Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [133]
After all the yelling and doubt, at last Orlo himself had called Caelan a gladiator. Caelan’s heart swelled with a fullness he could not express. No compliment could be higher than the one he’d just received.
He looked into Orlo’s eyes, struggling to thank him, but the trainer only smiled. “I guess Traulanders can fight after all,” he said, then held out the amulet pouch.
Wordlessly, his heart too full, Caelan took it. “I—”
Orlo clapped him on the shoulder. “Hurry!”
Shoved forward, Caelan found himself flanked by imperial soldiers. He walked up the ramp, too stunned to take it in, yet beginning to feel dazzled by all that was happening so quickly. He emerged into the fading sunshine, and slicked back his long, sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.
He was met by a wall of sound. People were grinning and cheering him as well as Prince Tirhin. Caelan found it inexplicable, this sudden popularity, and warned himself none of it could be real or lasting. They had been cheering Amarouk only a short time before.
A tap on his shoulder made him turn. He climbed to the emperor’s box and found himself sweating anew. As a child he had dreamed of someday seeing this man from afar. Even his own imagination had never brought him to the point of actually meeting the ruler of all the world.
Feeling dizzy from the way his heart was pounding, Caelan kept his eyes down respectfully and moved where the soldiers pointed.
He glimpsed a flash of blue; then the prince was standing before him.
“Well, well,” Prince Tirhin said. “It seems I have found my missing property again. Thanks to you, my popularity with the common man has just jumped tenfold. That could cost me my head should my father decide to take offense.”
Caelan stared at him, unsure how to respond to his mocking words.
“What is your name?”
“Caelan, my lord.”
“I am not addressed as lord,” the prince corrected, but with a smile. “You may call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come.”
Pulling Caelan by the shoulder, the prince escorted him across the box where courtiers and their ladies stared openly or made comments behind their hands. There were court musicians present, lyres idle in their hands, and concubines with painted faces and heavy perfume. Then he was at the front, before the throne. A haggard, gray-haired man in the polished armor of the emperor’s protector stood behind it, his keen eyes missing nothing. The emperor himself was sitting on the splendor of crimson silk, sipping from a wine cup and smacking his lips appreciatively.
This was the man said to be immortal. This was the man who had dared to bargain with the gods to cheat death. This was the man who had molded a ragtag army into an invincible fighting force, the man who had proclaimed himself king, then emperor as he forged a united state of provinces that spanned the known borders of the world. This was Kostimon the Great—a legend beyond all comprehension.
“The victor at last,” he said in a gruff, amused voice. “The unknown fighter who made a mess of all my wages and confounded the touts. Hah! Come here.”
Even Caelan knew this honor was practically unheard of. He hurried forward and knelt at the emperor’s feet. The man wore soft boots of purple leather. Caelan dared not look higher. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He felt as though he were dreaming.
“You’re a barbarian,” the emperor said.
Despite his instructions, Caelan lifted his face and met the man’s gaze squarely. “If it please the emperor,” he said softly, his mouth so dry at his own daring it nearly choked him, “I am from the loyal province of Trau and was born free to good family. We are loyal to your imperial majesty, sworn to allegiance, and require no standing army to guarantee our obedience.”
An uproar rose in the box. The protector moved quickly, smacking him across the back with the flat of his sword and bending him low. “Dog!” the protector shouted. “His imperial majesty needs no lesson in civics from you!”
“Let