Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

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.”

Nine
    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