“Cakes and cookies and candies?” Cho sighed and clutched his empty plate to his chest. “Be still my heart.”
Serilda ignored his theatrics. “Lucas?”
Sullivan had almost polished off his piece of pie, and he popped the last bite into his mouth with a guilty look. He shrugged. “It will do.”
Anger spurted through me. He had loved the bloody pie, given how quickly he had inhaled it. He was just being difficult because I had annoyed him before, and he was still clutching my pillow under his arm.
“What do you think, Serilda?” Theroux asked.
She finally took a bite. For a moment, her eyes brightened, but then she swallowed, set her plate on the counter, and pushed it away. My heart sank. She hadn’t liked it.
“I think that it’s the best pie I’ve had in a long, long time.”
Her words surprised me, especially since they didn’t match her expression. Her eyes dimmed, her lips twisted, and her shoulders slumped. She almost seemed . . . sad.
But the moment passed, and she was her usual cool, detached self again. Serilda looked at Cho, Theroux, and Sullivan. Cho smiled, Theroux shrugged, and Sullivan shook his head. One vote for, one neutral, and one against. Up to Serilda then.
Finally, she turned to me. “What’s your name?”
I opened my mouth to say Everleigh, but then I remembered that I couldn’t use that name ever again. Lady Everleigh Saffira Winter Blair was dead, along with the rest of the royals.
“Well?” Serilda said. “You do have a name, don’t you?”
A name. I needed a name right bloody now before she became any more suspicious than she already was. My gaze darted around the kitchen, looking for inspiration. I focused on Cho, who was cutting himself a second piece of pie. And I realized that I did have a name—the one I had always wanted.
“Evie.” I looked at Serilda again. “My name is Evie.”
Her eyes narrowed. She had noticed my hesitation and knew that I was lying, but I lifted my chin and stared back at her.
Chapter Thirteen
Serilda was right. Cho had polished off the first pie by the time that I slid a second one into the oven.
Cho smiled as he gobbled up the last few bites of the pie, and the dragon on his neck winked at me. Well, at least someone around here liked me. Everyone else? Not so much, judging from the suspicious stares that Theroux, Sullivan, and Serilda kept giving me.
But I had done enough to earn a spot in the kitchen, because Theroux stabbed his knife at me. “Come back at four this afternoon to help with dinner. And don’t be late.”
That was hours from now. What was I supposed to do until then? Judging from Sullivan’s smug smile, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“Yes, sir.”
Theroux glowered at me, thinking that I was being sarcastic, but I kept my gaze steady on his, letting him know that I wouldn’t be intimidated. The kitchen steward might be my new boss, but I wasn’t going to bow and scrape to him like I had to Felton. I wasn’t going to do that ever again, no matter how tenuous it made my position here. At this point, my pride was the only thing that I had left.
After a few seconds, Theroux went back to slicing vegetables.
Serilda glanced at Cho. “If you’ve finished stuffing your face, perhaps we can finally get on with the day’s business?”
He scraped up a few final crumbs and popped them into his mouth. Cho glanced longingly at the pie in the oven, but it wasn’t close to being done, so he sighed and set his empty plate on the counter. “If I must.”
“You must.” Serilda looked at Sullivan. “You know what to do with her.”
He nodded, and Serilda strode out of the kitchen. Cho smiled at me again, then followed her.
Sullivan shoved my stolen pillow into my chest. “Here you go. You’re going to need this.”
“For what?”
He gave me another one of his sharp, devastating smiles. “To cry into after I get done with you.”
A bit of magic flashed in his eyes, making them burn bright and blue. He was trying to intimidate me. A week ago, it probably would have worked. But not now.
“Oh, Sully,” I drawled. “Are you threatening me? How adorable.”
I had already antagonized him plenty, and the wise thing to do would have been to keep my mouth shut. But I was still pissed at his dismissive comment about my pie so I stepped forward, close enough that the pillow in my hand brushed up against his solid, muscled chest, and stared him down, just like I had Theroux.
Not the response Sullivan expected or wanted, judging from how quickly the magic vanished from his gaze.
A bark of laughter rang out, and we both looked over at Theroux. The kitchen steward cleared his throat, dropped his gaze, and started chopping his vegetables again.
Sullivan glared at him another second before turning back to me. “Follow me, highness, and we’ll see how tough you really are.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” I waved my pillow out to the side. “Lead the way, Sully.”
His right eye twitched, along with his hand, as if he was thinking about shocking the shit out of me with his lightning again, but Sullivan restrained himself, whirled around, and stormed out of the kitchen.
* * *
We walked through the dining hall, which was empty now, since breakfast had come and gone while I’d been making the pies, and stepped outside.
Sullivan set off at a quick pace, and I had to hurry to keep up with him. Long-legged bastard. I expected him to keep stewing in his silent anger, but he started talking.
“You’ve already seen the dining hall. Breakfast is at eight, dinner is at six. You’ll report to the kitchen every morning and afternoon to help Theroux and the staff prepare meals for everyone, as well as cornucopia and other treats to sell to the arena crowds. We host a matinee on Saturday afternoon, then the two main shows on Saturday and Sunday nights. You get two meals a day, clothing, and a bed in the barracks. Everyone gets a cut of the ticket and food sales. The gladiators can earn more, depending on how well they fight in the arena. The compound is our home base, but if you stay long enough, you’ll come with us when we go on tour to Andvari later this year.”
I doubted that anyone in Bellona would want to go to Andvari after word of Queen Cordelia’s assassination got out, but of course I couldn’t say that.
“Whether they are a cook master, an acrobat, or a gladiator, everyone around here pulls their own weight without complaint. In case you haven’t guessed by now, I’m the troupe enforcer.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that I enforce the rules. And that if you make any trouble, if you lie, cheat, steal, or anything else, I will personally fry you to a crisp before throwing your rotting carcass out onto the street. Understand?”
I opened my mouth, but he walked on before I could answer. Definitely a rhetorical question.
He pointed out the structures on this side of the street. “The gargoyles, strixes, and other creatures are housed in those stables, the bone masters are over there, and don’t step into that building without knocking or an acrobat will likely tumble into you. Or worse, one of the wire walkers will lose his balance and land right on top of you.”
We kept going until we reached a three-foot-high stone wall close to Sullivan’s house. Several iron gates were set into the wall, which formed a large circle around a flat clearing of hard-packed dirt that was the same shape and size as the center ring inside the arena.
“After you finish your morning work in the kitchen, you will change into your fighting leathers and train with the rest of the gladiators,” Sullivan said.
“Serilda said that I wasn’t a fighter,” I said in a snide voice. “So why bother training me?”
“Everyone trains until Serilda says otherwise. She’ll decide whether we can make a fighter out of you or not.” He eyed me. “My money is on not, though.”
My money was on not too. Captain Auster hadn’t had any luck training me
. Why would this be any different?
“There’s only one rule here—what happens in the ring, stays in the ring,” Sullivan said. “Someone knocks you down or hurts you, too bad. That’s what happens to gladiators. You fight, you bleed, and sometimes, you die. Don’t come crying to me about any of it, and don’t take it outside the ring. You have a problem with someone, then you solve it with your sword, shield, and fists in there. Got it?”
Another rhetorical question.
The gladiators were already here, dressed in their pale gray fighting leathers and sandals. Some were talking and relaxing on benches that were pushed up against the wall, while others were clustered around the racks of swords, shields, and other weapons at one end of the ring. A blackboard covered with names and numbers stood a few feet away from the weapons racks. It must have denoted the gladiators’ rankings, since Paloma was scrawled across the top in white chalk, with Emilie right below it.
Both women were already inside the ring. Paloma was sitting on a bench, talking with several other gladiators, while Emilie stood in front of a weapons rack, pulling out first one sword, then another, as if trying to figure out which one would give her an edge.
“Why aren’t they fighting yet? What are they waiting for?” I asked.
“Me.”
Sullivan pushed through the nearest gate, walked over to one of the benches, and shrugged out of his long gray coat. Apparently, being the troupe enforcer also involved training the gladiators, as well as disciplining them. The warriors all snapped to attention and faced him.
I had no choice but to follow Sullivan into the ring. Someone snickered, and I realized that I was still carrying that pillow around like an unruly child. I grimaced. I was getting tired of people laughing at me, but I tightened my grip on the pillow. I had stolen it fair and square, and I wasn’t giving it up.
Sullivan rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing brown, muscled forearms. The whole time he had been wearing his coat, he had seemed stiff, formal, and, well, buttoned-up. But now, without the garment, he seemed more relaxed, more natural, more like a warrior. Both versions were attractive in their own way, far more than I should have noticed.
Sullivan drew the sword from the scabbard belted to his waist and pointed the weapon at me. “Sit here and be quiet until I call for you.”
I opened my mouth to snipe back at him, but he had already stalked away.
Sullivan strode out into the middle of the ring. He raised his sword high overhead, and the gladiators moved into two squads, forming the same ranks that they had in the arena last night. I had been right about the blackboard denoting the rankings, since Paloma stood at the head of one squad, while Emilie was at the front of the other one.
“Weapons drills!” Sullivan barked out. “Now!”
The gladiators raised their own swords high, saluting him, and then started the drills. I sat on the bench and watched as the gladiators split into teams of two and went through a series of attacks, defenses, and counterattacks.
Sullivan moved from one team to the next, barking out orders or congratulating someone on a particularly good strike. Occasionally, he would stop and show one of the gladiators how to position his sword or shield, or how to block an attack and then lash out with a quick counterstrike. Most magiers thought that their power was enough to protect them, so they didn’t bother learning how to use weapons, but Sullivan seemed to be an exception. Sword, spear, dagger, shield. He was comfortable with all of them.
The winter sun warmed the arena, and the smells of sweat and leather filled the air. The familiar aromas reminded me of standing on one of the balconies at Seven Spire, watching Captain Auster and his men train. My stomach twisted. All those men were dead, and Auster was probably rotting in the palace dungeon, if Vasilia hadn’t already executed him.
Sullivan made three laps around the ring before coming back to the center. “Now with magic!”
The gladiators kept doing their drills, but this time, they added magic. The magiers conjured up balls of fire, shards of ice, and bolts of lightning and hurled them at their opponents, many of whom were mutts who used their strength and speed to either absorb the blows or duck out of the way.
The remaining gladiators shifted into their morph forms, revealing the teeth, talons, fur, and scales that lurked beneath their human skin—except for Paloma.
Instead of shifting, she fought as her regular mortal self, even though she would have had much greater strength and speed, not to mention razor-sharp teeth and talons, if she had shifted into her ogre form. Perhaps she was holding back since this was training time. Or perhaps Paloma simply didn’t need to shift, given how badly she was beating her opponent.
Paloma was sparring with Emilie, who had incredible speed and some enhanced strength, and was smashing her sword into Paloma’s shield over and over again.
But she was still losing.
Paloma dug her feet into the ground and absorbed the blows. Emilie might as well have been whacking at a tree with a butter knife. It would have been more effective than what she was doing to Paloma. Emilie knew it too, and she darted this way and that, trying to use her speed to get past the other woman’s defenses, but Paloma pivoted back and forth, blocking every attack with her shield.
Exertion stained Emilie’s cheeks tomato-red, and I could hear her huffing and puffing even over the repeated clashes and clangs of the swords and shields, but Paloma wasn’t winded at all. Emilie let out a loud, frustrated scream and made a reckless lunge, and that’s when Paloma finally went on the offensive. She spun to the side and used her longer reach to slap Emilie’s sword out of her hand. In an instant, Paloma had her blade up against the other woman’s throat.
“Good match,” Paloma said.
She lowered her sword, smiled, and clapped Emilie on the shoulder before turning to see who Sullivan was instructing.
Emilie’s face twisted with rage the second that Paloma turned away, and she snatched her sword off the ground and twirled it around in her hand, staring at Paloma’s back. I knew that cold, calculating look. I had seen it before many, many times at the palace, whenever someone got an expensive necklace, or a fine new hunting dog, or a lucrative business deal.
Jealousy truly was an ugly, ugly thing.
Paloma apparently thought that they were friends, but it was obvious that Emilie did not. Paloma was her competition, and Emilie seemed fed up with being the second-best gladiator in the Black Swan troupe. But she didn’t get the chance to do anything about it, since Sullivan halted the drills.
“That’s enough for now,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that we have a new recruit.”
He looked at me, and I realized that this was my summons. So I got to my feet, shrugged out of his blue jacket, set it down on the bench next to my stolen pillow, and walked out to the center of the ring.
Sullivan arched an eyebrow. He wanted me to introduce myself.
I waved at the gladiators. “Hi. My name is Evie.”
No one responded. No one smiled, nodded, or gave me any sort of welcoming look or gesture. Tough crowd.
Sullivan gestured at Paloma, who handed me her sword and shield. I almost dropped them on the ground. It was all that I could do to lift the sword, and I had to hold on to one of the straps on the back of the shield instead of sliding my arm through it.
“How do you even carry these things?” I muttered. “Much less fight with them?”
Paloma shook her head, as though she already felt sorry for me. So did the ogre on her neck. This was not going to be pleasant.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Sullivan said.
I looked at the gladiators, expecting one of them to step forward, but Sullivan pointedly cleared his throat. I tensed, finally realizing what was going on, then slowly faced him. Sure enough, he was holding a sword. He smiled at me, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Not going to be pleasant at all.
I barely had time to lift my shield before he whipped up his sword and char
ged.
Clang!
That first sharp blow almost knocked the shield from my hand, but I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip on it.
Clang!
Clang! Clang!
Clang!
Sullivan smashed his sword into my shield over and over again. He wasn’t using his lightning, but he didn’t have to, given how much faster, stronger, and more skilled he was than me. Every blow made my entire body ache and vibrate, like I was a drum that he was beating.
“Come on,” he said. “You can do better than that. Here. I’ll even give you a free shot.”
He backed away and held his arms out to his sides. His smile was even wider than it had been before, his eyes brighter. The bastard was enjoying this.
I blinked, and suddenly, I wasn’t seeing Sullivan anymore. Instead, I was back at Seven Spire, in one of the training yards, watching Vasilia give me that same sort of smug smirk as she lazily twirled one of her jeweled swords around in her hand, getting ready to cut me with it again. She had always beaten me when it came to weapons. She had always beaten me at everything, just as she had taunted before she had blasted me off that cliff.
“Well, come on,” Sullivan said again. “Take your shot.”
A cold fist of rage wrapped around my heart, squeezing tight. I wasn’t going to best Sullivan, but I had to try. I couldn’t afford for him or any of the other gladiators to think that I was weak. More importantly, I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to keep my mouth shut and plaster a smile on my face and stay in the background like I had all those years at the palace. I just wanted to be myself, for the first time in a long time.
The shield was far too heavy for me to wield properly, so I tossed it aside. Surprise flashed across Sullivan’s face, but he kept his arms out to his sides. Then, before I could think too much about how badly this was going to end, I wrapped both hands around my borrowed sword, screamed, and charged forward.
I raised my sword as though I was going to slash it across his chest, but at the last second, I went low, swiping out at his legs instead. But of course Sullivan still easily avoided the blow.
Kill the Queen (Crown of Shards #1) Page 53