Page 66 of A Game of Veils

Aurelia

I’ve never been inside a building so enormous before. The smoothed stone tiers sprawl out on either side of our cushioned benches, rising dozens of rows above us and encircling a span of packed bare earth that could contain the entire imperial palace.

Our cluster of nobles sit in leisurely fashion along the cushions: all eight of Marclinus’s remaining prospective brides and some thirty of the court nobles, with Their Imperial Eminences on a pair of matching thrones in our midst. On the narrower, unpadded benches that fill the rest of the vast arena, the spectators squeeze much closer together.

There must be thousands of figures crammed into this venue to watch the spectacle their emperor has arranged.

I rest my hands against the velvet fabric on either side of me to aid my balance. My gift-brought cure had completely alleviated my fever and aches by the time I woke this morning, but between the earlier starvation and the illness, I expect it’ll take another day or two before my body truly feels well.

My fellow ladies don’t appear to be as daunted by our surroundings as I am. I suppose they’ve attended these arena shows many times before.

At my left, Lady Giralda peers down at her gown’s sky-blue sleeves against the peachy skin of her arms and lets out a disgruntled huff. “I swear this color looked good in my chamber’s mirror. This much sun makes it look wretched on me.”

Rochelle leans forward at my other side to study our companion. “With your complexion, I think you’d do best in pinks or oranges. If you want something really vibrant, maybe a bright yellow?”

Giralda shoots her a cautious glance and then hums to herself. “My mother always discouraged yellow. ‘Too sunny,’ whatever that means. I’ll have to try it sometime.”

None of us mentions that we have no idea whether we’ll actually get the chance to add to our wardrobes again—or if Marclinus will cull us first.

One of the palace staff comes by with a carafe of wine and a platter of goblets. Rochelle hesitates before reaching to take one. As she cups it between her hands, she lets out a shaky laugh. “After the past two days, I keep thinking I’ll still be punished if I take any food or drink.”

I offer a crooked smile. “That kind of lesson sinks in fast.”

“Yes.”

Her expression when she peers down at the wine turns so desolate it wrenches at me. I didn’t check on my friend after dinner last night to make sure she was recovering well. Maybe she’s not feeling at her best either.

If so, it doesn’t seem wise to draw attention to that fact in public. Instead, I opt for potential distraction, lifting my chin toward the immense yard below us. “Does Emperor Tarquin hold these exhibitions often?”

Rochelle blinks out of her momentary daze and nods. “Once every month or so, I think. I only happen to be at court when they’re held a couple of times a year. It’s quite a spectacle.”

Something about the way she says those words makes me tense up inside. I’ve gotten a sample of the sorts of spectacles the emperor and his heir enjoy, and I can’t say I share their tastes so far.

Marclinus is in his most energetic form today. He ushered us all off on this trip into the city with jovial comments that showed no trace of concern for the women he deprived. As soon as he sat in his throne, he grabbed the nearest lady to toss her in his lap.

Possibly by design, that lady was Bianca. She looks nothing but pleased to be sprawled across him, trailing her fingers over his jaw and chest, giggling when he leans in to kiss her neck or nibble her ear.

I notice her husband is keeping his gaze fixed very rigidly on the arena grounds.

Lady Giralda sips her own wine and shifts impatiently on the cushion. “When are they going to begin? The stands are full.”

I look toward the thrones and frown as if in thought before lowering my voice. “The emperor looks a little wearier than usual, doesn’t he? Perhaps he’s not quite ready to give the exhibition his full attention.”

Both Giralda and Rochelle follow my gaze, Giralda letting out a pensive hum.

Before we can talk any further, a man in a bright red jacket and trousers walks into the yard in front of us. He glances toward our part of the stands, and it’s Marclinus who waves his hand in a Go on motion.

The announcer must have an amplification charm, because his resonant voice booms through the entire arena. “Welcome, fine citizens of Vivencia and beyond! Today, our great emperor has ensured that you’ll be awed and thrilled by feats of might and courage. Let us ask for Sabrelle’s blessing for all today’s fighters. May they do our godlen of war proud.”

Even the emperor and his heir dip their heads in respect to the gods, Tarquin flicking his hand through the gesture of the divinities. The announcer does the same before lifting his voice again. “First, some of our most skilled warriors will battle each other. Let them and our Imperial Eminences hear your approval!”

Applause reverberates through the arena, bouncing off the tiered walls. In the bright sunlight streaming through the uncovered roof, several armed figures in leather and chain-link armor stride out from doorways set on the ground level.

My pulse hitches as I realize I recognize one of the fighters. Prince Raul is unmistakable with his brawny frame and cocoa-brown hair, which is drawn back in its usual short ponytail.

Swinging his sword casually, he strolls over to face off against another warrior who’s nearly the same size.

I can’t suppress my startled curiosity. “Is it normal for the princes to compete in these exhibitions?”

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