Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

something roars back at him from inside. The crowd quiets, only to burst into applause a moment later. The Match is about to begin.
    I despise Matches.
It’s a tradition to hold one on Choosing days,
Father insisted when I met him in the courtyard. I told him tradition is no excuse for needless bloodshed. His only reaction was to chuckle, like what I said was somehow cute, and guide me toward our waiting horses.
    I look down at my dress to hide my anger. It’s red. I’d tried putting on the black one, but Farren had shooed me back into my room as soon as I stepped out, demanding I wear a red dress.
    “You look anxious,” Father says to me. He sits beside me in a cushioned chair that looks out of place in the stone booth.
    I frown, wondering if Father can really see my expression. I’m wearing a thin veil over my face, like I always do when I’m at a public event. That way people can’t see my face and recognize me later. Later, when I’m not surrounded by guards, and someone might have the chance to kill me.
    I stick my tongue out at Father. He doesn’t react. I smirk a little and settle deeper in my uncomfortable seat, satisfied to know that he can’t actually see my expression.
    “Aren’t you going to talk to me, Faye?” Father asks, his voice lowering a little.
    I don’t reply. Partially because I’m furious, and partially because I think I’ll puke if I open my mouth. Matches are sickening to watch. A prisoner—one sentenced to death—is pitted against a blood-thirsty beast. The prisoner gets one weapon, and is told that if he slays the beast, they’ll go free.
    The only freedom they ever get is death.
    Father reaches over and pats my hand, giving me a pitying look. I want to believe his expression, but then I remember the look on his face when Ashe was sentenced. Satisfaction. Approval. And that little smirk in the corner of his lips that told the real story:
    He’d wanted Ashe dead all along.
    The only person I want to talk to—Farren—isn’t here with me. He’s sitting on the opposite side of the amphitheater. Relatives aren’t allowed near the girl Choosing, aside from her father. So as to not influence her decision, says tradition. I glance behind me, to Jolik, who stands guard behind my chair. He shoots me a quick, pitying smile before returning his attention to the arena floor.
    “Now remember, Faye,” Father says, his voice quieter now. He doesn’t seem to care that I obviously don’t want to talk to him. “When the Match is over, you
must
Choose one of the three men I’ve selected. You may not Choose anyone unexpected. Is that understood?”
    I nod, despite knowing it’s a lie. I can Choose anyone I’d like. It’s part of the tradition: If I find all of Father’s selections to be unfit, then I can select someone else to be my Guardian. I’ve only seen this happen twice before: Once at the Choosing of one of my cousins, and once when I Chose my Ashe. Both times Father could barely contain his rage.
    A cheer rises in the crowd. The guards have opened the gates, and a Southern Wolf leaps out. I’ve always hated these creatures; they’re called wolves, but they’re sleeker and more feline than any dog I’ve seen. This one has a brindled coat, although it’s jagged stripes are interrupted by scars and caked dirt. It moves with a grace that’s deadly and disturbing, its head sweeping the arena in search of prey.
    The crowd erupts in a chant. “
Chagra
,” they say, their voices mingling into a uniform roar. “
Chagra, Chagra, Chagra.”
    I shudder as the beast’s name is repeated, the chant slowly growing louder and more excited. Chagra snarls at a few members of the crowd and rushes a wall. It claws at the brick and tries to scale it, raining chunks of mortar onto the arena floor. The crowd breaks its chant and erupts into a deafening cheer.
    Chagra loses momentum and slips away from the wall, landing on all four paws. It turns its head to the sky and lets out a frustrated howl, the sound tortured and high-pitched. I wince, but don’t cover my ears, letting the sound wash over me. I hate Southern Wolves, but I pity this one. When Chagra isn’t being touted as Father’s undefeatable beast, it’s kept in a small cage and rarely fed. ‘
The conditions keep it vicious,’
Father once explained. ‘
And much better for entertainment.’
    Sometimes, I wonder if Chagra is the torturer or the tortured.
    Father stands from his seat, and the amphitheater slowly goes