then, she shook her head. “No. You’re wrong.”

  “No, I’m not. Trust me. I’ve known people like her before. My own personal nemesis, as a matter of fact.” My stomach twisted, but I kept talking. “Think about everything that’s happened lately. Your practice sword going missing. Your sandals coming apart. Your shield straps snapping. Those weren’t accidents. Emilie was behind them and everything else that’s gone wrong for you. That rose perfume she wears is better than a bloody confession. At least, it is to this mutt.”

  Paloma’s frown deepened, and her gaze grew distant, as if she was thinking back over all those incidents, so I kept talking, hoping to convince her.

  “And I imagine that Emilie especially hates you since you don’t even have to morph to beat her over and over again.” My gaze dropped to the ogre on her neck, who was staring at me with the same disbelief that Paloma was. “Why don’t you shift? All the other morphs do. It would make you an even better, stronger, faster gladiator than you already are.”

  Anger sparked in Paloma’s eyes, and she leaped off the table. She was still holding that towel to her chest, but her other hand clenched into a fist, and I thought she was going to punch me. She settled for glaring at me instead, and the ogre on her neck silently snarled, showing me its many sharp teeth.

  “My morphing is nobody’s business,” she hissed. “Get out.”

  “But I just want to help you—”

  “Get out!” she roared.

  Her amber eyes glinted with rage, as did the eyes of the ogre on her neck. Once again, I thought she might punch me, and I gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the brutal blow.

  Aisha opened the door and stuck her head into the room. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Paloma snarled. “The newb was just leaving.”

  She said that to insult me, and it totally worked.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “It’s your funeral.”

  I marched across the room, opened the door, and stepped outside. Then I slammed the door shut behind me as hard as I could.

  “Problems?” a dry voice called out.

  I whirled around to find Sullivan standing there. On an impulse, I stalked forward and grabbed his arm. Paloma hadn’t listened to me, but maybe he would.

  “You know that Emilie did this on purpose, right? She didn’t trip. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

  His eyes narrowed, but unlike Paloma, he didn’t automatically discount my words. “And why would she do that?”

  “Because she hates Paloma and her success. Emilie is a seething mass of jealousy.”

  “Are you sure that you aren’t talking about yourself, highness?”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I am well acquainted with jealousy and all the crazy things it makes you do.”

  “You, crazy with jealousy? Now that’s something I would like to see.”

  The cold speculation in his eyes vanished, replaced by something hotter, more intense, and far more dangerous. The hard, corded muscles in his forearm bunched and flexed under my fingers, and the warmth of his body mingled with my own. His clean vanilla scent washed over me, and I sudden
ly felt dizzy for another reason besides my anger. In that moment, I realized exactly how easily fighting could turn into something much more pleasurable, although still extremely dangerous to my heart.

  I shoved those thoughts away, dropped his arm, and stepped back. Sullivan’s gaze dimmed, but he kept staring at me.

  I shook my head and forced myself to focus on something besides how blue his eyes were. “You need to watch Emilie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because next time, she’ll do something worse.”

  I stared at him again, letting him see how serious I was, then brushed past him and headed back to the training ring.

  * * *

  Despite my dire prediction, everything was quiet for the next few days, and I went about my usual routine of cooking and training. I didn’t speak to Paloma, and she didn’t say anything to me, but every time she came into the dining hall or walked by me in the training ring, she stared at me, and I looked back at her. I had warned her about Emilie. The rest was up to her.

  Aisha had fully healed Paloma, so everything returned to normal, including how easily Paloma beat Emilie in the ring. Emilie smiled, laughed, and joked with Paloma like always, but I didn’t like the sly glint in her eyes whenever she looked at her so-called friend. Even more telling, she smelled . . . eager. Like she already had something else planned and was just waiting for the right moment to strike.

  A week after the supposed accident, I was in the dining hall dishing out lemon-blackberry cookies. I glanced at Paloma, who was sitting at her usual table, with Emilie across from her. Paloma was talking and gesturing, reenacting some move from last night’s bout, which she had won. Emilie smiled and nodded, although her gaze remained cold.

  I turned to finish passing out the cookies when a foul, sulfuric stench wafted across the room. My nose twitched, and I drew in a breath, tasting the air. The stench came again, stronger and more caustic. My stomach lurched. I knew that horrible, horrible odor. Thanks to Maeven and her poisonous champagne, I would never, ever forget it.