The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(77)

“That suits you, little fox!” Elka said, her mouth turned up in a crooked grin beneath the cloud of feathers she wore. “You look like one of the alfr—a woodland sprite come from the sacred groves to dance!” Then she giggled.

I’d never heard Elka giggle before.

I turned to Nyx. “What was in that wine?” I demanded.

“Just a bit of mandragora,” she said, shrugging.

The minute she said it, I felt my own head start to spin like the wheels on an upended chariot. Mandrake? That was something the druiddyn used back home—a powerful intoxicant to help them fall into divining trances. And how casually Nyx had just brushed it aside. At the look on my face, she sighed impatiently.

“Everyone takes it at a party like this,” she said, a sharp edge creeping into her voice. “Or poppy wine. Sometimes both. Don’t be so provincial!”

The insult stung, but I wasn’t about to let Nyx know it. And so, like an idiot, I snatched the wineskin from her and poured a stream of the liquid down my throat. When I handed the skin back, I tried to ignore the fact that my lips were tingling.

We climbed the path, and by the time we got to the house, Elka and I were both giggling. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, we tripped through the wide front doors of the palatial house and into a vast vaulted entry hall. And I suddenly understood why it was called Domus Corvinus.

Raven House.

It hadn’t even occurred to me when Nyx had first said the name. But then I saw the enormous black-marble statue of a bird perched, wings spread wide, atop a pedestal in the middle of the atrium. I stared at it in astonishment. The sculpture was so lifelike that I half expected to hear the rustling of its wings. For a moment, my mind reeled back to the crow that had been nailed to my door, and I felt a rush of dread. I shook my head, hard.

The raven was sacred to the Morrigan, I told myself. If anything, this was a sign that she wanted me at this place. I ran my fingertips across the carved marble ridges of the raven’s talons as I passed. Suddenly I realized I was alone in the crowd, and I glanced around for Elka, fumbling at the brooch holding my mantle closed with numb, clumsy fingers so I could pass it off to the waiting attendant who stood barring my way.

I made my way into the main part of the house and through to the enormous dining hall furnished with scattered arrangements of reclining couches and long tables groaning beneath the weight of the food and drink laid out on them. The sheer abundance was staggering. The sheer abandon with which the party guests indulged was even more so.

I marveled at it all. So this was what it was like to live a life of wealth and luxury. Noise and color and heady perfumes overwhelmed my senses, and I stood there gazing around at the glittering, torchlit spectacle. Lydia and Nyx had drifted far ahead of me—I could just see them, heads together and whispering before they were swallowed up by the crowd—and Elka was headed toward the nearest banquet table. I watched her weaving unsteadily through the press of bodies and thought to myself that I should catch up to her. That I should keep her in my sight. But by the time I’d fully formed that thought, she was gone.

Someone pressed a goblet into my hand, and I drank deeply.

Lithe-bodied, mostly naked dancers, boys and girls both, whirled past me trailing gossamer. Musicians on flutes and drums and harp-like lyres sat on raised daises in the corners of the room, the strains of their competing songs tangling in the air over the heads of revelers too busy gossiping or groping or shrieking with drunken laughter to even notice.

But then suddenly it was time for the main event of the evening.

That everyone noticed. It was what they’d come for.

A single cornua—just like the horns they used in the arenas—sounded a shrill, commanding note that echoed loudly off the elegant marble columns, and the room fell to utter silence. Even in my hazy state, I could feel the tension crackling like lightning as a figure in a tall gilded mask stepped forward. Raising an ornately decorated staff, he announced the combat that was about to take place between two rising stars of the gladiatorial world.

Gladiators, I thought, at a party?

The revelers cheered, some for Ajax and some for Mandobracius.

Mandobracius? Where had I heard that name before?

I couldn’t remember. And the fog in my head wasn’t helping. I stood, swaying, as two young girls clad in short, filmy tunics drew aside curtains and the gladiators stepped into the room. Torches flared, the light from the flames catching on the edges of their armor and blades. The men cheered rowdily, and the women leaned forward in anticipation.

Both men wore visored helmets but less armor than they would have in the arena—only broad leather belts and battle kilts, shin greaves, and wrist bracers. The one named Ajax was heavily muscled, oiled and gleaming, his skin a deeply tanned olive. Mandobracius was paler, leaner, and bore the swirling blue tattoos of a Celt on his chest and back. His long dark hair spilled over his shoulders from under the brim of a helmet crested with a plume of glossy black feathers.

I shivered at the sight. Here was a warrior the Morrigan could be proud of. He was worshipped by the crowd of revelers, who screamed his name out like he was a god. In that moment, as the two men squared off and the crowd froze in anticipation, I could think of nothing I wanted more. To fight like that, to be adored like that . . . to win such glory with nothing but my blades. I thought of the Victory role in Caesar’s Triumphs slipping through my fingers, and for a brief, irrational moment, I wanted to gnash my teeth furiously right there in the middle of the revelry.