Page 139 of A Pact of Blood

To my relief, the weapon the cleric offers me is significantly smaller though hardlysmall. The narrow blade with its slight curve stretches the length of my forearm.

I grasp the sword’s leatherbound grip in my good hand, tilting the blade to the light and then drawing it closer to me as if I merely want to feel the blade. My fingers slide across the sharp edge as swiftly as I can manage without slicing my own flesh open.

The steel shines with an extra, faintly yellow glint, but when I glance up, the cleric has already focused on Marclinus again. No one appears to have noticed my furtive gesture.

As far as I can tell, at least. My pulse keeps thudding at a hurried rhythm. I wipe the remainders of the sedative gel on my dress beneath the fall of the chainmail where no one will be able to see it until after the battle. At that point, any lingering mark can be blamed on sweat, dirt, or blood.

Now all I have to do is slice a woman’s forehead open andconvincingly pretend to stab her to death, all while she does her best to carve me open instead. Simple enough.

Ha.

Cleric Turentan leads Marclinus down to the altar. An amplification charm projects the cleric’s emphatic voice all through the vast arena. “His Imperial Majesty will demonstrate his might and military prowess before our godlen of battle and the hunt.” He turns to Marclinus. “May you do Sabrelle proud.”

My husband brandishes his sword in a sort of salute, handling it with an ease that reminds me of the second trial he subjected me and his other potential brides to. The way he swings the weapon in his grasp, you’d think it was as light as one of those throwing knives.

He marches down the steps without a trace of concern, exuding confidence. The sun beams off his golden hair in a ring that might as well be a crown of light.

I did hear that he took to the battlefield himself when putting down the rebellion in Rione several years ago, when he was all of nineteen. This may be one confirmation rite where he needs no additional help at all.

As far as I can tell, he’s gotten the exact same equipment as I have, if a larger sword that I couldn’t have wielded well regardless. And when he stops on the span of red fabric stretched across the middle of the arena and his opponent emerges, it’s clear he hasn’t received any favoritism in that department either.

The Lavirian rebel escorted out by a host of four soldiers is the one I noticed pacing in his cell yesterday morning. He matches Marclinus’s substantial height and may have twenty or thirty pounds on my husband’s well-built frame besides, his shoulders and chest even burlier.

He walks forward with a stormy expression that shows no sign that he means to throw this fight. When the soldiersdraw him to a stop across from his emperor, he gnashes his teeth and spits on the fabric.

Boos echo down from the stands, along with hollers about “foul traitors” and “stinking rebels.”

A cool grin has curved Marclinus’s lips. He flicks his free hand through the gesture of the divinities and motions to the soldiers to release their prisoner.

One tosses a mace on the sheet in front of the man, which I presume is his assigned weapon. Another unlocks the shackles that bind the rebel’s wrists. They give him a shove toward the weapon and back up a few paces.

I suppose they’ll intervene if it looks as if their emperor’s life is in danger—even if that failure means he can’t rightfully claim his title as emperor anymore.

Marclinus doesn’t need their protection. He holds his sword casually as his opponent picks up the mace, but the second the other man lunges at him, he springs into motion.

I don’t want to think anything positive about the callously sadistic man I married. All the same, I can’t deny that he’s impressive to watch on the battlefield.

Marclinus doesn’t have quite Raul’s imposing strength, but he makes up for it with deftness. He feints and dodges, always moving, always slicing his sword this way and that to find his attacker’s openings.

It only takes a matter of seconds before he’s drawn first blood in a deep cut across the rebel’s upper arm. The man snarls and hurls himself at Marclinus even more aggressively, but brute force is clearly not going to win the day.

Marclinus sidesteps him and knees him in the ribs. As the man starts to spin around, Marclinus bashes him in the back of the skull with the pommel of his sword.

The rebel staggers and lurches to his knees. In one swift stroke, Marclinus plunges his blade straight through his torso, piercing the man’s heart.

He wipes the blade on the man’s tunic and backs away from the growing puddle of blood beneath the limp corpse. Watching the scene, bile rises in my throat that the ruddy root isn’t enough to contain.

At least I can take a little comfort in the fact that my husband showed enough mercy to end the man’s life quickly rather than toying with him.

Though that’s probably only because he wanted his completion of the rite to be as clear and clean as possible, not because he wouldn’t have enjoyed it.

Marclinus raises his sword in the air to a roar of applause and eager voices that reverberates through the arena. Cleric Turentan strides over to lead him back to the altar and proclaim his worthiness in Sabrelle’s eyes.

My mouth goes dry. Now it’s my turn.

I stand straight and steady, feeling the gazes of the nobles on the imperial seats fix on me. My princes sit among the figures of the court, but I don’t dare look their way. Seeing even a hint of fear in their eyes might unravel me.

Marclinus returns to his seat and tips his head to me. I force a smile and walk partway down the steps to where the cleric is beckoning me to the altar.

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