Ironhold, Trial One (Ironhold #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Watch where you're going,” he says. He looks me up and down, then grins. “Unless your plan was to stumble into my arms? I feel as though I could forgive that all too easily.”

He is handsome, I'll give him that. No, not just handsome, beautiful, in a way no man has a right to be. Almost good looking enough to excuse the arrogance of his expression. His dark hair spills past his shoulders, while his body is lean and fluid, the muscles etched on him but far from as powerful as Rowan’s. Deep blue eyes regard me with interest. This is someone I could imagine dancing around me gracefully, while Rowan’s arms seem suited more to holding me tightly. I push both of those thoughts aside. I’ve only just met both of them.

The strangest thing about him is that he doesn’t have a slave collar around his neck. He has the mark of Ironhold, a burned ring with a single stripe across it representing one season in the colosseum, but no collar. He must be one of the free gladiators Rowan mentioned. I can only assume that they train separately from the rest of us.

“Have you been struck dumb by the sight of me?" he asks with a sardonic lilt. "I'm told that I have that effect on women.”

“By people you've paid to say it?” I ask. I freeze as I hear my own words, realizing the danger I may have just put myself in. I've already seen that my fellow gladiators can be violent and bullying. Insulting one of them might not be a good idea.

He laughs, instead. “Do you know, the last time someone insulted me, I ended up fighting a duel with him on the sands? And yet you still dare to do it? Do you think you're invulnerable?”

I'm all too aware that I'm not. “I'm sorry.”

“No, no, don't apologize. You were doing so well . The mysterious refusal to speak, the almost running into me, the puncturing of my ego. Why, I could practically feel the sparks flying between us.”

“There are no sparks,” I insist. “I don't even know who you are.”

Now, he does look mildly offended, but I suspect it's at least partly an act. “You don't know who I am? I am Alaric Blackthorn!”

He declares it as if the name should have an effect on me, perhaps send me to my knees to beg to be his, or send me reeling back in fear. I give him a blank look instead.

“Really? Nothing?” He sighs. “Have they dragged you in from someplace where the heroes of the colosseum aren’t even talked about?”

“Yes,” I say simply, unable to keep the pain out of my voice at the memory of being snatched from my home.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he says, as if just remembering the circumstances under which new arrivals might be brought to Ironhold. “You must be one of the new recruits.”

“That makes it sound as though we have any say in the matter,” I say. I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice, either.

He gives me a sympathetic look, albeit briefly. “What's your name?”

“Lyra,” I say.

“Well, Lyra, I am sure you will make the best of it. The thing to remember is, whatever your past was, here you have the chance to be something so much greater. There is more glory here than anywhere else in Aetheria.”

“Do you actually believe that?” I ask. “They're going to try to make us kill one another for the sport of Aetheria’s preening nobles, and do you think it's glorious?”

His smile only widens. “Strictly speaking it's for the entertainment of all of Aetheria’s citizens, not just we ‘preening nobles.’”

“ You’re noble?” I say. I don't know why it's such a surprise, given the way he acts. It explains some of the arrogance at least. But it's still shocking that a noble would be here, would have marks on him suggesting that he has fought for a whole season of trials in the colosseum.

“It's the lack of noble finery, isn’t it?” Alaric says. “Had I known that I would need to overawe a commoner such as yourself, I would have worn more than just a towel. Or possibly less. And really, once you commit to training at Ironhold, it is more practical to wear training gear until you either complete your seasons or your family buys you out, even if some of the others like to wear their finery between sessions. Can we just pretend that I'm in full noble regalia?”

“And I should fall to my knees in awe?” I counter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Only if you want to. Now, I should point out that there are schedules for male and female recruits to use the bathhouses. You should probably abide by them in future to avoid any awkwardness.”

He says that as if this isn't awkward. But then, he certainly doesn't give the impression of feeling any of it.

I am burning with embarrassment. I shouldn't be here. And if he'd come in just a little earlier, he would have found me in the pool.

“Not that it has to be awkward,” he says. “It's just that people might start to think that you want to join them, and we can't have that.” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you do? There are those among the women who do.”

“No,” I say, as quickly as I can. “Very much no.”

I hurry away, and he calls after me.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Lyra. I look forward to seeing you in training.”

His words only propel me faster from the bathhouse.

I continue my explorations of Ironhold, wanting to be alone for the time it takes for my shame and embarrassment to die down. I want to understand this space, want to know more about the place that I'm forced to be in.

Maybe if I search it thoroughly enough, I will find a way to escape it.

That thought comes from nowhere. I haven't dared to think of such things since the moment I saw the young man killed out on the road after he fled. The sight of him held down and killed so brutally flashes through my mind. I know that I cannot entertain thoughts of escape, because if I'm caught, I will die just as cruelly as he did. Perhaps more so, because I can see the impaling spikes on the walls, and at least one holds the remnants of a body. Compared to that, maybe the young escapee got away with a quick death.

I head inside, searching through the fortress anyway, trying to understand more about the place I'm in. I find an armory filled with all manner of weapons and protective gear. There is a forge at the back of it, the sound of hammering reverberating along Ironhold's corridors.

I find something between a temple and a kind of gallery space, too, lined with statues of figures in heroic poses. I don’t know who any of them are. One stands with his arms around the neck of a lion, another holds a sword aloft, his foot on the chest of a fallen enemy.

“Just what are you doing in here?” a voice demands.

I turn to see a man maybe a couple of years older than me stalking through the gallery space towards me. He wears the same training gear as everyone else here, but he has the robes of a noble over it. Almost automatically, I glance to his shoulder and see that he has a stripe across the circle of his brand. He sees me looking and pulls his robes tighter closed so I cannot see. He has spiked blonde hair and clear blue eyes, his features angular and with a cruel twist to his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” he demands again. “This is a holy place, not for the likes of you.”

“I’m just trying to find my way around Ironhold,” I reply. It sounds too defensive and weak to my ears. “I didn’t know this place was here.”

“Because you don’t know anything ,” he snaps back. “Another newcomer, probably not even from the city.”

I shake my head. “I’m Lyra, and I’m from-”

“Do you think I care what your name is?” He moves closer to me. “Do you think I care about you ?”

I shake my head. “Sorry.”

"You probably don't even know what this place is," he says. "This hall is dedicated to the heroes of the colosseum, to those who have achieved more than you ever will. That statue there is of my ancestor, Naxos, who slew five opponents at once to prove his claim to his family's inheritance. That one is of Anaxis, the founder of the colosseum. My family can trace its lineage all the way back to him."

I get the feeling that he thinks of this as his space, in which I do not belong. I’m happy to oblige.

“I didn’t know. I’ll go,” I say.

I go to step around him, but he moves back into my way.

“Not so fast,” he says, catching hold of my arm. “I didn’t say you could leave.”

His eyes are on me then, looking me over pointedly.

"You know, many of the recruits die in their first season at the colosseum," he says. "Plenty don't even make it through the training to get that far. They don't have the right blood, the right connections. I could help you here. If you were suitably… grateful."

He’s too close to me. Far too close. I push away from him, but he holds on.

“That collar says that you are a slave,” he says. “Whereas I am a high noble of Aetheria. You should think about what that means, and how bad I could make your life here if-”

“You’re not that high a noble, Vex,” a voice says. I recognize it instantly. It’s Alaric, the young man from the baths. He steps into the hall. He’s wearing training gear now, although he has a cloak in the colors of a noble house over one shoulder. “I trust you don’t object to me being in this room? At least as many of my ancestors are here as yours.”

The nobleman, Vex, turns towards him.

“What do you want, Alaric?”

“Right now, I’d like you to let Lyra go.”

To my surprise, he does so instantly.

“I didn’t know she was yours,” Vex says.

Alaric shrugs, holding out a hand to me. “Shall we?”

I take it, hurrying from the room with him.

“How did you get him to back down like that?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s just a question of whose family is more noble,” he says, as if it’s nothing. “Plus he knows I could beat him senseless if it came to a fight, of course.”

I look at him in surprise. “Is that all that matters here?”

He shrugs. "Pretty much. Martial virtue and magical prowess. The twin pillars of Aetheria. Demonstrate enough of both, and you show that you are worthy. Fail to, and… well, life gets hard."

“And you’re only here because you want to demonstrate those things?” I say.

He bows as if I’ve complimented him.

“Of course. Glory above all! That’s my family motto, incidentally. It made it quite hard for them to refuse when I decided to do this.”

He talks as if his strange world of nobles and glory and near certainty in his own brilliance is entirely obvious and normal.

Another question springs to my mind. “Wait, did you follow me up here? How did you find me?”

Alaric nods. “You had the look of someone who was going to get into trouble. I thought it might be interesting to follow.”

“But… why?” I say. I think about what Vex said, about not knowing I was Alaric’s. “Is this some stupid attempt to claim me as your own? Because that’s not going to happen!”

He smiles, clutching a hand to his heart. “Oh, you wound me, Lyra. Let’s just say that I didn’t want you to come to harm. As for anything else… we’ll see.”

“We will not see,” I insist. “And I don’t need you following me.”

He steps back from me. “As you wish. I will see you around, Lyra. I suspect you’ll need my help again, more than you think, and soon enough. I may even feel inclined to give it.”

Too late, I realize that I have not thanked him, but he is already gone.