Cedric's request to use the privy in his cell was granted, and he used those precious minutes of privacy to hurriedly douse his eyes in Adrian's potion. No sooner had he finished re-dying them and hidden away the vial did a pair of attendants he'd never seen before--Fourth Castes, a man and a woman clad in simple brown robes--enter his cell after two perfunctory knocks.
"Your bath is ready, my lord," the female attendant said, docile eyes lowered beneath a simple, shoulder-length haircut.
Cedric found it more than a little unsettling to be addressed as such, but simply nodded in acknowledgement.
He followed them down unfamiliar corridors of pale stone until they arrived at a wide, rounded chamber lit by guttering torchlight, with a large, sunken tub hewn directly from the rock at the chamber's center. Roughly-carved steps led down into the fragrant water.
Two pairs of hands began to tug at Cedric's garments, startling him. He wriggled out of the attendants' grasp and, to discourage further attempts, began to undress on his own. First was his bloodstained overshirt, then a further-bloodstained undershirt, followed by bloodstained breeches, surprisingly un-stained shoes, and finally his undergarments. As the attendants gathered them up, likely to discard, Cedric held on to his shoes and the precious items hidden inside.
"Not these," he said shortly, setting them beside the tub's rim where they'd stay within sight.
The attendants simply nodded, unwilling to press the matter.
Cedric descended into the bracing hot water wearing only the thoroughly-soiled bandage that wrapped his torso. While his re-opened wound stung fiercely upon contact, trails of pink did not permeate the bath like he expected; the trusty physician had likely added something to the water to stanch bleeding. He seated himself on the tub floor and submerged his gently-oozing shoulder; its bleeding immediately ceased as well.
The attendants knelt at the tub's edge, flanking him like his personal retinue. The female one began to unwrap Cedric's bandage under the water, and he begrudgingly raised his arms in assent.
They first scrubbed and lathered his hair with fragrant soaps and oils, which was perfectly bearable. But when they started in on his body, their touch set his skin crawling no matter how efficiently they avoided his wounds, how clinically they worked.
He bore it as long as he could, and only when he was on the verge of hyperventilating did he bat their hands away and snatch the cleaning cloths from them.
"Don't touch me," he snapped through gritted teeth, avoiding their eyes. "I'll do it myself."
The attendants obligingly sat back on their haunches and waited in silence until Cedric was finished. They even allowed him to stand up and dry himself before converging on him again.
His long, damp hair was vigorously combed, his wounds re-dressed in fresh bandages. Garments of white silk were then presented to him: a shimmering cloak, a sleek, form-fitting doublet, a knee-length overcoat, and slim breeches. Cedric's dark leather traveler's shoes would make for an odd combination, but that was the least of his concerns.
He pulled on the new garments, which fit surprisingly well. Perhaps these same clothes had been sewn in every size so that it'd only been a matter of selecting the appropriate set for the victor.
Cedric slipped on his shoes last, laced them up, and so concluded the entire ordeal.
"Thank you for your assistance," he said to the attendants, now rather ashamed of his brusque treatment of them. "May I ask your names?"
They briefly glanced at each other in surprise. "I'm Liara Ferrus," the woman said, properly meeting Cedric's eyes for the first time. "This is Olen Ghaelum." The man was slightly heavy-set, his dark hair closely-cropped.
"Well met. Where do you usually work when there's no tournament to be held?"
"We belong to Lady Luminarum, my lord," Liara said. "She was named the tournament's steward, and so the servants of her own household were assigned to prepare the commoner entrants' meals and attend to their quarters. 'Tis a great honor."
Cedric hadn't encountered Lady Luminarum since the third match, after which she'd had no further use for him.
"The food and drink have been excellent," he said. At least what wasn't poisoned. The mere mention of food set his stomach keening with hunger again, but he could not afford to waste time. He needed to enter the Citadel as soon as possible, by way of the Victor's Parade. "Please, Liara and Olen, lead the way. I'm ready."
They turned to guide him out of the arena and back into the city, where its people were waiting.
*
Adrian gripped the railing of his terrace at the Nightingale until his knuckles turned as white as the stone. The densest crowds he'd ever seen in his life gathered shoulder-to-shoulder in the streets below, and intermittently-stationed guards herded the masses to clear the center of the main avenue, which ran straight from the city gates to the Citadel at the heart of Crystallinus, then out toward the opposite pair of gates in the far distance.
Any minute now, the Golden Heart would emerge from the arena, mount the snow-white stallion already waiting for him by the arena's underground entrance, and lead a procession on the long path to the Citadel. This was what set Adrian gripping the railing as if his life depended on it; this time, he truly needed to see Cedric with his own eyes. To try to reconcile what he'd heard about him with the person he knew and, frankly, loved.
"The Golden Heart flouted a truce!" Celaya had proclaimed as she poured Adrian an ale. "A disreputable commoner after all, just like the rest of them."
"Come off it," a nearby patron had shot back. "The Red King sealed his victory. He took no issue with the winner, why should we?"
"Goddess' mercy is sacred," Celaya protested with animated gestures of her hands. She was a distinctly expressive conversationalist. "Not even the Heirs could declare it otherwise!" When the patron had opened his mouth again, she held up a severe finger to command silence. "Another word, and every drink will cost you a splenden." Her tone was mostly jovial, but not entirely.
The patron had rolled his eyes and returned to his free ale.
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Celaya's account of the tournament's final match aligned perfectly with the various chatters of the rest of the tavern's patrons, many of whom had watched it unfold themselves. Cedric had won fairly and accepted his opponent's surrender, but for no reason that anyone could fathom, he'd then broken the sacred truce and slaughtered her while they were still shaking hands.
He'd killed three of his five opponents, but the final occurrence had been by far the most senseless. Surely Cedric wouldn't take a life unless he truly needed to, would he? Or had the tournament's ordeals warped him as profoundly as Adrian had secretly feared?
The collective babble of the crowds awaiting the parade intensified by a few notches, and Adrian strained forward to barely catch sight of a white-garbed figure emerging from inside the arena and mounting his prepared stallion. The procession would pass directly beside the Nightingale, which overlooked the city's main avenue, and Cedric would soon come within shouting distance of Adrian's position on the balcony.
Cedric was dressed in garments even finer than the ones Destrius had provided them for his party all those weeks ago. His long hair, which now reached mid-back, fluttered freely in the gentle breeze, and gleamed like molten gold under the late-noon sun. His posture atop the stallion was straight and noble, his gaze distant and measured.
He was magnificent.
Raucous cheers and admiration heralded his path, and endless showers of white blooms coated the avenues around him. There were also jeers and condemnations, but fewer than Adrian had anticipated. No matter the scandal of Lady Capurnis' death, most did not wish to openly provoke the one who'd dealt it.
When Cedric was finally adjacent to where Adrian stood, just one story apart, the latter yielded to a sudden and potent impulse. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and shouted, "Cedric! Cedric, I made it! I'll find you, I promise!"
Despite the near-deafening hubbub, his head snapped up to exactly where Adrian stood, and they saw each other for the first time in what'd felt like an eternity. The former's placid expression crumbled for a moment, and within it Adrian found a heartening truth, though it was one that admittedly mattered little in the grand scheme of things.
Cedric hadn't changed at all.
*
King Asha's personal chambers were splendid: vertiginous ceilings of carved marble, equally-tall windows and scarlet tapestries, and an entire wall devoted to three-story-high bookshelves and a rolling wooden ladder. Cedric and Asha sat adjacent to each other at the long table that occupied the middle of the room, a dark, glossy behemoth under whose glass surface shone an intricate mosaic of red and gold engravings.
Cedric had assumed that his meeting with the Red King would take place in the Citadel's round, cavernous throne room behind the massive double doors of the main entrance. He'd certainly not expected a Citadel servant to escort him past this throne room and up hundreds of spiraling stairs to deliver him to such a distinctly intimate arrangement.
Now that Cedric could afford a proper look, he saw that Asha was harshly handsome and broad-shouldered, with pale alabaster skin and waving bronze-hued hair. A languorous cruelty glinted in his amber eyes, as clear and striking as the blood-red diamond at his throat.
He gestured at the spread of food between them, which was accompanied by a mouthwatering haze of garlic, butter, rosemary, and countless other spices that Cedric didn't know by name. "I hear you've been depriving yourself these past few days," Asha said. "By all means…"
Cedric found that he could no longer resist his hunger when its deliverance was presented so invitingly before him. He tore himself a chunk of airy, fragrant bread and, while still chewing, spooned generous dollops of steaming barley and rich stew onto his plate. Even the Red King's unwavering gaze and intimidating presence didn't give him as much pause as they probably should have.
Asha's own plate remained spotlessly empty as he sipped his wine, apparently content to wait until Cedric was satiated. Only when the latter had set down his cutlery and wiped his mouth with a monogrammed napkin did the Red King speak again.
"Where do you hail from, Cedric?"
"Methodosia," he said. It was the first place that came to mind, as well as the truest in every way that mattered.
"Do you truly wish to join the ranks of the Crimson Blade, or have you set your eyes on another station among the nobility?"
"I'll gladly give myself in service to the Blade, Your Grace. But if I may ask for one night's stay in the Citadel, to truly revel in the Divine Heirs' holy light, before I depart..."
Asha's mouth briefly quirked at the corner as if fighting a smile, but his expression promptly reverted to noble solemnity. "Just one night? A most modest request, indeed."
One night is all I have, Cedric thought ruefully. Then I'll either be dead at your hand, your sister's, or my own.
Asha withdrew a tiny brush and a vial of dark liquid from some inner pocket of his overcoat, and set them on the table. "Well then, with that decided, let us seal your ascension for good. Hold out your left palm."
"What?" Cedric blurted before he could stop himself. Candra had been explicit in her description of a caste engraving, most pertinently in that the ritual was always performed by a Scholar.
"You're the only remotely interesting individual to have entered the Citadel in years," Asha said, motioning for Cedric's hand. Numbly, he extended it. "Worry not, a renowned Scholar trained me in the art many decades ago, and I never forget my teachings."
The Red King worked the brush with quick, precise strokes. Cedric swallowed as the seconds ticked by, his every muscle tensed for no immediately-apparent reason. Perhaps it was his apprehension, fully reinstated now that his lower needs had been met. Perhaps it was this close physical proximity between deadly enemies, though one of them didn't yet know it. Either way, it was a great relief when Asha finally sat up and perused his finished work with satisfaction.
"I hereby name thee… Sir Cedric Noxus of the Sixth Caste." Again, that brief quirk of the mouth wiped away as swiftly as it had appeared.
A faint, strangled moan drifting out from Asha's bedchambers curbed whatever awkward response Cedric would've attempted. Both he and Asha turned toward the noise.
Asha tutted in bored remembrance. "Right, I never did dismiss them, did I? Come on out, dears. Come greet your beloved master."
A naked man and woman emerged from the bedchambers. Their dark hair was lank and matted with sweat, their lovely porcelain skin marred by massive, angry burns all across their bodies. The man crawled toward Asha across the cold marble, dragging a limp, lifeless leg behind him. The woman could still walk, though she staggered as if drunk.
Cedric's stomach convulsed against their recently-consumed contents, and he could only watch with a horror so profound that it petrified him in his seat. Slowly, agonizingly, the man and woman approached the Red King.
Asha gathered the woman in his lap and rested a hand atop the man's head as one would a dog. His previously noble, stately bearing, apparently mere affectation, suddenly dropped away to reveal a giddy, impish youth. "I'm not opposed to sharing," he said cheerfully. "Elara and Saman are the cream of the crop, but an Heir's generosity knows no bounds."
Elara slumped half-conscious into Asha's shoulder. The Red King's other hand, which rested at her mid-back, began to glow with a vicious, white-hot heat. She whimpered and squirmed, but not enough to escape his cruel grip. The unspeakable scent of cooking meat curled into Cedric's nose.
"Stop it," he finally managed to gasp. "You're hurting her."
"My servants live to please me, to submit to my whims." Asha's features were spirited, elastic. "You're a noble now, Cedric. Your servants will be held to the same tenet."
"Just stop. Please."
Asha's hand cooled. Elara crumpled against him, her breathing fast and shallow.
"I'll have a servant escort you to the Citadel's guest quarters," the Red King said, as if resuming a completely different conversation. "Enjoy your night beneath the divine light of the Heirs, Sir Noxus." He cocked his head. "And how appropriate that now, as a full-fledged noble, you'd finally feel worthy of meeting my eye."
As Cedric stiffly trailed a servant through the Citadel's expansive halls and down endless stairs, he realized that the tumult of fury and disgust churning in his heart had finally reawakened his bond to the black diamond. Its dark power burst forth once again to course thickly through his veins, invigorated like never before. He couldn't afford to deliberately provoke a deadly contest with Asha, but he almost wished that weren't the case. He wanted to kill him, more than almost anything.
So engrossed was Cedric in this new hatred that he took far too long to recognize the figure reclining on a divan in the guest quarters' opulent lounge.
He froze in recognition as his eyes met those of Kestrin the Ice Blade.