“Hey!” one of the soldiers snapped. “You’re not supposed to—”
I seized him by the elbow and drew him close, touching the point of my knife to the bottom edge of his armor, right above his hip. I pressed it just enough for him to feel the sting of the point.
“Let me walk in,” I told him, loud enough for the others to hear. “I’ll let him go as soon as we’re inside.”
“Is that . . . ?” one of the others asked, leaning close to see my face.
I didn’t answer. Keeping my hand on his armor, not his skin, I pressed my captive soldier toward the end of the tunnel. None of the others moved to help him, and I credited my reputation for that—my reputation, and the ropes of shadow currently wrapped around my throat and wrists.
I squinted into the bright light at the end of the passageway, and the roar of a huge crowd filled my ears. The big, heavy doors closed behind me and locked, leaving only my hostage and me on the arena floor. The other soldiers had stayed back. Above us, the force field buzzed. It smelled sour as saltfruit, and familiar as the dust that rose into the air with every footstep I took.
I had bled here. I had made others bleed here.
Ryzek was on a wide platform, halfway up the stadium’s side. An amplifier swooped over his head and hovered. His mouth was open, like he had been ready to speak, but now all he could do was stare at me.
I shoved my hostage soldier aside, sheathed my currentblade, and pushed away the hood that shaded my face.
It took Ryzek only a moment to put on a mocking smile. “Well. Look at this. Cyra Noavek, back so soon? Did you miss us? Or is this how disgraced Shotet commit suicide?”
A chorus of laughter came from the crowd. The stadium was full of his most loyal supporters, the healthiest and wealthiest and best-fed people in Shotet. They would laugh at anything that resembled a joke.
One of the amplifiers—controlled by remote by someone in the amphitheater—floated over my head to catch my response. I watched it bob up and down like a swallow. I didn’t have much time before he sent someone after me; I had to be direct.
I removed each of my gloves, in turn, and unbuttoned the heavy cloak that made me sweat. Beneath it I wore my armor. My arms were bare, and a layer of makeup—applied by Teka that morning—disguised the bruises on my face, making it look like I had healed overnight. The silverskin on my throat and head shone. It itched in earnest now as it knitted together with my scalp.
If my body ached, it didn’t mention it. I was on Akos’s painkiller, but it was adrenaline that really made me separate from my pain now.
“I’m here to challenge you to the arena,” I said.
There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, like they weren’t sure if it was expected of them. Ryzek was certainly not laughing.
“I never knew you to be so theatrical,” Ryzek said at last. His face was sweaty; he wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Marching in here with a hostage to make an attempt on your brother’s life is . . . well, just as cruel as we have come to expect from you, I suppose.”
“No crueler than having your sister beaten to death and recording it so everyone can watch,” I said.
“You are not my sister,” Ryzek said. “You’re my mother’s murderer.”
“Then come down here and avenge her,” I said hotly.
The amphitheater was full of mutters again, noise poured back into it like water into a glass.
“You don’t deny killing her?” Ryzek said.
I couldn’t even pretend to deny it. Even after all this time, the memory was close to me. I had been yelling at her at the time, throwing a tantrum. “I don’t want to go to another doctor! I won’t!” I had grabbed her arm, and shoved the pain at her like a child thrusting a plate of unwanted food away. But I had pushed too hard, and she had fallen at my feet. What I most remembered were her hands, folded over her stomach. So elegant, so perfect. Even in death.
“I am not here to trade accusations with you,” I said. “I am here to do what I should have done seasons ago. Fight me in the arena.” I drew my knife and held it out from my side. “And before you tell me that I don’t have the rank to make such a challenge, let me point out how convenient that is.”
Ryzek’s jaw was set. When we were young, he had lost a tooth because he ground them in his sleep. It had fractured from the force, and its replacement was capped with metal. Sometimes I saw it glinting when he spoke, a reminder of the pressure that had created the man standing in front of me.
I went on, “You stripped me of my rank so no one could ever see for themselves that I am stronger than you. Now you hide behind your throne like a cowering child, and call it law.” I tilted my head. “But no one can quite forget your fate, can they? To fall to the family Benesit?” I smiled. “Refusing to fight me just confirms what everyone suspects about you: that you are weak.”
I heard low whispers in the crowd. No one had declared Ryzek’s fate so baldly, so publicly, without suffering the consequences. The last one who had tried had been Teka’s mother on the sojourn ship’s intercom, and now she was dead. The soldiers by the doors shifted, waiting for the order to kill me, but it didn’t come.
All that came was Ryzek’s smile, showing teeth. It was not the smile of someone who was squirming.
“All right, little Cyra. I’ll spar with you,” he said. “Since that seems to be the only behavior that makes sense to you.”