Cedric watched his midday meal--a stew of beans and potatoes--curdle in the corner of his cell as the hours passed. When his evening meal arrived--a roasted chicken quarter with dark bread--it too was left abandoned beside the first. From now until the tournament's conclusion, he would not touch a single morsel served to him.
A basin of water had been waiting upon his return from the match, and he'd automatically gone to scrub himself clean. Now, he almost wished he hadn't; he deserved to be saddled with the inescapable evidence of what he'd done, to stew in the syrupy scarlet that'd soaked his hands and spattered his front, to let it dry and darken like mud on his skin.
But a mere basin of pink water was a more appropriate representation of the impact of Cedric's first conscious kill, terramantically-coerced as it may have been. Because ultimately, he did not feel particularly changed at all.
There was no invisible threshold that separated non-lethal violence from a killing blow like he'd unconsciously assumed. He'd drawn from the same strength he'd wielded many times in the past, only more cruelly, more precisely, and the man had simply ceased to exist. Cedric hadn't asked for the noble's name; it hadn't even occurred to him in his rage-fueled state.
What family or friends now mourned the man's passing? He'd likely never know, but neither, he realized, did he particularly care. Just as he'd cared little for the various grisly ends of the Bloodclaw, the slavers Trig and Rasher, the Ice Blade, or the guard bleeding out at the Dead End. His resolve against killing had never been rooted in moral fortitude; it'd been rooted in the fear of a haunting possibility that had finally been realized: Cedric was not only capable of dealing death, but of doing so unrepentantly.
Perhaps it's for the best that I am fated to die.
As much as Cedric had longed for Adrian's company, he was now glad of its absence. The latter's inevitable attempts at assuagement would have been unbearable.
The black diamond sat sullenly in his shoe, as unresponsive as a pebble since Lord Claetus' death. Like the last time it'd rebuffed him back in Faircross, Cedric would need to shift into a less disconsolate state of mind before it responded to him again. But he couldn't conceive of how he'd manage it, nor at the moment was he particularly driven to try.
Cedric lay on his back and stared sightlessly at the white, marbled ceiling as the hours slid by. Budding cramps of hunger began to pulse in his belly with an almost comforting familiarity.
*
Cedric's fourth opponent was the short, bald man who'd shared his carriage into the capital, another commoner like the Serpent. The man's left arm was bandaged from a previous match's injury, and he sported a vibrant black eye.
"Well met again, lad," he said boisterously, raising the hand that wasn't holding a great, silvery war scythe. "You've fared well, certainly better than I."
Cedric inclined his head. "We've both fared well, to have come this far. May I have your name?"
"Declan." He twirled his scythe with crisp proficiency and rolled his shoulders. "May the Goddess choose well."
It was immediately apparent that, despite Declan's friendly countenance, he had no intention of invoking Eris' mercy. Twice Cedric managed a brief stalemate to offer him a chance to surrender, and twice he broke it without a word.
Even if Cedric could draw upon the diamond, it would do no good. Lord Lethrus had yielded out of fear and the forced forgetting of Cedric's reputation. But Declan neither feared death nor cared about Cedric's vow, whether it'd been broken or not.
Declan swept his scythe in a lightning-fast stroke, and Cedric's upper belly blazed with icy fire. A few seconds later, the long scarlet smile across his torso began to bleed.
Cedric staggered back, his mind giddy with shock. Warm blood instantly drenched his hand where he clutched the wound. His own, this time. The slash was far deeper than Lethrus' playful swipes, but fortunately not so deep as to pervade his insides.
"That looks unpleasant," Declan remarked mildly. "Cede the match and you'll be attended to immediately."
Cedric blocked Declan's next swing, forearm to forearm, and for the brief moment they pushed against each other, Cedric stomped hard on the latter's left knee. It gave way with a fatal crack.
Declan roared through clamped teeth, lost his balance, and fell backward onto the sand. Cedric stood over him, panting amidst his still-weeping wound. "Do you yield?" he demanded, his voice wavering.
"You've crippled me, lad," Declan said, his face ruddy and grimacing with pain. "And I've no desire to hobble all that distance home. What remains of home, that is."
Cedric fell to his knees beside him. Blood ran down his front, staining the sand with dark droplets. "I--I don't want to."
Declan huffed impatiently. "Don't insult me, boy. I've no use for your pity." He held up his scythe. "Though I'd prefer you not finish me with your bare hands, if you'll grant me that small mercy."
Cedric took the weapon, positioned its curved blade over Declan's furiously bobbing throat, and cut as deeply as he could, stopping only when the blade scraped bone. The man's flesh split open like overripe fruit, carving out a second bloody mouth beneath his bearded chin. Declan gurgled and choked for a handful of seconds before subsiding to weak, erratic twitches, then finally to stillness.
Cedric turned away and heaved burning strings of bile from his empty stomach.
*
Adrian bit into his third apple of the day from the fruit bowl beside his bed. While he’d promised himself no further overindulgence, he supposed he could forgive himself this minor one.
His coin pouch, brimming with the rewards of the pickpocketing spree back in Faircross, hung full and heavy at his hip. All nobles were entitled to lodgings within the capital, and only visitors were expected to pay up. Combined with the abundance of free food and drink courtesy of King Asha's decree, Adrian had ironically not spent a single mark since setting foot in the kingdom's most extravagant city.
His folded elbows rested on the railing of the small, white terrace that came with his room at the Nightingale. A story below him, the capital bustled with giddy activity along its generous avenues. Musicians fiddled and strummed in the streets, jugglers tossed knives and fiery torches in perfect arcs. Various "oohs" and "ahhs" peppered the crisp, cool air, which buzzed with countless happy conversations.
Farther into the middle distance stood the vast, expansive structure of the great arena, where the tournament's fourth day of contests raged on. The mere sight of it sent Adrian's heart clenching with dread, yet his eyes remained locked onto the structure as if, by sheer will, his gaze could penetrate the walls and find Cedric somewhere inside.
The apple was as sweet and crisp as its two predecessors. Adrian forced himself to focus on that, rather than the looming cloud of misery eager to smother him in its depths.
Focus. The children, first.
The previous day, when Adrian had come to request lodgings at the Nightingale, the downstairs tavern had been packed with patrons as numerous and noisy as those at the Silken Hog, though markedly sweeter-smelling and better-groomed.
Adrian had taken a seat at the polished chestnut bar and greeted the innkeep, then quickly remembered to give the caste gesture.
The innkeep was a well-fed older woman with gray eyes, dark hair streaked with gray, and warm olive skin like Adrian's. Upon a proper look at him, she'd raised her eyebrows in happy recognition. "A fellow Shuna! Welcome, my lord."
Shuna? Is that what I am?
Despite the strong urge otherwise, Adrian kept his expression distant and haughty, and merely inclined his head. He glanced around, mindful not to betray excessive amounts of awe. "Well met. I'm in need of a room, and perhaps some guidance pertaining to the city. This is my first time here, you see."
The innkeep, Celaya, nodded sagely as she poured a rich, honey-like ale into wooden tankards. "Plenty of Fifth Caste have come to Crystallinus, many for the first time, so you're in good company. Ask what you will, my lord."
Adrian had first inquired about Lady Salus' pleasure house, the path to which he received clear, simple directions. He'd then accepted a free tankard of ale after much cajoling. It was dense, foamy, and more sweet than bitter; he'd declined a second drink to better preserve his wits, though with some reluctance.
"As to the tournament…" Adrian swallowed. "Is it true… what they've been saying? The Golden Heart has broken his vow?"
"Aye, he has taken his first life. The city was in uproar earlier today. Rivers of coin changed hands."
"What are his chances? To win, I mean."
Celaya shrugged. "He has yet to suffer a crippling injury; the next two contests could well be his. But I was never one for betting." She'd then stepped away to attend to the rest of the numerous customers, and another tavern worker had come to escort Adrian to his prepared room in the upper stories.
For the rest of the day, he'd ordered a steady stream of delicacies delivered to his room via the mounted silver bell, then sprawled across the impossibly plush feather bed, chewing and swallowing in a numb trance. Afterwards, he'd vowed no further overindulgence.
And today found Adrian struggling with a desperate desire to head to the arena, to see Cedric in person again even from a distance. He knew that it'd only waste more time on top of the day’s worth he’d already squandered, but when Cedric had left for the capital, there’d at least been a hope--thin as it was--that he’d come back. Now, whether Cedric failed or succeeded, he'd be dead within three days. Their farewell by the bridge had truly been their last.
Adrian considered the nibbled-bare apple core in his hand, then hurled it as hard as he could. It sailed into the open sky in a wide arc, to vanish somewhere into the bustling streets below.
*
Celaya's directions to Lady Salus' establishment turned out to be accurate, once Adrian had finally dragged himself back out into the city to confirm it so. The pleasure house was an elegant three-story building preceded by a red stone courtyard, a fountain of entwined lovers at its center, and vibrant splashes of flowers. Two courtesans slightly younger than Adrian, male and female, lolled about the entrance to entice passersby. The female, a full-figured redhead clothed in mere scraps of white silk, perched on the outer rim of the fountain and winked upon Adrian's approach. She was cross-legged and barefoot, her toes artfully pointed.
"Welcome to the Silk Lotus, my lord," she purred, then tossed her full head of floral-scented hair. "Would you care to peruse inside, or have you already found something you like?"
Adrian felt a flush immediately warm his neck, but kept his face stony. "I shall go inside, I think." Then, out of guilt, "Though you are indeed lovely."
"I know." She ran a pink tongue along her full bottom lip. "Perhaps you'll come to your senses."
"Come off it, Thayrin," the male courtesan called out. He was long and slender, with shoulder-length blond hair not nearly as rich or lustrous as Cedric's. His eyes were too cold, his cheekbones too harsh, but he was beautiful all the same. He approached Adrian and swept his eyes up and down with an appreciative air that was either genuine or extremely well-practiced. "You're clearly not his type, silly girl. Come, my lord, allow me to escort you inside."
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Thayrin stuck her tongue out behind her colleague's back as he and Adrian stepped into the Silk Lotus.
The pleasure house's main atrium was replete with soft velvet seating, thick curtains, gentle candlelight, and woody incense. As it was barely late morning, the patrons were rather sparse. A potbellied man in silk robes whispered into the ear of a giggling girl planted on his lap. A silver-haired older woman reclined on a divan as a pair of courtesans took turns feeding her grapes and cheese, while her hands kneaded and caressed their barely-clothed bodies.
The rest of the courtesans lounged alone or in pairs, all open to receiving a potential client's interest.
The potion made from Gregor's blood, of which Adrian had swallowed half before leaving the Nightingale, pulsed warmly in his belly. The pulsing had grown stronger the closer he'd come to the Silk Lotus, indisputable proof of Adelaide's presence nearby. She and the other children were likely being held in the upper or lower floors.
"Like what you see?" Adrian's escort Khama murmured. His long, soft fingers twirled a strand of the former's hair. Adrian awkwardly extricated himself.
"It's all lovely," he said. "But my tastes are less… traditional."
Khama cocked a single pale eyebrow. "Shall I fetch the mistress of the house, then? I'm certain she'll do all in her power to ensure your satisfaction."
Adrian's heart began to beat in earnest while the incense enveloped his mind in a spiced fog. If Lady Salus recognized him as the scruffy reprobate who'd knocked out her guard and stolen Cedric away from her, what then? Still, there was no helping it. He nodded. "Aye, please do."
Adrian chose a dim, well-shadowed corner to better obscure his features, and settled into an impossibly soft cluster of deep-red cushions. He didn't have to stew in his nervousness for long, as Lady Salus approached him within a few minutes. She wore a shimmering, off-shoulder silver dress that emphasized her generous bosom.
"Well met, Lord…?"
"Avidus," Adrian said, searching her features for any sign of recognition. None came, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief as he performed the caste gesture. "Henry Avidus. Well met, Lady Salus."
There was recognition now, upon mention of his name. She matched the caste gesture, displaying a Third. "Eudon's son? So, you've finally chosen to join him in the capital."
"You know him?"
"Certainly. He's become a regular at the Silk Lotus since his arrival in the city. A delightful, good-humored man." She smoothed her glossy skirts. "Now what can I do for you, my lord? We've an exquisite and varied selection here, but Khama tells me you seek something even rarer?"
"Aye. I hear that you've recently acquired some… fresher stock."
Lady Salus' brow smoothed. "Ah, you refer to the young mudlings? Indeed, they've been brought here and granted marks of the Sixth Caste, but I'm afraid I cannot put them to work quite yet."
"Why?"
"We require just a little more time to… mold them to the high standards of the Silk Lotus. You cannot expect too much of mudlings, after all."
Lady Salus spoke mildly, as if she were discussing the weather. Adrian's fists clenched in a brief spasm, as there was nothing he could do about the bile churning in his stomach. "I understand. When will they be ready?"
"They'll debut tomorrow night, on the eve of Ascension Day. A new set of young, polished jewels to herald the occasion. I'd be glad to reserve for you the jewel that best suits your tastes."
The eve of Ascension Day. I really am cutting it close. Adrian gave her Adelaide's description, ensuring that she'd be delivered to him when he returned to the Silk Lotus. He still hadn't the slightest inkling how he'd rescue the rest of the children, but this was at least a start.
As Adrian bid Lady Salus goodbye and stood to leave, she said lightly, "I hadn't known Eudon's wife was Shuna. Nordan and Aborasian, a rather unusual pairing in the regions of your hometown, correct?"
Adrian's response was a second too late. "She was a trader from the south, and met my father while resupplying in Methodosia."
Her eyes did not soften. "I see. Until next time, Lord Avidus."
Adrian felt her gaze trailing him as he left.
*
Cedric's torso pulled painfully with every step or minor jostle, as if his skin were stretched too tightly across his body. The previous day, the physician had applied a clear, sticky salve to hold the weeping wound closed and halt the bleeding, but Cedric doubted that its binding would prevail against the inevitable exertions of this final match. He could not afford to restrict his movements while fighting for his life, and the wound would surely tear open again and drench the bandages binding his chest.
His hollow stomach also growled resentfully, while his throat burned with thirst. It'd been harder than ever to resist the fresh food and drink delivered to his cell, but he'd managed well enough after dumping them down his privy and thus eliminating the temptation.
Yet among all these miseries jostling for his attention, an additional bit of unease prodded at the back of his mind: he'd forgotten something, something important. But there was no time to dwell on it, as the portcullis then lifted smoothly on well-oiled mechanisms and the roar of the crowds, the largest and densest yet, demanded his emergence.
Just one more match, Cedric thought as he squinted beneath the high noon sun. He wouldn't think about what would follow afterwards, not now.
Cedric's last opponent, against whom he'd be competing for the tournament's final victory, was a rather diminutive noblewoman clad in dark-blue leather inlaid with silver thread. In her hands was a weapon he'd never seen before: a long metal chain, at the end of which swung an iron ball dotted with short spikes across its surface.
His opponent smiled sweetly. "At last we meet, Golden Heart. I've heard much about you."
"Then you know I like to request my opponent's name," he said. He wondered if she was the type to surrender; despite having already bloodied his hands twice, he still dreaded a possible third.
She inclined her head. Copper-hued hair, gathered in a practical bun at the base of her neck, briefly shimmered in the sunlight. "Rhonea Capurnis, armed with her beloved meteor hammer. May the Goddess choose well."
Lady Capurnis began to swing the meteor hammer in vertical circles, an iron wheel revolving around the axis of her forearm. From the gentle swish the hammer made with every revolution, Cedric guessed that it weighed no more than three pounds. But with the momentum building inside of it, the ball would have no difficulty shattering his ribs or pulverizing his insides all the same.
She began stepping toward him with small, careful strides. Her eyes, the color of warm honey, never wavered from his face. Cedric waited a few more seconds for her to come closer, his every muscle tensed in readiness, then did what he hoped would surprise her the most: he charged at full speed.
The spiked ball broke its circular trajectory and shot straight for his head, faster than he'd thought possible. He barely managed to duck to the side, sparing his skull at the cost of the iron sphere smashing full-on into his left shoulder. He twisted from the impact and--just as he'd feared--ripped open the wound on his torso in a sudden wave of fiery, tearing agony.
Cedric fell to one knee, and could hardly string a thought together before the ball was snatched back in a wide arc, rebuilding its momentum, then sharply altered course around the pivot points of Rhonea's arms and legs to soar straight for his head again.
He quickly rolled away, and there was a muted thunk on the sand where he'd just been.
His shoulder did not feel dislocated this time, though it still throbbed terribly. A few small, bloody furrows had been gouged into it. The bandages on his chest were soaking through, the reawakened wound contributing its own steady pulse to the chorus of pain in his body.
Cedric felt rather than saw the meteor hammer coming for him once more, and he quickly regained his feet and scrambled away. Another muted thunk in the sand.
Lady Capurnis' weapon was volatile, unpredictable. Dodging it only bought a second of reprieve before it reversed course and came soaring back the other way. Cedric watched her prepare for her next onslaught, the meteor hammer now swinging in a lateral arc above her head.
It was also a long-range weapon, like Aja's spear. I'll need to get in close, then.
Cedric began to charge at her again, now in a less straightforward route. He sharply shifted direction and speed at random, uneven intervals. Rhonea's meteor hammer nearly struck him several times, but never met its target. Unpredictable versus unpredictable. Fair is fair.
Perhaps out of fear borne of the rapidly diminishing distance between them, Rhonea swung a reckless vertical strike intended to smash the crown of Cedric's skull from above. He sidestepped the ball, which landed to his right, and stamped down on the chain.
Lady Capurnis, now a mere five paces away, yanked hard to no avail. She then huffed in chagrin, dropped the long, looped chain from her hands, and drew a knife as long as her forearm. A few wisps of hair had come loose from her bun.
Cedric ripped the chain from the meteor hammer before straightening back up to face her. His entire body pounded with pain, and a dark stain was steadily blooming in the middle of his tunic. Rhonea's eyes flickered down. "An older wound," she said mildly. "You're fighting me at a disadvantage."
He chuckled wearily. "I wouldn't say that." He did not fear her knife nearly as much as her now-disarmed meteor hammer.
Rhonea slashed with swift, rabbit-like movements, the steel flashing in the sun, and Cedric dodged them all. He caught her wrist in one hand and her throat in the other. Her free hand scrabbled against the one at her throat, to no avail.
Cedric's grip was merely firm enough to keep her still, and did not significantly restrict the flow of blood or air.
"Do you surrender?" he asked, in a more pleading tone than he intended.
Rhonea struggled a few moments more, but soon ceased. She met his eyes, gathered herself in preparation, and said faintly, "Goddess' mercy."
Cedric slumped with relief, and he released his hold. "Thank you," he said weakly.
Lady Capurnis briefly rubbed at her throat, then sheathed her knife. "For granting you victory? I can assure you, Golden Heart, you've won fairly. The Crimson Blade has gained a valuable addition to their ranks." She offered her hand.
Cedric hesitated, then shook it. "You're very kind, for a--" He stopped himself. The blood loss was getting to his head, loosening his lips.
"For a noble?" She raised an eyebrow. "All who enter this tournament are worthy of a warrior's respect. Some of my fellow noblemen may disagree, but they also prefer perishing in bloody agony to a bit of humbling."
Cedric smiled, his first in many days.
Then, Rhonea's own smile began to fade. "Your eyes…" she murmured. Her own began to widen. "Th--they were blue…"
And all at once, Cedric understood exactly what important thing he'd forgotten as he'd waited stupidly behind the portcullis. Something that lay neglected and unused in the shoe that wasn't housing the black diamond.
Oh no…
Time slowed to a crawl as Cedric watched realization and comprehension bloom across Lady Capurnis' face, transforming a pleasant expression to one of disbelief, then confusion, then horror. It hardly mattered whether she now knew him as the three-thousand nobilis bounty or even the Heir of Darkness himself; he did not belong here, his disguise had slipped, and he was not who he'd presented himself to be.
Rhonea would not keep silent on this--why would she? Cedric would be exposed before thousands of witnesses, including the Red King presiding over them. Cedric, whom the black diamond still spurned, would be helplessly blasted to pieces. Ayo would enact her plan on Ascension Day with no one to oppose her, and the kingdom and everyone in it would crumble.
All this flitted through Cedric's mind within a second. In the following second, he snatched Rhonea's knife from her sheath and drove a steep upward thrust into her abdomen, beneath her ribs and into her heart.
Rhonea's cry of shock choked off before it could build any substantial volume. She looked down at her own blade protruding from her flesh, her own blood soaking through blue leather and silver inlay. Cedric lowered her gently onto the sand; the naked bewilderment in her eyes clenched his heart so tightly that it hurt.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he kneeled beside her. "I'm sorry, Rhonea."
She tried to speak, but could only sputter and choke. A thin trail of blood ran down the corner of her mouth. Her eyes did not close as she died; they simply flattened and dimmed until nothing remained behind them.
The crowds were on their feet, cheering and stomping for the tournament's final victor in a deafening wave of jubilation. Flowers rained down into the arena, encircling Cedric and Lady Capurnis' lifeless body with vibrant blooms.
A harsh, otherworldly screech, far louder than the collective voice of thousands, slashed through the tumult to invoke a sudden, uncanny silence. Cedric's head snapped up, as did everyone's, and he saw the distant form of Asha, the Heir of Fire, now transformed into a massive, bird-like creature. As Cedric's elemental form was woven from darkness, the Red King's was woven from pure, blazing flame. It soared once around the circumference of the arena, then began to descend in wide, graceful spirals.
It's coming for me, Cedric thought with a bolt of primal terror. Then, when some sense squeaked in, He's coming to declare my victory. But my eyes…
As much as he didn't want to take his eyes off the fearsome creature flying toward him, he forced himself to lower them. He could not allow Asha, his spiritual kin, to see their true color; it'd be as good as a confession. And then Rhonea Capurnis would have died for nothing.
Accompanied by a thick gust of wind, a suffocating aura of heat akin to a roaring bonfire, and the curious smell of molten metal rather than woodsmoke, the Red King touched down on blazing talons as long as Cedric's torso. He kept his gaze fixed on the talons, which soon dissipated to reveal a pair of fine, glossy leather shoes and the hem of a blood-red cloak trailing in the sand behind them. The metallic scent diminished, but not entirely.
"Well-fought, Golden Heart," said the rich, yet cold, voice of his brother. The leather shoes stepped closer as Cedric wrestled the rising crest of fear and trepidation in his chest. They stopped close enough for him to bend down and kiss. "Will you not look upon your king?" Asha said mildly.
Cedric shook his head vigorously. "I am… unworthy, Your Grace."
"In the past, perhaps, but no longer. You have earned this, and so much more."
A clear yellow gemstone, the shape of a pointed oval, descended into Cedric's field of vision as Asha lowered the amulet around his neck. A lesser stone, with a few sparks of usable power pulsing within.
"An appropriately-hued sapphire to match your warrior's name," Asha said. "We shall talk more of your future under the Heirs' service, after the Victor's Parade escorts you to the Citadel. For now, my champion, the festivities and the renown are yours to enjoy."
"I will, Your Grace. Thank you."
Asha lingered for a moment longer, and Cedric briefly feared that he'd be directly commanded to look his king in the eye. But then the Heir of Fire turned away with a luxurious swish of his cloak, transformed again into the blazing avian creature, and with another earsplitting screech launched himself heavily into the air. When Cedric finally dared to lift his eyes, he saw the Red King soar up and over the bounds of the arena, presumably headed back for the Citadel.
Now begins the hard part.