The tepid water had turned scarlet with the first rinse. He remained quiet as she cleaned the torn skin on his back and washed away the blood on his legs. There were no poultices to prevent the wounds from poisoning. He’d lived years as a Pit fighter; she suspected he’d suffered much worse than these and survived to fight again. Unwelcome sympathy welled inside her. He was lucky to still be standing. By the look of him, the empress enjoyed doling out a good flaying as much as she did a fucking.
Azarion helped her tear the moth-eaten blanket into strips, pausing only once to hold his side as he took a deep breath. His nostrils flared, his lips went white, and sweat beaded his forehead.
Compelled to compassion by such obvious suffering, Gilene rested her hand on his arm. “Do you want me to call for the leech?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve had my fill of the Empire’s gentle touch for the night.”
The flesh along his left side sported a darkening bruise. Azarion favored that side, careful not to raise his arm too high.
She held a cloth strip in her hands. “It will pain you, but you have to raise your arm higher so I can wrap the bandages tight enough.”
He did as she instructed, emitting a soft groan when she tied the first strip snug around his chest. Despite her resentment of his extortion, she didn’t wish to visit more cruelty on him.
“Forgive me,” she said. “This is necessary.”
He accepted her apology with a grunt, remaining docile beneath her ministrations until she had swaddled his chest in a layer of makeshift bandages. Gilene surveyed her handiwork. It was a fair enough job considering what she had to work with and the fact that she wasn’t a trained healer.
Azarion gingerly tapped the bandages and gave a nod of approval. “This is good.”
She told herself she couldn’t care less if he lived or died. A small inner voice whispered that she lied. “A temporary measure to lessen the pain a little. If you wear it too long, you’ll bring on lung sickness.”
His scrutiny sharpened. “Are you a healer as well as a dyer?” He didn’t mention her ability to wield fire.
“I knew a man in our village with a similar injury. Our healer gave him the same instructions.”
His prolonged scrutiny made her tense. “You can take the bed. Sleep. I’ll breathe better sitting up.”
She had avoided his pallet earlier in favor of a seat on the floor. Since her arrival in his cell, he’d shown no interest in bedding her. Still wary, she had accepted his offer and stretched out on the bed, careful to keep the cell door and Azarion in her view. Sleep was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. The catacombs were a dangerous place, her cellmate a threat despite his injuries and reassurances he wouldn’t hurt her. But she fell asleep as soon as her head rested on the straw-filled mattress, the image of Azarion sitting straight-backed against the wall next to her the last thing she saw.
She had awakened to a comforting warmth and the tickling vibration of a voice whispering in her ear. A heavy body pressed against her back, long legs entwining with hers. Panic roared through her, scattering away any vestiges of sleep as she lunged to break free. A muscular arm tightened around her midriff, and the legs tensed, trapping her as effectively as any cage.
“Be still,” Azarion ordered, his tone gruff, his grip unyielding. “The guards are coming to get you, and your illusion has faded.”
Unlike fire magic, which she could summon by will, illusion required true, incanted spellwork. Gilene spoke the words her mentor had taught her to revive her illusion, hoping she’d gotten it right. The guards’ voices echoed in the distance as they ordered gladiators awake for their breakfast and retrieved the sacrificial tithes from some of the cells.
Her stomach churned, and she forced back a hard knot of tears. She hated the Empire. Hated the power, the debauchery, the careless disregard for its citizens and vassals. She traveled to the capital each year, suffered degradation, burned in the Pit, and returned home scarred in both soul and body. She shifted, and Azarion’s hold loosened just enough so that she could turn onto her opposite side and meet his gaze. She and this slave fighter shared a common truth. He dealt death with sword and ax, and she with fire. Neither commanded their fates.
As if he heard her thoughts, his hand left her waist to stroke her jawline. He was sickly pale, and she wondered how much pain he was in as he lay beside her in a position that no doubt made his ribs ache. “Do we have an agreement?” he said.
They weren’t words of encouragement or gentleness. Gilene brushed his hand from her cheek. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Then we have an agreement.”
His eyes warmed. “I know why Beroe sent you, Agacin. Even beyond the fire.” He levered himself carefully off the pallet, leaving her puzzled by his enigmatic remark. He groaned under his breath and pressed a hand to his side, head hanging low for a moment before he gained his feet.
Doubt and compassion had risen within her. Even with her help, she didn’t think he’d escape Kraelag alive. The fact he’d survived the rigors of the Pit this long testified to his prowess in combat. Still, cracked ribs left even the toughest warrior vulnerable, and Azarion’s movements lacked their casual grace from the night before. If he had to fight his way out of the city, he was dead.
When the guards opened the cell door, Azarion’s shoulders slumped, and he shuffled to one of the cell’s far corners, his movements as hesitant and slow as an old woman’s. Astonished, Gilene caught his quick, warning glance. He might be injured, but this show of weakness was merely an affectation.
She didn’t look back when they took her from the cell to rejoin the condemned women in a common cell closer to the Pit.
They had passed the day in the stifling prison, serenaded by the applause and jeers of the crowd, the howls of injured and dying animals, and the clash of sword on shield as gladiators fought to the death.
Now, with the crowd swelling the seats ringing the arena, baying for their blood, the women wept and prayed to indifferent gods.
In their awning-covered balcony high above the masses, the emperor and empress lounged on couches in the shade, attended by a small army of servants. They were too far away for Gilene to make out their expressions, but she saw the emperor raise and lower his hand, signaling the final Rite of Spring—the immolation of the women—to begin. The guards tossed lit torches onto the pyre and fled from the arena floor.
Each year this nightmare played out the same way. The signal, the torches set to the kindling, the crowd’s roar of approval, the cries for mercy from the women struggling against their tethers.
Tears washed Gilene’s cheeks. She found sanctuary within herself, the call to fire that ran through her spirit in rivers.
Witch-fire, the villagers named it. An ancient magic woven into the flesh and fabric of a single girl child born each generation in Beroe. No one knew from whence it originated or why only one woman from every generation in a small village inherited it, but the village elders had kept its secret close and had deceived the Empire for decades.