by Janeal Falor
Finally he pulls away, a gleam in his eye. I force myself not to wipe my mouth. The foul taste of him lingers. He turns to the crowd, raises an arm, and shoots a bigger version of the newly made crest into the air above the field. Father edges closer to us, beaming. Cynthia stands on the other side of Thomas, out of sight and reach. I see nothing exciting about the two men at my side and another's body on the field before me.
Everyone is cheering. The boxes and stands are wild with people. Countries are yelling, though ours is the loudest, with colors waving madly. All except one group. The group that by all accounts should be letting their barbaric nature show the most. The Envadi stand silent.
Chapter Four
“The way you blocked and attacked at the same time,” Father's spoon waves about as he speaks, leaving green splatters everywhere, “it was the quickest I've seen anyone move during a tournament.”
Never have I seen him so lively. With any luck, the change will mean fewer punishments. The electric lights in the chandelier overhead flicker, casting an odd glow across the far stretching, but mostly unused, table. It makes me nervous. At home, Father makes us eat under candlelight.
Thomas gives a lopsided grin and makes like he's snatching a bug out of the air. “I've always had quick reflexes. Better than those spying Envadi scum. Only someone as powerful as me can have a killing during a tournament. What do you think, Serena?”
My spoon slips into my green pea soup. I've never been required to speak during dinner before. “I agree with Father.”
“You must think something beyond that, woman. Don't my spells impress you? My new title make you yearn for when you'll be my wife? I even have a new house. Have you ever been to Chancellor Jacob's manor?”
He stares at me expectantly. Could he actually want an answer? Why is he speaking to me in such a way? He should know women don't have opinions on things. At least not ones we speak aloud. Of course I don't yearn to be his wife. And I've certainly never had reason to attend a Chancellor's home. Until now. The small amount of food in my stomach protests.
The staring continues. I don't dare to pretend to take another bite while he keeps asking questions. “I haven't.”
“It's the grandest place I've ever seen. Been in his family for more generations than you can think. But now it's mine. Perhaps if you are good after we wed, I'll let you visit.”
“That's a treat indeed,” Father says. “Been often enough myself for council meetings. Do you think you'll use it to host council meetings when it's your time to host?”
“Chancellor Ryan said I shouldn't bother, but I may anyway,” Chancellor Thomas replies and the two go back to conversing without me.
Cynthia taps her spoon on the table to get my attention. With a nod toward my soup, she takes a meaningful sip of her own. I resume pretending to eat. It's difficult to feign hunger while sickened by the day's events.
After finishing an overly sweetened cherry dessert, the men excuse themselves, with a reminder that we're leaving early in the morning to go back to the tournament. I sigh.
“That was the most uncomfortable dinner I've sat through,” I say. “How can they eat when they saw a man die? When he killed someone?”
Cynthia holds a finger to her lips and looks around. “Let's go to the sitting room, shall we?”
There are several servants on the edge of our conversation. Mostly tarnished in their strange dark skirts and unmatched, dull blouses, but some of the lower class men wait as well. Servants who are serving to pay off debts are trouble. Gossip from them can spread as easily as mother gets with child. “Of course. Might as well take advantage of the space.”
We walk to the joined sitting room by our assigned rooms and close the door. A pungent candy-like aroma clings to the air. I spot sachets of dried flowers and leaves clustered on the small table in front of the sofa and chairs. The most offending odor is laurel. The leaves of success. A reminder of my new Master, no doubt. I want to throw them out.
“What has gotten into you?” Cynthia puts her hands on her hips. If she'd been watching mother closer, she'd know they're supposed to be fisted as well. “I know you're unhappy, but you must be more cautious. You can't continue being so out spoken. You've been getting worse ever since your birthday.”
The day my future took a path away from her. I clench my teeth. One-by-one I pull my fingers from my glove, then take it completely off. After repeating the action with the other one, I throw them on the back of a chair. The cool air is refreshing against my freed skin.
“He murdered someone. I don't like it. Rather, I hate it. Doesn't it bother you?”
“Of course it does, Serena. I'm not totally unfeeling. But I know when to be cautious. I don't want to see you taken from me. From us.”
The words sting with truth, yet they don't change facts. “Thomas already owns me. My engagement ceremony is a little over four weeks away, the wedding four months after that. I'm leaving you. Nothing can stop that.”
She plops down in a chair. “But I'll still be able to see you from time to time. Dinner parties, balls, and such. But if you make a wrong turn—”
“Why do you keep thinking I'll do something wrong?”
“Because sometimes you act as if there are no consequences to your words. I'm used to you being this way around Father, but things are different now.” She sniffs. “I don't know how I would go on without seeing you again. How are we going to make it at home without you? You always stand up for us and take the brunt of everything. It'll be hard enough in four months. If you become tarnished, it would be terrible. It would be as if you were dead.”
Guilt pricks at me. I focus on that and not the fear that's been in me ever since Thomas's threat to tarnish me. I settle myself on the floor beside her seat. “Hush now. No tears. I don't do as much for you and the others as you think.”
“You do. We owe so much for everything you do for us.”
“Now you're just being silly.”
She sits straighter. “You remember the time you visited Aunt Mary last year?”
“Yes. She has the most lovely peach orchards.” The trees were in full bloom and went on farther than I could see. Plus, Uncle wasn't so ready with punishments. I wish he hadn't died so I could go again.
Several moments of silence pass, full of sweet memories of wandering the groves unaccompanied and visiting with Aunt Mary before she speaks. “Father hexed me three times and beat me once while you were away. He beat Bethany twice, and I lost count of how many times he hexed her.”
I slouch against the side of her chair, not caring that it digs into my back. Getting away and avoiding Father's punishments came with a price I didn't know I was paying. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“You couldn't change it. When you came home, it was over. And you were happy. You'd never been like that before. Or since. I didn't want to make you lose that joy faster than you had to.”
“Then why tell me now?”
“Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I don't want you going to a place that prevents you from ever returning home. If you're not careful, you will.”
As if she would know. One week of me being gone didn't seem to change her behavior any. “Silly frills and finding a mate are all you ever care about. You have no idea what it's like to worry.”
“I worry more than I let on. But do you know what I do, Serena? I hide those thoughts and feelings, and move on with my life.”
The impact of her words jerk through me. If that's really the case, have her big smiles and infatuations with boys been hiding her worry all this time? She's much better at it than I am. My guilt builds, yet I can't help but wonder why she hides it. If she stood up more often, would Father see us as more than property to be sold? Ridiculous thought. Of course he wouldn't.
“I'll try harder.” I rise and head for my temporary quarters. “See you in the morning.”
Cynthia follows after me. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.”
“Don't be. Thank you for telling
me, it's given me something to think on.” Even if I don't want to think about it. The weight I've always carried for my sisters seems heavier.
“I really am sorry. I just don't want you to go.”
I force the corners of my mouth to lift. “All will be well. Goodnight.”
“Night, Serena.”
I cross into my room, shutting the door behind me. After a moment, her footsteps recede. I slump against the wall and slide to the floor. My sisters. I've worked seventeen years to protect them. Apparently, I haven't been doing enough. Yet, the little I was able to do, I'll no longer be able to provide. Marriage will stop me from being with them more than she thinks. I'll never be more than I am now. Only less. Less able to help them in anyway. My ability to choose will fade. I'll take on the role of a breeder.
Or worse. I'll become like that haunted tarnished. Bald. Inked. Barren. Emotionless. Not worth the shadow I cast.
***
The week moves in an odd sort of time. Like at the house when I have to wait for Father to leave for a meeting or stand at attention while awaiting punishment. Moments with Thomas are always the slowest. Agonizingly so. When he's not dueling, he's dragging me from one box to another exclaiming over his new title and riches. Sometimes people find us, which is only an improvement because Cynthia is there.
On occasion while Thomas is dueling, Father leaves to do whatever it is he does. Warlock matters, I suppose. Whatever it is, he's usually with other old, paunchy men. During those moments Cynthia and I discuss things with less restraint, though eyes are still on us and we can't become too heedless. Several times I have found I'm being watched by various Chardonians. Other times I just feel it. The Grand Chancellor is especially unnerving. Why he finds me worth such observations, I'm unsure. But his son or another warlock usually regains his attention before it becomes too excessive.
There are eight more deaths. None of the deceased were as prestigious as Chancellor Jacob. Not even anyone who was on the Chardonian council. Most were from different countries. One benefit of having Thomas drag me around was only witnessing one of them. It was just as horrific as Chancellor Jacob's death, but easier to turn away from. Or rather, run away from, to visit the privy. At least that was the excuse I used.
Cynthia stays. She watches the duels with eager eyes. No doubt, trying to ascertain who her escape will be once she's tested. I can't agree with her line of thinking, but at least she has a plan to get away from it. Even if it's doomed to fail.
Upon my return from the privy, she explains that the winner was awarded the dead man's things as has been done with the others. Whether they are Chardonian or not, warlocks who enter agree to the terms and thus forfeit their possessions if killed. Not that a dead man cares. But one of the losers is already married, and as such, the new widow is set to become tarnished. That fact gives me more pause than any of the others she loads me with.
Tomorrow is the last day of the tournament. I'm aching for my own bed, though it's shared with my sisters. The bed here is too big and cold. Since we're staying at the tournament tents while Father and Thomas enjoy the feast, tonight's bed will be a cot next to Cynthia's. Then once the tournament is over tomorrow, we'll be back at Thomas's. Despite my words when I first saw our quarters, I haven't enjoyed having my own space. Even the cot sounds better.
“What are you thinking?” Cynthia asks. “You've gone quiet.”
“Going home. I miss being there instead of being stuck with Father here at the tournament. A whole week of freedom, wasted.”
“I suppose, but you should still be discreet with your words.” She returns to watching the final duel of the day. I try not to think of where our last conversation that began this way went. Cynthia adds, “And think of all we'd be missing.”
There's nothing to miss.
Bright yellow flashes and a winner is called out. The events for the day are finally over. With evening coming, darkness is falling. Warlocks send yellow sparks across the field, lighting torches all around. I lean back in my chair, grateful we're staying here for the night. Maybe I'll be lucky enough that Thomas will have less interest in me with so many others about. Then I'd really enjoy the evening.
“Do we have to wait for Father to go to the feast?” Cynthia asks.
“We'll give him a little while. If he doesn't show, it's probably all right for us to take a servant.”
In the box next to ours, the Grand Chancellor stands. I point him out to Cynthia. The crowd goes silent. A breeze picks up, carrying a scent of bad cabbage with it.
“What an impressive tournament we've had the privilege of observing. As the last rounds are fought tomorrow, I wish the finalists good luck.”
While he's speaking, a tarnished is led to a newly placed stone slab in front of the Grand Chancellor's box. It's the size of my bed at Thomas's, except with bumps and dips giving it a more ragged appearance. They reach it and stop. Dressed simpler than usual in nothing but a tunic, it's clear the tarnished is a woman. Her face is void of emotion.
“Before we celebrate the final night of the tournament, we have one last honor to perform.”
Father appears at my side and whispers, “This is what happens to some of those who are tarnished.”
My gaze darts to her. The threat was clear. That could be me, standing alone, marked as something less than human. My limbs grow heavy watching her stand without wavering. What are they going to do to her? This was never covered in any class or gossip. Tournaments are a place we let our owners show us off, not watch a tarnished.
The Grand Chancellor leaves his box and strides forward. He motions to the stone past the lit torches. Still without any hint of expression, the tarnished lays on it. In the dim light, she looks like she could be any girl I know.
“Sacrifice.” His voice booms through the field.
The cool night air sharpens. Realizing what the stone is, I clench my hands together. An altar. His words make sense. My mouth goes dry. I'm about to witness my first human sacrifice.
It was talked about. More rumors flowed about it than I want to admit. Boys bragging they had seen it done at tournaments. Girls wishing they had. I never wanted to hear it. Never wanted to pay attention. Never wanted it to be true.
I thought I could avoid it. Thought that maybe, somehow, it was a story meant to frighten us and nothing more. Right now, I wish it was a story. I wish my avoidance of it could continue. I wish there was some way for me to be anywhere but here.
Silver light seeps from the Grand Chancellor's fingers and slithers toward her. It sharpens as it grows closer to her neck. I tilt my head away from the scene and squeeze my eyes shut. The silence pulses through me. I breathe slowly, waiting for a scream.
And wait.
And wait.
I slide one of my eyelids up a touch, then open them both wide. The Grand Chancellor is glowing. Faintly, but even with the torches lighting the night, it stands out. Sometime while my eyes had been closed, his skin became luminescent. Next to him, the girl on the table lies dark, unmoving.
Chapter Five
The Grand Chancellor claps his hands. Sparks fly from them, darting through the night sky. “Let the feast begin!”
The memory of his voice continues to boom against me as the spectators break into a cheer. Father whoops. My insides hurt. A gnawing, uncomfortable feeling. I force it to stay inside.
“You girls make sure you're in the women's tent before curfew,” he says and steps out of the box.
No chaperon in public for the first time. Must be a perk of tournament excitement, not that I'll enjoy it. Keeping my gaze away from the altar, I try to gather a sense of normalcy, but struggle. There's nothing normal about any of this.
Cynthia's pale.
“Can I get you something?” I hope she doesn't ask for the calming tea. Mother's forced it on me so much I've grown to abhor it.
She shakes her head.
Grateful she's strong enough to not want the tea, but not knowing how else to help, I stay by her side and
try not to think of the sacrifice. I can't help it though. The few images I saw keep playing through my mind, vivid and life-like. The tarnished. The altar. Her laying there, almost seeming human one moment then gone. Just gone.
People drift from their boxes, onto the field, and to the side where I can't see. The area will have entertainment and tables laden with food and drink. It no longer holds any appeal for me. In the growing dark of our box, no one seems to notice us. The jubilation of the crowd carries, faded by the distance, and the smell of rotten cabbage strengthens.
After a while Cynthia says, “I'm not hungry as I thought I would be, but you can go to the feast if you want. I think I'm going to lie down early.”
I sigh with relief. “I'll go with you.”
“You don't have to.”
“I want to.”
She stands and we make our way out of the box onto the grass. Just a few steps out, someone grabs my hand and wrenches me away from Cynthia. My chest tightens. I strain against the cloth covered muscles. The odor of sweat clogs my nose. Thomas. I stop struggling. A few people stop walking to watch us.
The Woman's Canon says his closeness is acceptable. Not only acceptable, but that I must submit to his wishes. It makes my stomach churn as if I was riding in a carriage. Despite his arms wrapped around me, holding me flush against him, the words are law. Shoving him away must only take place in my imagination.
“Where have you been?” Pungent wine is heavy on his slurred words as he dips closer.
Forget the law. I try to ease away from him, but he grips tighter.
“We've been in your box like we were supposed to be. We just decided to go to the women's tent for the night.” From the scowl on his face, I know that was the wrong thing to say. “I want to be rested before your duels tomorrow.”
“None of that. Your sister can go, but everyone will be expecting to see you with me.”
