AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 18
When I was eight or nine, Pa told me the history of the Arvegna arena. Of how, in times long gone, the master of the games would flood the arena for full-scale naval battles. The Arvegna was once a place where ordinary people could prove themselves and fight their way into the Wardana, or to their freedom. They would face impossible odds, and rare were the stories of victors. But by stepping into the arena, anyone—young or old, high ringer or low—could become master of their destiny, even if just for a moment.
When I was a kid, I dreamt of proving myself in the Arvegna of old, up against beasts and the finest sword dancers. I imagined the thrill of demanding my right from the Regia.
I never imagined myself as a spectator at Pa’s fight, one amongst the thousands who’ve turned up. I’d rather be forced to go up against a hundred beasts, armed with a toothpick, than be forced to sit, powerless to do anything but watch.
Dalca has his own platform in the stands, set right above the very heart of the action. It’s the best view in the Arvegna, save for one. Across the arena from his is an even larger platform, empty for now.
Dalca sits stiffly beside me on a stone bench so ornate it might as well be a throne, the folds of his white and gold cloak spilling over thesides. He holds himself carefully, conscious of the eyes watching him. “Comfortable?”
“Not remotely.” When he said we could watch together, I hadn’t realized it would be quite so public. Thousands upon thousands of eyes watch us, belonging to folks from all corners of the city.
I tug at the neck of my white dress. Of all the three I’d been shown, this one looked the most like armor, but I hadn’t expected armor to cage me so tight.
“Dalca...” I stop myself for what must be the fiftieth time. I pick at the embroidery on my dress. The night had hardened Pa’s resolve—pleading with him at dawn had been of as much use as begging the sun not to rise. But I’ve only grown more uncertain. I want to give Dalca the notebook, but how can I know that he’ll keep Pa alive, once he has what he needs? How do I know that it won’t be just another bad decision? I’ve made a lot of those lately, and each time Pa’s been right. But I just can’t see how Pa being punished like this helps anyone.
“Are you sure you want to be here?” Dalca asks.
“Stop asking me that.”
Dalca’s voice is soft. “People have survived the First Trial, you know. Many of them without half the knowledge your father possesses.”
“You think Pa still has the will to fight?”
His eyes glitter in the light. “It’s more difficult to give up the will to live than most people imagine.”
A hush falls over the crowd. The Regia ascends the steps to her platform. Her black hair is bound at the crown of her head, emphasizing the sharpness of her cheekbones and the gauntness of her cheeks. Every inch of visible skin is covered in interlocking lines of gold. There’s a mesmerizing sort of beauty to the perfect symmetry of the Regia’s mark, but the overall effect isn’t so much beautiful as terrifying.
Her eyes zero in on me, and it’s as though I’m standing before her, not sitting dozens of feet across the arena. In her gaze is the cold fury of all things unceasing, of sunrise upon endless sunrise, a world perfectly preserved in blinding light.
I snap back to myself. The power in her eyes contrasts with the frailness of her body: her gold-tipped hands shake like weathered leaves, her skin is drawn tight across her skull, as thin as paper, and she lowers herself so gingerly into her throne that her bones might be made of glass. She looks far more fragile here than she did surrounded by the splendor of the throne room.
She raises a hand, and the people cheer in one great roar; second-ringers in all their skimpy finery in the seats nearest us, third- and fourth-ringers filling out the seats in the heart of the arena, and fifth-ringers who’ve gotten a special pass fill the rest.
My blood boils. This is why people love a Trial. It’s not just for the plentiful food, or to enjoy the festival atmosphere, or even to see the Regia. They come to be entertained. They come to forget about the Storm. The shape of the arena amplifies their voices into a single, monstrous roar.
Below us, a maze sprawls across the floor of the arena, one made of green hedges rising ten feet tall. Tucked intermittently into nooks and corners of the hedge wall are weapons, each in an ikon-locked cage. At the heart of the maze is a golden sword impaled in an ikon-engraved pedestal. If Pa unsheathes it, he wins. The arbitrariness sickens me. This is all artifice, rhyme with no reason, just to watch Pa suffer.
The cheering grows deafening as three doors materialize in the wall surrounding the arena floor. Marked by ikons, they open to admit a familiar pale-haired man in black and gold, a waiflike woman in blue, and heavyset man in green who’s accompanied by a snarling hound.
I glare down at them. “Who are they?”
“I’m afraid they’re volunteers. Handpicked by Ragno. Each one of them lost something irreplaceable because of your father’s actions.” He points to the massive man in green with a shaved head and no neck to speak of. His dog whips its head back and forth, practically buzzing with bloodlust. It’s a massive creature, nearly reaching the man’s chest.
“That man’s father was on the last Regia’s personal guard. He was... my grandfather’s closest friend, who died protecting him.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as a secondhand guilt comes over me. I shake it off. I won’t believe that Pa deserves any of this. “I suppose the dog lost someone, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, tell me.”
“That beast has spent the last three days and nights without food, with only a shirt bearing your father’s scent for company.” It foams at the mouth, its spittle flying as it leaps forward and its leash snaps taut.
Dalca’s hand slides to point at the slender woman in blue, who stands with a bow in hand. “Her husband was stationed in the sixth ring. It flooded the day my grandfather was killed, with no Regia to hold the Storm back. Her husband saved many lives. But he lost his.”
Last comes Ragno in black and gold, wielding a scythe as tall as he is. “Ragno Haveli. He was once close friends with your father. When his wife died during the chaos, he felt that your father’s act was a personal betrayal.”
