Sweep of the Heart (Innkeeper Chronicles #5)(88)

“This is what happen when Caldenia talks to people,” Sean growled into my ear. “She better know what she’s doing, or I’ll wall her in her room until she forgets what the sun looks like.”

“Well, Sovereign?” Surkar demanded.

My heart hammered in my chest. Don’t accept, don’t accept, don’t accept… If he went down there, there was no way for us to keep him from getting hurt. She knew our inn was on the line. She knew why we were doing this. Why would she put us in jeopardy? Why would she put her nephew into the arena with an otrokar champion? Was I wrong? Did she want to kill Kosandion?

Kosandion stood up. Resven carefully, almost reverently, removed the robe from the Sovereign’s shoulders. He wore a black suit underneath. It wasn’t armor, it wasn’t combat grade, it was just clothes, a form fitting garment that clung to him offering no protection at all.

Kosandion held out his hand. “Knife.”

Miralitt stepped forward, produced a knife, and put it into his hand. It was a black fixed blade with an upswept profile, about seven inches long, with a simple handle.

“I need a path, innkeeper,” Kosandion said.

I did not want to make him a path. I wanted him to sit his ass down right back on that throne.

“Dina,” Kosandion said.

Argh. Fine. I let Gertrude Hunt sprout a narrow ramp curving from our section to the stage below. Kosandion nodded and started down, unhurried and calm.

There was no way around it. Nothing we could do.

He reached the stage. I left the ramp in place. Just in case.

The two men squared off. They were the same height, but the otrokar was at least fifty pounds heavier. His shoulders were broader, his legs were like tree trunks, and when he flicked the short sword, muscles bulged across his huge back.

This would end badly.

Surkar charged, swinging his blade in a simple overhead stroke. It was basic but fueled by his superior strength and guided by years of experience. He was an unstoppable force, sinking his mass and momentum into that swing.

Kosandion caught his wrist, pulled him forward, moving with the strike, and hammered a kick to the side of Surkar’s right knee. Cartilage crunched, the sound amplified by the dozen screens zooming in. Surkar’s leg folded, and the power he’d put into his strike drove him to his knees. Kosandion twisted Surkar’s arm and dislocated the shoulder with a brutal snap.

Oh.

Surkar’s mouth gaped in shock. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, and his mind was still catching up to reality.

Kosandion drew a thin line across Surkar’s neck with his knife, barely nicking the skin, plucked the sword from the otrokar’s weakened fingers, and examined it.

“Thank you for this gift, son of Grast and Ulde. I shall keep it as a memento of this meeting.”

The Sovereign turned and started toward the ramp.

In the observers’ section, Caldenia beamed, her face ferocious and filled with pride.

The arena erupted, electrified. Kosandion ascended the ramp back to his seat, his back to the spectators, and his face was grim and cold.

Surkar finally realized that he had been beaten. He looked about, glassy-eyed. I could see it in his face—it really happened, and everyone saw it. It didn’t just shake him. It shattered his world. Everything he held true about himself and his place in this life was proven false in a space of a second.

“Sean?” I whispered.

“I got him.”

Surkar sank into the floor of the stage. It swallowed him, closing over his head, and I felt Sean moving toward the medward.

“Please give a warm welcome to our final candidate,” Gaston announced. He didn’t even try to address what just happened. Good call.

Kosandion took his throne. His expression was hard as if carved from stone. Beating Surkar had given him no joy. It hadn’t even vented his anger.

Lady Wexyn stood up. Soft music filled the arena, the melody sad and full of longing. She walked down the ramp from her section to the stage, swaying gently in tune with the melody. Her golden veil slipped off, flaring behind her like the wings of a beautiful butterfly. She let it fall at the edge of the stage. She wore an amber-colored robe embroidered with golden thread and studded with red gemstones. Her hair was an artful cascade decorated with a golden spiderweb, flowers of precious metals, and a tiara gleaming with gems. Bracelets sheathed her arms.

She brushed her right wrist with her fingers, and the bracelets tumbled to the floor onto her veil. She brushed her left, and the rest of the ornaments rained down. She removed the tiara off her head and dropped it onto the golden fabric, discarding it as if it were made of foil. One by one, she pulled the flowers out and let them fall. The delicate gold web came off, and she shook her head, letting the waterfall of her dark hair loose. She touched her embroidered robe, and it slid off her. She stood clad in a simple blue and white gown with a wide skirt and loose sleeves. A gentle breeze stirred, and the nearly weightless fabric moved.

Lady Wexyn stepped out of her golden slippers and spun across the stage barefoot, her hair flying, her body swaying to the music. Her dress floated around her like a cloud. She moved with an unbelievable beauty, ethereal and at once very human. Her dance fought against everything that was bleak and dark. In the world that was anger and discontent, she was a soothing light, indestructible and powerful like love and hope. It was a gift, and it was meant for only one person.