The Sword Unbroken - SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter Six: Red King's Eve

Dawn rode into Kirinoll on the back of a chilly mist that spread tendrils into every avenue and narrow alley. An unnatural light lay beneath the banks of fog. Red, for the ancient monarch that had come and gone. The crimson light bled from the flames of candles set on every window sill. Hundreds of the same candles were set in a ring around the palace. The royal grounds glowed at the heart of Kirinoll, an ember nestled in the dying coals of the city.

The Red King, the last monarch to have reigned supreme in Inofar, was a dubious cause for celebration. Kuraya had revived the old holiday upon assuming the throne, and her veneration of the last unchecked monarch was reluctantly mirrored by her city. Red King's Eve was a day when the old world touched the new like a shadow falling across the face of the sun.

Most of Kirinoll lay silent. Even the least superstitious would not venture out until the sun was high and the last smudges of night had given way to the reign of day. The streets and buildings of the East Outer Ring were deserted, but for one notable exception.

The House of Iffroa was wide awake, its legions of servants and guards rushing about under Ori Canning's command. In the entrance hall, intricate mosaics were scraped and washed. The already gleaming floor was buffed with clean rags. Below the main floors, the massive kitchens had been abuzz hours before dawn, ovens roaring. Flavored steam rose from the golden-brown crusts of beef pies, cooling in rows. In the great arena that lay at Iffoa's heart, every seat was dusted, every pillow in the elite seats fluffed, and even the benches at the top of the box were scrubbed and oiled. And at the center of it all, the white sand of the battlebox glowed like a jewel beneath the glaring lights in the rafters.

The battlebox clearers moved carefully around the box, stamping against the tightly packed sand to check for loose patches. The trap-doors and tunnels beneath the box had all been sealed. Tonight was only a straightforward battle between boxers. No need for any of the novel distractions Iffroa normally introduced to spice up a fight.

Warwick was in the box, examining every inch. He ground his toe into the sand and eyed the shallow imprint. Then he began to circle, running his fingers over the secret entrances and springboards set into the walls. He shouted instructions and pointed out tiny imperfections as he went, sending the clearers darting around the box in every direction.

Amid the noise and hustle, only one long, dim corridor was silent. No torches were lit there, and no servants or guards passed through the grey cells where the battleboxers were housed.

The men and women who waited there listened to the sounds of the House. None of them had woken with the dawn, because not one of them had slept through the night.

They knew what was to come.

By afternoon, bleak sunlight finally dispersed the morning fog. Thin light crept in through Rerdas' window and fell across him where he lay staring at the ceiling, one arm folded behind his head. Etiana had gone out to the temples earlier, but he was not interested in getting reacquainted with the earthbound gods. He had stayed in bed through the whole morning, hanging somewhere between anxious wakefulness and uneasy rest.

His sleep had been disturbed by dreams. Images slipped through his head like foul water, impossible to grasp but leaving a terrible taste in their wake. He had drifted off countless times, only to be jolted awake with a gasp, dark things racing past in the corners of his vision. But this last time, voices in the main room downstairs had woken him. Etiana was back. He recognized Heckly's warm tenor along with her and pushed his blankets aside, dragging himself from the bed.

He staggered down the stairs still in his bedclothes, still finding his balance. The smooth flagstones of the kitchen floor were cool beneath his bare feet.