Kill the Queen

by Jennifer Estep

  I was among the last people to snag a seat, and a few minutes later, the white fluorestones embedded in the ceiling slowly dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd.

  Showtime.

  A lone spotlight snapped on and focused on the red ring in the center of the arena, and a man wearing a short, tight bloodred tailcoat trimmed with silver buttons stepped into the light. His leggings were black, and his black boots had been polished to a high gloss. His black hair gleamed under the spotlight, as did his black eyes and golden skin. A morph mark peeked up above the collar on his white ruffled shirt, although from this distance, I couldn’t tell what creature he could shift into.

  “Lords and ladies, high and low,” he called out in a deep, booming voice. “Welcome to the Black Swan arena. My name is Cho Yamato, and we are here to entertain you.”

  The crowd roared, and Cho made an elaborate flourish with his hand and bowed low. The spotlight snapped off, plunging everything into darkness. Then, a moment later, all the fluorestones blazed to life, and an explosion of sound, color, and magic erupted in the arena.

  Acrobats tumbled from one ring to another, while wire walkers raced across the cables above. Magiers summoned up fire and ice in their hands, juggling them like balls and knives, as well as tossing them back and forth to each other. Morphs shifted into their other forms, using their sharp talons to scale the walls and do other amazing tricks. The performers were dressed in bright, sequined costumes, and many of their faces were adorned with sparkling crystals and shimmering paint, adding to the dazzling atmosphere. Despite everything that had happened, I oohed and aahed along with everyone else.

  The first part of the show went on for about thirty minutes, with each feat, trick, and tumble more dazzling and death-defying than the last. Then the acrobats, wire walkers, magiers, and morphs waved their goodbyes, and the lights dimmed. A minute later, the fluorestones blazed to life again.

  And the gladiators appeared.

  They entered at one end of the arena and walked forward, going slowly so that everyone could get a good, long look at them. They were dressed in tight, sleeveless shirts, knee-length kilts, and flat sandals with straps that wound up past their ankles. A black swan with a blue eye and beak stretched across everyone’s chest, but the rest of their shirts, along with their kilts and sandals, were made of pale gray leather. The light color must have made it easier to see the gladiators bleed, which was what the crowd was really here for. The harsh reality made me quit cheering.

  Young, old, men, women, short, tall, heavy, thin. All ages, sexes, and sizes were represented in the troupe’s ranks, along with magiers, morphs, mutts, and even a few mortals without magic. Some of the gladiators were carrying swords, while others clutched spears, but each one had a silver shield with that black-swan crest strapped to their forearm.

  The gladiators started beating their swords and spears against their shields, creating a low, rolling drumbeat. The farther they walked out into the arena, the harder and faster they beat their weapons against the shields, and the quicker and louder the drumbeat became. The crowd surged to their feet, cheering wildly.

  The gladiators reached the red ring and spread out, forming ranks. Everyone fell into line except for a single woman who stood in front of the others. She looked to be about my age—twenty-seven or so—but she was a couple of inches taller and carried a spiked mace that was as big as my head. Her long blond hair was done up in elaborate braids, showing off the morph mark on her neck, although she was too far away for me to make out exactly what kind of mark it was. An ogre, if I had to guess, like Xenia.

  The lights snapped off for a third time, and when they blazed back on, another woman was standing in the center of the red ring. Unlike the gladiators in their gray fighting leathers, this woman was wearing a white, long-sleeve tunic and matching leggings, although her knee-high boots were a shiny, glossy black. Thin lines of black thread crawled up her arms before thickening and spreading out across her chest to create the image of a black swan swimming in a pool framed by flowers and vines.

  Serilda Swanson had finally appeared.

  Serilda smiled and waved to the crowd, who applauded even louder. Then, slowly, everyone quieted and took their seats again. I leaned forward, studying everything about her, from her blond hair to her confident stance to the way that her hand unconsciously flexed over the sword that hung off her black leather belt.

  “As you’ve all probably guessed, I am Serilda Swanson,” she said. “Welcome to my not-so-humble arena.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “Since this is our first show, I wanted to greet you all,” Serilda continued. “It’s been many years since I’ve been in Bellona, but now that I’m home, I plan to stay. And to bring you the best, bloodiest gladiator matches that your black hearts desire!”

  She punched her fist into the air to punctuate her words, and the crowd cheered again. Serilda smiled and nodded, accepting their praise, although she held her hand up, asking for quiet.

  She turned to the tall blond woman with the spiked mace. “Tonight, for your entertainment, the one, the only, Paloma the Powerful!”

  Serilda left the ring, and Paloma stepped forward and raised her mace over her head. She must have been quite popular, since the crowd roared for her even louder than they had for Serilda. Once the applause died down, Paloma turned to the other gladiators and lowered her mace.

  The gladiators spread out, swinging their swords, stabbing out with their spears, and blocking blows with their shields. Not fighting, but getting warmed up for the battles to come. The crowd loved it, and I did too. It was all just an elaborate dance, like the one that Xenia had taught me.

  Eventually, the warm-ups ended, and the gladiators fell back into their previous ranks, except for Paloma, who held her position in the center of the ring. Paloma gestured, and one of the gladiators stepped forward, lifted his sword, and charged at her.

  And the fight was on.

  Paloma waited until the man was almost in range, then smoothly spun to the side, out of the way of his charge. Sometime during the warm-ups, she had traded her mace for a sword, and she sliced the weapon across the man’s back.

  I could smell the coppery stench of his blood all the way up here at the top of the bleachers.

  The man yelled, stumbled forward, and fell to the ground. The crowd sucked in a collective breath, wondering if she might have killed him, but the man slowly pushed himself to his knees and then back up onto his feet. She didn’t seem to have hurt him too badly.

  Paloma nodded to the man, and he nodded back before limping out of the ring, probably to get healed by a bone master. Paloma gestured at the other gladiators standing in front of her.

  “Next!” she barked out.

  Another gladiator left the ranks to attack her, although she dealt with the second man as easily as she had the first.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Paloma dispatched one gladiator after another, drawing first blood every time, and asserting herself as the troupe’s champion. She could have easily killed her opponents, especially if she had shifted into her larger, stronger morph form like some of the other gladiators did, but I got the impression that she was holding back so as to not accidentally kill anyone. Powerful, indeed.

  Finally, Paloma stepped aside, and the remaining gladiators began to battle each other, two at a time, until first blood was drawn.

  Magiers’ fire and lightning. Morphs’ teeth and talons. Mutts’ strength and speed. Mortals’ mastery of weapons and tactics.

  The gladiators battled each other with a captivating, gruesome mix of magic, weapons, and skills. Vicious slices, punishing punches, and brutal blocks rang out in a violent symphony, and blood spattered everywhere until the dirt glistened like a carpet of dusty rubies.

  The crowd loved every single moment, cheering with the victors, groaning with the losers, and eagerly betting on the outcomes of the matches. Money changed hands all around me, the gold, silver, and bronze crowns cl
ink-clink-clinking together like a softer, more profitable version of the gladiators’ swords, spears, and shields crashing together.

  An hour later, all the gladiators had battled at least once and had emerged either happy and victorious or bloody and defeated. Then Cho, the ringmaster, reappeared.

  “Remember to come back to our next show,” he called out. “Good night!”

  He bowed low, and the lights snapped off. When they came back on again, everyone who had participated in the show, from the acrobats to the wire walkers to the gladiators, was standing on the arena floor, and they all bowed low. Everyone got to their feet to cheer and give all the performers one last hearty round of applause.

  And then people started leaving.

  Some folks hurried down to the wall that separated the bleachers from the arena floor, stretching their flyers, flags, tunics, and more through the gaps in the iron gates, and begging the gladiators to come over and sign their items. But most people headed for the exit, and I found myself asking one troubling question.

  What was I going to do now?

  * * *

  Since I was at the top of the bleachers, I had to wait for the people below to clear out of the way. That gave me a few minutes to figure out what to do.

  I had been so focused on getting to the arena that I hadn’t thought about what would happen after the show ended. Panic sparked in my stomach, but I ignored it. I had come this far. I would figure out something . . . even if I didn’t know what that something was right now.

  I glanced down at the arena floor, but I didn’t see Serilda Swanson with the performers. She had left after she had introduced the gladiators, which meant that she could be anywhere in the compound by now. I needed to find her and tell her . . . what, exactly? That Vasilia had killed the queen and most of the royal family? That I was the only Blair who had survived the massacre? That I was a Winter queen, whatever that meant?

  Cordelia had said that I could trust Serilda, but how could I trust the queen when she had been so wrong about her own daughter? My head ached. I didn’t know what to do, and I was running out of time to figure it out.

  The people below me walked down the bleacher steps, and I had no choice but to follow them and step outside with everyone else.

  Thanks to all the people packed inside, the arena had been warm, but the winter wind was bitterly cold. I shivered. I would freeze to death if I didn’t find shelter for the night.

  The crowd streamed toward the open gate and the plaza beyond, but I didn’t follow them. Going out into the plaza wouldn’t help me. If I left the Black Swan compound, there was no telling when I might be able to get back inside, and I would be far safer in here than I would be on the city streets. That left me with only one option.

  I had to find someplace to hide.

  I slipped away from the crowd and stepped into the shadows next to a concessions cart that had already closed for the night. Then I examined what I could see of the compound.

  The crowd was sticking to the wide street that ran from the arena over to the main gate, but the performers were peeling off and heading toward the dining hall, which was on the opposite side of the street from me. Several gladiators were limping into another building, probably to get the bone masters to heal their injuries. Lights burned in the windows of a third building, the barracks that I had noticed earlier, and I could see the female gladiators through the glass, laying down their swords and shields.

  I couldn’t go into any of those buildings, but other structures farther back in the compound were still dark. I would have to take a chance on one of them. So I left the shadows and crossed over to the opposite side of the street where the dining hall and other buildings were. I walked at a steady clip, with my head held high, as though I had every right to be here and knew exactly where I was going. The confident charade had helped me navigate through more than one treacherous palace party.

  No one called out to me, and I quickly moved deeper into the compound. The buildings back here were smaller and looked more like homes, rather than communal areas. Probably private residences for the senior workers and their families.

  I avoided the homes with clotheslines, toys in the yard, and clay pots of herbs by the front door. People left things outside only if they knew that they were coming back to get them.

  Finally, I found a house near the back of the compound. No personal objects were scattered around outside, and no lights were on inside. Perhaps no one lived here yet, since the troupe had recently come to the city. By this point, I had run out of places to look, along with the energy to keep searching. This would have to do.

  Still keeping my confident stride, I walked over and grabbed the front door knob—

  And almost shrieked at the intense shock that I received.

  Blue lightning crackled around the knob the second I touched it, and the smell of magic filled the air. Not the hot, caustic stench of Vasilia’s or Maeven’s magic, but a colder, cleaner aroma. Truth be told, it was a pleasant scent, although I wasn’t in a charitable mood right now. I glared at the knob and shook the sharp, stinging shock out of my hand. Bloody magier booby-trapping his door with lightning.

  Well, I could fix that.

  I hadn’t come all this way to be defeated by a mere door and a little bit of magic, so I gritted my teeth and wrapped my hand around the knob again. And just like I had at the palace, I reached for my immunity and imagined my power throttling the lightning.

  It was far more painful than I expected. Oh, it wasn’t as intense as Vasilia’s lightning had been, but getting shocked over and over again wasn’t fun either. The magier had coated the knob with a healthy amount of his power, creating a very effective lock.

  Maybe I should have gone somewhere else. Breaking into a magier’s house wasn’t the smartest idea, but I could hear people talking on the street behind me, their voices growing louder and closer. The other performers were coming home, and I could be discovered at any moment. I just had to hope that the magier was sleeping somewhere else tonight.

  It was now or never, so I wrapped my hand even tighter around the knob and reached for even more of my immunity. Sweat slid down my face, and my hand shook from the strain, but I held on . . . and on . . . and on . . .

  The lightning dissolved in a shower of blue sparks.

  I let out a breath and rested my forehead on the door. It took me a few seconds to get my hand to actually move again, but I turned the knob, and the door opened. Before I could change my mind, I slipped inside and shut and locked the door behind me.

  Fluorestones clicked on in the ceiling, burning with soft white light, and almost making me shriek again. I froze, wondering if the magier might be home after all, but no one appeared to blast me with lightning, so I felt safe enough to keep going.

  An open door to my left led into a bathroom, but the rest of the home was one large area. Half of it was the magier’s living quarters. A kitchen table with two chairs, a bed, a nightstand bristling with books, an armoire filled with clothes, a writing desk covered with papers, pens, and maps.

  The dark mahogany furniture was surprisingly expensive, and I noted with some jealousy that he had nicer sheets on his bed than I had had on mine at the palace. I even spotted what looked like a freestanding Cardea mirror in the corner, which would let him see and communicate with people in other cities and kingdoms. The magier must be fairly powerful and important to the troupe to enjoy this level of luxury. Or perhaps he came from a wealthy family.

  Weapons filled the other half of the room. Swords, shields, and spears were stacked in wooden racks like wine bottles, while sharpening stones, polishing cloths, and other supplies perched on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The magier must be involved in the gladiators’ training.

  I was so exhausted that I was about to pass out, so I shuffled forward, searching for a place to sleep. I eyed the bed with longing, but I resisted the urge to crawl underneath those fine sheets. Despite my desperation, that would have been rude.

  B
ut I did steal a hip-length royal-blue jacket and an extra pillow from the armoire.

  I took both items over to the very back corner of the room, got down on the floor, and wedged myself in between a rack of swords and a supply shelf. Back here, I was out of sight of the front door and much of the rest of the home, so maybe the magier wouldn’t notice me if he did come back tonight. Either way, I was about to drop, so I would have to take my chances.

  Besides, if he did find and kill me, then at least this would all be over.

  I shrugged into the jacket, which was as fine as everything else the magier owned. It was too big for me, but the fabric felt as soft and light as silk against my skin, even though it was as warm as a much heavier fleece. And the pillow? A cloud of comfort behind my head. I sighed and wormed even deeper into my hidey-hole. He even had better pillows than I did.

  Or rather, than I had had.

  Walking back to the city, getting to the arena, and seeing the gladiator show had been enough of a distraction to push the massacre to the bottom of my mind. But now that I was alone and relatively safe, the memories bubbled back up to the surface. The shock of Vasilia’s betrayal. Isobel’s death. Cordelia’s final words. All of it soaked in blood and screams and death.

  So much death.

  A sob rose in my throat, but I choked it down, although I couldn’t stop the tears from leaking out of my eyes. And I sat there, silently crying, for a long, long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  I hadn’t cried myself to sleep since my parents had been murdered and Vasilia had betrayed me as a child, but that’s what happened. I thought I might dream about the massacre, but I fell down into the blackness, and I didn’t see or hear anything for the rest of the night.

  The sharp point of a sword kissing my throat woke me the next morning.

  At first, I thought some spider was crawling on me and tickling my skin with its tiny legs. I tried to flick it away, but it kept coming back. Slowly, I realized that spiders weren’t that hard and sharp, and that someone else was in here. Someone who smelled cold, crisp, and clean, just like the magic that had coated the front door, along with a strong undercurrent of hot, peppery anger.