Aurian

23 Demon

The Arena buzzed with the noise of the excited crowd. I^BB The sweeping tiers of marble benches were tightly packed with sweating bodies, all crushed together. Excitement was at fever pitch, the crowd’s attention alternating between the sanded circular fighting area on the floor of the massive stone bowl, and the flower-decked royal balcony where sat the frowning Khisal—the Prince who was the only heir to the throne—and the smiling Khisu Xiang and his new Queen, the Khisihn, whose wedding was being celebrated today. The crowd gawked at the balcony with great curiosity. It was indeed a day of wonders—that the Khisu, content for so long with his harem of beauties, should have finally elevated another lady to be his consort in place of the old Queen, dead these many years. Rumor said that she had been slain by the Khisu’s own hand. Wrinkled, sharp-eyed crones nodded sagely to one another. “The young Prince’ll have to watch his step now,” they were saying. “He never had his father’s favor. If the new Queen drops a son, Khisal Harihn will find himself in a sack at the bottom of the river, like his mother!”

They watched the early bouts with scant attention and less patience, waiting for the real entertainment to start. There was a new warrior to fight today. A foreigner—and, Reaper preserve us—a woman! A sorceresfre and as fierce as the Black Demon itself! Rumor had it that she had laid an entire village to waste, downriver. Because of this, the Arena had filled early that day. Outside the gate, hundreds of disappointed people were still being turned away.

In the warriors’ yard beneath the stone tiers of the Arena, it was shady and cool. Aurian, alone in a corner, was going through Portal’s exercises, trying to prepare her body and mind for the coming ordeal. It was difficult to suppress the fear she felt for her child, knowing that this day’s exertions and peril might spell the end for the hapless mite. If she had had her magic, she might have been able to protect it, but as it was . . . “Oh, Chathak,” she prayed, “protect this child, the child of warriors.”

Aurian was vaguely aware of the eyes of the other combatants fixed curiously upon her. They were strangers to one another, kept apart lest unfortunate friendships develop between them. They met only in closely monitored training sessions, and even then were not allowed to speak to each other. She had trained with several of them over the last weeks, astonishing even Eliizar with her prowess. Apart from training, her days had been spent pleasantly enough in eating, resting, and bathing in the Arena’s large pool. Aurian was as ready as she could be. She forced all thoughts of her erstwhile companions, and even her child, from her mind, in order to gain the inner calm and poise that she would need to save her life and regain her freedom, for despite Eliizar’s warning, she was determined to try.

Despite his initial reluctance, Eliizar had become a friend, as had his plump, motherly wife, Nereni, who took care of Aurian, since she was the only female warrior. Through their talks, Aurian had discovered that Eliizar had been a warrior of great prowess and an officer in the Royal Guard. He had lost his eye during an assassination attempt on the Khisu, when he had singlehandedly killed all four attackers. Since cripples were not tolerated in Khazalim society, Eliizar’s only options had been slavery or death for himself and his beloved wife. Fortunately, in a rare gesture of gratitude, Xiang had intervened, and Eliizar had been rewarded with the post of Swordmaster at the Arena. “And a cruel, backhanded reward it was,” he had confided to Aurian. “I am forced to send strong, healthy young warriors to their deaths to pleasure a bloodthirsty mob. How can a man live with such a thing and still sleep at nights? Yet I have no choice but to remain. To leave this post would mean death or slavery, and for poor Nereni also. Truly, I hate the Khisu for what he has done to me.”

“Are you ready?” Eliizar’s voice brought Aurian back to the present. The large wooden doors that led to the killing grounds had been opened. A warrior was limping in, aided by two attendants and bleeding from several wounds. Two armored Arena guards carried his opponent—a mauled and bloody corpse. Aurian recognized the twisted features as belonging to a brave, laughing young man against whom she had sparred only two days before.

Eliizar wiped his face with a shaking hand. “May the Reaper forgive me,” he murmured, and Aurian’s heart went out to him. Impulsively, she laid a hand on his arm. “Eliizar, you must get out of here. When I win my freedom, you and Nereni should come with me to the North. I will have need of a true friend and a good warrior, one eye or no.”

Eliizar looked at her in amazement, then turned away as the great gong sounded, summoning the Mage to combat. “Forgive me, Aurian,” he whispered.

“Nothing to forgive,” said Aurian lightly. “If this is my only road to freedom, I would choose it in any case. See you later, Eliizar—and think on what 1 said. I meant it.” She dropped a daring kiss on the top of his bald head, then, striving for calm, she stepped into the tunnel, whispering a warriors’ prayer that Forral had taught her long ago. She was ready. She had to be.

Aurian stepped out of the shadowy tunnel into the white-hot glare of the Arena. A mighty roar went up from three thousand throats, echoing and reechoing within the confines of the bowl until she was rocked, buffeted, borne aloft by the sound. She lifted her sword—her own Coronach that had been returned to her—to salute the crowd. The sunlight ran like liquid fire down the keen edges of the blade. Aurian lifted her face defiantly, shaking back her hair, which was too short now to braid. The stench of sweat, dust, and blood was in her nostrils—the scent of battle.

Then Aurian saw Ke^r opponent—and was brought up short. She had been expecting one of the hulking warriors that she’d sparred with when Eliizar was placing her level of skill. Instead she faced a stranger—a wiry little man whose muscles stood out like knotted rope on his arms and legs. The top of his head barely reached her tightly laced breasts. What is this? the Mage thought scornfully. Do they mock me? Even as she was thinking, he darted in, his blade a silvery blur. Cold fire coursed down her left arm, followed by a drench of hot blood as he danced back out of striking distance. Aurian, for a split second, gaped at the gash, just below her shoulder, where the point of his sword had sliced down. Portal’s voice rang in her mind. “Never underestimate an opponent—however he may look.” Icy common sense doused Aurian’s battle-heated blood.

She circled the little man with newfound respect, trying to gauge his next move, probing for a weakness in his stance. Then the wretch was in again, like quicksilver. Aurian dodged, swinging her own blade by instinct, feeling the draft of his sword’s tip against her thigh. There was a ripping noise, and the hem of the ridiculous fighting kilt that the gladiators wore was flapping in tatters against her bare skin. Again she felt the warm, telltale trickle of blood as she backed away. Not serious this time. A mere graze, it stung, no more. But her own swing had caught him. She was too tall—her instinctive decapitating stroke had just caught the top of his head. A strip of flesh hung over his left eye, and blood streamed from the scalp wound down his face. He was circling now as she was, awaiting an opening. As he caught her eye he grinned—a brave smile, saluting her, Aurian found herself smiling back, returning his salute with a barely perceptible tilt of her blade. He had courage—and he knew that she had. Aurian found herself wishing that she could fight at his side, rather than against him.

She lunged—he feinted. Stalemate. Circle once more. The crowds were restless, they wanted action. A scatter of boos and catcalls could be heard. The little man lashed out and Aurian rolled beneath his blade, swearing as hot agony shot down her wounded arm. She landed on her feet, facing her opponent. Her blade had caught his ankle as she rolled. Pure accident, or Portal’s unstinting training taking over? He was limping badly, his foot half severed and losing a lot of blood. The crowd roared, hungry for the kill. To Aurian they were the enemy, not the courageous warrior. Stop that! she warned herself. This isn’t the Garrison. Sentimentality here will mean your death.

Aurian braced herself, taking the weight and grip of the sword with her right hand and balancing it as best she could with her next-to-useless left hand, which was locked in a death grip around the hilt. The little man was reeling, his face glazed with sweat and blood. Without warning, Aurian moved swiftly to her right so that his vision was blocked by the hanging flap of scalp over his left eye. He turned—but too late. Aurian felt a screaming agony in her left arm as her sword bit through bone —then his head was rolling, bouncing across the sand as his body swayed then toppled in a welter of blood that fountained from the severed neck. The death howl from the crowd almost knocked her flat beside him. Rocked back on her heels by the din, Aurian stood over her dead opponent, lifting her streaming blade and kissing it, in a warrior’s salute to the fallen.

It was lucky that the crowd’s roar warned her. Blinded by tears, Aurian had not seen her next opponents leave the tunnel’s mouth. Now they were nearly upon her. Dashing her bloody hand across her eyes, she turned to face the new challenge. What was this? Two men, one armed with a long spear, the other with only a net. Aurian blinked in confusion. This was completely outside her experience. They fanned apart, right and left, until she could not watch both. Then, too late, she understood. The warrior with the net was a blind—a distraction. She had to watch the one with the lethal spear that was leveled at her chest. If she took her eye off him, he could hurl his spear, or rush her. But while she watched the spearman, the other could creep up behind her with the disabling net.

Rage swept through Aurian like a forest fire. Unfair! But this time she caught herself, forcing herself to stay calm and think. Never mind fair—she had to win her way out of this. All the time she was thinking, Aurian had been backing away, trying to keep both men in her field of vision. Soon they would have her trapped against the stone wall that ran round the edge of the Arena. She caught the glance of understanding that flashed between her two foes. So they wanted her there! Aurian didn’t understand why, but if that was their idea, she was having none of it. ^

She feinted right,’ then made a sudden dive to her left, toward the net bearer. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement as the spearman made his cast. Aurian felt the heavy point go through her calf, grazing the bone and tearing the muscle. She almost fainted with pain and shock— but the desperate leap had taken her far enough. Her wrists were jarred as the keen edge of her sword hit the netmans knees. He crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood, crippled and screaming.

The spearman, weaponless now, ran to grab the net while Aurian was disabled. Once enmeshed in its folds, she would be finished. There was no help for it—she needed the spear, with its longer reach, to defend herself. Aurian dropped her sword and seized the wooden shaft, wrenching the barbed metal blade out through her leg, feeling flesh and muscle tear as she did so. Dizzying, nauseating agony engulfed her and her vision blurred. There was no time to get to her feet. Almost blindly, Aurian flipped the spear around, plunging the butt end into the fallen net. With a sharp, sideways tug, she twitched the tangled meshes right out from under the spearman’s reaching hands.

It was the last thing he had expected. To gain the net now, he would have to come closer—closer than was wise without a weapon. In the split second of hesitation while he weighed the odds, Aurian acted, sliding the smooth spear butt out from under the net as she reversed it—and threw.

The spearman had already fathomed her plan. He was already running, and Aurian, still on the ground, was not in a position to throw strongly. But the range was short—and it was enough. He stumbled, fell forward, the bloody point of the spear embedded in his back. Could she have killed him? Surely not, Aurian thought dimly. But dead or not, he did not rise. On the other hand, if she failed to get to her feet, it would not count as a win for her, either.

The howling of the crowd receded as a welcoming veil of darkness swirled around the Mage. It would be easy to let go— to slip into unconsciousness . . . She had won so far ... Maybe they would let her live to fight another day . . .

What, and go through all this again? “No!” Aurian told herself firmly. “Get on your feet, warrior!” Groping for her sword, she set its point in the bloodstained dirt and dragged herself blindly upright, leaning on the strong blade. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Her injured leg would not support her, her back ached where she had wrenched it in her fall, and her left arm was next to useless. She was weak from exertion and loss of blood. Oh Gods, she thought. How can I face another opponent like this? Fleetingly she longed for her lost powers. If it weren’t for these accursed bracelets, she thought bitterly, I could save myself yet. But wait! The bracelets stopped her from putting forth her powers, but would they stop her from taking power in? She remembered the riot in Nexis, and how she had used the anger of the mob to bring the rain.

Aurian concentrated with all her might, turning her will inward to pull, as she normally turned it outward to manipulate . . . And it was coming! She pulled in energy from the heat of the sun, from the very life-force and blood lust of the mob that surrounded her. To them it seemed like a sudden chill in the air, a brief shadow passing across the face of the sun, though no clouds marred the sky.

Aurian’s ragged breathing steadied, her vision cleared. She could not Heal her wounds or even still the pain, but the weakness of blood loss had left her and her body felt the renewed strength of her borrowed energy. For the first time, Aurian wondered why there was such a delay, though it had given her the respite she so badly needed. The cries of the crowd returned to her consciousness, crashing against her like a tidal wave. What were they chanting? ’’Demon! Demon!’1 There seemed to be some confusion. No more opponents had appeared. Aurian leaned on her sword, husbanding her strength. She saw Eliizar, standing on the sands before the flower-decked royal balcony. He seemed to be caught up in some kind of debate with the King.

A solution was reached, apparently. The Swordmaster approached her, shaking his head. “Unheard of,” he said, “The crowd wants you to miss the last ordeal of combat with human warriors. They demand that you face the Black Demon—and His Majesty has concurred. The new Khisihn, for some reason, disagreed, but the Khisu has prevailed.”

Aurian pulled herself upright, and looked Eliizar in the eye. What a farce! she thought with some irritation. My fate hanging on a Royal quarrel! “All fight,” she said resignedly. “Bring on your Demon.”

A tear ran down from Eliizar’s one good eye, as he embraced Aurian briefly. “Farewell, bravest of warriors,” he said. “I am sorry it had to end thus. May the Reaper be merciful to you.” And he was gone.

Thanks for cheering me up, Eliizar, Aurian thought rue fully. The westering sun beat down on the back of her neck as she waited. Flies buzzed, hovering around the blood that trickled stickily from her wounds. The crowd was hushed now— expectant. Aurian took one unsteady hand from her sword hilt to wipe the sweat and dirt from her face. She was desperately thirsty, but told herself sternly that that was the least of her worries. What was this Demon that they all seemed so afraid of? What form would it take?

A rumble of wooden wheels echoed in the tunnel mouth. A great iron cage, pulled by a dozen strong slaves, was wheeled into the Arena. As the cage halted, one slave darted up and pulled out the thick iron pin that held the door shut, then scurried away with his fellows as fast as he could, into the safety of the tunnel mouth. The wooden gates boomed shut behind them, sealing off the only exit. Aurian waited. The thick bars of the cage were set close together, preventing her from seeing what was inside. A dark, shadowy shape stirred restlessly within.

There was a sudden, rumbling roar that made the earth tremble beneath Aurian’s feet. A blood-freezing sound, full of fiiry and menace. The crowd shrank back, buffeted by the noise. Then slowly the cage door swung open, its metal hinges screeching—and a huge black shape with eyes of flame flowed lithely down onto the sand. A great red mouth opened in a snarl of defiant challenge, exposing curved ivory fangs longer than the Mage’s hand, Aurian gasped, and her hands tightened on the hilt of her sword.

The Demon was a great cat, larger than Aurian could have imagined in her worst nightmares. Twice the length of a man from nose to tail, it stood as high as her waist. Its yellow eyes blazed like fire as they fixed on their prey. Slowly, deliberately, it began to stalk her, its claws like great steel scimitars gleaming against the bloody sand,

Aurian planted her feet firmly and lifted her sword, her heart sinking, her fear sending that same heart banging wildly against her ribs. How could anyone hope to fight such a. creature? How could she fight it, hampered as she was by injury and exhaustion? Then her eyes met those of her foe, and with a sudden shock, her mind touched the mind of the massive cat. It was intelligent! Or rather, she. A Queen—the matriarch of her own people—captured, humiliated, and bent on vengeance!

The Mage gathered her scattered wits and reached out with her mind. “Wait,” she said.

“Why?” The reply was loaded with derision, but Aurian sensed the astonishment concealed beneath. It was coming closer—too bloody close—almost within pouncing distance, Aurian was almost glaji that her injured leg prevented her from running—almost. She tried again. “I’m not your enemy. I am a captive, too.” Steady, Aurian. Don’t plead. “All men are my enemies.”

“I am not.” The Mage kept her mental voice firm. “The people here are my enemies, too. Why kill each other, when we have the same foes?”

The cat paused with one huge paw uplifted, seeming to consider. Then it fell into a menacing crouch. “You lie!” it snarled. “Die!” And sprang.

But Aurian, a lover of cats, had seen the telltale wriggle of the haunches before it launched itself, and was already diving forward beneath the pounce. She felt claws rake her side like white-hot irons, and heard a yowl of furious pain as her sword point grazed the cat’s ribs. She tried to get to her feet to turn and meet her enemy, but the injured leg collapsed beneath her, then the cat was on her, flattening her facedown in the dirt and knocking the sword out of her grasp—out of reach. For the space of a few heartbeats, neither moved. The crowd held its breath. Again, the Mage sought the mind of her foe. “You’re making a big mistake,” she warned. If her plight had not been so desperate, she would have laughed at her own temerity.

The cat’s cruel amusement flicked across her mind like a whiplash. “Surely,” it mocked. Slowly, very slowly, Aurian eased herself up a little, not even daring to spit the sand from her mouth. Like a searing brand, the great claws raked lightly across her back, shredding her leather vest and scoring the tender skin beneath. Antian cried out in pain, unable to stop herself, but she had achieved her goal. Her right hand was now beneath her, groping for her dagger that she had stolen back from Eliizar and had concealed, inside her vest. The cat had unwittingly helped her by all but annihilating the garment, and the long, flat blade slid easily into her hand.

Suddenly a mighty swat from a huge paw knocked her rolling, over and over; the beast was playing with her as a per cat plays with a mouse. This time Aurian landed on her back, a sharp catch of pain hampering her breaching. Her ribs? Or the child? Unable to place the location of the pain, Aurian felt a jolt of fear. The great cat leapt on top of her, tensing its claws to disembowel her—and froze, the tip of the Mage’s dagger pricking its throat.

Aurian stared into the fierce golden eyes, only inches from her face. “Stalemate, I think,” she said. There was no reply, but she caught the faintest flicker of doubt behind those blazing eyes. The crowd, to a man, was on its feet—waiting. Aurian forced herself stay calm, to take the gamble. “They say that if I slay you, I will win my freedom,” she told the cat. “Have they offered you the same? Of course, if I make a move, you may slay me—or you may not be quick enough.”

The cat growled menacingly. Aurian’s thought cut through the sound. “You have nothing to gain from my death but a quick meal—and I assure you, you’ll find me very tough.” This time the cat seemed to respond to her humor, relaxing a fraction. Aurian pressed her point home, “But what if we refuse to kill each other? Do you think we could fight our way to freedom? If not, we could certainly take a lot of them with us into death. What have we got to lose? Do you want to stay here, caged and captive for always?”

“Men are not to be trusted.” The cat’s tone was flat.

“Very well.” Aurian had been hoping it wouldn’t come to this. She looked once more, frankly, into the cat’s eyes, “You must decide that for yourself. But you are the most beautiful, the most brave, the most magnificent creature I have ever seen. I would be your friend, but if that is not possible, I will not be responsible for your death.” Moving with careful deliberation, she removed her dagger from the cat’s throat and flicked it away from her, sending it bouncing and skidding across the sand.

The crowd gasped. For a moment, everything was still— then the cat opened its huge jaws, its long, lethal fangs gleaming white in the sun. The Mage flinched and closed her eyes against the sight of her approaching death—but at the last second the great head swung to one side, and a rasping tongue like a steel file licked the oozing blood from the wound on her arm. Aurian opened her eyes in astonishment, and the cat’s golden gaze met her own. “My name is Shia,” she said. “Drink my blood, and be Friend.” She backed away slightly, removing her weight from Aurian’s body, Murmurs of confusion welled from the crowd,

Aurian sat up weakly, unstrung with relief. Placing her mouth to the cat’s ribs she licked salty blood, mixed with sand. “My name is Aurian,” she said, “and I am honored.” Then, greatly daring, she reached out her bloodstained fingers and caressed Shia’s broad, sleek head. And a sound that had never been heard before echoed across the stunned Arena—the slow, bass rumble of the big cat’s purr.

The crowd, cheated of a death, erupted into wildness. Boos and jeers resounded, and missiles rained down into the Arena— fruit, sweetmeats, drinking goblets—even shoes. The tunnel doors swung open, admitting two dozen armed and armored guards. They approached reluctantly, fanning out to form a loose circle around Aurian and Shia as the Mage struggled to her knees. Shia trotted obligingly over and retrieved Aurian’s sword from where it lay, dragging it back with the hilt held carefully in her mouth. Propping herself with Coronach, Aurian tried out her injured leg. She could balance herself without support while standing still—but moving? Not a chance. But they didn’t know that. Sword in hand, she stood back to back with Shia as the ring of guards tightened around them. “Right,” she called out grimly. “Which of you sons of pigs wants to be first?” Shia snarled a menacing echo to her words. Their assailants looked at each other dubiously. Apparently no one wanted to be first.

Eliizar emerged from the tunnel at a run and crossed the sands to the royal balcony. The Khisu got to his feet, and all sound ceased. “Your Majesty,” the Swordmaster cried in a quaking voice. “The decision of life or death for this warrior rests with you. Death is the usual penalty for one who fails to slay his foe, but this woman—thifr-warrior—has honored us with the bravest performance in the history of the Arena. None will forget this day. Will you, on the joyous occasion of your wedding, grant her your clemency?”

Bless you, Eliizar, Aurian thought.

On the balcony, the King considered, wavering. It would be a munificent gesture, and worthy of a Khisu, but the Arbiters had told him about this dangerous foreigner, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted her at large in his land.

Aurian watched the Khisu, holding her breath. This was her first good look at him. He looked younger than he must be, but his expression was wolfish and feral. Beneath level brows, his dark eyes glinted with pitiless cruelty. Black hair, falling past his shoulders, showed no sign of gray, and he sported a drooping moustache. He had a lean, lithe, hard-muscled killing machine of a body and looked as though he used it frequently— and well. Gods, Aurian thought. I wouldn’t like to fight him! I might like to bed him, though. The thought, so inappropriate to her desperate situation, shocked her. But it was undeniable. His aura was irresistibly sexual—and equally dangerous. He was like a magnificent wild beast.

Then suddenly the Queen—the new Khisihn—stepped forward from the shadows of the balcony and murmured into the Khisu’s ear. Her face was veiled, but the bright flash of golden hair was unmistakable. Sara! Aurian sagged against Shia’s flank, dizzy with shock. How in the name of all the gods had the wretched woman managed this?

Sara had been equally stunned by the sight of Aurian in the Arena. What evil luck! If that rotten Mage should tell the Khisu that she was already married, all the hard work she had done to win him would have been for nothing! She stepped up to him and whispered in his ear, glad that he was proficient in her language, though she was making progress at learning his. “Kill this woman, Lord,” she said. “Make me a gift of her death.” Xiang stared at her in amazement. Was this the gentle creature that had so charmed him? “Please, my love.” Sara smiled beguilingly, and the Khisu found her impossible to resist. His thumb began to turn down in the traditional death signal and—

“Stop!” Prince Harihn strode forward from the rear of the balcony. “It is the Khisu’s custom to bestow gifts on his wedding day,” he said. “Somehow, I seem to have been overlooked so far.” He smiled at his father without warmth. “Give her to me, Father. Grant me the gift of this woman’s life.” His voice, deliberately loud, rang across the Arena.

The Khisu found himself the focus of hundreds of curious eyes. He glared at his son. “In the Reaper’s name, why?” Harihn shrugged. “You’ve been telling me for long enough that I need a woman of my own—and this foreign warrior presents a challenge that I can’t resist.”

Sara, who had managed to follow most of the exchange, felt the moment slipping away from her. “Lord,” she protested. “I beg you, give me this woman’s death.”

“There, my son.” The Khisu shrugged. “See what a coil you have me in? I must disappoint my son—or my new bride.” He bestowed a dazzling smile on Sara, before turning back to the Prince. “Surely this woman cannot be so important? She is hardly a beauty, and any man would think twice before bedding such a she-devil. Come,” he cajoled, a hard edge in his voice. “Choose another gift, Harihn. If it is a woman you want, I will give you the choice of any woman in my seraglio. Every one is in the fullness of beauty, and skilled in the arts of love.”

Harihn’s jaw clenched. “No,” he said flatly. “I want that one.” Father and son glared at each other, all pretense of friendliness abandoned. The Khisu thought rapidly. What was Harihn up to? Was he simply trying to embarrass his royal father in public, or make trouble between him and his new bride? Or did he have some other motive in taking this sorceress into his household?

Xiang made his decision. Most likely the witch would stick a dagger into her benefactor at the first opportunity, which would solve his problem. If not . . . well, there were other, less public ways of dealing with the matter. “Very well, my son,” he said loudly, for the benefit of the rapt crowd. “I cannot refuse you. I give this brave warrior into your care.” He raised his thumb in the gesture of life, and the crowd applauded. Sara gasped.

“My father, I thank you,” Harihn said, and vaulting dramatically over the balcony, he crossed the sands toward Aurian.

The Mage consulted briefly with Shia. “It seems our lives have been saved—for now. Shall we go with this man?”

“I trust him not.”

“Me, neither. But I think we should risk it. It’s better than being hacked to pieces by these armored idiots!”

As the Khisal approached, Aurian bowed low, wincing with pain and gritting her teeth to keep her temper at the speculative way his eyes lingered on her breasts, which had been exposed by the ruination of her leather vest. “I thank Your Highness,” she said.

He smiled. “Bravely fought, warrior. The honor is mine. Will you come with me?” He extended a hand to help Aurian, and the great cat growled warningly.

“I’m afraid you’ve also inherited my friend,” Aurian said.

The Prince glanced dubiously at Shia. “Willingly,” he lied, “save that my father did not include her in our bargain.”

“Tough!” Aurian was heartily sick of this charade, and she knew that she had reached the end of her strength. “Where I go, Shia goes,” she said flatly. “Would you like to try to stop her? Or perhaps you’re more afraid of your father . . .” Harihn scowled at the mention of his father, and glanced up at the crowd. Aurian knew that he feared the cat, but was afraid of looking a fool, if Shia should ruin his triumphant exit. “She will be very friendly toward a friend of mine—and your people would be impressed by a Prince who could tame such a creature,” she suggested.

Harihn brightened at her words. “Very well. Will it let me help you?”

“She will.”

The Prince scooped Aurian theatrically into his arms and left the Arena with the great cat pacing watchfully at his heels. The crowd cheered delightedly. They seemed to have forgotten that only a few minutes before, they had been howling for Aurian’s blood. The last thing Aurian saw as they entered the tunnel was the Khisu and Sara glaring savagely, naked fury on their faces. Aurian felt an uneasy chill creep up her spine. What did this Prince intend for her, anyway? “Keep hold of my mind,” she warned Shia. “I daren’t pass out yet.”