Tainted

Chapter Six

Flowers are thrown at my feet. Their soiled roots already look like they're shriveling under the noon sun. I bare my teeth in a smile and try to breathe through the gaps. The smell of soil and blood makes for a sickening combination. It's hard not to gag as I watch the warden, waiting for a sign to show me what he's thinking.

He studies me, his black eyes unblinking and his fingers tapping against the stone balustrade, before a noble calls his name, and he's forced to look away. My heart sinks a little lower than last time.

Sweat drips from the tip of my nose, and I have to close my eyes to keep the tears from following. My legs shake beneath me. An arm snakes around my waist and I stiffen, the flayed skin on my back burning, but it's Alani's soft silk sleeve that's holding me, nothing more.

Alani wears a pleasant expression, but the skin around her eyes is tight. I lean into her, letting her support my weight. She grips my hand and raises it high above our heads.

My palm screams with pain as the splinters make themselves known. I swallow the cry in my throat and stare at our joined hands, watching as a bead of my blood trails down into Alani's sleeve.

Behind us, Triane's patron is mumbling under his breath. It's a language I don't understand from the base of the Aichmires mountains, but I can guess his meaning from the harsh sounds of his voice.

It's up to the patron to declare death. Us Ill-Fated aren't trusted enough to do so. I hold my breath and wait for the patron's words.

Those nobles watch without speaking. The band doesn't play—the performers have already begun packing away their instruments—and the food venders busy themselves with clean up, keeping silent as they tuck discarded popped corn bags beneath their arms.

"She's dead," Triane's patron calls from behind me.

A single bell peals across the arena. I close my eyes against the sound. The hum of conversation picks up again.

"Our Thief has won." The warden's voice is loud in the amplifier over the rising din. There's a half-hearted cheer in response, but it's clear the nobles' hearts aren't in it. They already know how the coins will fall, they no longer care about the pageantry of the whole thing.

A guard steps out of the warden's box with my worn blue betting bag and begins to dole out the winnings to the audience. The clang of coins is sharp against the nobles' chatter.

"And we will not forget what she's done here," the warden says, his eyes coming to rest on me. The amplifying cone drops from his mouth, showing his thin lips, pursed neither in a smile, nor a frown.

I don't realize I'm squeezing Alani's hand until she hisses through her teeth. I let go, my arm falling back to my side. It stings and throbs, the cut from Triane's wood still fresh against my tricep.

Heavy fabric falls to the stone floor, and I know a guard has cut Triane's banner free, letting it tumble to the ground, signaling the end of the duel, and the end of Triane's life.

I keep myself facing forward as I hear the drag of Triane's body across the pebble-covered arena floor. The guards will be hauling her body away so that they can sweep away the stained pebbles and fill the arena with fresh stones for the next day's duel. Tomorrow, it'll be like Triane never even existed.

Up in the stands, the nobles are preparing to head back to their tent village just outside the prison walls. Their bloodthirst quenched, they leave tattered flower boxes in their wakes, the torn stalks wilting like broken dreams against the nobles' flowing satin gowns and technicolored robes.

A guard crosses before Alani and me and picks up both pieces of the shattered mace shaft. With a grunt, he pries my twin blades from the wood and wipes them clean on a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He retraces his steps and stands before me, unstrapping the knife belt from my waist without asking. I wince as he cinches the leather tight to slip it free from the buckle. As he pulls it away, I can see that some of the leather is now stained red from where it lay against my bleeding back.