Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

by Olivia Rivers

  I force my eyes closed for a long moment. When I open them, the colors are still there. I try again. This time the colors remain, but a shadow hangs over them. I edge toward the mirror, taking one hesitant step at a time.

  Half of me wonders if this is some kind of strange addition to my visions, but the other half discards that thought. As I glance around, I find that my bed is still rumbled from when I woke up this morning, and the light seeping in the window is the soft glare of a clouded morning.

  This is reality.

  I reach out and touch the mirror, but nothing happens. It feels just like it always does, cold and smooth.

  Then the shadow in the mirror grows, forming a shape. My heart pounds, and I edge toward the door. I want to run for it, but something in the man’s voice stops me. Even though it’s distorted, the cadence of the words is almost familiar.

  The shadow flickers a couple times, and then I see it. No, him. He stands in a cloak, his hands clasped behind his back. The cloak covers his face and body, but it can’t hide his deformity. His back is hunched and bulges from his shoulder-blades.

  I straighten my own shoulders and keep my face deadpan. In the back of my head, I remember Jackal’s warning. Could he have actually been right? “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Princess Faye,” the man says. “So nice to finally meet you.”

  “Answer my question. Now.”

  He shakes his head and makes a tsking sound. “I’ve heard that you can be hostile, but surely you aren’t going to be rude? It’s unfitting for royalty.”

  “Save the lecture,” I snap. “You’re the one who just barged into my room unannounced.”

  He chuckles. “True, very true.”

  “Are you an agent of the king?” I demand.

  “Your father? Of course not.” He makes a sweeping gesture to the rippling colors surrounding him. “Don’t you know how much that old fool detests magick?”

  Magick. So that’s what this is. I’d heard whisperings of the dark craft my entire life, and I’d even considered learning it to track down Ashe’s killer. But it was never worth the risk of getting caught.

  “You look surprised.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.

  “The dark arts have been outlawed for two centuries,” I say.

  He scoffs. “So has liquor. And does that stop your guards from hauling dozens of drunkards to prison every week?” He shakes his head in answer. “Irrador’s petty laws stop nothing. They only prevent.”

  “You don’t sound fond of my country.”

  “I’m not,” he replies. I strain to recognize an accent, but the distortion covers up anything unique about his voice.

  “Then why approach Irrador’s princess?” I ask.

  “Because we share a hatred.”

  I pause, considering his words. Then I slowly nod. “Continue.”

  “Faye?”

  Farren’s muffled voice comes from the hallway. He knocks on my door, the rhythm a little frantic. “What’s going on in there? I hear voices.”

  “You have company,” the man in the mirror murmurs quietly. “I’ll return later.”

  “Wait!” I hiss. I nod toward the door. “I can get him to go away. Just stay, I’ll—”

  But the colors dissolve, and the cloaked figure fades from the mirror. He’s gone when Farren bangs on the door a second time. I shake my head, take a deep breath, and hurry to the door.

  Farren stands in the hallway, his face pinched in a scowl. I open the door a little wider, giving him a view of my entire room, and letting him see that no one else is inside.

  “What is it?” I ask, doing my best to look annoyed.

  He peers into my room. “I…” Farren trails off when he sees no one but me standing there.

  “Farren, I don’t have much time to get ready. Could you let me get back to changing?”

  He frowns at me. “I heard voices.”

  “Probably some guards in the hallway,” I say with a shrug.

  “I heard your voice. You sounded upset.”

  I smile a little and put on an abashed expression. “I, um… I got a little mad at my dresses. Nothing seems to look right.”

  Farren raises an eyebrow. “And talking to them helps?”

  “No. But cursing at them makes me feel better.”

  Farren laughs hesitantly. “Alright.” He nods toward my wardrobe, using it as one last excuse to glance around my room. “Just hurry up, alright? Father will be expecting us soon.”

  I smile. “Of course.”

  EIGHT

  The amphitheater is packed with people and their exited chattering. Nearly every weekend, an event is held here; some sort of theatrical play, or mock-duel, or chariot race. All for the people’s entertainment, and all for an admission fee that helps keep the kingdom well-funded.

  But now these people are here for a different reason: Me. Hundreds have gathered in the amphitheater, despite the frigid wind brought in by the tide. They fidget on the stone steps that create seats, occasionally glancing up at the booth where Father and I sit with our bodyguards. They’re waiting, anxious for the event to begin.

  Today is my Choosing Day.

  Today is a day of celebration.

  Today I want nothing more than to die.

  But it won’t be me who dies. I glance down into the arena, and watch as guards scurry around a gate in the south corner. One of them bangs his spear against the gate, and something roars back at him from inside. The crowd quiets, only to burst into applause a moment later. The Match is about to begin.

  I despise Matches. It’s a tradition to hold one on Choosing days, Father insisted when I met him in the courtyard. I told him tradition is no excuse for needless bloodshed. His only reaction was to chuckle, like what I said was somehow cute, and guide me toward our waiting horses.

  I look down at my dress to hide my anger. It’s red. I’d tried putting on the black one, but Farren had shooed me back into my room as soon as I stepped out, demanding I wear a red dress.

  “You look anxious,” Father says to me. He sits beside me in a cushioned chair that looks out of place in the stone booth.

  I frown, wondering if Father can really see my expression. I’m wearing a thin veil over my face, like I always do when I’m at a public event. That way people can’t see my face and recognize me later. Later, when I’m not surrounded by guards, and someone might have the chance to kill me.

  I stick my tongue out at Father. He doesn’t react. I smirk a little and settle deeper in my uncomfortable seat, satisfied to know that he can’t actually see my expression.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me, Faye?” Father asks, his voice lowering a little.

  I don’t reply. Partially because I’m furious, and partially because I think I’ll puke if I open my mouth. Matches are sickening to watch. A prisoner—one sentenced to death—is pitted against a blood-thirsty beast. The prisoner gets one weapon, and is told that if he slays the beast, they’ll go free.

  The only freedom they ever get is death.

  Father reaches over and pats my hand, giving me a pitying look. I want to believe his expression, but then I remember the look on his face when Ashe was sentenced. Satisfaction. Approval. And that little smirk in the corner of his lips that told the real story:

  He’d wanted Ashe dead all along.

  The only person I want to talk to—Farren—isn’t here with me. He’s sitting on the opposite side of the amphitheater. Relatives aren’t allowed near the girl Choosing, aside from her father. So as to not influence her decision, says tradition. I glance behind me, to Jolik, who stands guard behind my chair. He shoots me a quick, pitying smile before returning his attention to the arena floor.

  “Now remember, Faye,” Father says, his voice quieter now. He doesn’t seem to care that I obviously don’t want to talk to him. “When the Match is over, you must Choose one of the three men I’ve selected. You may not Choose anyone unexpected. Is that understood?”

  I nod, despite knowing it’s
a lie. I can Choose anyone I’d like. It’s part of the tradition: If I find all of Father’s selections to be unfit, then I can select someone else to be my Guardian. I’ve only seen this happen twice before: Once at the Choosing of one of my cousins, and once when I Chose my Ashe. Both times Father could barely contain his rage.

  A cheer rises in the crowd. The guards have opened the gates, and a Southern Wolf leaps out. I’ve always hated these creatures; they’re called wolves, but they’re sleeker and more feline than any dog I’ve seen. This one has a brindled coat, although it’s jagged stripes are interrupted by scars and caked dirt. It moves with a grace that’s deadly and disturbing, its head sweeping the arena in search of prey.

  The crowd erupts in a chant. “Chagra,” they say, their voices mingling into a uniform roar. “Chagra, Chagra, Chagra.”

  I shudder as the beast’s name is repeated, the chant slowly growing louder and more excited. Chagra snarls at a few members of the crowd and rushes a wall. It claws at the brick and tries to scale it, raining chunks of mortar onto the arena floor. The crowd breaks its chant and erupts into a deafening cheer.

  Chagra loses momentum and slips away from the wall, landing on all four paws. It turns its head to the sky and lets out a frustrated howl, the sound tortured and high-pitched. I wince, but don’t cover my ears, letting the sound wash over me. I hate Southern Wolves, but I pity this one. When Chagra isn’t being touted as Father’s undefeatable beast, it’s kept in a small cage and rarely fed. ‘The conditions keep it vicious,’ Father once explained. ‘And much better for entertainment.’

  Sometimes, I wonder if Chagra is the torturer or the tortured.

  Father stands from his seat, and the amphitheater slowly goes quiet. I can hear Chagra’s low whine above the excited whisperings of the crowd; it sounds just as anxious as I am. Father smiles at the crowd. He doesn’t have Farren’s charm, but the people won’t mind on a Match day. “Begin the games!” he shouts, throwing his arms wide like he’s welcoming the slaughter.

  The crowd roars their approval, and a small man is shoved into the arena through a gate. The man looks bewildered, and he throws his hand over his eyes, despite the overcast sky. I wince as he stumbles toward a corner, the absolute worst place to be. He’s squinting, and it’s obvious that he’s been in the dark prison for too long; he’s sun-blinded.

  The man frantically waves around his short spear, but Chagra hardly seems impressed. I can’t blame the beast. The man is short and skinny, and he’s already having a hard time keeping the spear held aloft.

  The crowd starts up their chant again, growing louder as Chagra swiftly stalks toward the man.

  It only takes about five seconds. Chagra bats away the man’s spear with a paw, sending it tumbling out of reach. The man blinks a few times and looks toward his fallen weapon, but doesn’t try to retrieve it. His face is panicked, like he’s not even sure what he is doing here.

  Chagra is on him in a second. The man screams as the beast tears its claws into him, slicing open his stomach. He gets one last chance to glance down and watch his own blood pour from the wound. Then Chagra leaps forward and takes the man’s head in his jaws. One jerk and a little twist, and it decapitates the man.

  Chagra drops the head, and it rolls a few feet in the dust of the arena. Below me, people stand from their seats, clapping their approval.

  This is the worst part of the Match, the part that makes my gut churn and a cold sweat break out on my skin. Chagra won’t eat the man; it’s not a natural cycle of hunter and prey. The beast kills simply because of the rage that raises its hackles and draws deep growls from its throat.

  It’s hunter and victim. It’s sick entertainment.

  Another prisoner is pushed out the gate. He grips a longsword and squints against the sun, taking in his surroundings. Unlike the previous man, he holds his weapon in a balanced grip, like he knows how to use it.

  The crowd quiets, waiting for Chagra to make its first move. The man blinks a couple times, his eyes now adjusted to the light, and holds his sword ready at his side. He’s the opposite of the previous prisoner: Tanned skin, broad build, tall. And he carries himself in an almost regal manner.

  I startle, recognizing that manner: Lor. He’s finally being put to death for trespassing on this continent.

  Chagra slinks around Lor, trying to herd him into a corner. But Lor moves into the open. He hefts his sword, pointing it at Chagra, the tip of the weapon following the beast as it paces back and forth.

  Murmurs rise in the crowd, growing louder as Lor shifts into a balanced stance. His posture screams of long years spent training.

  No one chants for Chagra anymore. The people always find unfair fights to be interesting, but Lor is a true challenge to Chagra, and now the crowd is silent with excited tension. Beside me, Father leans forward in his chair, his lips tightly pursed in a frown, his hands gripping at the armrests. Chagra has survived more Matches than I can count; he’s been pitted against Contenders for over two years.

  He’s the crowd’s favorite. He’s Father’s favorite. And now Lor poses a threat to the beast.

  Footsteps approach from behind. “Should I have the watch guards put an arrow through the prisoner, my Lord?” asks Jolik.

  I hold my breath as I wait for an answer. It’s not unheard of for a guard to end a prisoner’s life before Chagra does. Mostly, it’s done when Chagra doesn’t quite finish his job, and leaves the contender ripped open and screaming in agony. A quick arrow to the chest is convenient then, to keep the crowd from getting too unsettled.

  “No,” Father replies, his voice pensive. “Let the prisoner live for now. But if he gives Chagra too much trouble, then give the order. I want that beast kept alive.”

  Pride creeps into his words. I often wonder why Father is so proud of Chagra, when he didn’t do anything to help catch the beast. I once heard Father explain that because his army captured Chagra, and because he controls that army, that he should receive the credit.

  For a king, Father often says very stupid things.

  Jolik nods and returns his attention back to the arena floor. I follow suit, just in time to see Lor leap forward at Chagra. The beast stumbles backward, and the crowd lets out a collective gasp. Chagra always strikes first.

  Not anymore.

  While Chagra tries to regain his footing, Lor lunges at him with his sword and slashes the beast’s shoulder. Chagra howls in pain and takes another step back. Its eyes widen, and I can see their color. Purple. A deep, royal purple, so pretty it’s mesmerizing.

  Lor lunges again, sweeping the sword in a perfectly-balanced arc. Chagra yelps, barely managing to stumble out of the way. It growls and swipes at Lor with its paw, but he quickly ducks.

  The fight continues, the crowd gasping and occasionally clapping. Lor fends the beast off, flustering it more and more with each swing of his sword. Chagra grows more desperate, its attacks increasingly short and inaccurate.

  Most of the crowd is on their feet. Beside me, Father grips his chair like he’s trying to strangle it. He’s holding his breath, his teeth gritted and slowly grinding back and forth.

  Issuing a command to kill Lor is as good as admitting that Chagra has lost. Which isn’t supposed to be possible, since Father says his beast is undefeatable. But allowing Lor to continue his attack may be a death sentence for Chagra.

  I can almost see Father’s mind spinning as he struggles with the decision. I let out a gasp of air, my lungs burning from holding my breath. Lor may not be the man I’m looking for, and he may be a jerk, but he’s a person. A person I talked to. A person I know. He’s not nameless and unknown, like the other contenders I’ve watched perish.

  I don’t want him to die.

  Chagra snarls and leaps forward. The crowd takes in a collective gasp, and I feel like my lungs are going to burst. Lor holds up his sword, bracing it with both hands. Father curses, not even bothering to keep his voice down.

  Chagra is about to impale itself.

  T
hen the sword skitters off to the side, tumbling through the dust like a shred of paper caught in the wind. Chagra lets out a shrieking howl of triumph, but I don’t bother to cover my ears. I’m frozen, my eyes on Lor.

  He’s underneath Chagra, pinned to the ground by the beast’s paw. Lor struggles to free himself, but Chagra just presses harder. Chagra lowers its head, jowls dripping foamy saliva onto Lor’s cheek.

  Lor reaches out, grasping for the sword Chagra swatted away from him. He yells when his hand doesn’t find the weapon, and slams his fist into Chagra’s leg. Panic overtakes his expression, and I turn away. I don’t want to see him like this.

  In the few minutes I spent with him, Lor never showed fear. He was proud. He shouldn’t have to die like this, with hundreds of people watching his terror.

  Lor grabs a heavy stone from the ground beside him, and takes a moment to aim. Just as Chagra tries to swat the rock out of his hand, Lor hurls it at its face. Chagra yelps as the stone strikes it, bludgeoning its eye. Blood streams down the beast’s face, blinding it for a moment and forcing it to stumble back a single step.

  It’s all Lor needs. He rolls to the side, away from Chagra, barely missing the beast’s claws as they swipe toward him again. Chagra manages to catch Lor’s shirt with his claw, and tears it from his chest.

  Lor yells, and I look away. But not quickly enough to miss the blood seeping from Lor’s side. I shudder, knowing Chagra caught more than just Lor’s shirt.

  “You’re upset,” Father states blandly.

  Glancing over to him, I find a small smile on his lips. I wonder if Father even sees the blood.

  Tearing my gaze from him, I look back at the amphitheater floor. Maybe when the Match is over, I’ll slap that smile from Father’s face. But now all I can do is stare down at the arena.

  Lor runs to the sword, but isn’t quick enough. Chagra is on him in an instant, batting him to the side with its paw. Lor slams to the ground and rolls a few feet.