Page 67 of A Game of Veils

Giralda giggles. “Only Prince Raul. He almost always does. He’s very good—obviously, or he’d have been cut down by now.”

A chill seeps under my skin. Is that a real possibility? Surely Emperor Tarquin wouldn’t risk losing his hostage in a bit of entertainment?

Or maybe he’d find it amusing to see one of his conquered royals die in the dirt.

A horn sounds, and the five pairs of warriors around the arena rush at each other.

Blades clang and spiked clubs thump together. Yells break out throughout the crowd in a cacophony that’s impossible to pick apart, but they’re obviously egging one or another fighter on.

The pairs shove apart, circle each other, slash and dodge and stab.

It’s hard for me to drag my attention away from Raul to consider the other battles. Both because he’s the only one I know, the only one whose fate I can’t help feeling some personal stake in—and because he is very good.

Great, even.

Despite his massive body, he sidesteps and lunges with incredible speed. Even at a distance, I can see the muscles rippling through his arms with unleashed power.

He only has an inch or two over his opponent, who can’t weigh much less than him either, but he drives the other man back pace by pace with a growing sense of inevitability. When a swipe of the other sword draws a bloody line on his forearm, Raul simply bares his teeth in a grin and pushes harder.

The emperor watches with a serene expression. Does he realize how much of that normally bottled aggression must be actually aimed at him?

Raul isn’t the first to end his fight, though. At the other end of the arena, one in the pair of female warriors heaves her rival to the ground. She plants her boot on the other woman’s chest and aims her sword at her opponent’s throat.

More cheers blare from the stands. Through the furor, the announcer declares the fight in her favor.

For a second, I think the winner might simply walk away, leaving the other woman bruised, bleeding, and beaten but alive. Then Marclinus leans around Bianca toward a metal fixture on the arm of his throne, which has an amplification charm of its own.

His voice peals through the arena. “Let’s see this fight properly ended. Don’t hold back on the losers. We came to see the strong conquer the weak: blood, guts, and all!”

His eager tone makes my lungs constrict, but apparently plenty of his citizens agree. A louder roar sweeps through the building.

The woman adjusts her grip on her sword with a flourish and plunges it through her opponent’s neck.

Raul doesn’t wait for a similar admonishment. If he’s been participating in these shows regularly, I suppose he already knew what to expect.

The second he’s knocked his rival’s legs out from under him, he’s springing at him. He kicks aside a jab of the other man’s blade and slams his own sword deep into his opponent’s chest.

As the other man’s body goes limp, I restrain a wince. At least it was a quick death.

Which apparently isn’t enough for the voracious imperial heir. When one member of another pair starts to falter, staggering between bashes of his attacker’s club, Marclinus speaks into his amplification charm again. “Make him dance! Let’s see a real show.”

With one smack of the spiked club and another, blood sprays over the dusty ground. My wobbly gut lurches. I avert my gaze to one of the pairs not yet at the outright-slaughter stage.

Rochelle’s hand slips around mine where it’s braced on the bench. She speaks in a murmur so low no one could overhear. “With your dedication, this must be especially hard for you to watch. Pretend we’re having a lively conversation about it.”

I focus my attention on her with a grateful smile. “It is quite the spectacle. Do they always follow the same pattern?”

My friend nods with more energy than the question really deserves. “From what I’ve seen, pretty much. The people know what they like.”

And so do their rulers.

At another thud of a body that I’ve thankfully missed witnessing, Marclinus whoops in approval. I flick my gaze toward the thrones and catch Emperor Tarquin’s lips curved in a thin smile.

When there are only the five winners of the warrior-to-warrior fights left standing, the announcer declares that it’s time for the animals. Several wild beasts I’m familiar with and a few others I’ve never seen before hurtle into the arena with snarls and snorts.

Most of them charge straight at one or another of the fighters. I can only imagine how their keepers have been mistreating them that their first instinct is to attack.

As cries and squeals mingle with the thunder of applause, I turn to Rochelle again. She gamely chatters with me about the sorts of animals we’d consider the greatest threat and which are most impressive to look upon, the strain in her expression suggesting she doesn’t find the spectacle much more appealing than I do.

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