I have always found that the worst conversations begin with the phrase, "Walk with ." Nothing good ever followed those words. At best, it ant I was about to be conscripted into a lecture about my "attitude problem" by so authority figure with too much starch in their collar.
At worst, it ant execution. So naturally, when Rodrick appeared outside my borrowed suite in the bowels of the colosseum and delivered those fateful syllables with all the gravity of a man requesting his last al, I considered slamming the door in his face.
Alas, dignity demanded otherwise, so I sighed, squared my shoulders, and allowed myself to be herded along like a reluctant sheep toward whatever grim revelation awaited .
The corridors beneath the colosseum were less grand than the arena itself, which was just as well, because if I’d had to endure more banners and marble arches, I might have vomited.
Instead, we walked along narrow passages of stone that slled faintly of damp and mildew, the torchlight casting long shadows that swayed like drunken giants across the walls.
Above us, muffled yet omnipresent, was the roar of the crowd—jeers, laughter, the clink of goblets, the fluttering of fans, all the noises of a privileged mob getting comfortable before the slaughter comnced.
It was, I reflected sourly, rather like being a pig waiting in the slaughterhouse while the farrs debated which sauce best complented pork. The noises of anticipation were always worse than the act itself, because they let your imagination do all the heavy lifting.
Rodrick walked with his usual stoicism, though there was sothing peculiar about him tonight. He wasn’t holding himself like a knight preparing to scold for insolence, nor like a soldier bracing for imminent death.
Instead, he looked oddly... hesitant.
His shoulders slumped, his mouth worked silently as though he were rehearsing lines he didn’t want to say, and his eyes flicked toward with the unease of a man considering whether or not his companion might stab him for speaking aloud.
I could practically feel the tension radiating from him like steam from an overcooked potato. Finally, I had to break the silence before the atmosphere strangled .
"Well," I said, twirling my pen idly between my fingers as if to emphasize how terribly casual I was about this whole nightmare, "usually when soone invites for a romantic stroll in a dank dungeon corridor, there’s at least wine involved. Or flowers. Or, failing that, a little hand-holding. You’re really dropping the ball here, Rodrick."
His jaw flexed, and to my utter astonishnt, a faint blush crept up his battle-worn cheeks. A blush. Rodrick. The man who once bisected a bandit while reciting a sermon about honor now looked as though I’d just accused him of leaving his diary out in public.
"It’s not that," he muttered.
"Oh?" I arched a brow, relishing the rare sight of him flustered. "Then what is it? A secret confession? A declaration of undying loyalty? A request that I finally stop calling you ’Sir Splinters’ when you wheeze like a fireplace in need of kindling?"
Rodrick shot a look that might have felled lesser n, but his usual composure didn’t fully return. He tugged at his shirt like a child clutching a blanket, then said in a tone low enough to make lean in, "It’s the zealot."
I blinked. "You’ll have to be more specific. There were enough zealots in this competition to start a traveling choir. Do you an the one with the unfortunate lisp, the one who scread so loud he lost his voice, or the one who tried to baptize with his own spit?"
His frown deepened. "The one with the long white hair."
Ah. Yes. That one. The strange figure who had slunk into the plaza among the final sixteen with all the charisma of a tombstone and the aesthetic of a particularly sulky choirboy.
He had stood too rigid, his cloak too clean, his silence too asured. I hadn’t liked him the mont I saw him, but then again, I rarely liked anyone on sight, so that hadn’t been much of an indictnt. Still, Rodrick’s grave tone lent the mory a weight I hadn’t given it before.
"Right," I said with exaggerated thoughtfulness, stroking my chin as if I were a detective in a cheap play. "White hair. Silver glimr. You’re saying he’s not just fashionably mysterious? You think he’s... what? Hiding dandruff of world-ending proportions?"
Rodrick didn’t laugh. Saints, he didn’t even grimace. Instead, he reached out and grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my sleeve with an urgency I hadn’t expected. "I’m serious, Cecil. There’s sothing off about him. I... I think I might know who he is."
That jolted out of my sarcasm quicker than a bucket of ice water down the back of my shirt. Rodrick rarely admitted uncertainty, let alone personal familiarity with an enemy, and the way his voice shook ever so slightly made pay attention.
"You might know him?" I repeated, brows arched. "Rodrick, darling, if you’ve been hiding secret zealot acquaintances from this whole ti, I’m going to be very cross."
His lips pressed thin. "I can’t confirm it yet. Not without getting closer. But if I’m right..." He trailed off, the silence heavy, his hand still gripping my arm like he thought I might run off and mock him into oblivion.
I opened my mouth to prod further, to pry out the confession with all the charm of a pickaxe, but the words died before I could shape them. Because down the corridor ahead, faint but unmistakable, ca the sound of voices.
Chattering. Low, hushed, conspiratorial.
Rodrick and I froze in tandem, our instincts kicking in before logic had the chance to object. We crouched, inching toward the corner like a pair of burglars in so farcical play.
My cloak brushed the damp stone, Rodrick’s armor creaked faintly, and both of us leaned just far enough to peer around.
And oh, saints, what a tableau awaited us.
There, in the torchlit stretch of passage, stood three figures. One was the High Priest of the Southern Sun, his golden sword slung arrogantly across his back, his grin brighter than a dentist’s lantern.
Opposite him, stiff and pale, stood the white-haired zealot Rodrick had just nad. Between them, in the posture of soone who very much wanted to be anywhere else, was an attendant of the Northern Cathedral—a woman this ti, her hood drawn back just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and a mouth set in brittle determination.
She was speaking first, her voice clipped and precise. "I told you. I cannot make those arrangents."
Imdiately my mind leapt to bribery. Of course it did. What else would these preening lunatics be doing in a corner of the colosseum, whispering to an official?
If I had learned anything from noble society, it was that the louder a man proclaid his holiness, the more skeletons he had stuffed beneath his altar.
The High Priest sneered, his golden grin warping into sothing sharp. "Do you know who I am?" His voice rang with the arrogance of a man who had never once been told no in his life.
The woman did not budge, though I noticed the slightest tremor in her shoulders, the kind that betrayed how much effort it took to stand firm. "Yes," she said coolly. "A noisy man with too much jewelry."
I nearly clapped from my hiding place. Saints bless her, that was wit worth admiring.
The priest, however, did not share my appreciation. His smile tightened, then split. With a suddenness that made flinch, he swung his hand out in a brutal backhand. The crack echoed like a whip. The woman’s body flew sideways, her head striking the wall with a sickening thud, blood streaking down her hood as she slumped to the floor.
My stomach lurched. I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from charging forward. Even Rodrick stiffened beside , his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.
The priest looked down at her crumpled form with disdain. "Noisy bitch," he muttered, before his radiant grin snapped back into place, bright as ever, as though he’d rely swatted a fly.
I cursed under my breath and yanked Rodrick back, my heart pounding. We couldn’t afford to be caught here. Not by him. Not by them. If we were discovered, it would—
"Why don’t you both co out?"
The priest’s voice rang down the corridor, sweet as poisoned honey.
I closed my eyes, exhaled, and muttered a prayer that would have scandalized every saint in the pantheon. Of course he’d noticed us. He probably slled sarcasm like sharks slled blood.
"Well," I whispered to Rodrick, "on the bright side, at least we won’t have to worry about dying of boredom." Then, louder, I sighed theatrically and stepped out from behind the corner, spreading my arms in mock surrender.
The High Priest’s smile widened. "Ah. The lady herself."
I gave him my best smirk, the one that usually made n reconsider whether stabbing was worth the trouble. "Well, you know . Always eager to insert myself into situations where I clearly don’t belong. Call it a hobby. Like embroidery, but with more blood."
The priest’s grin twitched, just slightly. A hairline crack in his perfect mask. That, at least, I savored.
And then the zealot stepped forward.
Slowly, silently, like a statue deciding it had grown tired of stone. His long white hair caught the torchlight, gleaming silver, and his hooded gaze turned not to , but to Rodrick.
Rodrick stiffened. His breath hitched audibly, his boots scuffing against the stone as he took an involuntary step back. His eyes widened, not with anger but with sothing dangerously close to fear.
And saints damn , my stomach twisted, because whatever truth Rodrick had been too hesitant to confess was now standing directly in front of him.
Reviews
All reviews (0)