Page 44 of Kissed By the Gods
I smile back at him and then turn toward the arena gate. A third gong strikes, heavy and final, and the air seems to still.
The weight of the scythe settles against my back, no longer a burden, but a promise. Behind me, Ryot doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.
I take my first step onto the freshly raked sand of the arena.
It won’t be clean for long.
Hush now, my little one, the Veil runs deep,
It hums through the dark, it hums through your sleep.
No roads to follow, no stars to see,
Only wings.
Soft through the mist, swift through the gray,
The ones who fly don’t lose their way.
"Songs of the River-Veil," a traditional Selencian cradlesong
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Maxim is alreadyin the center of the arena, arms raised high, as if he’s already declared himself the champion. A few of the men, very few, cheer for him like this is a spectator sport and not the judgment of the gods. Tyrston jeers, and flashes me a crude gesture when my eyes meet his.
I ignore him and find the king near the archons. He doesn’t need a throne to command the space—his presence is enough. Princess Rissa sits slightly behind him. Her face betrays nothing of her thoughts, but her fingers are clasped tightly in her lap, revealing her tension.
The archons and the Elder sit in a line, their black robes pristine despite the sand in the air. They do not cheer. They do not whisper.
I let my gaze sweep the stands again until I find Ryot’s cast—Thalric, Nyrica, Caius, Faelon, Leif, and Kiernan. Ryot has already joined them. They’re the only friendly faces in the arena. Their presence is a small anchor in a sea of strangers, but I don’t allow myself to look too long.
Right now, I need to stand on my own.
I roll my shoulders as I turn back to the center of the arena, where Maxim stands with his chest puffed, grinning. Tyrston calls out his name, but his voice is thin. The rest remain silent, waiting.
I focus on the ground beneath my feet, the pulse of the scythe on my back, the stretch of leather across my knuckles. My eyes fall on my opponent. He’s older than me, quite a bit older. Maybe in his 40s? His hair is a reddish-brown, as is his beard, but some of the hairs in the beard and at his temples are starting to grey. He’s also huge, even larger than my father. I have no doubt he could easily crush my bones if he gets his hands on me.
I’m hoping he’s too big to be fast, that I’ll be able to dance around him with ease, that he’ll depend on his brute strength. Most importantly, though, I’m counting on the fact that he’s arrogant. He doesn’t take me seriously. And because of that, he doesn’t have a weapon. He’s not even wearing chainmail.
Maxim’s laughter precedes the taunting I’d expected. “Who gave you your armor? Princess Rissa’s lady’s maid?”
He expects a reaction—anger, embarrassment, something to feed his bloated ego. But I just smile, letting his words roll off me. Let him think I’m soft. Let him believe this will be easy.
I spent half an hour this morning trying to pierce the chainmail with my daggers and my scythe. I laid it out on my soft, feather-fluffed bedding and stabbed and hacked away. When I picked it back up, there wasn’t even a nick in the mattress. I think of Thayana—who said you can’t be attractive and formidable, indeed?
“It is time to begin,” a voice intones from behind us. The Elder.
“Warriors, ready your weapons,” Archon Lyathin calls to the field.
I pull my scythe from the scabbard strapped to my back and Maxim’s eyes fixate on the weapon for the first time.
“That’s not the same scythe you arrived with,” he accuses.
“It is my scythe,” I reply. I know this like I know my own name, the flash of heat binding it to my palms.
