We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 12

I was right. I don’t like this.

The marble bench beneath me is cold and hard, the rising noise pounding into my head. The arena stretches out below me, the emperor seated in his pulvinar—directly across from his gladians.

We’re seated low enough in the stands to command a certain amount of respect, but high enough that we’ll still need to squint unless the fighting is directly below us.

Thick, aether-coated tiles have drawn tight above our heads, forming a roof for the arena and protecting the vampires from the sun. Whatever we’re doing here, the emperor clearly doesn’t want to wait until after sunset.

“Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.” Maeva weaves her way down my row, planting herself next to me.

“Thanks for saving me a seat.” She smiles.

I didn’t. I’m unpopular enough that no one else wanted to sit there. Clearly, no one has communicated this to Maeva yet. Although I’m not exactly sure how she could have missed it.

She seems to be waiting for me to reply. When I don’t, she scans the arena. Neither of us mention the way she screamed out for me during my fight. Or the way I left at the beginning of hers.

Shame gnaws at me, and I stuff it down, stomping on it for good measure.

She clears her throat. “It’s … different sitting up here.”

The statement is obvious, but I know what she means. When you’re standing down below, the people watching you are mostly a blur of twisted expressions screaming for either you or your opponent. Only two people matter when you’re standing on sand: the person who wants to kill you, and the emperor himself.

This section of the stands is a seething mass of low-level sigilmarked. Someone behind us desperately needs a bath, while a man to our left is eating something heavily fried, the combination of scents enough to make my stomach roil.

The mundanes are seated in the stands far above us, so high it must be almost impossible for them to see what will happen in the arena.

Anticipation crackles through the air. There’s a joyful, almost celebratory edge to that anticipation, and pieces of conversation swirl around our heads.

“Pregnant already, she is. They wasted no time …”

“… a gold-crowned. Can you believe it?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about today. The wife says no more betting, but …”

“Problems at the southern border. Haven’t you heard? They’re making it almost impossible for imports to get through.”

“I heard she’s suffering from sun madness. It’s only a matter of time now …”

The last conversation catches my attention. I lean closer to Maeva, keeping my voice low. “What is sun madness?”

Her eyes widen. “You’ve never …”

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. This is awkward. “I didn’t know many vampires personally in the Thorn.” And Tiernon had always seemed vaguely ashamed of his vampire nature, speaking of it rarely.

She flushes. “Uh, sorry. Um … sun madness has no cure. It’s most common among the older vampires—as if decades in darkness gnaws at their will to remain in the shadows. But it strikes randomly, too, especially during times of stress. A few years ago, I heard about a vampire who couldn’t bear the loss of the sun after he turned. He launched himself out of a window at sunrise with no warning, while his two younger sisters screamed for him.”

My stomach roils. A vampire so young wouldn’t have lasted a minute in the sun.

Maeva shrugs. “It’s kind of ironic, really, and it’s one of the reasons vampires show so much restraint with their emotions. Emotions like shock, rage, grief … they weaken vampires, making it more likely they’ll be struck with the madness.”

Someone lets out a cheer, and the crowd responds as the emperor walks into his pulvinar, a cup of wine in his hand. Umbros’s priestess sits to his left, her eyes glazed as usual, while a beautiful woman with long, white-blond hair lounges on his right.

Behind him, six novices line the back of the pulvinar, standing at attention.

How am I possibly going to be able to kill him?

I don’t trust Bran, and I can’t ignore the other potential reasons he may have brought me here.

Not to truly kill the emperor.

But to provide some kind of distraction during the attempt. Bran would still get whatever it is he wants, and I’d be killed.

What if … what if Bran wants to pretend to save Vallius Corvus from my attempt on his life? He could be using me to prove his own loyalty. Why else would he be so specific about when I need to make the attempt on the emperor’s life?

My head spins with possibilities, none of them good.

A Praesidium guard steps into the pulvinar, where he bows low, murmuring something to Vallius. Rorrik strolls in, forgoing a chair and leaning against the purple-clad balcony. His own novices trail after him, joining the others at the back of the pulvinar.

The gladians who survive the Sundering will become novices—given to members of the royal family and expected to follow them around, obeying their whims. Ostensibly, it’s a way to ensure loyalty to the empire. In reality, it’s another power play.

Even I’ve heard of the sigilmarked who traded in secrets after spending so much time in close quarters with the emperor. And everyone has heard of the consequences for those who are caught sharing those secrets. I suck in a breath, and Maeva sends me a questioning look.

The emperor returns his attention to the guard and nods. Within moments, the guard melts away and the emperor lifts his hand.

The crowd quiets instantly.

“Welcome.” Vallius Corvus smiles, his voice magically altered once more, reverberating through the arena. “While our enemies continue their relentless campaign to weaken this empire, lashing out at our most vulnerable citizens, I have pledged to cut them off at the knees. As always, these games are a way to thank each and every one of you for your resilience while my imperius ends any who would kill citizens of this empire.”

My jaw aches, and I force myself to stop clenching my teeth.

Translation: Times have been tough, so I’ve arranged for some people to kill each other as a distraction. You’re welcome.

Next to me, Maeva’s expression is placid, her gaze on the sand below us.

“Now,” the emperor says with a wide smile. “Let the games begin.”

The crowd roars. To my left, a woman lets out a jubilant scream, the toddler in her arms pressing his hands to his ears. Next to her, an older child waves his fist in the air.

I scan the people surrounding us. More children of various ages are held in their parents’ arms or stand elbow to elbow with their siblings, expressions of anticipation on their faces.

The emperor’s entertainment is about keeping the masses happy, keeping the privileged engaged, and reinforcing the emperor’s reputation as someone to be both feared and adored.

I force my attention down to the sands. The wide gate closest to us slides open, and an enforcer steps through. Unlike the Praesidium guards who protect the emperor, or the city wardens who are responsible for Lysoria as a whole, the enforcers are usually little more than grunts, taking care of prisoners, helping within the arena, and occasionally joining the soldiers at the front lines. Most of them are armed with a throwing spear, a sword, and an aetherwhip that can be used to strike from a distance.

At least ten men and women follow the enforcer, their feet bound in chains that force them to march in unison—or stumble and fall.

Suppression cuffs encircle their upper arms, ensuring even the half-crowned silver at the back of the line will be forced to fight with only the weapons allocated to him.

All of them are thin, filthy, in no condition to fight. One man’s face must have been white, but his skin is purple with bruising, and so swollen I doubt his mother would be able to recognize him. Another has lost an ear, the wound dripping blood and pus.

Criminals. Enemies of the empire. Now they’ll be used for the emperor’s amusement. And for the amusement of his subjects.

The enforcer leads them on a loop around the arena, and the crowd roars. One woman walks near the front, the pale skin of her forearms covered in rough stitches. Defensive wounds. Someone was slashing at her—likely at her face—and she used her arms to protect herself. She holds her head high, her expression placid, as if refusing to allow the crowd to touch her.

The criminals are led out of the arena, until just two men remain, chains wrapped around their waists and connected to each other. An enforcer hands each of them a shield and a sword before stepping away to stand near one of the metal gates.

It’s the man with the heavily swollen face, forced to fight someone twice his size. His opponent’s shoulders may be as broad as a warhorse’s flank, but he can barely walk—his knee is seriously injured.

A ball of dread begins to expand in my gut, until I can barely breathe.

The emperor waves his hand, and the death match begins.

The chain connecting the men is just one more cruelty, forcing them to engage with each other immediately. Purple Face attempts to take a step back, but his opponent is pulled forward, the distance between them narrowing.

The first man surveys the crowd, and the light plays across the puffy, engorged lines of his face. Some of the people surrounding me begin to quiet, their screams turning to mutters. Maeva sucks in a breath.

A woman to my right lets out a curse. “We came to see blood!”

One of the enforcers steps forward, a barbed aetherwhip in his hand. When he cracks it against the sand, both fighters flinch, the aether barbs opening deep cuts across their biceps even from the other side of the arena.

A warning.

“Kill!” the enforcer shouts.

The emperor’s face is expressionless, but I’m willing to bet he’s displeased. He points at one of the other enforcers in the arena, and the chain between the men is suddenly shortened, dragging the men toward each other.

The larger man doesn’t hesitate. He strikes out with his sword, meeting the purple-faced man’s shield.

Purple Face nimbly moves to the left, forcing Wide Shoulders to turn on his damaged knee. His face scrunches, so Purple Face makes him move on it again, slashing out in a wide arc.

Sword meets shield, the clang loud enough to hear even over the cheers of the spectators surrounding us.

The man with the ruined knee is going to win. There’s a look of desperation to Wide Shoulders, his eyes wild. He wants to live more. He’ll do whatever it takes.

Purple Face is infuriated, but there was more than just fury on his ruined face as he scanned the crowd just moments ago. His eyes were filled with despair.

The fight is over quickly. And I force myself to watch as Wide Shoulders slices his opponent from groin to collarbone.

I’m sure I’ll hear his screams in my dreams tonight. I’ll hear the clanking of the chain as Wide Shoulders limps closer. And I’ll hear the thump of his blade as he slices through his opponent’s neck, leaving the man’s head to roll free.

A mercy. At least he gave Purple Face a quick death.

Rage burns in my gut, but my instincts scream at me to force my expression to remain neutral. Any negative reaction to the emperor’s entertainment will draw the wrong kind of attention.

I drag my gaze to the tiles above my head. I wish I could at least enjoy the heat of the sun.

One by one, criminals are cut down. I don’t know what kind of crimes they committed to have been sentenced to the arena, but from the pleased look on the emperor’s face at the end of each match, they were enough to annoy him greatly.

The woman with the defensive wounds is last. If her arms pain her, she doesn’t let it show, warming up her wrist with a swing of her sword. Her opponent is a mountain of a man, his long beard stained with blood, lips pulled back in a snarl.

He attacks with a roar, and my own arms ache in sympathy as she blocks the first blow. Her wounds must be screaming at her, but her expression remains placid, her eyes focused.

The arena turns hushed. This woman is so skilled, she fights like one of the imperius, sliding nimbly out of the way of each swing of her opponent’s sword, moving with perfect efficiency, expending only the precise amount of energy and force needed.

It’s enough to exhaust the man she’s fighting, but he’s enraged—either by her or by the situation he’s found himself in. Each slash of his sword cuts through the air, the force of his shoulders and biceps behind it.

It’s only because I’m watching that I see it. The bleakness in the woman’s eyes as he slashes out with that sword once more, leaving his throat wide open.

Her expression twists into devastation. But she still lunges neatly beneath his shield, slices out with her own sword, and slashes her blade across his throat.

With a choked cry, he goes down.

Unlike the others, the woman doesn’t raise her sword to the sky. She doesn’t play to the crowd or bow to the emperor. Instead, she simply waits, her gaze on the body slumped before her.

From the moment she entered the arena, she refused to be stripped of her dignity. And now, she is refusing to partake in the emperor’s games.

Murmuring begins to sound in the sands. The murmuring turns to cheers, which turns into a dull roar.

I can’t see the expression on the woman’s face when she turns to face the emperor. But I can see the expression on his. The crowd is with her, and he doesn’t like it.

He holds up his hand, and several people around me suck in audible breaths.

My own chest aches, my lungs tight. But I know his thumb will shoot up even before he lifts it. The emperor is a clever man, and he knows how to keep the people on his side.

An enforcer strides into the arena and unchains her from her opponent, dragging her toward the gate. She casts one last glance back—not at the emperor, but at the man lying dead on the sand, now stained red with his blood.

It’s over. I get to my feet, ready to file out of this place and make my way down below, where I’ll beg one of the healers for some sleeping berries and fall into blessed unconsciousness. But Maeva takes my arm, pointing.

And my heart kicks in my chest.