The Savior's Sister

by Jenna Moreci

  Tall stone walls encircled yellow sand, the blazing heat thick with dust. Leila was familiar with the arena. She had snuck across its grounds twice or twenty times, but She had never seen it like this, its pews overflowing with spectators too rabid to be human. An armored Antaeus stood at the head of the arena, while the other competitors were locked in a barred pew, shaking the rods and squawking with the rest of the animals.

  As Tobias marched toward his opponent, Leila’s stomach dropped. The blessing. She pressed Her face between the slats of the gate, but all She could make out were his back and shoulders. Perhaps on the other end he was glowing, Her light shining straight through the clay. Bile burned Her throat at the thought of it.

  Tobias reached the head of the arena, turning to face the royal balcony. Two dried, grey handprints smeared his chest, and neither of them glowed.

  “Citizens of Thessen, today you will witness a battle for the ages!”

  Wembleton’s voice bounced off the walls, turning Leila’s hands into white-knuckled fists. He stood in the center of the balcony, draped in sapphire and gold linens and shaded by ruby canopies, another mess for Her to clean up.

  “In the pursuit of our Savior and the title of Sovereign, the Giant and the Artist will fight until one man stands as victor and the other is released from this life into the next,” he said. “These creatures standing before you are no ordinary men. They are men of the Sovereign’s Tournament, the finest of warriors, a caliber above us all. Thus, an ordinary fight is simply unsuitable. Ladies and gentlemen, I reveal to you, the arena!”

  The ground vibrated, and dust burst through the arena once, twice, a hundred times. Mirrors tore up from the sand, circling the two fighters.

  “Behold the dreaded mirrors.” Wembleton waved his arms, no doubt for dramatic flair. “Will our two brave fighters use the arena to their advantage? Or will they find themselves lost? Will they fall victim to their own reflections?”

  Two other men appeared in the arena, dressed in simple sable harem pants and sleeveless tunics instead of armor. One was short and skinny with a prominent nose and ashy brown curls, but the other was of Tobias’s height and coloring, had the same dark eyes and wavy locks. The similarities were staggering, save for his robust frame, coarse beard, and age, as he was old enough to be Tobias’s father.

  They stood side by side—by side, by side, as there were hundreds of the same two men throughout the arena.

  In each and every mirror.

  “The Artist fights with the gladius!”

  Tobias clutched his weapon—a plain, short sword—while Antaeus proudly displayed his bardiche just as Leila had predicted. Leila ignored the Giant, Her gaze flitting back and forth between Tobias and the bearded specter looming in the mirrors. Old enough to be his father.

  Was he Tobias’s father?

  “Our valiant men are prepared. The battle is just moments away!”

  Is his father dead? He never said so. But the resemblance was uncanny, from his angular nose to those high cheekbones. And the small, mousy man next to him? Leila clasped Her hands over Her mouth.

  Milo.

  “And to my left, I give to you none other than the Artist’s mother and sister!”

  Tobias’s jaw went slack, and all the hope within Leila withered. His family was watching. All of them.

  “And for our final guest, and truly the most honorable of all…” Wembleton leaned against the balcony railing, eyes lit with desire. “Citizens, you have waited for this moment. We all have waited for this moment. She is the reason we stand here today. She is the very foundation of our great realm.”

  She was lingering in one of the cells like a servant.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please bow down before Her, The Savior!”

  The people sank to their knees, weeping as Cosima sashayed onto the balcony. She lowered the hood of her emerald cloak, allowing her red curls to spill down her décolletage, and adoration poured from the pews like water from an opened floodgate. Wembleton gaped at Cosima, confusion plastered across his face.

  “It appears our dear Wembleton is as shocked to see Me as the rest of you. I hope he finds his tongue soon, so he can present what I’m sure will be a legendary battle.”

  Leila staggered backward. Cosima said that. Cosima was speaking. Her sister patted Wembleton’s shoulder, appealing to the crowd while Leila’s insides boiled. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  “My Giant, My Artist, know our time together has been cherished, and your courage deeply moves Me.” Cosima’s words carried throughout the arena. “The two of you may stand as adversaries, but you are united by cause: the noble endeavor of winning My heart. Each morning I wake astonished, wondering how I could be so lucky. To see one of you leave us today will bring Me such sadness, but I take comfort in knowing that through your sacrifice, this realm will be one step closer to crowning its newest Sovereign, and I will be that much closer to finding My husband.”

  The people roared, while Leila shook with rage.

  “Citizens, shall we begin?” Cosima pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “Allow Me to do the honors.” She raised her handkerchief overhead, and Antaeus and Tobias readied themselves. “Good luck, and may the best man win.”

  As her handkerchief fell, Antaeus hurtled toward Tobias.

  Leila flinched at the swing of Antaeus’s bardiche as if the assault was aimed at Her. Tobias was still moving, still alive, but his dipping and dodging did little to quell Her fear.

  Use the blessing.

  Blood sprayed through the arena. Shielding himself, Tobias ducked behind one of the mirrors, his chest marked with a red gash. The men in the reflections gaped in horror, and Leila couldn’t help but do the same. For God’s sake, the blessing!

  Tobias bolted across the sand with Antaeus sprinting after him. He zigzagged between the mirrors, a clever maneuver, but Antaeus quickly overtook him, swerving in front of Tobias with his weapon high. Steel clanked against steel, and Leila winced each time the bardiche connected with the gladius, again and again until it swiped Tobias’s ribs.

  Leila covered Her mouth, muffling Her cry. Antaeus slammed the grip of his bardiche against Tobias’s eye, his jaw, while Tobias’s ragdoll body whipped back and forth, his sword falling from his hands.

  He was a dead man.

  Leila stood petrified as Antaeus swung at Tobias’s skull.

  The blade sliced through wisps of black, but no Tobias. He was gone, a ghost of the arena. A grey cloud erupted paces in front of Leila’s cell, taking shape into a tall frame, armored shoulders.

  Tobias.

  The audience gasped, while Wembleton glanced across the sands, stunned. “It seems the Artist is, um… It appears the Artist has, uh…”

  Tobias looked over his shoulder, meeting Leila’s gaze and stirring Her heartbeat. She pointed to Her chest, and he stared down at his own, taking in Her handprints.

  Her blessing.

  Antaeus’s voice sounded from across the arena, muddled behind Leila’s pulse in Her ears. He plucked Tobias’s fallen sword from the sand—one Giant, two weapons. The sight should’ve horrified Her, but those clay handprints, however streaked with blood, still marked Tobias’s chest. He was armed with something else entirely, and maybe, just maybe he would get out of this arena alive.

  Tobias evaporated in front of Her, leaving inky swirls in his wake. A dark cloud appeared at the other end of the arena, and Tobias materialized within its mass as if born from the shadows. Leila sucked in a breath; he stood behind Antaeus, close enough to touch. Quietly, he crept forward, kicking Antaeus in the ass.

  Did he just—?

  Antaeus whirled, and the fight resumed, a mad Giant with sharpened steel versus Tobias, his wits, and a touch of magic. Just as panic took hold of Her, Tobias grabbed a mirror, smashing it against Antaeus’s jaw, then yanked another from the ground and slapped it across the Giant’s face. Blood sputtered from Antaeus’s lips, and the gladius fell to the sand alongside shards of glass.


  With a slide and a swoop, Tobias snatched up the sword, then vanished into another shadow, reappearing below the royal balcony unscathed.

  “Could it be?” Wembleton composed himself. “Has the Artist been blessed by The Savior? Has She chosen to share Her divine magic with him?”

  Leila cringed at the sound of Her title, though the worry was short-lived. Tobias paced the sands, shouting taunts across the arena, wielding Her magic with skill and ease. He appeared moments later in front of Leila, tossing his sword between his hands, while Her assassin’s face was awash with chagrin.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said to Antaeus. “It’s relevant, I promise. Tell me, are you stupid because you’re an ass, or are you an ass because you’re stupid?”

  Leila forced back a giggle. Barbs fired back and forth across the sands, stopping once Tobias vanished in an eruption of darkness. When he reemerged, he stood atop the arena wall, staring down at Antaeus ominously.

  “It appears our royal father and daughter are at odds with one another,” Wembleton crowed. “Today’s battle will go down in history, a fight to the death between one man blessed by the Sovereign and one blessed by The Savior. It’s the battle of the blessed ones!”

  Women swarmed Tobias, running their hands down his body. He ignored them much to Leila’s delight, taking a seat on the wall, eyes trained on the Giant like a hawk on a field mouse. His ferocity shook Her, winding a knot of confused emotion in Her gut; She wasn’t quite sure if She was excited, or afraid, or aroused. No, not that. Well, maybe a little.

  Tobias leapt from the wall, and She gasped with the audience when he disappeared, materializing on the arena sands. He circled Antaeus, taunting and marking him, bursting into strings of grey. The people howled, eager for blood, while Leila was transfixed by the shift in Tobias and the sinister look in his eyes.

  Steel slashed olive flesh as shadows erupted around the assassin. Tobias had more than learned to maneuver Her blessing—he had mastered it, using the magic to disarm his opponent, to carve him with his short sword, to blind him with sand swept from the ground. Antaeus tottered through the arena, eyes clenched shut and innards seeping from his opened gut. Brontes’s man was crumbling, and a fire ignited within Leila, the bloodlust of the audience a fraction of Her own.

  Antaeus stumbled and swayed, tripping over his feet. As he tumbled to the ground, Tobias charged toward him, plunging his sword through the Giant’s belly.

  Rivers of red spilled onto the arena sands. Antaeus went limp, sagging onto Tobias and smothering his much smaller frame. A sweeping relief and booming triumph clashed within Leila’s chest.

  Her assassin had fallen, and Tobias was still alive.

  She sucked in shallow breaths. The men in the mirrors were slumped on one another, exhausted. The older man met Leila’s gaze and nodded.

  Grunting, Tobias pushed the Giant aside and staggered to his feet.

  “The Artist stands as victor!” Wembleton said. “Artist, you live to fight another day in our esteemed tournament. You live to fight for The Savior’s heart!” He gestured toward the woman at his side, and Leila’s nostrils flared.

  Cosima.

  “Kneel for The Savior, and if the fates deem you worthy, for your future bride.”

  Tobias did as instructed, but his gaze travelled to his holding cell—to Leila—and when his stare locked with Hers, She couldn’t help but smile.

  “Everyone, join me in celebrating the Artist!”

  Wembleton. He stood tall in the royal balcony, his eyes perpetually flitting toward the false Savior at his side.

  One man down. Another to go.

  12

  The Complication

  Leila barreled through the corridor. The audience was still in a frenzy, roaring and stomping, sending flakes sprinkling from the ceiling. Their cheering would easily mask Wembleton’s screams.

  A silver cloak appeared in a nearby stairwell. “Leila.” Delphi ran Her way. “I’ve been looking everywhere for You. I’m so sorry about Tobias—”

  “He’s alive,” Leila said.

  “He is? But how—?”

  “I blessed him.”

  Delphi’s face dropped. “He knows?”

  “He doesn’t.” Leila shook Her head. “I’ll explain later. Where’s Wembleton?”

  “I assume he’s with Cosima.”

  “Find them. Bring them to… Do you think the undressing room is empty?”

  “Servants will be escorting Tobias there any minute.” Delphi pursed her lips, thinking. “The armory.”

  “Meet Me there.”

  The two split in separate directions, Delphi toward the balcony, Leila to the armory. A large wooden door with a heavy knocker shaped like an axe loomed ahead, and She pushed it open, surveying Her conditions. Chest plates, pauldrons, and helmets lined the dusty shelves, the space cramped and cluttered.

  No escape. Perfect.

  She picked at Her dress and fiddled with Her hair, all the while counting down the seconds. Voices echoed through the hallway, followed by footsteps. Wembleton was nearing. Leila dashed toward the door, pressing Herself against the wall.

  “It’s just a detour. No need to fret.” Cosima floated into the armory first amid a whirl of emerald silk. Delphi followed, and next came Wembleton, staggering to a halt once he caught sight of Leila.

  “Your Holiness,” he croaked.

  Leila gestured toward Delphi. “Seal the door.”

  Delphi double-bolted the lock and stood in the doorframe. Cosima tucked herself against the back wall, while Leila stood poised and ready before the Senator.

  “What is…?” Wembleton glanced between them, paling. “What’s going on?”

  “Sit down,” Leila said.

  “Your Holiness—”

  She yanked Her blade from its sheath. “Sit. Down.”

  Wembleton froze, then backed into a nearby shelf, taking a seat among a line of helmets. Leila lowered Her weapon slightly, enough for him to make out the sheen of its edge.

  “May I ask why You missed the battle?” His voice wavered. “You seemed so excited…”

  “I didn’t want it to end this way.” Leila raised Her blade. “I was hoping you’d be a bit more useful. But plans have changed, and now you know too much—”

  “Wait!” Wembleton lurched away. “I can be useful!”

  “The time for that has long passed.”

  “Your father trusts me. I have information.”

  “You are nothing but a lap dog.”

  “He says things in my presence!” Sweat beaded along his brow, wetting his hair. “He assumes no one is listening. But I always listen. I hear what he says.”

  Sighing, Leila pressed Her weapon against his throat. “Goodbye, Senator.”

  “There’s a traitor!”

  She froze, Her blade still pointed at the fleshy part of his neck. “Come again?”

  “Brontes has a connection beyond the fortress. Someone of significant power and means. Someone who wishes to end The Savior’s lineage.”

  “A tall tale told by a desperate man.”

  “He’s paying him!” he said. “In installments. Once each week, Brontes sends his payment. He’s done this for some time now. Your vault steadily shrinks.”

  Leila hesitated. “The missing funds…”

  “I can learn who this traitor is. I can get a name. If only You’d spare my life.”

  Repugnant green wafted through the space, filtering from Wembleton’s pores. She was used to such fear on these occasions, had often sliced through it, adding crimson to the mix. This time, She lowered Her blade.

  “How is Brontes in contact with this person? No one leaves the fortress.”

  “I can find out for You. I swear it.”

  “There’s only one traitor?”

  “He has constituents, I’m sure. But if you learn his identity, Your father’s plan will crumble.”

  Leila did nothing, Her blade at Her side.

  “Please,” Wembleton whimper
ed. “I’ll keep Your secret. I’ll aid Your endeavors.”

  “You can’t possibly be considering this,” Delphi chimed in.

  “We have no new leads,” Leila said.

  “He’s a liar and a coward.”

  Leila grabbed Wembleton’s drapes, pulling him close. “Let Me make this clear: You’re alive to serve Me. Stray from My side, and find this blade buried in your gut.” She pointed the tip to his stomach. “I will split You nose to navel and strangle you with your entrails, do you understand Me?”

  “I am Your loyal servant, now and always.”

  She pressed the blade deeper, enough to tear through his tunic. “Delphi. Escort the Senator to his chamber. See to it that he stays there for the remainder of the evening.”

  As She lowered the weapon, Wembleton breathed a sigh of relief, scuttling obediently to Her sister’s side. Delphi linked her arm with his, casting a glare Leila’s way before leaving the room.

  Clearing her throat, Cosima fluffed her dress. “Well, that was rather unprecedented.”

  “You think I should’ve killed him?” Leila said.

  “Not that, silly. You blessed the Artist!” Cosima’s eyes widened with intrigue. “Why didn’t You tell me?”

  “I didn’t know I was going to. It was a spur of the moment decision.”

  “A risky decision, though I’m glad it was made. The display was incredible. That battle will go down in history. My little Leila, writing legends. Why did You do it?”

  Leila swallowed. “Antaeus was one of My father’s assassins. Naturally it was the perfect opportunity to have him removed.”

  “A cunning player until the end.” Cosima winked. “Well, the Artist owes You significantly. You saved the poor fool’s life.”

  Chuckling, she wafted away, leaving Leila alone in the armory—no body, no cleanup, a position She hadn’t expected to find Herself in. Everything seemed out of sorts, a mess within a mess, but She forced the concerns aside. Today was a victory. An assassin had fallen, and Tobias had survived.