by Emily L K
Through the years, Cori also continued to suffer from her mental episodes. Some days she was too depressed to get out of bed. Others, she would complain of a headache, only to collapse because of it a few hours later. Sometimes rum helped, sometimes it didn’t. Despite her breakdowns, she remained committed to her task. Shanti often wondered what drove her.
“When will I know that I’m a master with a sword?” Cori often asked.
“When you beat me,” Shanti would always reply.
“I HAVE SOMETHING FOR you,” Shanti said, moving from the chest at the end of her bed to the table where Cori sat, kneading dough. Twenty years they had been living together now. How time flies, Shanti marvelled. Well, it flew for her - she truly was an old woman now at a hundred and forty years old - but Cori hadn’t aged a day, as was the way of the Gold Eyes.
Shanti held up a bead made of blue glass and threaded with gold resin. Cori’s hand were covered in the mixture, but she smiled at Shanti. “It’s pretty.”
“If your eyes were a normal colour, I’d bet they’d be blue,” Shanti said. She moved beside her apprentice and selected a small section of her wild golden hair. She started to braid it, slipping the bead in about halfway and tying it off with a small leather thong. “I can’t remember where I got it,” she admitted as she worked, “maybe from my grandmother, but I’ve always held onto it for one reason or another.”
“Why are you giving it to me?” Cori asked, touching a finger to the bead once Shanti had stepped away from her.
“Because I’m old, Girly, and when I’m dead, someone else might as well have it. Now, are you ready to practice? I have a feeling today might be your day.”
Cori nodded and stood, moving to a washbasin to clean her hands. Such a good girl, Shanti thought fondly. And very adept with a sword now.
The two of them took up their weapons and moved outside. Shanti was tired, her body was tired, but she kept herself tall. Today was the day. They moved through some slow warm up moves. Stretching their muscles and balancing the weight of their weapons in their hands. Then Shanti made the first move.
She lunged at Cori with an overhead chop. Cori slid to the side, avoiding the attack, but Shanti moved with her, slicing towards the Dijem’s hip. Cori brought her sword up awkwardly, deflecting the blow and jumping back several feet. She had a small frown on her face, as if she were wondering at Shanti’s ruthless attack. Nonetheless, she didn’t question the actions of her master.
Shanti went on the attack again, aiming a kick at Cori’s legs before following through with a diagonal slice. Cori moved within her reach this time, using her hands and the hilt of her sword to push Shanti back.
“You must beat me to be the best,” Shanti reminded her. Already she was breathless. Finally Cori attacked with a determined look on her face, forcing Shanti back with several swift blows that jarred the old woman’s arms. Shanti blocked them all, however, and aimed her own attack at Cori’s head. The Dijem woman dropped to her knees beneath the blow, then immediately launched herself up, slamming her blade through Shanti’s chest.
Shanti barely felt it. As her own sword slipped from her grasp and she fell back, she heard Cori cry out and saw the look of dismay on her student’s face. It didn’t matter. Cori had finally won. She was the master now. With her last breath, Shanti uttered the words, “I’m proud of you.”
Chapter Eleven - The Champion’s Arena
Four hundred and eighty five years post war | Vecchio, Second king of Dodici
“Where is she from?”
“Tauta, Sire,” the boy said quickly, then added, “she’s a Gold Eyes.” Vecchio could tell he was eager to please, as was every nobleman’s son. A kingship would become available in the next decade and once Sabbio died, Vecchio would move to the throne of the First of Twelve and the twelfth throne would be open to campaigning. Well, this boy had a good chance. Vecchio knew his father had enough money to buy a seat on the dais.
“Thank you, Amante.” The boy bowed and hurried from the platform. Vecchio lifted his wineglass to his lips and returned his attention to the arena below. They were in the third bout of the champion’s games - where contestants played to the death, not just to first blood. The blond woman in the sands below had just killed three opponents in quick succession and was now casting her weight from one foot to the other as she waited for her next fight.
Her homeland was insignificant. They often had foreign fighters compete for the generous prizes, but this woman was very good. Suspiciously good. That she was a Gold Eyes made Vecchio even surer of her identity.
The roaring of the arena spectators heralded the next contender - one of the captains of the royal guard - Alteo. He roared with the crowd, thrusting his sword in the air. Vecchio clapped lightly then held his wine glass out for a servant to refill. Before he’d even raised the glass back to his lips Alteo was dead.
A hush fell over the crowd as servants hurried forward to drag the captain from the arena. A trail of bloody sand followed him. The woman didn’t celebrate her victory, nor did she look up as the spectators began to whisper. She wiped her bloodied sword on her pants then resumed her shifting stance as she waited for the next fighter.
Five more she killed this way, no showmanship, no crowd pleasing and despite Vecchio’s enjoyment of her, the spectators were displeased. They wanted a decent fight. If the woman had moved anywhere near the fences, Vecchio was sure the crowd would throw things at her. As it was, even when an intermittence was called she waited out in the centre of the area in the beating sun.
Vecchio was delighted by her, and when his servants offered to see him back to the cool palace for lunch, he opted to stay on his dais to watch the woman. Before long she glanced up at him. Hair plastered down with sweat and skin covered in dust, her golden eyes shone brightly. Vecchio raised his glass to her, and she smirked, touching the tip of her sword to her brow in response.
At the end of the intermittence the arena filled quickly, despite the crowds seeming dislike of the woman, she was on everyone’s lips. Vecchio leaned back and waved a servant forward.
“Fetch Amante for me,” he ordered, “and have him bring the numbers.”
The next contender entered the arena to thundering applause. The fight began immediately, though this time the woman took her time, dancing around her prey, making him work. Amante arrived on the platform, parchment clutched in his hand.
“Sire!” Amante bowed hastily, then thrust the papers outwards. “I’ve learned her name too,” the boy said proudly before Vecchio could even ask. He took the papers from Amante and smoothed them on his knee.
“Tell me,” he requested, looking back to the fight in time to see the woman skid around behind her opponent and plunge her sword into his back. His scream was drowned out by the roaring crowd.
“Cori.”
Vecchio studied the numbers on the parchment. The books had the odds on the woman winning two to one. He set the papers aside and leaned back in his chair. The sun beat down on the arena so hard that he was sweating, even under the parasol that had been erected over the dais.
Officiants ran onto the sand to take the latest body away. One of them spoke to Cori, and she laughed, rolling her shoulders. The officiant signalled to another who ran across the sand with a jug of water. He gave it to Cori, and she gave him her sword to clean. They were down to the last fight now and Vecchio let his eyes wander across the packed crowd. Book Keepers were hurrying up and down the aisles, taking wagers for the last bout and food vendors followed them, serving fresh drinks and food. At even intervals around the stadium, the other eleven kings sat at their private dais’, waiting for the tournament to resume. Vecchio wondered if they were as curious about Cori as he.
Speaking of, he returned his gaze to the sandy pit below. Cori had her sword back in hand and stood in the beating sun, facing the tunnel that would reveal the final competitor and the previous year’s champion.
“Amante,” Vecchio said suddenly, and the boy leaned c
loser. “See if the competitors both have magic. Let’s raise the stakes.”
The boy left to pass on the message and moments later Vecchio could see the runners arriving at the dais’ of the other kings. Each listened to Vecchio’s proposal and, in turn, each of them lifted a hand of approval. The runners were off again, this time to inform the Book Keepers and officiants.
It was a longer wait this time, but Vecchio couldn’t help but lean forward to watch when an officiant finally gained the arena and ran across the sand to where Cori waited. She tilted her head to listen to what he had to say, then turned to him fully. Even from a distance Vecchio could see the slight frown on her face. She asked a question, and the officiant nodded. She shrugged, but this time instead of resuming her wait for the champion, she turned her gaze squarely on Vecchio. It took all of his self will to not recoil into his chair. Her lips turned ever so slightly to a smirk and she gave him a mocking salute.
The champion chose that moment to charge onto the arena. Sand flicked into the air with each pounding step, but he didn’t announce his arrival with a bellow or war cry. Milliore was Dodici’s best for a reason. He spent most of the year on the southern borders, keeping the Hillmen away, but always returned to challenge the Champion’s arena. If Cori was who Vecchio thought she was, then Milliore didn’t stand a chance.
The crowd roared, many soaring to their feet as Milliore approached. And yet Cori’s eyes lingered on Vecchio and his on her. At the very last moment, when Milliore lifted his sword, Cori whirled, ducking under the Champion’s blade and lashing out with her own. It slide across Milliore’s thigh and his cry of pain went unheard beneath the crowd’s roar of approval. Milliore thrust out his hand, using his magic to send Cori staggering back. She kept her feet and danced around the Champion, lashing out with her sword again to strike his bicep and then his hip. Milliore roared and Vecchio realised Cori was playing with him. She could have killed him with that first swing if she’d wanted to.
Milliore turned savagely, blood from his thigh wound spraying across the sand, but Cori remained out of reach. He swung his arm wildly and his magic swiped Cori, knocking her to the ground. Her sword fell from her hand. The spectators cheered and even Vecchio rose to his feet, heart hammering. Now was the moment for her to use her magic and prove her identity. Milliore approached with a limp, sword raised. Cori slid backwards in the sand. Milliore swung his blade in a downwards chop and Cori lifted her hand. Vecchio smiled.
But instead of decimating him with magic like the king had anticipated, Cori did nothing. Instead, she flung herself aside at the last moment and jumped to her feet. So quick it was almost a blur, she kicked out at Milliore, knocking his sword from his hand and catching it in her own before it hit the ground. For a moment time stilled. Cori was close enough to Milliore that she merely had to lean in to place a light kiss on his lips, then she rammed the sword into his side. The blade entered the Champion above one hip and exited him above the other. Milliore screamed and went to the ground. The crowd fell silent.
The champion died slowly, asphyxiating on his own blood. Already Cori was walking towards the exit. She didn’t even stop to pick up her sword.
“Get her before she escapes the city,” Vecchio said in a low voice to Amante who was still staring, mouth agape, down at the arena. Officiants were approaching Milliore hesitantly. “Go,” Vecchio urged and Amante left.
The spectators were buzzing with talk, retelling the fight and collecting their winnings from the Book Keepers. Vecchio started towards the exit and his hand maidens fell in behind him. Amante might be able to stall Cori, but he had the feeling that she wouldn’t come to see him willingly. He barely noticed his subjects in the tunnels bowing to him as he made haste towards the Contestants’ Hold. He caught Cori at the door.
“Vecchio,” she greeted, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning on the doorframe. She was sweaty and dirty from fighting all day, but she already had the Champion’s purse in hand.
“Leaving so soon?” He queried. He had to resist the urge to cover his mouth. The tunnels beneath the arena reeked of death and mould. She shrugged.
“I needed coins and I’ve got that now, no reason to hang around.”
Vecchio watched her. She made no move to push past him, but he could tell she wanted to. He made a dismissive motion and his hand maidens retreated out of earshot. Above, the thunder of many feet leaving the arena was near deafening.
“Why didn’t you use your magic?” He asked.
Her expression remained passive as she responded, “What magic?”
“I’m fairly certain of your identity, Cori.”
A smile formed slowly on her lips, paired with a hard glint in her eyes. Vecchio had a sudden stomach dropping feeling that he was about to die.
“Fairly certain gets you nowhere. I knew exactly why you wanted magic used up there.”
“And yet you didn’t use it.”
Cori shrugged. “I didn’t need to. Now is there something you wanted? This cesspit smells like dead men and I’d rather not linger.”
“I think we would make a good partnership, you and I,” Vecchio suggested. He didn’t really know what he intended with the proposal, but he got the feeling that Cori was someone beneficial to have on side.
Cori smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “Sorry, Vecchio, I don’t take coin for sex. I’m sure you could find plenty of women in this city that would take your purse and your wrinkly old balls in the same hand. Now, may I leave?” She moved off the door frame and Vecchio, spluttering at her words, flung out an arm to stop her.
“That is not what I meant.”
“Then speak plainly, Vecchio, I don’t have time for word games.” She had stopped at his outstretched arm, now close enough that he was sure he could see raw power whirling in her golden eyes. She had no wrinkles on her temples, nor grey in her hair, and yet her eyes seemed eons old.
“Stay as a guest at court. I know your status, you won’t be beneath anyone here. In exchange, allow me to utilise the sword of the champion in my name... from time to time.”
She pondered, her gaze upon the slimy ceiling. While he waited, Vecchio vowed to put some coin towards cleaning these damned tunnels. It was a wonder contestants even showed up given the state they were in. Behind them, his handmaids were becoming impatient, but he didn’t dare break Cori’s thoughtfulness to tell them to be quiet.
“All right,” Cori said finally. “A trial of one year and a king’s salary to go with it.”
“A king’s...” Vecchio tailed off. Well, it was only fair, he supposed, considering who she was. He held out his hand, and she grasped it. He could see drying blood on her sleeve. “Cori, you have yourself a contract.”
Chapter Twelve - The Twelfth King
Four hundred and ninety nine years post war | Amante, Twelfth King of Dodici
Amante sat down on his throne in the Hall of Twelve and looked across the sea of upturned faces, watching him with admiration. The timing was perfect; early in the evening when the crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling caught the last of the day’s light and flung droplets of sunshine across the room. Vecchio moved towards him, the gold circlet crown in his hands. Amante had seen nothing he wanted as badly as that crown, and now it was his.
“Amante,” Vecchio said in his old, wavering voice. “I name you twelfth of Twelve. A king of Dodici. Welcome, brother.”
The first king set the crown on Amante’s mass of dark curls and the noblemen and women applauded. Amante’s eyes roved over them, seeking one. He found her at the edge of the hall, leaning against the stone wall. She wore a figure-fitting green dress and her golden hair was piled neatly atop her head. When he caught her eye, she smiled and raised her glass of wine to him.
Cori the Gold Eyes was the most coveted woman in court. She had risen quickly to her status after being discovered by Vecchio in the Champion’s Arena. She had killed every one of her opponents from green sword to champion level and had been the
first sword’s master to do so in a single season since the conception of the Champion’s Arena. He’d been in awe of her that day, watching as a boy beside the king who took her in.
Of course, Amante knew she was dangerous for other reasons. He had spent a year touring Tauta with his father before he had returned to Dodici to campaign for a kingship. He’d heard stories about how dangerous the Gold Eyes could be. He had even seen one hanged while he’d been in the northern realm. They could apparently rip cities apart at a whim and he believed it after seeing the chaotic state that the once majestic Tauta was in.
Knowing that she was dangerous didn’t stop Amante from wanting her as much as he wanted to take her down. And now he was king. Tonight she would be his.
He watched her moved off the wall. Her golden, ageless eyes lingered on his a moment longer, then she turned her back on him to join conversation with some nobody lordling. Amante had to restrain the scowl that threatened to mar his otherwise handsome face. He was the twelfth king. He should have her undivided attention.
But of course that was her way. She deferred to no one, as if she were the one who ruled and not he. He shifted on his newly acquired throne, already feeling restricted by it. He was obligated to sit there all evening, even now that his coronation was complete, and the audience were mingling.
He noticed Cori moved her attention to another man. Watched her head tip back as she laughed. Noted the way her throat was bared. He wanted to kiss it and cut it at the same time.
Fuoco, the eleventh king, leaned towards Amante from his own throne. “It’s chaffing,” he said, as if reading Amante’s thoughts, “to sit here all night while they have fun down there. But you’ll get used to it.”