Page 40 of The Sun God's Prize
I wish I could share her fresh mood.I can’t seem to muster it.
It’s not until we return from our noon meal that we find Prenese waiting impatiently for us, she and two young women, servants of the Dome, who begin to dress us as though we haven’t dressed ourselves many times before.But it’s clear that today’s attire is special, inset with precious metal and the leather stained bright colors, the steel pieces carefully polished and burnished to show the scrolling etchings that pattern the surfaces.
“Yiratille Rae has been generous,” Romouth says as she joins us, gesturing at our armor.“She wishes you all a most victorious day.”She nods.“As do I.”She crosses to me as the women all inspect their new attire and arms, chattering in excitement, themistresseleading me to the far end of the room where my equipment waits.
“You will wear this woven in your braids,” she says, pointing at the elaborate gold-painted crown perched on the top of the wooden form that holds the current incarnation Prenese has made for me.I’m already rejecting the idea, but Romouth isn’t asking.I note that my armor’s chest plate now bears a crown as well, foiled in gold, and that the swords I will carry are both hilted the same.Ridiculous, showy, but didn’t I expect as much when I told her who I am?“You will fight last this first round,” she says.“I’ve already arranged it.”
“Yes,mistresse,” I say, relenting.This is how it must be.
To the fire with it.I chose this.I might as well embrace it.
One of the girls helps me unplait and rebraid my hair, winding gold thread through it, adding gold rings to the elaborate weaves she uses in place of the ordinary three-strand braids I’m used to.Her deft hands wind the results around my head, leaving a long, free end out over one shoulder, though not long enough to get in my way.The crown perches, firmly embedded in my hair, right at the top, wound and wedged so tightly that even when I toss my head, I’m satisfied it’s not moving at all until my hair is loose again.
As for my armor, Prenese’s fit is finally to her satisfaction because she’s not muttering when she dresses me, and I have to admit, as I step back and look at myself in the full-length mirror she shoves me toward, I’m impressive.The leather has been stained dark purple, the crown on my chest a close enough approximation to the flag of Heald that there’s not going to be much of a chance anyone will miss its meaning.That is, if anyone even really cares.I’m overestimating my value as a princess, perhaps, or the memories of the Sunnish about a queen who once fought their army.But the crown certainly tops off the appearance of things, so I suppose I’ll do.
I bow to Prenese, who quivers before grasping my cheeks in her hands and pulling me down, kissing me solidly on the mouth.
“Princess,” she whispers.“Kill themall.”
I’m so startled by her command, as much as I am by her direct communication for once, that I just nod.She lets me go, then turns away, puttering with her next victim while I back off, settling into the second skin of leather she’s made for me.
Short pants to mid-thigh are now familiar, the wide belt band around my waist just tight enough for support.She switched out the straps around my biceps long ago, now carved and curving bracers fitted to me to the shoulder, attached across my back with flexible leather straps.She’s fashioned greaves and even capped my sandals to give me toe protection, though I note that I look far more like a soldier of Heald—though a Sunnish person’s version of one, mind—than I do a warrior of the Sun God.Prenese has been leaning into my heritage all along.This pivot to princess is a simple upgrade to the plan she’s had since she first met me.
I exit the armory, Brem making a swooning motion as she spots me, then winking.“You look good enough to eat,” she growls.
That makes me laugh, and I take a moment to openly admire her, too.The armor she wears is skimpier, much like the other women, though she’s been fitted with a full-length sleeve of joined leather that ends in a glove, in lieu of a shield, I’m guessing, thick and plated like a dragon’s scales.Her long hair is also braided and up, out of her way, though she’s left a row of it out and hanging down her back, from the base of her hairline, a flowing, rippling fall of glossy black that still makes me anxious.
I want to suggest she bind her head with the black scarf she prefers, but I know what she’ll say, and today is no day for rejection.I hug her impulsively, and she clings to me for a moment.“Be careful,” I say.“I’d like you to kiss me goodbye when I walk out those gates.”
“I’ll be here,” she says, voice cracking.When she pushes away, she wipes roughly at her eyes.“Cocky bitch, aren’t you?”Her attempt to tease me falls short.“Haven’t won yet, Remi.”
“Just fuckingwatchme,” I say.
That does make her laugh.
I hear the announcer’s call as she’s chortling and catch her sigh.
“It’s time,” she says.
The others have gathered without me noticing.I turn and find them all watching, waiting, faces bright and hope-filled.Some of them won’t be coming back again.But for now, we are together, and that is enough.
“Let’s kill those fuckers,” I say, Prenese’s order in my head.
Their cheering in response drowns out the roaring crowd.
***
Chapter Twenty
I’m anxious to fight, far more so than I thought I would be, but I know very quickly why it is Romouth holds me in reserve, doing the same for Brem, too.The initial battles are a multitude of small skirmishes that take out the weakest fighters in a free-for-all that turns ugly very quickly.
I already know if I were in the middle of it, I’d be mowing through the fighters who desperately fight for their lives, shortening the show too much.As it stands, the hundred or so fighters who battle one another do so with unhindered aggression, and the sands are quickly bathed in blood.
The scent catches me off guard, as familiar as it is, the coppery tang in the air mixing with the sour bile spilled as gutted opponents spill their entrails on the ground.More than a few of the combatants lose limbs in the first few moments of the headlong skirmish that breaks out when the announcer calls for them to fight, the tension of anticipation broken by a roar, while the men and women throw themselves into death and killing.
Even without the most skilled on the sand, it takes a surprisingly short time for them to whittle down to the top twenty or so, all of whom are declared safe and pulled out to fight again.The crowd’s cheering shifts to chatter as the Dome’s workers come forward with small hand carts and shovels to load up the dead like so much cut wood or discarded stone.When the sand’s been turned over again, the last of the blood vanished under the golden surface, only the stink of death remains to remind me that eighty people just died for the glory of the fucking Sun God.
I need to fight before I lose my mind.
