Page 13 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

I’m loaded onto a wagon with an open cage as its walls, left in the shade of a building, and out of the constant pressure of the sun’s heat.

Two burly guardsmen stand nearby, talking low and privately to one another, Romouth leaving again once I’m secured inside my new container.

It’s far from rough, the curving iron latticed and artfully shaped by some smith into winding vines, though when I test the strength of it, it’s clearly well-crafted and sturdy enough to withstand any attempt to bend or break it.

I’ve been freed of my shackles, though, so that’s a positive I can hang onto, as is the shade I’m in, the large jug of water I’m left with, a basket with bread and some kind of sweet, sticky fruit inside that tastes vaguely of salt at the same time.

I eat and drink enough to take the edge from my hunger and thirst, but don’t overdo it, tempted to pace my decorative cage but forcing myself to sit at the back of it with my shoulders to the slats instead, meditating with my eyes open.

This is far from safe or some victory. I’m merely one more step closer to the final result. Any softening or weakening of my resolve and focus could very well end badly, and I simply can’t afford to relent.

I perk when I see my two warrior companions crossing the square toward me, note it when they are loaded into their own wagon, its paint and structure similar, but in the shape of flames climbing the metal framework.

“Fight well, Remi!” Onu waves to me as he and Carrigan are locked into their cage. “We will see you in the Dominae of the Sun God!”

Their new owner has had enough for the day, gesturing for his driver to mount the front of the wagon while the small, round man in the dark yellow robes ducks into the clever hatch behind the driver’s seat and closes the door behind him.

At least the two warriors remain together.

That warms my heart, honestly, which means my humanity hasn’t left me yet.

Atlas will love the story, no doubt, when I see him again and stop fucking him long enough to tell it to him.

It’s almost dusk by the time Romouth returns with her own driver, but without another fighter to add to the cage. She seems annoyed, almost frustrated, though when she pauses to look up at me, her tone is soft.

“Make sure you eat and drink. Good,” she nods as she notes I already have.

“Take your fill. Our journey is overnight, but if you require comforts, you will have them. Find blankets in the box.” I hadn’t noticed the clever lid made of the bench I could have chosen to sit on, “and sleep.” She leaves me then, ducking into her own compartment under the driver’s seat as the woman in leather mounts and clucks to the two large creatures in traces at the lead.

They look like cows to me, though far taller, their horns shorn to the bone and capped in copper, their golden coats glossy in the humidity.

They almost glow as the setting sun’s red and orange light washes over them, the pair groaning a little as they settle into a slow but ground-eating pace that rocks the cage in a gentle rhythm much like the waves on board the ship.

I sleep, to my surprise, rising to use the covered pot strapped to the far end of the cage for my personal needs, returning to the back and more rest after a drink and another of the sweet and salty fruit.

If my mistresse fears attack, there’s no sign of it, and when I wake again, dawn crawls across the horizon on my right, lighting the dull yellow grasslands we cross.

I stare in surprise at the large herd of animals, like our beasts of burden, that graze near a bright green bank, the curve in the road leading us back toward the river, one side of the wide path that soft gold of grasses thriving on little while the lush vegetation on the other side greedily feeds from the sparkling water.

It's beautiful, make no mistake, the air’s humidity lessened somewhat, though it’s going to be hot today, I can already tell.

But a breeze has come up and it sends ripples through the grasses on both sides of the road, the sound of trilling birds waking in the early morning a counterpoint to the steady thud of the beast’s feet and the soft creaking of the wagon.

For a brief moment, I allow myself the grief of not riding this road on Gorgon’s back, my warhorse’s giant presence sorely missed. Then again, he’d hate the heat, my horse, would have shed his weight in sweat by now. Better that he’s safe in Neem.

If anyone is safe in Neem. I’ve forced off thoughts of Atlas and Zenthris, of what I left behind, who I left, and the circumstances they are in.

Of the encroaching armada of Overkingdom ships heading for the Landlow Isles and the two men I love.

They had a plan, to circumvent the traitor who gave the Overking’s captains the means to navigate the waters of the Isles.

Did they move the markers in time? Prevent landfall?

Destroy the fleet? I have no way of knowing, and lingering over those questions hurts far more than anything I’ve endured.

Yes, even the loss of my mother. Her death is a distant memory, now, as callous as that is to accept. But she is gone, and as far as I know, the rest of those I care about are not. Kinspark or not, I have to believe I’d know if Atlas and Zen are dead.

At least, I tell myself so.

As for the traitor, I let myself plan the end of Portuk, despite hoping he’s already gone. Surely, he was the one who gave the Overking’s people what they needed to invade. But why? What control did Vivenne have over the drakonkin and his now-dead healer friend?

I can’t answer those questions from here. Continuing to ask them only weighs me down, dulls my focus, lays my heart low. I will find out. I will see Atlas again, kiss his dear face, and Zenthris, past his scowl and his self-judgment. When I do, at last, I’ll have such a tale to tell.

Such a tale as none has told before.

It’s near nightfall, twilight gloaming the sky to that blue light that makes everything feel surreal and peaceful.

I’ve been lost in thought, and only when the cattle slow do I turn to find we’re approaching a small town, dominated by a large, curved building with its roof open to the elements.

We pass through the short gate, the yellow walls more decorative than protective, and I’m assessing the place from the mind of a general surveying a target as we roll through the streets.

Children run beside the cage, laughing and pointing at me, their small faces round, chatter excited, calling out questions to me that I ignore while their mothers cry out for them to retreat.

They are forced to when we enter the archway that marks the open-air building, the town’s colorful street left behind, the cool interior of the tunnel we pass through chilling me after the heat of the day.

And then we’re emerging into a spacious arena surrounded by bench seats tiered for viewing, I can only guess, and I observe as several women in scanty armor—if it can be called that, useless bits that show more than they cover—clash in the middle of the sandy space, sparring against one another as lanterns light the quickly dimming evening.

We don’t stop, the wagon rolling around the circumference, which allows me time to observe the fighters I’ll be raising a sword against. I have to admit, many have talent, much more so than the young woman whose wrist I’ve shattered, if far too showy for their own good.

Come to think of it, there’s no sign of her, so was she a potential purchase, and I’ve condemned her to that brothel Captain Lhanin mentioned?

I can’t think about her or her fate. I must focus on my own.

There was a time that would be easy, when the results of war and the finality of battle made sense to me. It feels like so long ago that I rode through death and blood on Gorgon’s back, my mother’s celebration waiting my attention. Has it only been mere months?

Reminiscence must wait as the wagon finally comes to a halt down another tunnel, lanterns flickering here while the cattle huff heavy breaths now that they’re at rest. Someone is unhitching them, but I barely notice because Romouth emerges from her cubby in the wagon and is stepping down, circling to the back of the cage, unlocking it to let me out.

“Come,” she says, leaving it gaping open, turning and striding away, not waiting to see if I follow her order or not.

I do, of course, out of curiosity and the need to reconnoiter my position.

This place is big but not so vast that I won’t quickly find my way around with immediate attention to my orientation.

We return the way the wagon brought us, out into the open, away from the scent of the cattle’s sweat and feces, heavy musk mixed with dry grasses fading to fresh air when we emerge to the ring again.

A low stone wall, barely to my knees, frames the circle of sand, perhaps a foot between it and the first row of benches, close enough that I know if I sat there, I could rest my toes on the lip.

Romouth speaks quietly, but her voice carries, though I speed my pace and continue to look around as she does.

“You’ll spend most of your time here,” she says, “if you know what’s good for you.

” Training, she means. I don’t bother nodding because she’s not looking at me, and we think the same.

Besides, validating her barely veiled threat feels unnecessary when I can’t wait to get my hands on swords and return to what I do best. “There is where you can find food off meal times,” she points to another opening, this one narrow, and as we pass it, the scent of cooking meat makes my stomach growl.

“The whole stable eats together at six-hour intervals,” she goes on, “here.” Again, she points as we pass an open-air space filled with benches and low tables, a few women sitting, talking, drinking.

And staring as I pass. I don’t bother to stare back.

There will be time to acquaint myself with them, or not.

I’d rather that part wasn’t necessary if I can avoid it.

It’s harder to kill those you see as friends, after all.

“Housing is here,” she leads me through a wider archway, the stone painted with images of women fighting, gorgeous, colorful artwork that I barely get a chance to glance at before we’re heading down a short tunnel and to another circular space, this one filled with cushion seating, and more women reclining on them.

Which means more staring, of course. The walls are punctuated with gaps, Romouth heading toward the second from the right, leading me through to a small bedroom.

“Private bathing is here,” she says, pointing to another door off from the chamber.

I peek inside at the tall basin and bench with a hole in it, covered in a shapely seat.

“Your weapons and armor will be held at the armory.” She motions at the large cabinet inset into the wall.

“Any patron gifts you receive are yours to keep, under a certain value, though large donations will be divided among the gladatte s who fight with you.” Her voice drones a little, far from the first time she’s given this talk.

“You’ll be supplied with herotte to suppress your cycles, though I suppose you’re lean enough not to bleed every month.

” I hadn’t even thought of it, and realize she’s right.

My herroot is back at Neem. Herotte must be their equivalent, because it no doubt grows in the south, too.

She turns to face me, towering over me, though I’m far from intimidated, if that’s her aim. I’m much more accustomed to women of her stature and their bullying than she will ever know, which makes me smile.

I see that I’ve startled her, her eyes widening just a little, and she smiles reflexively back.

“Thank you,” I say. “When do I fight?”

She tilts her head as though contemplating that answer, and when she finally speaks, it’s without arrogance or judgment. “That will depend on how well you do in training,” she says. “And what the Rae decides, of course.”

“Of course.” I don’t know what that means, not yet, but I will learn.

For now, I choose not to show weakness or lack of understanding.

Her implication that the better I do, the better life will be is not lost on me, however.

Though she clearly doesn’t know that I’m fully expecting to be done with all of this in as short a time as possible.

“We’re late for sup,” she says, “so you’ll have to fend for yourself.

But the kitchen will give what’s left. Don’t go hungry.

” Romouth heads for the door, pausing there to look back.

“See the armorer in the morning for equipment. You’ll find her the next passage down from this one.

” I’ll be fully exploring and will know the complete layout before I close my eyes tonight.

“The others will tell you the rest of what you need to know.”

I look down at my hands. “No more shackles, then?”

She flashes me a smile that’s so much my mother that I’m choking a little. “Welcome home, Remi,” she says and leaves me there to fight my emotional state that catches me by surprise far more than her kind words.

Home, she says. Not mine, but I’ll pretend if I must.

***