You Are Mine (Mine, #1)(10)

The purple canopies are straight across the field from us. “What else did you hear?”

“Litilas didn't show, but more Envadi than expected. Look at the bunch of them wearing white bands.”

Of course the women without chaperons would be from the most barbaric of countries. I should have realized that before.

“I always knew Envadi were enormous,” she continues, “but they need seats bigger than Father's. Only three of them are actually dueling. The Nislia have less though. There's only a few of them watching and none of them are dueling. They're the bits of green you see.” She sips her drink. “Look, there's Thomas.”

He struts out onto the dueling circle closest to us. A man older than him but younger than Father follows. The man angles toward the Grand Chancellor. He appears more aged than I first thought, in a rough way, like his youth was ripped from him. Much of the aging is in his sunken eyes, but also in the grooves on the sides of his mouth. His face is haunting.

“That's Chancellor Jacob. One of the servants pointed him out. It's a shame he never had any children. And to lose the only one he was going to get.” She shakes her head.

“It's a shame his wife is dead,” I reply. Why am I the only one to ever think of her?

“Must you be morbid?”

Father still appears to be paying us no mind. I lower my voice further just in case. “It's true. Men should be the ones to carry babes since they care about them so much. Then they could die in childbirth and we wouldn't have to fear it.”

Cynthia surveys the area around us. “Hold your tongue. You know most woman can be healed. We needn't fear it, but if you keep talking like this you're bound to be punished.” She glances at the field. “Look, another duel is starting.”

I watch the field only partially paying attention. The men bow to each other and the spells spring forth. Despite my trying not to, I keep thinking on the tarnished and the haunted look in its eyes.

The crowd lets out a gasp, yanking me from my thoughts. Chancellor Jacob is lying on the ground, not moving.

“What happened?” I ask.

Cynthia shakes her head, watching the scene with wide eyes.

The mediator checks on the Chancellor. After a moment he announces, “Dead.”

I jump to my feet. Thomas lifts both fists and the people cheer. He pumps his arm, sending yellow sparks in the air. The mass grows louder. My gaze goes to the dead Chancellor. I swallow.

“Thomas is magnificent,” Father says. “Did you see that spell? Of course you girls didn't, but it was incomparable.”

Certainly incomparable. A man is dead.

“You girls look sick,” he continues, “but I tell you it was supreme. Once the shock passes you'll see. My Serena is a lucky girl.”

Lucky?

“Should I get the soothing tea?” Cynthia's voice is weak.

“Soothing tea? At a moment like this?” Father says. “It's a time for celebration, not calming, halfwit.”

The cheers continue a while longer. My head buzzes as I watch. Finally, the Grand Chancellor stands and raises his arm. Silence. Thomas stands on the ground before the Grand Chancellor's box.

“In accordance with tournament rules, all that Chancellor Jacob had is now yours. Congratulations, Chancellor Thomas.”

The horde screams with approval. I collapse in my chair. My stomach churns as if I were stuck in the carriage.

“Just think of all my son-in-law will oversee now,” Father says. “No waiting for him to join the council. A Chancellor. A Chancellor!”

My hands shake. Thomas struts around the field casting spells as the merriment focuses on him. He comes toward the box and enters it. Without a word, he kneels before me and the crest. All eyes are on us. I force a pleased smile and the crowd once again goes silent.

An emerald spell is forming on the other side of the crest. After a moment, it weaves itself into the crest, moving and changing it. When it stops, there's a laurel branch entwined with the hand and emeralds bordering the maroon edges. Chancellor Jacob's crest blended with Thomas's. I don't know much, but I do know its lineage rivals that of the Grand Chancellor's.

After a moment of silence, Thomas whispers, “Give me your hand.”

The idea of touching this killer repels me, but the memory of Father's earlier hex is still fresh. I reach out my gloved fingers. He takes my hand, stands, and jerks me up beside him. He smashes his lips against mine. The jubilation is louder than ever. I can't think above the ruckus and pressure. I try to pull away from him, but he grasps my head, keeping me close. He tastes salty and rancid.

Finally he pulls away, a gleam in his eye. I force myself not to wipe my mouth. The foul taste of him lingers. He turns to the crowd, raises an arm, and shoots a bigger version of the newly made crest into the air above the field. Father edges closer to us, beaming. Cynthia stands on the other side of Thomas, out of sight and reach. I see nothing exciting about the two men at my side and another's body on the field before me.

Everyone is cheering. The boxes and stands are wild with people. Countries are yelling, though ours is the loudest, with colors waving madly. All except one group. The group that by all accounts should be letting their barbaric nature show the most. The Envadi stand silent.





Chapter Four