“Come on. Let tomorrow be tomorrow. Dance with me. You’ll sleep better, wake up refreshed and ready to race.” His strong jaw was set, and his calm eyes unblinking. Yet he bore some indeterminate air of pleading. Coaxing without knowing it. Or perhaps just doing it well.
“I don’t dance, Milo,” she said, almost wishing she did. “They never taught that at the academy.”
He gave his distinctive, dimpled smirk again, seemingly never put off by her distance. By anything, really. “You don’t need to be taught to dance. You just have to relax. Let the tension go. Enjoy the music. It comes naturally.”
Cristiana tore her eyes away. “Maybe for you.”
Milosha clasped her chin and forced her gaze back up at him. “Why do you want this so much?” He waited for a reply, but none came. “Do you want to redeem Kastor? Do what he could not?”
“Kastor was cheated,” Cristiana replied. “He deserved to be champion, but the Grand Lumis ousted him anyway. It was unfair.”
“So you think you can bring fairness to the Royal Court?” Milosha said.
“I think I can bring the name of Eagle back to honor. Show Zantorian that he can’t be so easily rid of Eaglespawn.”
Milosha let go of her chin, dropped his hand, exhaled, but kept his eyes on her, face never registering a hint of anger. Only incomprehension.
“Go,” Cristiana said, tipping her head toward the doorway. “Join the party. Find yourself a courtesan to be with tonight.”
Milosha gave no reaction, instead returning to his natural state of equilibrium: a light smile, relaxed eyes. “I respect your resolve. I hope you know that.”
Cristiana thought about it. “And I respect your vigor. I envy it. But I can’t just up and join it.”
Milosha ran his fingers along her short, swooping bangs and down to her cheek. “Respect. At least we have that in common.”
With that, he turned and walked out the door, closing it on his way. He didn’t look back. Cristiana was alone. She looked down at the glimmering blade in her hands, at the Eagle insignia engraved at the base. A dull pain seeped into her chest, eating at her insides. Disappointment in herself. Guilt. Milosha deserved a better maiden, someone more maiden-like. She could only drag him down, like an anchor around the neck.
That happened from time to time—pairs growing apart as they reached adulthood. But no one spoke of it. No one admitted it of themselves. Every pair remained together publicly, only taking courtesans or mistresses in secret. And, of course, the strictures of monogamy could be stretched during festivities, foremost among them the Royal Showcase. But still, Milosha deserved more—a lively and dutiful maiden to take to parties and prance about like a prized pony.
Cristiana sighed and touched her thumb to the razor edge. It instantly sliced a micro-incision across her skin. She jerked her thumb away and sucked the line of blood.
Sharp enough.
She held the sides of the blade and relaxed her thighs, letting the cord retract back into the hilt. The weight of the weapon felt comfortable in her hands. It was the most modern weapon allowed in the paladin-style horse race, and thus one Cristiana had been brushing up on over the last few days. It would come in handy tomorrow.
Mirthful sounds from the lounge area of the embassy’s accommodation wing seeped into the room from under the bedroom door. Cristiana felt a tug in her chest to go join it. Somehow it was easier to join into merriment of her own accord than at someone’s bidding. She supposed that at least some weren’t dancing. She could join them, stay on the fringe of the party. But the thought of small talk sounded just as unappealing as dancing.
Her slate emitted a ping from its place on the purple bedspread. A notification for tomorrow, she presumed. But when she made her way to the foot of the bed and picked up the slate, she found a news headline—one that piqued her interest.
Upraadi Rebel Leader Executed
She swiped it open, and immediately a video began playing on the screen. Soldiers in white combat suits holding assault rifles formed two diagonal, shoulder-to-shoulder rows out from wide, automatic glass doors. Cristiana could hardly tell woman from man as they all sported the same haircut: a line of hair down the center of their otherwise shaven heads, coming to a rounded end. They stood on a landing platform big enough to hold several average-sized planes, flanking a pair of white-suited soldiers wearing helmets to mask their faces and holding the bound arms of a ragged, gaunt man in commoner clothes. The helmeted guards and their prisoner waited about five meters from the edge of the platform—a sharp drop off.
The rebel leader didn’t look so fearsome. His head was bowed, eyes staring down at the ground, deadened in defeat. His hair tousled, his jawline bristled, his shoulders slumped. He rested most of his weight to the right, as his left leg was a crude, metal prosthetic.
Another man stood in front of the rebel leader, this one dressed in Swan’s pure white garb and crisp black embellishments. Stark blond locks fell just past his ears. Cristiana recognized him—Lord General Freyz. Disgust twisted in her gut at the sight of his upright, self-satisfied posture.
Freyz pointed at the rebel prisoner. “Here stands Abelard of Upraad, leader of the rebel commonage. He is found guilty of mounting an insurgency against the Sagittarian Regnum and the glorious order for which it stands. He bears responsibility for the deaths of many hundreds of Swan troops, as well as the tens of thousands of Upraadis he led astray. If any soul in this cosmos deserves death, it is Abelard.”
Freyz turned, nodded at the soldiers holding Abelard, and stepped aside.
Abelard didn’t struggled as they led him to the edge. The soldiers paused, and Abelard looked out over the drop without changing expressions. His face kept the same forlorn, numbed look as he gazed down at his ultimate fate. He accepted it more willingly than Cristiana would assume of a commoner rebel.
“Let this be an example to all who would defy the Regnum,” Freyz pronounced.
Together, the white-suited soldiers lightly kicked Abelard in the back of legs, forcing him to his knees with his hands still bound, and took a few steps back. Freyz drew his blazer sword and powered it to searing life as he stepped behind Abelard. After barely a second’s hesitation, Freyz grabbed a fistful of Abelard’s hair and yanked his head back to expose his neck, then pressed the white-hot blade to the rebel’s protruding esophagus. Cristiana winced at the sight—the ease with which the blazer sliced through Abelard’s throat and the harsh sizzling sound it made as it cut through skin and muscles and jugular veins and finally, with a cracklingsnap, the spinal cord. The head split off, and Freyz wasted no time in tossing it over the edge.
As Abelard’s body slumped, Freyz stepped away a moment and looked at his hands as if to check if any of the commoner’s blood had stained his gloves. Then he lifted his boot and shoved Abelard’s body over the ledge.
The camera, apparently on a hovercam, widened the shot and tilted down as Abelard plummeted the several hundred meter distance toward the river. His body hit the water at an angle, causing a sizable, conclusive splash. The camera stayed on the water until the body surfaced, then watched it slowly bob away in the river’s current.
The video ended with sounds of cheering from the Swan ranks on both sides of the canyon. Thousands must’ve been watching.
Cristiana set the slate back on the bed, feeling conflicted. She didn’t know who to despise more—Abelard, for bucking the glorious order, or Freyz, for betraying the Regnum and dishonoring Eagle. Not to mention such a macabre display, unfitting for a man of his status. It was arrogant and ostentatious. A simple bullet to the rebel’s brain would’ve accomplished the task.
A renewed resolve set in. It would be the task of the new Champion of Triumph to deal with Swan. If Eagle was to play a role in cutting Swan down to size, Cristiana needed to win tomorrow’s race.
Chapter Five
A tremor wriggled through the ground under Cristiana’s feet as she led Starflash to the bronze starting gates. Her horse paused and let
out a snort, resisting her reigns.
The dappled white beast stuck out amongst the blackened, igneous landscape and ashen atmosphere of this planet, where crags in the earth occasionally belched strands of steam and the air carried the acidic bite of sulfur. Worlds apart from the wooded slopes and mountain brooks and snow-capped peaks of Tyrannus.
Cristiana stepped to Starflash and stroked her neck. The horse’s big, anxious eyes found those of her master. Cristiana saw a question in them.Why are we here?The crowd sounds and amplified voice of the announcer echoed even well beyond the starting area and its huge seating structures.
Cristiana ran her hand up to the blond mane on Starflash’s neck and grabbed a fistful, gritting her teeth.
“Let’s give ‘em an entrance.”
She slid a foot into the stirrup, slung herself into the saddle on Starflash’s back, and whistled her horse on. Starflash went into a quick gallop along the obsidian path and through an open iron gate into the race prep area. The place shimmered with movement and rattled with noise.
Tens of thousands of spectators filled the temporary, metallic stands set in a semi-circle around the starting gates. Eagle’s section of the crowd cheered as Cristiana came riding into the open. She raised her fist to signal her recognition, then made her way across the prep zone toward her designated gate.
Most of the other horses and riders had already arrived. Some of them stood with arms out as their team of retainers strapped on pieces of titanium armor emblazoned with their manor’s colors and symbols. Others posed for photos in full suit save the helmet. Maidens in silken dresses hung beside their lifemates, waiting to be called in for a picture with Lord So-and-So or Master Such-and-Such, courtier of this or that planet. Hovercams flitted to and fro, catching all the action and fanfare from multiple angles.
Larkin, seeming actually pared down in Fox adornment compared to the day before, was giving an enthusiastic interview to a woman whose face beamed in makeup and orange eye shadow, hovercam suspended in the air over her shoulder. Behind Larkin stood a small but adoring crowd of fans, waving flags bearing the Fox head and looking like a sea of rippling orange. Probably the same people who wept at funerals for a living.
Cristiana dismounted at her gate, where the Eagle servants waited to fasten her and Starflash in armor. Each of them—teenage boys trained solely for this task—said “G’morning, m’lady,” and immediately got to work. As she allowed the boys to strap on the multiple layers and pieces of armor, she looked up at the giant hologram of the announcer’s head and shoulders in the sky, being projected by a dozen hoverdrones arranged in a circle. Several coats of makeup made his sculpturesque face glow.
“—which is why the Grand Lumis has chosen the paladin-style horse race as the sole game of the Royal Tournament,” the announcer orated in his posh, soft commoner voice. “In Earthen history, the paladins were the twelve greatest warriors of Charlemagne’s court, renown for their bravery and heroism. The ‘paladin’ style harkens back to the Medieval era, when men proved their worth through athleticism and grit, without the help of high technology. In such troubled and uncertain times as these, the Regnum needs nothing less in its next champion.”
“Cristiana!” Milosha’s voice broke through the crowd.
She pulled away her arms before the servant boys had finished tying the leather straps.
“Hold a moment,” she said. “Work on Starflash.”
She stepped away from the prep bay to find Milosha across the grounds, by the stands, arguing with a pair of royalist guards dressed in black and gray nanoflex armor. Her lifemate wore his favorite umber coat, cinched at the navel with a golden dome button. She spotted a pure white rose in his hand, held down at his side away from the guards. He talked big to them, like he belonged in the prep area and they would be in deep if they didn’t step aside.
“Guards!” Cristiana called out. “He’s here for me.”
They gave each other a slight shrug and parted. Milosha nodded at them, his face bearing only a hint of vindication, and made his way to Cristiana. Stopping in front of her, he presented the single white rose with a genuine smile. Sometimes he could be so endearing.
Cristiana bowed her head as she took the rose, then smelled it, feeling her cheeks crinkle at its pleasant scent—at the gesture. A hovercam swerved around to capture the moment.
“Good luck,” Milosha said. “But Cristi . . .”
She met his eyes.
“If you win, don’t kill me.”
Cristiana let out a laugh and quickly hid it from the cameras. “I doubt Zantorian would demand that twice in a row. But if he did . . .” She felt herself harden, her muscles tense. “I’d sooner put a blade through my own heart than see you harmed.”
She may not have been a proper maiden who danced and drank juleps, but she would protect him come life or death. She would be good for something, even if not what he wished for.
Milosha’s lips curled at the edges, even as his eyes remained distant. “As you would for any son of Eagle.” His voice was soft and flat, void of emotion but belying disappointment all the same.
Cristiana wanted to object, wanted to tell him how important he was to her. It wouldn’t be a lie. But it wouldn’t be what he wanted either. It wouldn’t be the proper love of a lifemate. It would only be half love—the mimicry of that special bond.
The announcer’s voice suddenly became louder. “Riders, to your stations.”
Milosha gave a stately and dignified bow, then turned back toward the stands and disappeared into the masses.
Chapter Six
“Go!”
A green light flashed overhead, accompanied by the wail of a klaxon.
The bronze bars of the starting gates burst open, and Starflash thrust forward into the open at full speed. Cristiana hunched forward in the saddle, gripping the reigns in her leather-gloved hands as her horse stormed across a barren, coal-gray plain. Her crossbow clung to the back of her fitted, titanium breastplate while the whip flail sat tight in its holster at her side, her only weapons.
Fifteen other horses from manors large and small—each lightning fast for their unnatural size—converged toward a field of igneous spires that breathed hot fumes from their crests. The starting gates spaced each rider a safe fifteen meters apart, but laser walls projected by hoverdrones funneled them into a tight track.
The racers came closer as the laser walls narrowed but kept enough space to stay out of each other’s whip range. Cristiana glanced left and right through the wolfram-alloy mesh of her helmet. Thin, lightweight armor covered her colorful opponents and their beasts from head to hoof. The roar of thudding hooves surrounded her on all sides. Her eyes flicked forward just in time to see the silver- and white-clad rider from Condor twist around in his saddle and aim his crossbow at her. She ducked to the side as the bolt whizzed past her head and splintered against the Colossus horse’s breast piece. The creature barely flinched.
Other riders broke out their crossbows and exchanged shots as they swerved around half-molten mounds and oozing spires. Cristiana stayed hunched forward, focusing on speed, as mechanical snaps volleyed around her. Every so often, a shot would give off a hardting, signifying a graze, but no armor-piercing hits yet.
Ahead, the Condor horse whinnied and leaped askance to escape a sudden split in the ground, where pale orange light bled through in distorted ripples and blasted steam into the air. Cristiana had enough time to swerve, still feeling the heat of the lava trying to force its way up to the surface, only to find herself now in striking distance of another rider. Colored in green and black, with embossed snakes slithering down his vambraces and a helmet that flared to the side like the hooded head of a cobra.
Serpent.
He and Cristiana lashed out their whip flails simultaneously, releasing the corded blades and twirling them overhead to strike. Cristiana’s blade slashed across his shoulder piece, making him recoil but only scraping the armor. His came in from behind, landing against Starflas
h’s leg, right in the hindshank. A low blow, even for Serpent. She heard the clang against titanium, but Starflash dipped and stumbled as if hurt, slowing her pace quick enough to make Cristiana lurch forward in the saddle. The horse trotted a handful of steps as Cristiana returned to her riding posture and heeled Starflash to gain back the lost speed.
The hard pounding of horseshoes approached from behind. She craned her head just as the orange-and-yellow rider from Corona flung the blade of his whip flail at her. It slammed into her helmet, denting the mesh screen and sending her flying out of the saddle. Her armored body rolled chaotically across flattened igneous rock, the edges of various armor pieces jamming painfully into her skin and against her bones.
No, no, no! This would put her far behind her competitors. Every second they surged meters’ ahead of her. She needed to move, to get back in the race.
Cristiana thrust herself up, planted a boot on the ground, then put her hands on the extended tip of her greaves, pushing herself to both feet. Her armor pieces clanked and ground against each other with each movement. Starflash trotted back toward her, seeming unwounded. At least that. She trundled to meet him, then grabbed the reigns, slipped the iron-tipped toe of her boot into the stirrup, and hauled herself up with a grunt. A pair of hovercams circled around her, getting every angle, while the main flurry of them kept pace with the other riders ahead. Cristiana slapped the reigns and heeled Starflash on, bracing as the beast sped to a gallop, neck pumping up and down, mane fluttering.
Starflash dashed across the laser-walled track and weaved between scorched, smoldering spires. Her hooves crunched gravel and smashed through patches of crumbly, caked black sand. The announcer’s voice, echoing from behind and repeating in the hoverstands and airships lining the track, vaguely trickled into Cristiana’s helmet. It rose and fell in dramatic fashion, narrating things people could see with their own eyes.
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 3