by Grace Draven
Caught in the throes of her own orgasm, Dalvila rocked hard atop him, carving bloody crescent moons into his collarbones with her nails.
He slipped out of her as she tumbled off him and onto the rumpled sheets. Her raspy breathing echoed his as she sprawled beside him.
“Get him out of here,” she called to her waiting guards. “He’s destroyed the bedding, and I need a bath.”
They jumped to do her bidding, and Azarion found himself dragged once more, out of the bed and into the hallway outside the royal bedchamber. The guards waited impatiently while he stood on trembling legs to dress before shackling him for the march through the palace corridors.
He kept his gaze on the moon, partially hidden behind a scuttle of clouds, as the cart that had transported him to his assignation with the empress brought him back to the catacombs. The bone-rattling ride took on new and more painful depths as he struggled to sit as straight as possible. To slump meant to suffer, and he already exerted what will he still retained not to howl his misery into the silent night.
Never before had he been so happy to return to the grim reality of the catacombs and the cage he’d called home for ten years. The sight of the hollow-eyed agacin crouched in one corner as his guards shoved him inside revitalized his hope.
She was the wide grass plains of the Sky Below, the horse herds grazing under the sun, the Savatar women singing as they felted, the flap of the clan flags atop the atamans’ tents. She was freedom made flesh, and in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever beheld.
CHAPTER THREE
Gilene gripped the cage bars for balance and surveyed the crowd in the arena seats as the cart navigated the uneven expanse of stirred sand. Drunk on wine, spring heat, and a day’s worth of brutal blood sport, the spectators shouted for more, eager to witness the immolation that closed the annual Rites of Spring. Her fellow victims either clutched the bars and stared at the scene in horror or huddled in pairs and hid their faces.
Beside her, Pell tucked a skein of matted hair behind one ear and straightened her dress as if preparing for a street-side tryst. “If any of our worthless gods are willing to trouble themselves, may they be merciful and make this death swift.”
The gods have nothing to do with it. Gilene didn’t voice her acerbic thoughts. She touched the prostitute’s hand briefly. “It will be.”
The look Pell gave her held both doubt and amazement. “You have such faith then?”
Gilene’s dry chuckle lacked any humor. The cart transporting them rolled toward the pyre built of dried kindling, carcasses of animals killed in arena battles, and dead gladiators. A great wooden pillar, wound with thick rope, stood at its center—the final destination for the women sacrificed to the gods in exchange for their goodwill toward the Empire.
She had no faith in deities who found glorification in senseless butchery, nor did she believe they understood the concept of mercy. But she had faith in herself and her talent for wielding fire. She answered Pell in a sure voice. “Yes, I do.”
They said no more as the cheers grew to a deafening roar. The cart halted at the base of the pyre. The stench of blood, fear, and death filled her nose.
Guards gathered around the cage, their sun-creased features leering and cruel behind their helms. One unlocked the cage door and reached inside. Gilene was the first to tumble out. The crowd roared with laughter. Another guard hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward the pyre. The frightened cries of struggling women and curses from the guards accompanied her as she climbed over the dead piled around the waiting pillar. Flies swarmed about her head, their buzzing as loud in her ears as the crowd’s shrieking exuberance.
The soldier who pushed her onto the pyre bound her to the pillar with a length of rope, cinching it tightly so she wouldn’t escape when the flames licked at her feet.
“I hear the Prime picked ya last night.” A puzzled note entered his voice. “Odd, considering the look of ya.” He shrugged and left her to ponder his words.
Azarion had selected her for a purpose, not her appearance. She had little faith in the idea his plan for escape would work, but she had no choice in acting as his accomplice. His threat to reveal her deception had ensured that. The expression he’d worn while they bargained had been resolute. When the guards came to deliver him to his royal mistress, hatred had cast a shadow over his handsome features and flattened the color of his eyes to a flinty gray, and she had wondered whether this was the look his opponents saw when they faced him in the Pit.
She had retreated to a corner when the door opened and three guards crowded into the cell. They shackled Azarion’s hands and feet, securing the short lengths of chain to a collar snapped around his neck. The fetters forced him into a subservient hunch, and he shuffled instead of strode.
He had left the cell bound and returned the same way, except for the reek of perfume and the musk of sex. In the small hours before dawn, the catacombs’ dim torchlight revealed a faint limp and shoulders held more stiffly than proudly.
She’d awakened from a fitful doze at the first creak of the cell door and watched as Hanimus himself accompanied Azarion into the cell and removed the chains. The tattoos on his cheeks twisted into macabre shapes as he scowled at his champion fighter.
“You’ll not be fighting tomorrow with those injuries. You’d go down in the first melee.” He took a bucket of water and washcloth from one of the guards and set it at Azarion’s feet. “Have your bitch help you clean up.” He shook his head and exhaled a disgusted sigh. “I don’t see any other broken bones, but if you hurt too bad to stand it, tell the guard to summon a leech.”
Gilene almost believed Hanimus held some infinitesimal regard for his best fighter until she heard his last muttered comment as he exited the cell.
“Stupid cunt. She’ll end up killing him, and I’ll lose a fortune.”
Quiet returned to the cell once the guards left, except for Azarion’s staccato breathing. “Woman, are you awake?”
She’d hugged the tattered blanket he left with her. “Yes.”
“Help me with my shirt.”
His voice was no less commanding for its softness. Still, she heard its weary strain, the hints of pain suffered in silence.
He loosened the lacings in preparation and smothered a gasp when she eased the shirt off his broad shoulders. She winced as new scabs tore away with a crackle. A crosshatch of lashes ran the length of his back and disappeared into his trews.
She tossed the bloodstained shirt to the ground and stepped back for a look at his injuries. They stood out among the mural of old scars carved into his back, glistening a crimson-black from the oozing ribbons of dark blood that trickled down to stain his trews. Gilene forgot her reluctance to touch him. Her fingers glided a hairbreadth over the wounds. He must have sensed her near touch. Gooseflesh pebbled the bronze skin.
“Did the empress do this to you?”
He spoke to the wall. “Aye, and other things. You’ll need to clean the wounds and wrap my chest. I’ve a cracked rib or two as well.” He eased out of the trews, pausing to lean against the wall and take shallow breaths. More blood had dried in rivulets that ran the length of his thighs. More whip marks decorated his buttocks.
Empress Dalvila’s particular carnal preferences were fodder for gossip and sly laughter throughout the Empire. The reality of those preferences robbed any humor from the conjectures. Gilene wondered in which arena Azarion faced his deadliest enemies.
The tepid water had turned scarlet with the first rinse. He remained quiet as she cleaned the torn skin on his back and washed away the blood on his legs. There were no poultices to prevent the wounds from poisoning. He’d lived years as a Pit fighter; she suspected he’d suffered much worse than these and survived to fight again. Unwelcome sympathy welled inside her. He was lucky to still be standing. By the look of him, the empress enjoyed doling out a good flaying as much
as she did a fucking.
Azarion helped her tear the moth-eaten blanket into strips, pausing only once to hold his side as he took a deep breath. His nostrils flared, his lips went white, and sweat beaded his forehead.
Compelled to compassion by such obvious suffering, Gilene rested her hand on his arm. “Do you want me to call for the leech?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve had my fill of the Empire’s gentle touch for the night.”
The flesh along his left side sported a darkening bruise. Azarion favored that side, careful not to raise his arm too high.
She held a cloth strip in her hands. “It will pain you, but you have to raise your arm higher so I can wrap the bandages tight enough.”
He did as she instructed, emitting a soft groan when she tied the first strip snug around his chest. Despite her resentment of his extortion, she didn’t wish to visit more cruelty on him.
“Forgive me,” she said. “This is necessary.”
He accepted her apology with a grunt, remaining docile beneath her ministrations until she had swaddled his chest in a layer of makeshift bandages. Gilene surveyed her handiwork. It was a fair enough job considering what she had to work with and the fact that she wasn’t a trained healer.
Azarion gingerly tapped the bandages and gave a nod of approval. “This is good.”
She told herself she couldn’t care less if he lived or died. A small inner voice whispered that she lied. “A temporary measure to lessen the pain a little. If you wear it too long, you’ll bring on lung sickness.”
His scrutiny sharpened. “Are you a healer as well as a dyer?” He didn’t mention her ability to wield fire.
“I knew a man in our village with a similar injury. Our healer gave him the same instructions.”
His prolonged scrutiny made her tense. “You can take the bed. Sleep. I’ll breathe better sitting up.”
She had avoided his pallet earlier in favor of a seat on the floor. Since her arrival in his cell, he’d shown no interest in bedding her. Still wary, she had accepted his offer and stretched out on the bed, careful to keep the cell door and Azarion in her view. Sleep was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. The catacombs were a dangerous place, her cellmate a threat despite his injuries and reassurances he wouldn’t hurt her. But she fell asleep as soon as her head rested on the straw-filled mattress, the image of Azarion sitting straight-backed against the wall next to her the last thing she saw.
She had awakened to a comforting warmth and the tickling vibration of a voice whispering in her ear. A heavy body pressed against her back, long legs entwining with hers. Panic roared through her, scattering away any vestiges of sleep as she lunged to break free. A muscular arm tightened around her midriff, and the legs tensed, trapping her as effectively as any cage.
“Be still,” Azarion ordered, his tone gruff, his grip unyielding. “The guards are coming to get you, and your illusion has faded.”
Unlike fire magic, which she could summon by will, illusion required true, incanted spellwork. Gilene spoke the words her mentor had taught her to revive her illusion, hoping she’d gotten it right. The guards’ voices echoed in the distance as they ordered gladiators awake for their breakfast and retrieved the sacrificial tithes from some of the cells.
Her stomach churned, and she forced back a hard knot of tears. She hated the Empire. Hated the power, the debauchery, the careless disregard for its citizens and vassals. She traveled to the capital each year, suffered degradation, burned in the Pit, and returned home scarred in both soul and body. She shifted, and Azarion’s hold loosened just enough so that she could turn onto her opposite side and meet his gaze. She and this slave fighter shared a common truth. He dealt death with sword and ax, and she with fire. Neither commanded their fates.
As if he heard her thoughts, his hand left her waist to stroke her jawline. He was sickly pale, and she wondered how much pain he was in as he lay beside her in a position that no doubt made his ribs ache. “Do we have an agreement?” he said.
They weren’t words of encouragement or gentleness. Gilene brushed his hand from her cheek. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Then we have an agreement.”
His eyes warmed. “I know why Beroe sent you, Agacin. Even beyond the fire.” He levered himself carefully off the pallet, leaving her puzzled by his enigmatic remark. He groaned under his breath and pressed a hand to his side, head hanging low for a moment before he gained his feet.
Doubt and compassion had risen within her. Even with her help, she didn’t think he’d escape Kraelag alive. The fact he’d survived the rigors of the Pit this long testified to his prowess in combat. Still, cracked ribs left even the toughest warrior vulnerable, and Azarion’s movements lacked their casual grace from the night before. If he had to fight his way out of the city, he was dead.
When the guards opened the cell door, Azarion’s shoulders slumped, and he shuffled to one of the cell’s far corners, his movements as hesitant and slow as an old woman’s. Astonished, Gilene caught his quick, warning glance. He might be injured, but this show of weakness was merely an affectation.
She didn’t look back when they took her from the cell to rejoin the condemned women in a common cell closer to the Pit.
They had passed the day in the stifling prison, serenaded by the applause and jeers of the crowd, the howls of injured and dying animals, and the clash of sword on shield as gladiators fought to the death.
Now, with the crowd swelling the seats ringing the arena, baying for their blood, the women wept and prayed to indifferent gods.
In their awning-covered balcony high above the masses, the emperor and empress lounged on couches in the shade, attended by a small army of servants. They were too far away for Gilene to make out their expressions, but she saw the emperor raise and lower his hand, signaling the final Rite of Spring—the immolation of the women—to begin. The guards tossed lit torches onto the pyre and fled from the arena floor.
Each year this nightmare played out the same way. The signal, the torches set to the kindling, the crowd’s roar of approval, the cries for mercy from the women struggling against their tethers.
Tears washed Gilene’s cheeks. She found sanctuary within herself, the call to fire that ran through her spirit in rivers.
Witch-fire, the villagers named it. An ancient magic woven into the flesh and fabric of a single girl child born each generation in Beroe. No one knew from whence it originated or why only one woman from every generation in a small village inherited it, but the village elders had kept its secret close and had deceived the Empire for decades.
Gilene summoned witch-fire to join the flames consuming the kindling surrounding her. She breathed the acrid smoke of charring wood and the burning dead. Deaf to the victims’ laments and the spectators’ applause, she concentrated on the internal river of magic, captured its flames, and swelled it to a ravenous creature that bit and clawed at the cage of her will. Smoke and heat swirled around her. She ignored both, bound by the rise of power.
She shrieked as the fire erupted around the pillar’s base, then shot skyward in a column of white flame. It fountained back to the ground, servant to her silent bidding, incinerating within and around it in an instant. The sacrificed women, the pillar to which they were tied, the dead upon which they stood—all turned to ash in the space of one breath to another. Flames shot toward the stone firebreak surrounding the Pit and protecting the spectators in the lower seats. Still, many of those fled, not trusting that the wall would contain the hellfire tide that clawed at its unyielding surface.
Only Gilene stood untouched within the conflagration, now cloaked in another illusion. Freed, she leapt off the burning platform and sped through the fire, nothing more than flame herself to the eyes of the exuberant crowd. Spirits of the newly dead fluttered past her. She thought she glimpsed Pell’s vaporous features before the hot wind gen
erated by the fire shredded the apparition.
Power leached from her like oil from a broken lamp. By the time she reached one of the deserted entrances to the catacombs, she was stumbling and bent with the urge to vomit. The cool interior offered respite, and she collapsed against it, sloughing off her disguise.
Her trial wasn’t over. Gilene wiped the sweat and tears from her face and straightened from the wall. Fire exacted a steep price for its subservience. She didn’t have much time left before that price left her helpless. She exchanged one illusion for another and descended into the underground. The clusters of guards ignored her, uninterested in an old slave who clung to the shadows as he went about his daily tasks.
Azarion occupied the last cell at the end of one of the long corridors branching off the underground’s main hub. Once more Gilene incanted a spell and became the much-despised Hanimus.
Her vision turned hazy at the edges. She flattened her palm against an archway to stay upright and concentrated on the illusion. The chief handler’s appearance proved the most difficult she had ever attempted.
A solitary soldier monitored the hallway. When he saw Gilene lumbering toward him as Hanimus, he straightened from his indolent pose and saluted. Her luck held when she gestured for his keys. He dropped them into her waiting palm without question.
Azarion regarded her from the cell’s narrow window. Gilene unlocked and opened the door, stepping aside just in time as the gladiator rushed the opening. The guard had no chance to cry out before Azarion grabbed his head and snapped his neck. He dropped to the ground without a sound. The years of traveling to Krael’s capital and witnessing its casual cruelties had left Gilene hardened to many such sights, but her stomach still roiled at the sound of cracking bone.