You Are Mine (Mine, #1)(13)

“What are you thinking?” Cynthia asks. “You've gone quiet.”

“Going home. I miss being there instead of being stuck with Father here at the tournament. A whole week of freedom, wasted.”

“I suppose, but you should still be discreet with your words.” She returns to watching the final duel of the day. I try not to think of where our last conversation that began this way went. Cynthia adds, “And think of all we'd be missing.”

There's nothing to miss.

Bright yellow flashes and a winner is called out. The events for the day are finally over. With evening coming, darkness is falling. Warlocks send yellow sparks across the field, lighting torches all around. I lean back in my chair, grateful we're staying here for the night. Maybe I'll be lucky enough that Thomas will have less interest in me with so many others about. Then I'd really enjoy the evening.

“Do we have to wait for Father to go to the feast?” Cynthia asks.

“We'll give him a little while. If he doesn't show, it's probably all right for us to take a servant.”

In the box next to ours, the Grand Chancellor stands. I point him out to Cynthia. The crowd goes silent. A breeze picks up, carrying a scent of bad cabbage with it.

“What an impressive tournament we've had the privilege of observing. As the last rounds are fought tomorrow, I wish the finalists good luck.”

While he's speaking, a tarnished is led to a newly placed stone slab in front of the Grand Chancellor's box. It's the size of my bed at Thomas's, except with bumps and dips giving it a more ragged appearance. They reach it and stop. Dressed simpler than usual in nothing but a tunic, it's clear the tarnished is a woman. Her face is void of emotion.

“Before we celebrate the final night of the tournament, we have one last honor to perform.”

Father appears at my side and whispers, “This is what happens to some of those who are tarnished.”

My gaze darts to her. The threat was clear. That could be me, standing alone, marked as something less than human. My limbs grow heavy watching her stand without wavering. What are they going to do to her? This was never covered in any class or gossip. Tournaments are a place we let our owners show us off, not watch a tarnished.

The Grand Chancellor leaves his box and strides forward. He motions to the stone past the lit torches. Still without any hint of expression, the tarnished lays on it. In the dim light, she looks like she could be any girl I know.

“Sacrifice.” His voice booms through the field.

The cool night air sharpens. Realizing what the stone is, I clench my hands together. An altar. His words make sense. My mouth goes dry. I'm about to witness my first human sacrifice.

It was talked about. More rumors flowed about it than I want to admit. Boys bragging they had seen it done at tournaments. Girls wishing they had. I never wanted to hear it. Never wanted to pay attention. Never wanted it to be true.

I thought I could avoid it. Thought that maybe, somehow, it was a story meant to frighten us and nothing more. Right now, I wish it was a story. I wish my avoidance of it could continue. I wish there was some way for me to be anywhere but here.

Silver light seeps from the Grand Chancellor's fingers and slithers toward her. It sharpens as it grows closer to her neck. I tilt my head away from the scene and squeeze my eyes shut. The silence pulses through me. I breathe slowly, waiting for a scream.

And wait.

And wait.

I slide one of my eyelids up a touch, then open them both wide. The Grand Chancellor is glowing. Faintly, but even with the torches lighting the night, it stands out. Sometime while my eyes had been closed, his skin became luminescent. Next to him, the girl on the table lies dark, unmoving.





Chapter Five





The Grand Chancellor claps his hands. Sparks fly from them, darting through the night sky. “Let the feast begin!”

The memory of his voice continues to boom against me as the spectators break into a cheer. Father whoops. My insides hurt. A gnawing, uncomfortable feeling. I force it to stay inside.

“You girls make sure you're in the women's tent before curfew,” he says and steps out of the box.

No chaperon in public for the first time. Must be a perk of tournament excitement, not that I'll enjoy it. Keeping my gaze away from the altar, I try to gather a sense of normalcy, but struggle. There's nothing normal about any of this.

Cynthia's pale.

“Can I get you something?” I hope she doesn't ask for the calming tea. Mother's forced it on me so much I've grown to abhor it.

She shakes her head.

Grateful she's strong enough to not want the tea, but not knowing how else to help, I stay by her side and try not to think of the sacrifice. I can't help it though. The few images I saw keep playing through my mind, vivid and life-like. The tarnished. The altar. Her laying there, almost seeming human one moment then gone. Just gone.

People drift from their boxes, onto the field, and to the side where I can't see. The area will have entertainment and tables laden with food and drink. It no longer holds any appeal for me. In the growing dark of our box, no one seems to notice us. The jubilation of the crowd carries, faded by the distance, and the smell of rotten cabbage strengthens.

After a while Cynthia says, “I'm not hungry as I thought I would be, but you can go to the feast if you want. I think I'm going to lie down early.”