Counting Shadows (Duplicity) (7 page)

Footsteps approach from behind. “Should I have the watch guards put an arrow through the prisoner, my Lord?” asks Jolik.

I hold my breath as I wait for an answer. It’s not unheard of for a guard to end a prisoner’s life before Chagra does. Mostly, it’s done when Chagra doesn’t quite finish his job, and leaves the contender ripped open and screaming in agony. A quick arrow to the chest is convenient then, to keep the crowd from getting too unsettled.

“No,” Father replies, his voice pensive. “Let the prisoner live for now. But if he gives Chagra too much trouble, then give the order. I want that beast kept alive.”

Pride creeps into his words. I often wonder why Father is so proud of Chagra, when he didn’t do anything to help catch the beast. I once heard Father explain that because his army captured Chagra, and because he controls that army, that he should receive the credit.

For a king, Father often says very stupid things.

Jolik nods and returns his attention back to the arena floor. I follow suit, just in time to see Lor leap forward at Chagra. The beast stumbles backward, and the crowd lets out a collective gasp. Chagra always strikes first.

Not anymore.

While Chagra tries to regain his footing, Lor lunges at him with his sword and slashes the beast’s shoulder. Chagra howls in pain and takes another step back. Its eyes widen, and I can see their color. Purple. A deep, royal purple, so pretty it’s mesmerizing.

Lor lunges again, sweeping the sword in a perfectly-balanced arc. Chagra yelps, barely managing to stumble out of the way. It growls and swipes at Lor with its paw, but he quickly ducks.

The fight continues, the crowd gasping and occasionally clapping. Lor fends the beast off, flustering it more and more with each swing of his sword. Chagra grows more desperate, its attacks increasingly short and inaccurate.

Most of the crowd is on their feet. Beside me, Father grips his chair like he’s trying to strangle it. He’s holding his breath, his teeth gritted and slowly grinding back and forth.

Issuing a command to kill Lor is as good as admitting that Chagra has lost. Which isn’t supposed to be possible, since Father says his beast is undefeatable. But allowing Lor to continue his attack may be a death sentence for Chagra.

I can almost see Father’s mind spinning as he struggles with the decision. I let out a gasp of air, my lungs burning from holding my breath. Lor may not be the man I’m looking for, and he may be a jerk, but he’s a person. A person I talked to. A person I know. He’s not nameless and unknown, like the other contenders I’ve watched perish.

I don’t want him to die.

Chagra snarls and leaps forward. The crowd takes in a collective gasp, and I feel like my lungs are going to burst. Lor holds up his sword, bracing it with both hands. Father curses, not even bothering to keep his voice down.

Chagra is about to impale itself.

Then the sword skitters off to the side, tumbling through the dust like a shred of paper caught in the wind. Chagra lets out a shrieking howl of triumph, but I don’t bother to cover my ears. I’m frozen, my eyes on Lor.

He’s underneath Chagra, pinned to the ground by the beast’s paw. Lor struggles to free himself, but Chagra just presses harder. Chagra lowers its head, jowls dripping foamy saliva onto Lor’s cheek.

Lor reaches out, grasping for the sword Chagra swatted away from him. He yells when his hand doesn’t find the weapon, and slams his fist into Chagra’s leg. Panic overtakes his expression, and I turn away. I don’t want to see him like this.

In the few minutes I spent with him, Lor never showed fear. He was proud. He shouldn’t have to die like this, with hundreds of people watching his terror.

Lor grabs a heavy stone from the ground beside him, and takes a moment to aim. Just as Chagra tries to swat the rock out of his hand, Lor hurls it at its face. Chagra yelps as the stone strikes it, bludgeoning its eye. Blood streams down the beast’s face, blinding it for a moment and forcing it to stumble back a single step.

It’s all Lor needs. He rolls to the side, away from Chagra, barely missing the beast’s claws as they swipe toward him again. Chagra manages to catch Lor’s shirt with his claw, and tears it from his chest.

Lor yells, and I look away. But not quickly enough to miss the blood seeping from Lor’s side. I shudder, knowing Chagra caught more than just Lor’s shirt.

“You’re upset,” Father states blandly.

Glancing over to him, I find a small smile on his lips. I wonder if Father even sees the blood.

Tearing my gaze from him, I look back at the amphitheater floor. Maybe when the Match is over, I’ll slap that smile from Father’s face. But now all I can do is stare down at the arena.

Lor runs to the sword, but isn’t quick enough. Chagra is on him in an instant, batting him to the side with its paw. Lor slams to the ground and rolls a few feet.

Chagra’s lips raise into a tortured grin, and it bats at Lor again, sending him flying into the arena wall. Lor collapses, his face pressed into the dirt.

This time he doesn’t stir.

A few members of the crowd break into slow applause, thinking the Match is over. Chagra has won, as always.

I feel sick.

Chagra slowly approaches Lor’s body, its hackles lying back down. I swear the beast looks smug. But it’s cautious as it pads toward the body, taking one deliberate step after another.

I wait for Chagra to rip into Lor’s body, but it doesn’t. It’s waiting for something.

Lor stirs and blinks, and then tries to push up from the ground. Chagra lets out another howl, and I’m sure my ears are going to start bleeding. So this was what Chagra was waiting for; it wants Lor to be conscious when it makes the final blow.

Chagra crouches, preparing to leap at Lor’s prone body. Lor manages to roll over and look at the beast. His fear is gone, and in its place is fury.

That’s when I notice it. The tattoo. I remember seeing a glimpse of it in the prison, the very edge of the ink poking out from Lor’s shirt. Now, with his shirt gone, I can see it all.

It starts at his mid-back, swirling around his spine before the black ink snakes over his right shoulder. The tattoo is of flames, and it looks so real, I wonder how Lor isn’t burned.

My eyes follow the ink-work, trailing along the familiar lines of the tattoo. I look for something different about it, but it’s just the same as I remember it.

Maybe all Angels have this tattoo. Maybe that’s why Lor also has it.

Then I remember Ashe’s killer. He didn’t have a tattoo, and neither does Jackal, or any of the other non-humans I’ve seen.

But Ashe did. And he didn’t just have
a
tattoo. He had
this
one.

“He lied,” I whisper. It can’t be coincidence that both Ashe and Lor have the same tattoo. What are the chances that Lor shares the mark with a random demon? No, that’s not possible. Lor lied; Ashe wasn’t just a demon. He was an Angel, just like I always believed.

An Angel somehow connected to Lor.

I have one moment of sheer excitement. Did Lor personally know Ashe? Can he lead me to Ashe’s killer?

But none of that matters if Lor dies.

“Stop the Match,” I say.

Father doesn’t hear me, so I raise my voice. “Stop the Match!”

Father waves his hand at me, like he’s trying to flick away a bug. He gazes intently down at the arena, his smile growing as Chagra nears Lor. Lor shakes his head, as if to clear his mind, and drags himself away from Chagra.

“Father!" I scream. “Stop the Match! Now!”

Father finally glances over to me, but only for a second. “Calm down, Faye. Don’t make me have to restrain you.”

His voice is toneless, but the threat is real. I glance over my shoulder at Jolik, hoping he’ll shake his head at me and smile, telling me that he’d go against Father to protect me. But he does none of those things, and just stares blankly out into the arena with his arms crossed over his chest, like he’s warding off my gaze.

I bite my lip, glaring at him, and then look down at the arena. I don’t have any choice but to watch the rest of the Match. Watch as Lor dies, as Chagra rips his tattoo to shreds. Watch as I lose my last connection to Ashe.

Lor is still backing away from Chagra. I taste blood in my mouth, but refuse to stop biting my lip. It’s the only way I can keep myself from screaming out directions to Lor.

He’s still dazed, unable to pull himself to his feet. But he manages to drag himself through the dirt with his arms, away from Chagra.

But he’s not going the right way. Lor should be going towards the center of the arena, where he can’t be cornered. Instead, he drags himself toward the far corner.

Chagra increases its pace, slinking forward until it’s only inches from Lor. Lor yells something at it–his words are in a different language, and I can’t tell what he’s saying. But it sounds furious.

Chagra snarls and bristles, making me wince. Lor should know better than to yell; Chagra likes playing with its victims, but not when they talk back.

“Father,“ I say. ”
Please.
”

He doesn’t even look at me.

Chagra crouches, its tail lashing back and forth, and prepares to leap. Lor desperately grabs at dirt, but a handful of sand won’t stop Chagra. Even another stone probably wouldn’t stop him, now that it’s scented blood and is closing in on the kill.

Chagra leaps. I want to look away. I should. But then I see Lor’s hand grasp around something and throw it forward. There’s a glint of metal, a shrieking howl, and a second of silence that lasts an eternity.

Then noise so intense I feel like I’m drowning in it.

Everyone stands from their seats, clapping, whistling, cheering. They point towards the arena floor, as if all eyes weren’t already on it. Most of the crowd is grinning while they cheer, their eyes wide with the after-effects of adrenaline.

Father yells something, but I hardly notice. My eyes are on the arena floor. Lor lies there, his blood pooling on the ground as it seeps from the claw-marks on his side. Chagra lies beside him, the hilt of the long-sword protruding from the beast’s mouth, and the tip of the blade poking out from its skull.

I replay in my mind what I saw, trying to piece the scene together. Lor had moved toward the corner because his sword was there. He’d dragged himself to the weapon just in time. And when Chagra leapt at him, he’d simply held up the sword and let Chagra’s momentum do the rest.

I smile.

“Kill the prisoner,” Father says.

And my smile disappears. I whirl toward Father’s seat, finding him leaning forward with his hands still trying to strangle the armrests. He looks ready to pounce on Lor himself.

“Kill him?” Jolik repeats.

I’ve never heard Jolik question an order, but now there’s genuine confusion in his voice. My own voice is gone, stuck in my throat along with the quickly-retreating relief.

“Yes!” Father snaps. “Give the order. Kill that prisoner.” He stands from his chair and faces Jolik, his face twisted into a snarl. “That’s the point of a Match, isn’t it? To dispose of unwanted criminals?”

I choke back a hysterical laugh. Disposing of unwanted criminals? Does Father
really
expect anyone to buy that? The entire point of Matches is vicious entertainment, pure and simple.

Jolik nods and replaces the confusion with his usual stoic expression. He’s not going to disagree with Father, not if he doesn’t want to be slain on the spot. He steps to the edge of the booth, and holds up a hand. Below him, other guards move into place.

I can’t see them, but I know how this works: All Jolik needs to do is lower his hand. It’s that simple. The other guards, hidden in turrets at the top of the arena wall, will fire off their arrows. Eleven archers usually surround the wall. Eleven arrows through Lor’s heart.

“You can’t do this,” I say to Father.

He turns to me, his jaw gritted so hard it looks painful. "I can do
anything
I want.”

Lor is still lying on his back, a tired grin on his face. He’s staring up at the sky, oblivious to the archers surrounding him. I see his chest move up and down. He’s laughing, probably too relieved to care about the pain that must be ripping through his side.

Father’s expression hardens when he sees Lor’s laughter. “Give the order!”

“No,” I say.

Jolik’s hand wavers, his eyes intent on Lor. I can picture the dilemma running through his mind: Kill Lor, now a hero in the eyes of the crowd, and face the anger of a mass of citizens. Or let Lor live, and face Father.

He starts to let his hand fall.

“Wait!” I scream. I can still save Lor. There’s only one way to do it, and it’s the one thing I swore I’d never do.

But I have to. Ashe would understand.

Wouldn’t he?

Jolik’s hand stops. One of the guards below lets loose an arrow, confused by the order, but it goes wide. Lor doesn’t notice as the arrowhead impales the ground just feet from his head.

“Don’t listen to her,” Father says. “Kill him! That Angel has no right to breathe the air of my country.”

I turn to Father, reaching over and grabbing his arm. He tries to shake me off, but I dig my fingers in until he whirls toward me.

“What is
wrong
, Faye?” he demands.

“By the power bestowed onto me by my royal blood, I now choose my Guardian,” I say.

Father does his best to smile at me, but it looks more like a snarl. “It’s not time for that yet, Faye.”

I point down to the arena floor, raising my voice so everyone in the surrounding booths will hear. “I Choose Lor, Angel of the Forbidden Lands. Let him be my Guardian now and for eternity.”

I never knew how much chaos a few simple words could cause.

The moment Jolik hears me, he calls off the archers and turns to face me. He looks shocked, stunned, maybe a little angry.

“You
what
?” Father growls. His voice is low and gravelly, his eyes narrowed. He grabs my shoulders. “Take it back. Take back what you just said, or I swear I’ll disown you and cast you out of this kingdom!”

My stomach churns, even though I know the ancient laws protect me from his threats. Besides, everyone around me must have heard what I said. They won’t let me take back my words; the penalty is death for defying a tradition as strong as the Choosing.