Page 138 of A Pact of Blood

As usual, the two guards stationed outside make no comment. I glide through the halls to the temple that’s attached to the side of the palace as swiftly as I can without looking frantic.

A few lanterns still glow under the temple’s immense domed roof. I glance around at the alcoves dedicated to each of the lesser gods who watch over us and go to kneel on the white cushion in front of Elox’s statue.

Tapping my fingers to mind, heart, and gut in the gesture of the divinities, I bow my head. With each even breath, I direct my inner voice toward the godlen of peace and healing.

I know I haven’t followed the exact path you laid before me. Please stay with me through tomorrow’s struggle. By saving thiswoman’s life, I’m choosing peace. I’m living the principles you’ve taught, honoring my faith in you.

No answer comes. My throat tightens, but I cast out another message.I may not be choosing peace when it comes to my husband, but you’ve seen how little he’s offered me. He has several months before I’m in a position to act on my intentions. If he can change for the better in that time, I can change my mind too. If he hasn’t, I hope you’ll recognize that he’s one more obstacle in our way to the kinder future we both want.

I wait on the cushion for a few minutes longer, lapsing into a light meditation. Nothing I can call even a vague vision passes before my eyes.

Please, let Elox at least be considering my point rather than dismissing me.

When I get to my feet, my attention veers to the statue of the godlen whose interests I’m meant to cater to directly tomorrow morning.

Sabrelle stands stern and mighty, one foot resting on the body of a slain stag. Her marble-carved armor has been polished to such a sheen I could almost believe it’s the palest of metals. She stares out from beneath her tufted helm as if daring anyone to challenge her.

I sink onto her scarlet pillow, offering up the three-fingered tap to her as well.Sabrelle, our principles are often at odds, but I believe I’m still serving yours with my strategy tomorrow. You appreciate clever military tactics as well as brute strength. I’m waging my own sort of war, and to win it I need both might and wits. Please don’t take the combination as an insult but as the most powerful approach to combat I can offer.

The godlen of war doesn’t deign to bless me with a vision or any other sort of response either. Finally, I push to my feet.

I’ve said my piece. I’ve done everything I can. Tomorrow, I’ll decide my own fate—and perhaps that of the entire empire.

Chapter Forty-Four

Aurelia

Idon’t know if it’s the pregnancy or my general level of apprehension, but every sensation in the arena has heightened. The tang of old blood lingers beneath the crisper scent of the dry earthen ground. The warbled voices clamor from the crowd that’s packed into the stands all around the imperial box. A wisp of hot breeze touches my face, more a taunt than a comfort. The sun blazes overhead like a rod straight from the forge.

The cleric of the Temple of Triumphant Valor, the Sabrellian temple built next to this stadium of battle, lays out a strip of red silk across the temporary altar set up in the steps below us. The staircase is temporary too, made of steeply layered wooden boards to allow Marclinus and then me to descend into the arena directly from our honored seats.

Cleric Turentan climbs up the rest of the stairs, carrying two gleaming bundles. When he hands the first to Marclinus,my husband unfurls it into a plated mail vest with chain link across the shoulders and falling to thigh-length.

As Marclinus sheds his jacket to pull on the ceremonial battle armor over his violet tunic and black slacks, the cleric turns to me. The slant of his mouth suggests he’s at least as uncertain about my participation as High Commander Axius is.

“Do you still intend to complete the rite, Your Imperial Highness?” he says in a low voice only Marclinus and I will hear.

I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I mean to honor Sabrelle and earn her approval before our people. I’m prepared for whatever lies ahead.”

I hope. I adjust the bit of ruddy root I’ve been periodically sinking my molars into against my cheek, letting it settle another twinge of nausea.

“You may as well don your garb now, then.” Turentan hands me the vest and motions to my slim belt. “You should remove all accessories, including that knife. I’ll return with Sabrelle’s chosen weapons.”

I glance down at myself with a twist of my gut. I expected this request, but it’s still unnerving to be faced with the reality.

I simply have to stay calm and subtle, and no one will realize I’ve done anything unusual.

My belt unclasps easily enough. I set it at the edge of my cushioned seat with the pouch’s flap facing upward. The plate mail slides over my rose-pink dress—what seemed like a fitting merging of Sabrelle’s red and Elox’s white—with a hiss of the chain links.

The vest weighs on my shoulders and chest, but not as heavily as I feared. I flex my arms experimentally and find the short sleeves don’t encumber them any more than the puff of my gown’s.

The purple scars splattered across my forearms stand out starkly in the intense sunlight. They’re proof of how much I’m willing to risk and sacrifice for my goals.

I reach for my pouch as if I’m checking that it’s securely fastened. As I fiddle with the flap, I dip my hand past it just for a second.

My fingers press against the scrap of fabric I soaked with the gel-like potion I brewed, squeezing out all of the substance I can. When I straighten up, I tuck the slick digits against the folds of my skirt to keep their wet gleam out of view.

Cleric Turentan presents Marclinus with his weapon first: a broadsword with a gold-gilded hilt that looks made for an emperor. Does the Temple of Triumphant Valor keep a large collection of fancy swords, or was his choice a foregone conclusion?

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