Shadow War - Deborah Chester [0]
Ruby Throne Trilogy Book 2
Deborah Chester
Part One
Chapter One
The fanfare of trumpets came at last, a bugling summons that filled the arena and reached all the way down into the subcaverns below. The milling activity in the preparation rooms, barracks, and passageways briefly ceased as attendants, scrub-boys, healers, trainers, and gladiators lifted their heads to listen. Even a momentary hush fell over the guards at their posts.
Inside his private ready room, Caelan E’non was pacing restlessly back and forth, aware of time passing, his blood raging in anticipation of what lay ahead.
He heard the trumpets, faint at first, then growing louder. They sounded for him.
Caelan stopped pacing in mid-stride. His heart soared toward the sound. For a moment he could not breathe. Swallowing, he tipped back his head and gazed at the ceiling. Even all the way down here he could hear the dull roar of cheering. The stone structure around him absorbed the shouts of acclaim until the walls themselves seemed to vibrate from the force of so much sound.
They were screaming for the champion.
They were screaming for him.
An endless day of waiting came down to this moment, glory and anticipation all tangled together.
Caelan’s mouth went dry. He longed for a drink of water, yet did not touch the dipper in the pail. He could swallow nothing.
As three-time champion of the private gladiatorial seasons, Caelan was the star attraction in the final event of today’s spectacular display of combat and slaughter. He had come here to the old public arena at dawn, brought in all the pomp of a closed chariot bearing him, his personal trainer, and his slaves, the whole flanked by guards on horseback. He had been fed, massaged, and oiled. An hour past, he had been dressed for the arena in a leather loincloth and fighting harness. The slaves had braided back his long, blond hair. He wore a leather headband across his brow to keep the sweat from his eyes. Now he stood, tall and muscular, his broad shoulders square, his loins narrow.
Orlo, his trainer, had long since dismissed the slaves and cleared the room to allow Caelan his privacy. It was Caelan’s habit to wait alone, pulling deep within himself, wrapping himself in concentric rings of mental readiness. He performed drills in his mind, making the moves over and over. He also limbered his secret gifts, first severing himself from all emotion and thought until he stood at the center of a cold, still void, then shifting back to the warmth of sevaisin, the joining of completion and harmony.
Today, however, concentration proved difficult to maintain. It had been well over a year since he’d been in the old public arena. It seemed antiquated and foreign to him now. He was used to private quarters, efficient sluice bath facilities, and his own entry into the ring hung with his ivy crowns and trophies. But here, the subcaverns were cramped, ill lit, and dank. The place reminded him of dark times, of when he’d first been brought to Imperia and sold at the gladiator auction. Ill trained and harshly treated, he had been expected to die in his first combat.
Drawing in deep breaths, Caelan forced the memories away. His thoughts scattered like dry leaves in the winter wind. Despite his efforts to remain calm, his blood was pumping. Even his constant pacing had failed to keep his muscles as loose as he wished. Now he felt the edge, the excitement rising in him with cold chills. His body thrummed with impatience, and he circled the small room to face the door. Time for the guards to open it. The trumpets sounded again, and he wanted to cry out something savage and wordless in response.
Instead nothing happened. No guards came to fetch him. Orlo did not return. It was time, past time. The crowd was calling for him. He walked the edge of readiness, and this delay irked him.
Frowning, he tried to curb his annoyance at the slipshod manner in which this old arena was run. What was behind the delay? Had one of the gates broken? Had one of the fighters gone berserk and broken into the crowd?