“Why did you stop?” Paloma asked. “You know that Sullivan hates it when anyone is late.”
“Because I killed Emilie. She wasn’t some random person, or some gladiator from a rival troupe. Like it or not, she was one of us. She ate and slept and fought alongside everyone else, and for a whole lot longer than I have.”
Paloma laid her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Everyone will honor the code.”
“Code? What code?”
She gave me a serious look. “That the dead are the dead, and we don’t harbor grudges against those who killed them in the arena. Fighting others, hurting them, sometimes even killing them, is a gladiator’s life. It’s your life now, Evie. And whether you like it or not, you’re actually pretty good at it. So you might as well embrace it.”
Before I could protest that I didn’t want to be good at killing people, she opened the gate and pushed me through it. Paloma headed over to the weapons racks, and I followed her. I glanced around, waiting for someone to scream at me for killing Emilie, or perhaps even brandish their sword and attack me, but the exact opposite happened. Everyone smiled and nodded, and a few folks even stepped back out of my way so that I could walk past them.
The other gladiators actually respected me now.
Before, they had simply tolerated me, but now that I had killed Emilie, they saw me as an equal. With one thrust of my sword in the arena, I had graduated from newb to full-fledged gladiator. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but Paloma was right. This was my life now, so I went over to the weapons racks, where I found another surprise. Emilie’s name had been erased from the blackboard that denoted the gladiator rankings, and mine had been scrawled in its place, right under Paloma’s name. I grimaced.
One of the gates creaked open, and Sullivan strode into the ring, carrying a black leather scabbard.
I hadn’t imagined that you would be so handsome. Or so very polite. Then again, I suppose bastard princes have to mind their manners more than most, don’t they? Vasilia’s snide voice echoed in my mind.
I had encountered more than one bastard royal at Seven Spire, and all the clues that Sullivan was one of them had been right in front of me—the luxurious furnishings in his home, the fine cut of his coat, and especially the strong, confident way he carried himself. Lucas Sullivan and I had far more in common than I’d imagined with our royal upbringings. Still, I wondered how an Andvarian bastard prince had ended up with a Bellonan gladiator troupe.
He marched over to Paloma and me. He nodded at Paloma, who nodded back, grabbed a sword from the rack, and joined the other gladiators.
Then Sullivan turned to me, wariness flickering in his gaze. I knew that look. Bastard royals were often used quite ruthlessly in palace games. He probably trusted people even less than I did.
“Hello, Sully.” I drawled his name the same way that I had a hundred times before.
He blinked in surprise. He had expected me to mockingly call him princeling again, but I would never do that. Not when I knew how much that word hurt him.
Sullivan dropped his gaze from mine and shifted on his feet. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before now, but I thought you did quite well in the arena last night.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I killed Emilie, and all I get from you is quite well? How disappointing. Aren’t you going to clap and tell me how amazing I am like everyone else has?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to get any more arrogant than you already are.”
“Ah, I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”
I grinned, and he actually grinned back at me. For some reason, seeing that small lift of his lips eased some of the disgust, worry, and tension inside my own chest.
But Sullivan’s grin faded all too fast, and he held out the scabbard in his hand. “Here. Serilda wants you to start training with this. It’s lighter than the other swords.”
I took the scabbard from him. It was nothing fancy, and the surface was plain, except for the swan crest that was stamped into the black leather.
I grimaced. “Why does Serilda want me to train with this?”
“You would have to ask her.”
I looked over at the manor house. Serilda was on the second-floor balcony, relaxing in her chair. She smiled and toasted me with her glass, like she had by the pond last night.
“I am not a bloody swan,” I muttered.
Sullivan frowned. “What did you say?”
Serilda mockingly saluted me with her glass a second time.
“Nothing,” I muttered again, turning away from her. “Nothing at all.”
* * *
The next few days rushed by, and a week after the black-ring match, the Black Swan troupe left Svalin.
A few people stayed behind to keep an eye on the compound, but everyone else piled into enormous wagons with wooden walls and flat roofs topped with pointed spires that were hauled by the troupe’s older, tamer gargoyles. Serilda, Cho, and Sullivan rode in a lavish, cushioned carriage pulled by a team of Floresian horses, while Paloma and I were stuffed in a wagon with several other gladiators. Paloma wedged a pillow between her head and the wall and went to sleep, but I stared out the window at the scenery.
We left the Black Swan compound before dawn, so the city was dark, except for the lights that burned in the bakeries and butcher shops. Those folks were already hard at work kneading the day’s breads, pastries, and croissants, as well as slicing up cuts of meat.
Besides the occasional city guard, the only other people out this early were the miners. They all wore heavy blue coveralls and black work boots, with tin lunchboxes swinging from their hands and fluorestone headlamps resting like crowns on top of their hard, ridged helmets.
I smiled as we rolled down the streets next to them. My father, Jarl, had been one of them, although he had been fortunate enough to eventually buy and establish his own mine near Winterwind, my mother’s estate. Some of my favorite memories were of spending time in the cool, dark mines with him, moving from one shaft to another, staring at the interesting rock formations, and chiseling bits of tearstone out of the walls.
The troupe’s wagons followed the miners to the rail stations at the edge of the city. From here, the miners would climb into carts that would take them up to the top of the Spire Mountains that surrounded the city. Then the miners would take another series of carts down into the shafts where they would dig fluorestones and more out of the bellies of the mountains.
The wagons stopped in front of one of the rail stations to let the miners go by, but they weren’t the only people here. Dozens of guards dressed in fuchsia tunics and gold breastplates roamed through the crowd. All the guards were holding swords, and a few were also clutching long black whips.
I frowned. The miners knew their business better than anyone, and guards had never been posted at the rail stations before. At least, not so many. And none with whips.
One of the guards raised his whip and slammed it down on the ground at the feet of a miner who was barely shuffling along. The miner flinched and lurched away.
“Let’s go!” the guard shouted. “Move it! Those rocks aren’t going to dig themselves out of the mountains!”
He cracked the whip against the ground again, and the miner hurried to climb into a metal cart. All the miners ducked their heads, as if they were afraid that the guard was going to bring his whip down across their backs next.
This had to be Vasilia’s doing, since the guards were wearing her colors. Mining was one of the city’s—and kingdom’s—main industries. It had always been hard, dirty, dangerous work, but now it seemed as though Vasilia wanted it to be a form of slavery as well.
I had known that Vasilia would take control of everything in the capital and beyond, but seeing the miners hammered home just how much her cruelty would affect everyone in Bellona in one way or another. Serilda was right about one thing—any Blair would be a better ruler than Vasilia.
Even me.
I grim
aced and shoved that thought away. I was staying with the troupe. I was protecting my friends. I was doing my part. But for the first time, I wondered if it was enough.
My heart squeezed tight, but I couldn’t help the miners. After a few more minutes, and several more cracks of the guard’s whip, the wagons rolled on.
We left the city behind and headed into the countryside, with its rocky ridges, forested hills, and clear streams. This was the first time that I had been out of Svalin since I had come to the capital fifteen years ago, and I stared out the window, drinking up the beautiful scenery.
Still, the farther we got from the city, the more worried I became. Serilda set a brutal pace, and we rode from sunup until well after sundown each day, with only a few short breaks for lunch and dinner. We were far away from the capital now, but I could see the worry in Serilda’s face whenever we stopped for a quick bite to eat, and I could hear it in the sharp voice she used with the guards who stood watch at night. She thought that Vasilia was going to come after the troupe, come after her.
Two weeks after we left Svalin, we reached the mountains where the borders of Bellona, Andvari, and Unger met. Everyone grew tense and quiet, including me. Most of the troupe members were Bellonans, and we were wondering how we would be received in Andvari, given the impending war between the two kingdoms. Plus, the Ungers were notorious about patrolling and protecting their borders. One wrong turn, one wrong step into Unger, and the entire troupe could be detained—or worse.
We had a quick breakfast of hot oatmeal with honey and almonds, then climbed back into the wagons to travel the final few miles from Bellona to Andvari.
And that’s when the snow started.
At first, it was only a few flurries, which was no real surprise. Even though it was spring now, we were high up in the mountains, and snow wasn’t unusual at this elevation. Everyone pulled out their coats, gloves, scarves, and hats, and the wagons rolled on.
By midmorning, the flurries had turned into steady showers that covered the ground.
By lunchtime, the showers had turned into a blizzard, and the wind howled like a pack of greywolves nipping at the wagon wheels.
By midafternoon, the snow was so deep that not even the gargoyles could trudge through it anymore, and we were forced to stop and make camp. The wagons were maneuvered into a circle, which helped to block some of the snow and wind, although both still whistled in through the gaps. Several of the stronger gladiators dug down through the snow to create stone fire pits, which Sullivan and the other magiers lit with their power. Everyone huddled around the pits, drinking hot chocolate and mochana, but there was little conversation, and people’s faces were tense and grim. Everyone realized that we would die from the cold if the snow didn’t stop soon.
I stood at the gap between two of the wagons, peering into the blizzard. Even though the cold seared my lungs, I drew in a breath, letting the air roll in over my tongue and tasting all the scents in it. This was no natural storm, no mountain squall, no freak spring blizzard.
Every flake of snow dripped with the stench of magic.
Serilda had been right to flee Bellona, but she had still run straight into Vasilia’s trap. Vasilia didn’t need to send an army of assassins to kill us. All she had needed was a weather magier to create a storm and strand us on the mountain. Now we were stuck, like flies caught in a spider’s icy web, and the magier was using each blast of snow and gust of wind to slowly freeze us to death. Worst of all, when our bodies were found, our deaths would be considered tragic accidents, and Vasilia would once again get away with mass murder.
Unless I figured out some way to stop the storm.
“What are you doing?” Paloma grumbled, stomping her feet. “Come back to the fire.”
I kept breathing in, tasting the magic in the air, and trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. The magier had to be close by in order to control the blizzard and make sure that the storm stayed centered on our location. Maybe it was the snow blotting out everything else, all the other colors, textures, and shapes, but I could actually see the magier’s power, like a seam of pale purple ore running through the tunnel of white in front of me.
I had never been able to see magic like this before. Then again, I had never been caught in a magier’s storm before either. I squinted into the snow and wind, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but there it was, that seam of pale purple magic, rippling through the air before disappearing into the blizzard. If I could see the magic, then maybe I could track it back to its source. If I found the magier, then maybe I could force him to stop the storm—one way or another.
I didn’t particularly like killing people, but as Paloma had pointed out, I seemed to be good at it. And if killing the magier meant saving myself and the rest of the troupe, well, what was one more death on my conscience at this point? Protecting my friends was the reason that I’d stayed with the troupe, instead of taking my prize money and disappearing, and I hadn’t come all this way to abandon them now.
Besides, if the magier killed me, then I wouldn’t have to deal with my growing guilt about breaking my promise to Cordelia. About the fact that I was hiding and running away with the troupe instead of staying in Bellona and fighting Vasilia.
“Let’s go, Evie,” Paloma grumbled again. “Before my toes freeze any more than they already have.”
I moved away from the gap. “I need to talk to Serilda.”
Paloma sighed, but she fell in step behind me. We trudged past the people huddled around the fire pits and over to a large tent that had been set up inside the wagon circle. I lifted the heavy canvas flap so that Paloma could slip inside. I followed her and let the flap drop into place behind me.
A fire crackled in the pit in the corner, making this area marginally warmer than the space inside the wagon circle. Sullivan, Cho, and Serilda were gathered around a table that was covered with maps. Sullivan and Serilda were bundled up like Paloma and I were, but Cho was wearing only a short red jacket. The dragon morph’s inner fire was most likely keeping him warm. He was probably the only one of us who would survive the cold.
“You have to let me go out there,” Sullivan growled, pacing back and forth. “I have to find the bastard who’s controlling the storm and kill him before we all freeze to death.”
“We’ve already wandered off the road to Andvari,” Serilda replied. “We have no idea where we are, much less where the magier is.”
“And you can’t kill him if you can’t find him,” Cho added.
Sullivan gave them both a frustrated look and kept pacing.
“What if I can find him?” I said. “What if I can track the magier?”
The three of them looked at me. So did Paloma, who was stamping her feet to try to warm them up.
“And how can you do that?” Sullivan growled again. “You can barely see your hand in front of your face out there.”
“I don’t need to see him to track him.” I tapped my nose. “All I have to do is follow the scent of his magic.”
The four of them looked at me, doubt filling their faces. Another gust of wind howled against the tent, and the icy air cut through the heavy canvas like it wasn’t even there. This time, everyone shivered, including Cho.
“Sully’s right,” I said. “Someone has to try to find the magier, and I have the best chance of doing that.”
Sullivan stepped forward. “If you can track him, I can kill him.”
I nodded at him, then looked at Serilda. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze flicked back and forth between Sullivan and me. Once again, I got the impression that she was seeing far more than just the two of us standing here.
“All right,” she said. “You two track down and kill the magier. Paloma, Cho, and I will stay here with the troupe and keep watch, in case the storm is a distraction for some other attack.”
We split up. I left the tent, trudged back through the snow to the wagon where my things were, and put on every single piece of clothing that I had. By the time I fin
ished, I felt as fat as one of the marshmallows that Isobel had always whipped up for hot chocolate, if not nearly as warm. Instead of wearing my belt on my leggings like usual, I buckled it on top of the blue jacket that I had stolen from Sullivan. I hooked my new, lighter sword to the belt, then pulled the poisoned white feather out of my black bag of treasures and slid it into my jacket pocket. Sullivan would most likely kill the magier, but I wanted to be prepared for anything.
I pulled a blue toboggan down low on my forehead, stuffed my hands into some matching gloves, and left the wagon. Sullivan was waiting for me by one of the gaps. He too was bundled up in a black toboggan and gloves, and he had also buckled his belt and sword on top of his gray coat. More snow and wind blasted through the gap, making us both grimace and step closer together. For a moment, I felt the warmth of Sullivan’s tall, strong body next to mine, but the wind howled around us again, stealing it away, along with my breath.
“Are you sure you can do this?” Sullivan asked.
I drew in a breath. The stench of the magier’s power was as strong as ever. “I can find the bastard.”
A crooked smile curved his lips, and he gestured with his hand. “Then lead the way, highness.”
I nodded back at him, and together, we plunged into the storm.
* * *
Back at the wagons, I had thought that I couldn’t possibly get any colder than I already was.
I was wrong.
The wind slapped me in the face over and over again, along with the stinging flakes of snow. With every step I took, the three feet of snow already on the ground threatened to soak through my three pairs of leggings, along with my boots and my five pairs of socks. I felt like I was grinding my face into a bowl full of icy needles and slogging through cold, gritty sand at the same time, but I ducked my head and trudged on.
Sullivan walked next to me, his hand curled around his sword. I didn’t know if he was being vigilant, or if his hand was simply so cold that he couldn’t remove it from the weapon. Either way, he looked as miserable as I felt.
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