A little more approval for Eogan is shown this time in the voices and clapping.
I look at Sir Gowon.
Does he notice any difference in the man before him?
I glance behind me for Rasha, who’s not returned yet, and note the host of guards still blocking the door. My spine squeezes. What happened to make her leave like that?
I look at Gwen and my guard. “I’m going to sit by Myles.”
He nods and allows me to take the seat on the other side of the lord protectorate.
“How much longer is this?” I growl.
“What’s the commotion with Rasha?”
“I’ve no idea, but considering she left, we can too.”
“
She
will have a believable explanation, and
she
is not Eogan’s favorite Elemental at the moment. So no, we can’t. Now tell me what Rasha’s guardsss said to her.”
“I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was she looked worried.” I peer around for a time gauge on the wall. “And I think she might have caught on to our plans.”
He utters a curse word. “Remind me never to rely on you for information.”
“Information? Eogan is
dying
right now.”
Myles’s expression turns sickly humored. “Yes, and I have to admit I’m rather enjoying watching you squirm. Almost as much as seeing how much that group of boys seems to hate you.”
“And you wonder why people aren’t more enamored with your charming personali—”
A commotion of doors creaking open cuts me off. Two men dressed in thin, full-bodied pantsuits enter and stride down the center aisle to the middle of the room. One is lithe and carrying a sword, the other is of a monstrous size and holding an ax. By the look of their muscles and hardened faces, they’re soldiers. Good ones.
If the cheering of the crowd before was feeble, it’s now loud and authentic sounding and apparently serves to commence the start of the two men engaging in hand-to-hand combat.
The first ax thrusts by the larger man swing wide.
I bite my tongue when the third connects with the smaller man’s shoulder. He falls back with a grunt, and the man brings his ax down again.
It crashes into the floor as the small man rolls out of the way before twisting to bring his sword up under the larger opponent’s arm.
This is entertainment? A blood sport?
Blood is already spilling on the floor when he pulls it back. He turns and, with another thrust of the sword, swipes at the giant’s neck.
My gut leaps into my chest and my mouth turns sour. If the large man hadn’t spun away in time, he’d be dead. I look around. This is what the vent boy was talking about—a community earned through power rather than differences.
Eogan, the real Eogan, would never have allowed something like this. At least not in recent weeks. But no one other than myself and Gwen appears to find it disturbing.
On and on the soldiers fight while my discomfort builds and I try to look away.
Parrying. Sparring. Until blood is coating every inch of their bodies and the floor in a circular pattern as they move. It’s even spattered on some of the onlookers.
The cutting and blood continue until the smaller, faster of the two men lands a jab near the other’s heart and drops him to his knees. I hold my breath. The victor stands over him, sword raised, and looks to Eogan.
I start to rise but Myles stops me. “Oh my dear, please keep your seat if not your head. This is their culture, not ours. You’ll only cause trouble for usss.”
“He’s going to kill him,” I hiss. I look down the table at the other delegates. They look odd sitting there, backs straight, faces stiff.
Is this part of their job—not to react in political settings, or do they just assume it will be fine?
Myles catches my eye and with his gaze indicates I should look up at Eogan. When I do, my chest unclenches. Eogan waves a hand and the fighter lowers his weapon. He bows to the king, then to the Assembly, and stays standing there as his defeated foe is escorted from the room.
I ease back in my seat but set my hand on my knives. It’s only when I peer up again at Draewulf that I realize he caught my reaction.
He tips his head at me and sneers in that hideous, wolfish style and, without looking away, twitches his hand to beckon one of the guards. He says something to the man before he moves his gaze from me back to the room.
A moment later, the doors open again. And what looks like a mound of furs is standing there. My tapping leg stops moving.
The woman beneath them begins peeling each one off, like the rind of rich fruit, and dropping them to the floor as she strides in. Almost exactly like she did two weeks ago when she was at Adora’s party.
And just like then, her entrance is met with an audible gasp across the room.
“What’s she doing here?” someone in the Assembly murmurs.
“How long has it been—six months—since Odion last summoned her?”
“I thought she betrayed us to Faelen!”
“It was a ruse to get her father, Draewulf, close to their king and ours. She betrayed us both!”
“Is Isobel still betrothed to King Ezeoha?”
The comments float through the room making the smile on Isobel’s face that much wider as she strolls down the center aisle toward her father, who inhabits the body of the man she’s the same age as and was once engaged to.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Draewulf announces, staring right at me. “May I present to you Lady Isobel.”
B
Y THE TIME DRAEWULF’S DAUGHTER IS DOWN THE aisle and standing in the bloodied makeshift arena next to the victor in front of us, she’s stripped down to nothing more than a tight, glistening pantsuit made to hug every curve of her seductive, tall frame. A quarter of the Assembly is standing, and another third is grumbling. I’m silently cursing. She tosses a smile in my direction and that old jealousy flares along with the recollection of our last meeting when she tried to wrap her body around Eogan’s neck.
Myles slicks the sides of his hair and lets out a low whistle of enjoyment.
I slide one of my knives out beneath the table and prick his leg.
He jerks and says something uncouth, but I’m already looking past him to Draewulf, whose mocking, proud, fatherlike expression contorts the slightest bit. I freeze. The black in his eyes retracts into what appears to be pain and I swear his body jerks.
The next second, he’s smiling and nodding to Isobel.
I turn on Myles. “Did you see that?”
“If you’re referring to anything besides Lady Isobel’s superior curvesss flexing in front of me, then no, I didn’t.”
It’s an impressive feat of self-control that I refrain from jabbing Myles in his family heirlooms just as Draewulf tips his hand in Isobel’s direction. She grins and strides the last two feet to the victor of the blood sport and, in one swift movement, presses her hand over the man’s chest and mutters a chant. His face sags. His black skin yellows. He stiffens and falls in a heap on the floor.
Every member at our table gasps, and Gwen, Lord Percival, and I are all immediately standing.
What the hulls?
“Is he dead?” Gwen asks.
“Fascinating,” Myles murmurs.
The footsteps of soldiers sound behind us. I flip around to find them lined up, their cautioning stares bearing down—Bron’s men indicating we should sit back down and Faelen’s guards hinting they’d rather not get in a fight here. Beside me, Myles gives a soft cluck of his tongue, although something in it hints that he’s wary too.
Ignoring them all, I lean forward to study the fallen soldier, scrutinizing his chest for signs of breathing just as Eogan claps heartily. The rest of the Assembly joins in. Gwen and Percival reclaim their seats as Isobel bows, and the doors are flung open again by a soldier who ushers in a boy of maybe seven. He’s dressed to match the victor in that shiny silver suit, but his face . . .
His face is that of the boy, Kel.
Isobel moves back, and as she does, the victor I’d thought dead moans, sits, then quickly pulls himself into a fighting stance once again. A stream of blood drips from his nose, and from the way he staggers, I’m sure whatever Isobel did will kill him sooner than later.
Myles yanks my elbow. “For hulls’ sakesss, sit down.”
Kel steps forward and raises a blade curved in the shape of a crescent. He doesn’t look at me, even though I’ve no doubt he knows I’m here. The bleeding victor lifts his sword.
The air in the room pauses as they wait. The Assembly waits. I wait. For . . . what? I don’t know. But I want to lunge for the boy—to help him—to stop him—because this is so wrong.
I feel Draewulf’s eyes on me. “Are you an imp, boy, or a man?” His shout makes me jump. “Show us how they’ve trained you here.”
Kel moves forward even as I catch the twitch in his pale face. Something shifts there and for a second I see a flash and recognize the fear. Not of what might be done to him, but of what he’ll do to the bigger man.
It almost kicks in my chest.
I rise as he uses his foot to toss the beaten fighter’s ax over to the bloodied victor. Offering him another weapon. He’s trying to making it a fair fight.
Even though everyone in here knows it won’t be.
“Faster, boy!” Draewulf yells, and abruptly the entire room is goading the child on.
“Do it!” another calls.
“Take him down!”
Is this a jest? What’s wrong with these people?
I peer around and notice the horror blossoming on Gwen’s face before I continue on to look at the old man, Sir Gowon. He appears only slightly less uncomfortable, but the focus of his gaze tells me it’s nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with Lady Isobel, who’s moved to Eogan’s side. She’s staring at Draewulf with a mixture of pride and disgust.
And Draewulf’s staring at me. Leering. Waiting.
Next thing I know Isobel’s turned her gaze my way as well. Her face clears of everything but arrogance before she looks back toward the young boy, who’s suddenly dropped the blade to the ground and stepped away from the injured man.
The gasp that rocked the room when she walked in is equaled in strength by the level of silence now.
Kel’s eyes focus on me. I stand there staring right back at him.
What’s he doing?
But I know exactly what he’s doing. His words from the airship surface.
“Maybe power comes in different forms. And maybe we get a choice how we use it.”
He blinks, then turns expertly toward Eogan as the guests seem to hold their breath in unison. Even Myles is devoid of smart remarks.
Kel tips his head forward. “Your Majesty, please forgive my decision not to complete this task. I don’t think this man guilty of an offense and therefore can’t find justice in killing him. I’m willing to perform another task instead to prove I’m your humble servant.”
An angered intake of breath erupts among multiple council members and guards, and even audibly from Sir Gowon. Their stares of disapproval all move from Kel’s face to mine.
I somehow find the chair beneath me and sit, and wait as Eogan’s expression turns darker than I can ever recall seeing it. His hand shakes and even his shoulders appear to quiver. “Someone bring another who has more respect for Bron’s tradition and its king’s wishes. And see that this one is—”
Sir Gowon steps in. “I’ll see to it, Your Majesty.” He beckons for two guards and Kel, who doesn’t look back as he strides, neck stiff, eyes straight forward, out of the room after Gowon.
Another boy enters as he leaves. He’s a head taller than Kel and his features are harder, fiercer.
He’s one of the group who’ve been glowering at me.
Without waiting for the guests to recover from their shock or for the injured man to prepare, he pulls out a straight, twelve-inch-long blade and lunges at the man’s leg.
The soldier utters a cry as the strike lands, and he drops to one knee. The boy’s gaze goes hard.
I push my chair back.
Myles’s hand is on my arm again faster than I can blink, pulling my wrist down to hide the blade. “Don’t be a fool. Make a scene now and you’ll embarrass the Assembly and endanger all of us.”
“I refuse to sit here and watch a child be used for blood sport. Even the other boy saw the idiocy in this.”
“At their ages, they’re considered soldiers. They’re showing off technique. It’s a rite of passage.”
“And the injured man?”
“Welcome to politics, sweetheart. This is where we pull our panties up and pretend to approve of another world’s customsss. Now put the blasted blade away and let the poor man die with dignity before you get usss all killed.”
I wrinkle my brow and look toward the door Kel was led through. “What are they going to do to him, you think?”
“Shh.”
I glare at him.
I can’t watch this.
I turn toward Eogan’s table. “Your Highness,” I say in a voice that carries farther than intended.
The room stops. The cheering stops. All movement stalls.
The edge in Draewulf’s eyes is sharper than anything that’s drawn blood tonight.
I nod to the warrior and the boy standing with his blade held up for the death blow. “I applaud your plan for demonstrating the same compassion you’re known for in Faelen. By showing the use of killing as a last resort rather than sport. Just as the previous boy was displaying.”
His calculated smile falters. “Ah, you speak kindly of my
reputation, m’lady. But here in our home culture, would you have me rob this boy’s honor? Where would the compassion be in that?”
“Is it not King Eogan’s sense of honor that showed mercy on Bron and Faelen that saved both our lands? And thus would it not be more honoring to these warriors who have shown such skill in fighting, to show control through mercy?”
His face goes blank and flickers confused before it softens. A flare of green widens around his black wolf pupils, and abruptly there emerges something majestic in his face. Noble. I inhale. Because I swear it’s the Eogan I know. He begins shivering, and it’s so hard that he clenches the table with his hands as he looks from me to the boy and frowns. He starts to rise just as Isobel slides her hand over his chest and leans down to whisper in his ear. The green fades and his grin returns, more twisted this time, changing into the same smirk his daughter is wearing.