by Ana Mardoll
She reaches up to brush hair away from her eyes. Her expression is softer now, less wary. "You were all fuzzy around the edges; everything is so much sharper now."
"If you want to keep those, you'll have to hide them from Handler when he comes in," Heather says, her bored voice turning stern.
Miyuki jerks around to look at her, confused by the sudden order. "Why?" One hand reaches up to touch her glasses.
"Who's Handler?" I add, mildly surprised by the demand in my tone. I feel very protective towards this girl, which is odd considering she's a stranger to me. But if we were brought in together and I knew her names, we must have known each other before all this. Were we friends?
Hana frowns and leans forward on the table. "There's no easy way to explain this," she says, picking her words carefully. "You are now the property of the Master of Masques. He owns this place," she waves her hands to encompass the large cavern, "and a lot more that you haven't seen yet. Outside, there's a place where boys fight and people bet on them: that's the arena."
Miyuki blinks at her. "We have to fight?"
"No." Hana's flinty eyes flash with irritation, though it doesn't seem aimed at us. "The boys fight. We girls are kept as prizes. When the boys do well, we're sent to them as a reward."
"We don't get to say 'no'," Sappho adds quietly, running her hand over one of her tattooed arms.
"Handler says we're not allowed to refuse," Hana corrects firmly. "Handler doesn't come into the rooms to watch." She turns back to us. "Handler is our keeper. The Master put him in charge of us. He comes to collect us when one of the boys is awarded a prize, and he brings food and clothes and things we need."
"He'll be here soon," Imani murmurs, tracing slow circles over the rim of an empty bowl.
Hana nods, looking solemn. "He comes to process the new girls, to chain them and collect their old clothes. We're not allowed to keep things from before. Heather's right about your glasses; we'll have to hide them when he comes."
Miyuki's fingers cling protectively to the hinge of her glasses, and I'm gripped by fears of my own. "They're going to take our clothes?" My palms are sweaty on the rough rock lip of the table. "But they're the only things we have, the only connection to our memories!"
"Aniyah—"
Imani reaches out with her hand to squeeze mine, but a sound behind us makes her freeze. The noise is heavy and loud, a scrape of stone that sets my teeth on edge. Beside me, Miyuki starts upright and fumbles her glasses into her sweater sleeve before whirling around to look. I turn with her, ignoring a sudden painful stab in my spine at the movement.
Along the far wall sit two giant double doors, ornately gilded in strange tracing patterns that jar not even an echo of recollection in my mind. These metal doors scrape open to allow a man to stalk through. Tall and somber, he's cloaked in a hooded robe that covers every part of him except his hands and face. His skin is ashen gray and lined with dark veins, until he steps into the light and I realize they aren't veins at all, but carved lines forming deep furrows in his skin. I realize with inexplicable horror that the furrows in his hands and face match the alien patterns decorating the eerie golden doors.
He approaches us in a slow, stately walk. His eyes are closed, their lids bearing the same ridges as the rest of his face, yet he seems to see without difficulty. "Diamond, why are the new acquisitions still dressed?" His voice is low with disapproval. An overwhelming fear stabs my heart as he draws closer.
Hana jumps to her feet. "Well, they were very thirsty, Handler," she says, her voice high and breathy. "And then they were hungry. We were thinking about having a bath, but we just washed—"
"Enough." His voice cuts over hers and she falls silent. "They are to be chained and named, by order of the Master." Without warning, he turns his head to me and I take an involuntary step back, his unseeing gaze setting my nerves on edge. "Wrists out, girl," he orders, stepping towards me.
I don't think I could do it—I hardly understand the demand—but Imani is there to steady me with her warm touch. "Like this, hon," she says, her hands guiding my elbows forward until my wrists jut out awkwardly in front of me.
The man towers over me as his gray hands reach out to seize mine. He draws a glittering chain from his robes and wraps it around both my wrists, tightening the metal until I cry out in pain. He does something I can't quite see, his hands blocking my sight as he works over my wrists. The tightness lessens to mere irritation, and a hard snap cuts through the air. Then he releases me, dropping my arms without warning.
I drag my wrists up to my face and see two slender chains embedded with strange gems I cannot name. They turn a deep green in the light, almost as green as Heather's eyes, but melt into a thick inky purple when I shade the chain with my hand. The chains could be taken for pretty bracelets were it not for the fear and pain I feel.
"Alexandrite," the man declares, his voice hard and cold. "Rare, of course. Only quartz for the other," he adds, moving without preamble to Miyuki. His hands draw out another set of chains as Chloe steadies her. "Your chains are set with smoky quartz, as that was all we had on hand at short notice. Too good for you, but the boys won't know the difference. Quit whimpering, girl." Another hard crack breaks through the air. Miyuki sags against Chloe when he moves away, staring bleakly at the chains on her wrists.
"Diamond, I will return shortly with the third meal. Have their clothes ready for disposal. I must attend an arena fight, a minor one for which your presence is not required. However, there is a new fighter in the ring. If he survives, the Master will wish to reward him. I leave it to you whether to send one of the new girls to be broken in; I know how competitive you are over fresh blood." His last words are cut off by the screeching doors, the scrape of metal against stone sending shivers up my spine.
I hold perfectly still, my lungs struggling to breathe again in the wake of the tangible fear trailing our terrifying keeper. Miyuki pulls out her glasses to study her chains more closely, frowning at the murky white-gray gems adorning her wrists. "What do they mean?" she asks, looking up at Hana with a frown. "Quartz, Alexandrite, Diamond? They're stones, aren't they?"
"Precious stones," Hana answers, thinning her lips. "That's what they call us. We have to learn the words, have to use them around the Master and Handler and the boys, but they're not our names. We don't ever use those words here when we're alone."
I swallow at her words, my throat dry again. And if the Master overhears us using our names, we die, I think, Heather's warning ringing in my ears. Yet at the same time, I'm glad. I'm grateful that these girls risked their lives to save my name, that I haven't been reduced to nothing more than a gemstone I don't recognize, this strange purple-green alexandrite.
No, I think, closing my eyes in a silent vow, that will never be my name.
"So that's it?" Miyuki asks, her voice smaller than before. "There's no choice? I have to answer to Quartz?"
"Outside, yes. But not in here. Not with us." Hana extends her arms, palms facing up, and pulls away the scraps of gauze that cover her wrists. Flashing brightly against her skin are matching cuffs of silver chain embedded with clear stones that wink with a thousand inner facets. "The Master calls me Diamond," she says, studying the cuffs with a cold expression. She flips her hair over her shoulder, defiance hidden in the flow of those soft rippling waves. "But my name is Hana."
"Amethyst," Imani whispers next to me, pulling off her own gauze and raising her hands as fists to show dark purple gems. When she meets my gaze, I see an answering flicker of rebellion deep in her sorrowful eyes, even as the delicate features of her face maintain a sympathetic smile. "But my name is Imani."
"Sapphire," Sappho chimes in, snorting as she rolls her eyes. Sparkling blue circles her wrists when she raises them for us to see. "But my name is Sappho," she says triumphantly. "It's written on my skin. No one can ever take it away."
Chloe tosses her own red tresses, anger flashing in her deep brown eyes. "Ruby," she all but spits, lifting her hands to
display flashing fire. "But my name is Chloe."
The last one, Heather, is silent for a long moment. Eventually she drags her wrists to the table, metal striking stone with a dull thunk. Her eyes are as brilliant green as the gemstones embedded in her chains, yet her gaze is dull as it slides over her cuffs. "Emerald," she says in a flat voice. "You can call me Heather. And we really ought to get your clothes off, unless you want to be punished on your first cycle."
"But why rush the fun? There are always plenty of chances here in our vault," she adds, her dry sarcasm edged with despair.
Chapter 6
Keoki
The iron gate set into the wall enclosing the valley is twice my height and as wide as I am tall. Metal grinds against stone as the gate rises into the wall, and I recognize the strange sound I heard earlier before it was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. This must be how Tony entered the arena, I realize, staring up at the huge gash carved into the side of the mountain.
Behind the gate waits an inky darkness I'm hesitant to enter, but Tony strides in without apprehension. Not wanting to seem afraid, I follow him at a matching pace and hope I look appropriately confident. I'm momentarily blinded by the plunge from dazzling sun-flooded arena to cool shadowy cave, but I hear Tony's steps on the stone just ahead of me and manage to follow without banging into any inconvenient walls.
After a few strides, my eyes adjust and I see the flicker of flame coming from torches set into the walls at regular intervals. Nor is that our only source of light; the walls and ceiling are coated with a phosphorescent substance that glows a cool greenish-blue around the welcoming yellow fire. The combined light doesn't compare to the glaring sun and glittering sand at our backs, but I can see well enough to avoid rough spots in the floor and pick out the shape of Tony ahead, his walk confident and easy.
He seems to know exactly where we're going, which is comforting when shapes rise up from the shadows: strangers approaching us, their features vague in the flickering firelight. I have a moment of wariness, unsure how to respond to this fresh influx of people into my world. Then I catch laughter, welcoming and teasing, and my muscles relax at the familiarity of the sound even before my mind catches up. More boys. The ones Tony said he'd introduce me to.
A laughing voice, thick and rich, calls out as they approach. "Hey, Tony, you picked up a new addition? You hear that, Justin? You don't have to be the newbie no more."
I squint to pick out the owner of the voice from the approaching shapes: a guy about my height but with a slighter build, his arm draped teasingly over the shoulder of another boy our age. The owner of the voice is dark, his skin a richer brown than my own, and his hair is styled in tiny cornrows beaded at the ends. Scruff covers the top of his lip and traces the bottom of his jaw, framing a wry mouth complimented by dancing eyes.
"'Bout time, Christian," comes the glum answer from his companion, low and almost defensively surly. He's taller than his laughing friend, his shoulders hunched in irritation at the friendly arm draped over him. Black kinky curls fall to his shoulders and into narrowed eyes that watch me with suspicion.
"Aww, Justin, don't pout," returns Christian, amused and teasing. "You'll always be a newbie to us."
"Tony, seriously? You were saved by a newbie?" A new voice rings out; teasing, but with a competitive edge. From the shapes around us I pick out a boy with white skin verging on the edge of a tan, and light sandy hair cropped short against his skull. He grins in the firelight, bright teeth flashing in a taunting smile.
"Go fuck your hands, Lucas," Tony snaps. "I wasn't saved by anyone. He lined me up for a kill, that's all."
"It was a good kill," observes another voice, friendly and warm, with the air of someone trying to smooth over an argument before it can start. "Good assist, too. Jumping on its back like that, tearing off the armor with your bare hands? Gutsy. The crowd loved it, you could tell." A strong hand claps around my shoulders and I jump in surprise at the unexpected side-hug.
"Uh, hey, thanks," I offer in response to his praise. I turn my head to pick out my new friend, trying to be cool about the whole hugging thing. His face is white against the flickering firelight, much paler than Tony's fair coloring, and he's taller than us both. His brown hair is straight instead of curly but otherwise as long as mine, brushing his broad shoulders whenever he turns his head. Unlike the other boys he wears cloth wrapped over his chest and stomach, but even multiple layers can't hide his sharply-defined muscles.
He'd look intimidating, I decide, were it not for the wide smile spread across his face, his teeth perfectly white and straight save for one crooked outlier on the upper right side, twisted in such a way as to make his smile faintly goofy and wholly approachable. "Name's Reese," he says, giving me another friendly squeeze as we walk. "Don't guess you remember yours, huh?" he asks, glancing sideways at me.
I shake my head. "No, I just woke up and here I was."
"Yeah, that's how it goes," he says easily, as though this were no big deal, and maybe it isn't. "C'mon, we'll get you patched up and dressed. Warm meal coming soon, I'm betting, and you can have Alpha's room to sleep in."
"Who's Alpha?" I ask, not sure I like the idea of sharing rooms with a stranger.
"He died, about three matches back." Tony's cool voice drifts back to me, not bothering to turn his head.
"You'll last longer than he did," Reese predicts. "Alpha was always kinda full of himself. Not a team player. Welcome home, newbie."
The tunnel we've been walking through suddenly widens out around us, and Reese's welcome echoes through the expanse of a huge cavern. I stumble to a halt, causing Reese to pull up short as well, and blink with surprise at the disorienting play of light against darkness. Above our heads is a vast blanket of black, the sound of our footsteps echoing up to a ceiling too far away to see. The phosphorescent moss coating the walls climbs into the inky void and disappears in the distance, the faint glow not strong enough to reach us.
Although the ceiling is lost to my eyes, I can see perfectly well around me. Thin pillars of stone shoot up at regular intervals throughout the cavern. Their tops disappear into the darkness but their middles are ringed with torches. The flames dance and flicker, their light spreading through the enormous cavern to bathe the area in a welcome glow. Around the sides of the room, heavy wooden doors have been cut into the stone walls, their iron hinges glinting dull black in the torchlight. To the left, not far from where we spill out from the tunnel into the cavern, a smaller passage leads off into darkness.
In the center of the cave, the stone floor has been dug out and a large rectangular pit has been filled with sand—real sand, soft and pale in the torchlight. A man with warmly tanned skin and a sparse beard spread thinly over his chin waits in the center of the pit. Relief flickers in his eyes when he sees Tony stride into the cavern at the head of our group, and the man walks toward us. His gait is hindered by a limp in his right leg, for which he uses a thick cane made from dark glossy wood.
He smiles when he sees me, but the warmth he projects doesn't reach his tired eyes. He approaches me and Reese, leaving Tony to stalk over to a series of hooks set in one of the stone pillars where he begins shucking off his leather armor and hanging it on the hooks. "Welcome home," says the man, echoing Reese's words from earlier. "My name is Matías. I'm the teacher here. You're newly awakened?"
He's older than us, though not so much that my brain wants to call him 'old'. I recognize him as a man, while the others possess a wider variety of words: boy, guy, dude, bro. Matías extends his hand and I reach out to clasp it with my own, the gesture familiar to my muscles if not to my brain.
"Uh, I guess so," I tell him, feeling a little off-balance. "I was just saying, I woke up in the arena out there. I don't remember anything before that."
Matías nods, leaning on his cane for support. "That's normal," he says, his tone gentle. "Happened to all of us. You're one of us now, an arena fighter. You'll be introduced to everyone, though it looks like you have a he
ad-start there," he adds, his smile turning wry, "and we'll get you re-dressed. You can't keep your old clothes, but sometimes there are clues in them. Strip down?"
I blink at the request, not sure how I feel about this. He's said it like this is perfectly ordinary, and maybe it is; out of the corner of my eye, I see Tony still undressing out in the open as though the rest of us weren't even here. He pulls away the last of his armor and then tears off the cloth that lay underneath, dropping the sweaty material carelessly on the ground and grabbing up fresh clothes to wind around his waist. Distracted, my eyes linger to count the scars on his back with a worried frown. He's strong and lithe, and I saw how fast he moved out there. What could have cut him badly enough to leave those marks?
"C'mon, you can lean on me," Reese says, offering me his muscular arm as support. "Christian, come help the newbie? Justin, you check his—"
"His shoes, yeah. I know," interrupts the kid with the luxurious dark curls, his voice sour.
"Oh, hey, uh," I start to object, but Christian is already squatting on the floor, pulling the shoe off my left foot and handing it up to the dour-looking Justin. I wobble and lean against Reese, deciding it wiser not to topple over. "Why can't I keep my clothes?"
"They just get ripped up during practice," replies Christian, chuckling as he tugs at my other foot.
Matías nods at this. "The buckles and loops are a hazard. Too easy for something to grab you and pull you in."
The guy with the light sandy-brown hair, the one who had taunted Tony, watches me undress with a dry expression. "Not that there aren't plenty of ways to kill you at a distance," he adds helpfully.
"Lucas, let the newbie get a name first before you start in on him," Reese suggests, his hands moving to help me. "Pull this over your head." Between the two of us, we get my shirt off and Reese checks it carefully as though searching for something. "Nothing special here," he mutters to himself. "Christian, have you and Justin got anything?"