Page 40

CHAPTER

Forty

T HE SCENT OF lemon and vinegar, and fresh bandages.

“Contender Kraa?” Benna squeezed her hand.

She opened her eyes, groaned softly, and closed them again. The back of her throat was coated with something viscous and unpleasant. A dark taste of oil, ink, blood, metal.

The Eight were real. The Last Return was real. The Raven had offered her the chance to save the world, like Yasthala. And she’d said no.

She’d said no.

“Neema. Try to sit up.” Cain. He had a cloth filled with ice for her head.

She swung her legs slowly off the camp bed and reached for the cloth. She missed—her perception was off, boundaries blurred. Her body felt light and solid in all the wrong places, as if she’d disembarked from a long sea voyage. Cain guided the cloth into her hands and up to her jaw. “I saw the Raven,” she whispered.

“I bet you did. That was quite a punch he gave you. Could have been a lot worse, though.” He hugged Benna, who looked thrilled. “ Great story about the Bear. The ribbons!” He tugged a plait, playful. “Couldn’t have lied better myself.”

Neema wanted to spit the taste from her mouth. She knew if she did it would be indigo-black, and everyone would be horrified. “Water,” she said, and drank the taste down with a heaving shudder. Her body did not want this. She needed to go somewhere private and throw it up. “I’m fine,” she lied to Cain. “Go.” He was due on the platform for his fight with Katsan.

“You’re sure?” he said, already backing out of the tent.

When he was gone, Benna sat down next to Neema, shoulder pressed to shoulder. “It wasn’t a story, Contender Kraa. I know it sounds weird, but I really did meet the Bear in a dream—”

“I believe you.”

“Oh. I thought you’d need more persuading.” Benna inspected the ribbons in her plait. “I woke up and they were like this. Feel.”

Neema reached out and touched the ribbon. She felt a warm energy embrace her, lifting her spirit. She was safe, she was well, she was home. “Wow.”

“I know!”

They sat together in silence, Neema pressing the ice to the side of her head while Benna toyed absently with her plaits. Her face was still flecked with multi-coloured swirls of paint from the night before. “I like what you’ve done to your hair,” she said.

“My hair?” Neema was mystified.

“The new colour. Subtle.” Benna gave an appreciative nod.

Neema put a hand to her head and pulled a curl out straight, but it wasn’t long enough for her to see.

A medic came by to check Neema for concussion and gave her a list of symptoms to watch out for. “The main thing is to rest,” he said.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

When he was out of earshot, Benna said, “Contender Kraa. I have to tell you something… Something bad…”

Neema touched her hand, to stop her. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. I did something really, really wicked. The Dragonscale oil—”

“You dosed me on purpose.”

“Oh!” Benna cringed, cowed with the shame. “I did. I did. I’m a terrible person.” She flung her hands to her face and wept, deep, convulsive sobs. Neema had to pull her into a tight hug, or she would have collapsed on the floor. “I’m so sorry,” she said, over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Neema said.

“It’s not all right,” Benna sobbed, her voice muffled. “I almost killed you.”

A night’s sleep can bring revelation. Benna had met the Bear. Neema, on the other hand, had dreamed of Grace Eliat, and her opening ceremony dress. And she had dreamed of Yana, dying alone in Dolrun Forest. When she woke, the two parts of the dream had clicked together. Her subconscious, handing the baton over to her conscious mind.

Benna’s family came from Westhaven. They lived on the fringes of Dolrun. Shal Worthy’s report had mentioned that Yana had fallen sick towards the end of her ordeal. They had been forced to stay a few weeks in a village close to the edge of the forest, while she recovered. Someone must have nursed her back to health—someone kind and helpful. A child would make sense—someone who could spare the time. Benna would have been twelve back then.

A five-minute chat with one of Grace’s assistants was all it took to confirm the hunch. Benna had come to the apartment, and Grace had refused to pay her a single tile, just as the designer had said. Benna had thrown the dress at her and left.

So where had she got the nineteen silver tiles? From the same place she must have got the Dragonscale—from Yana.

Ruko’s twin had died in Dolrun. But before she left for the poisoned forest, she could have told Benna how to get her hands on her mother’s hidden supply of Dragonscale oil.

“Was it her idea?”

Benna nodded, miserable. “But I went along with it. I wanted… she did nothing wrong. She was my friend. I saved her life. And they killed her for nothing. ” Benna put a hand to her heart. “With your words. Your signature.” She sniffed.

“You have every right to hate me,” Neema said. “I hate myself for it.”

“But I don’t hate you!” Benna cried, earnestly. “And I swear, Contender Kraa, I promise I didn’t know the oil was so strong. I would never, never, ever… And you’ve been so nice to me. I didn’t think you would be so nice, and friendly and… a real person. I feel terrible.” She broke down again.

Neema tried her best to console her. They were drawing attention from the medics. She lowered her voice. “Did you take the Blade from Ruko? You sent him the note?”

Benna scrubbed away the tears and nodded. “But I didn’t kill Gaida, Contender Kraa, I swear.” A shadow crossed her face. “She was already dead when I found her…”

“I know. But they’ll blame you for it, if they get the chance. We need to come up with a plan. Not here, though.” She shuddered, as another wave of sickness passed over her.

Instantly, Benna was concerned. “Contender Kraa! Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” She heaved, then settled. The inky, metallic taste was back, coating her throat. She sipped some more water.

Benna peered at Neema intently. “They said the concussion could make you sick.”

“Honestly Benna, don’t worry about me—”

“Benna Edge.” A pair of Hounds strode through the tent towards them. They were dressed in dark blue uniforms, with square silver buttons. New recruits, from the academy at Samra. One of them was holding a pair of manacles. “You’re under arrest.”

Neema touched Benna’s wrist as a warning. Keep quiet, don’t panic. “What’s the charge?”

“Disrupting a platform fight.”

Neema relaxed. “She’s my assistant. She was protecting me—that’s her job.”

“Not your business contender,” the Hound said. His partner grabbed Benna roughly under the arm, yanking her to her feet.

“Hey!” Neema snapped. “This is my business. I need her. Hey!” she said again, as they ignored her. She got to her feet and almost threw up. “You can’t do this—where’s your paperwork?”

The Hound snorted back a laugh. “We don’t need it. Imperial orders.”

“You still need a warrant.”

The two Hounds smirked at each other.

“If this is imperial business why did they send you?” she demanded. “Where are the Imperial Hounds? You can’t just drag someone away like this.”

But they could, and they did. And Neema was too ill to stop them.

“You can’t do this,” she protested. “Benna—don’t worry. I’ll sort this out…” Another wave of nausea hit. By the time she’d recovered, Benna and the Hounds were gone.