Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(46)

Tyler speaks in his halting, broken Syldrathi. “We … are the treatment demanding … conventions in the under …”

Saedii looks him over, lip curling. “You, however, are less amusing.”

“We’re not here to amuse you, pixiebitch,” I say.

“Perhaps you should rethink that strategy, Terran,” she says.

Saedii holds out her arm and makes a hissing sound in the back of her throat, and I hear the flap of leathery wings. A creature drops from a rafter above and swoops down through the bay. It’s about the size of a cat, reptilian, with broad bat-like wings and a long serpentine tail tipped with a vicious-looking sting. It reminds me an awful lot of Cat’s stuffed dragon, except it’s black and sleek rather than green and fluffy. The beast lands on Saedii’s forearm and trills, blinking at us with golden eyes.

Saedii whispers to it; it nuzzles her long, tapered ear and purrs. Brushing her hair off her shoulder, pixiebitch stalks down the line of warriors toward us. Ty is tense at my side, fists clenched as she stops in front of us. Aurora is still on her back, whimpering and convulsing inside those crackling red bands.

“My Alpha is demanding just treatment under the Jericho Accord,” I say, “as signed by the Terran government and the Inner Council of Syldra in 2378.”

Saedii is as tall as Ty is, so when he meets her eyes, they’re almost nose to nose. “Your Alpha should make his demands himself.”

“I demand just treatment under the Jericho Accord,” Tyler says, following my accent and speech patterns perfectly. “As signed by the Terran government and the Inner Council of Syldr—”

“The Inner Council of Syldra burned along with Syldra itself,” Saedii replies. “We do not respect your pitiful government, nor your pathetic treaty.” She leans in close, staring at Ty, eye to eye. “We were born with our hands in fists, little one. We were born with the taste of blood in our mouths. We were born for war.”

“Unbroken,” the warriors around us say, all as one. And they don’t shout it like TDF goons on parade, either. Don’t bark it like your typical meatheads in uniform. They murmur it, reverent, like the word itself is a prayer.

Saedii holds out one slender hand. This close, I can confirm the desiccated nubs on the silver chain around her neck are definitely thumbs.

“Your uniglasses,” she says, cold as ice.

Tyler meets her stare and doesn’t move. I can still feel the kick she gave his babymaker echoing faintly in our shared genetic code. Saedii touches the shoulder stock of her agonizer, and at our feet Auri arches her back and screams.

“She sings sweetly.” Saedii’s smile is cold as the black outside. “I can see why Kaliis might abase himself at her temple.”

The dragon thing on Saedii’s arm trills. Auri screams again. The Unbroken Templar’s expression is calm, her face beautiful and terrible.

“Every moment you waste, she will sing more, little ones.”

“She wants our unis,” I explain.

Tyler glances at me and nods, and we reach into our jackets and hand them over. Saedii tosses them to another Syldrathi close by—a tall, willowy man with a scar cutting deep down one cheek and a string of severed Syldrathi ears hanging from his belt. He catches them and bows.

“Where is my brother, Erien?” Saedii asks him.

“Our adepts have apprehended him and the Betraskan, Templar,” the lieutenant replies. “They are aboard a shuttle en route to Andarael.”

“His injuries?”

“I am informed he will recover, Templar.”

Saedii nods, cool and aloof. “Take him to medical when he arrives, see his needs are met. Take this one”—she gestures to Auri—“to the holding cells and sedate her to within a breath of death. If she wakes before she is in Archon Caersan’s possession, I will be displeased.”

“Your will, my hands, Templar.” He bows, glances at me and Ty. “And these?”

She looks us over, lips pursed. The dragon thing trills again, fluttering its wings and licking Saedii’s earlobe with a long pink tongue.

“We have not had much time for sport lately, yes?” she says. “We should dance in the blood to celebrate my brother’s return. So when the Betraskan arrives?”

She meets my eyes and shrugs.

“Throw them all to the drakkan.”

· · · · ·

I’m not an aficionado of spaceships, but I’ve been on my share. Junkers and cruisers, fighters and destroyers. One of my boyfriends had his own stellar yacht, and he took me on a cruise from Talmarr IV to Rigel for my seventeenth birthday. His ship had its own ballroom, complete with a thirty-piece orchestra.

(Pieres O’Shae. Ex-boyfriend #30. Pros: Tall. Rich. Handsome. Cons: So. Much. Tongue.)

Still, I don’t remember being on a ship that had an arena before.

It’s located down in the bowels of the ship, sunk about ten meters into the deck. The walls are the same dark metal as the rest of the Andarael, lit by crimson globes, scored with what might be claw marks. The arena floor is littered with millions of smooth, glowing stones and tall, twisted spires of sharp, dark metal. Long bleachers are arranged in concentric rings, looking down on the pit below.

We’re marched in at rifle point, hundreds of Unbroken warriors taking their places according to rank. They’re male and female, all armed, all gorgeous, all wearing the three crossed blades of the Warbreed Cabal on their brows. They’re possessed of the traditional We’re better than you arrogance that makes pixies so much fun to have around at parties. But I can sense a tremor of anticipation flowing through them, too. A lust for the violence and bloodshed to come.