Page 17 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

Romouth finally intervenes, though she’s not angry when she calls out.

“I’m not seeing any sparring!”

Brem is on her feet and snapping orders again, though she continues with that cheerful tone amid her cursing and insults.

It’s quickly obvious after a few, “lazy cow”, “move your fat arse”, and “your pussy sucks harder than you do” comments that this is simply how she is, and no one seems to take offense.

Since my mother’s battlefield talk was just as harsh, it’s another familiar addition to a day that feels more ordinary to me than it deserves to.

When it’s clear that no one will fight me anymore, I find a corner of the arena to work alone, hardly the first time.

There’s a kink in my right shoulder I need to work out, and my stomach feels soft, my core strength requiring my attention.

As I flow through the patterns of attack, first bare-handed, then with one sword, and finally with two, I’m panting and sweating and shaking long before I’m done, but the feeling of it is as sweet as the best fuck I’ve ever had.

Well, maybe second to that, because Atlas and Zenthris are very skilled.

“Remi.” I pause, turn to Brem, who nods to me. What is that look on her face? “Take a meal. You’ll need it at this pace.”

I return my weapons to the chest, noting everyone but Brem leaves theirs where they fought, resisting the urge to gather them all up and store them away. We exchange a look over the open top before she shrugs and sighs, voice very soft when she speaks.

“I’ve tried,” she says. “I swear it, sister. But they do not live war inside them as we do.”

“You were raised to this,” I say, following her toward the open benches and tables, sitting next to her when she nods.

“As were you,” she says. Gerthi appears with plates, the two young women who tended to my first opponent behind her, carrying trays of bread, delivering food as they go.

I note that the silver-toothed woman is glaring at me, muttering to the stocky woman next to her, but choose to ignore them and the visible threat on their faces.

“Don’t mind Kasha,” Brem says. So, she noted the animosity, too, did she?

Of course. “That little cunt needed to learn a lesson, and you just happened to be the one to hand it to her. She’ll get over it. ”

“Or not,” I shrug, accepting a full plate of some meaty stew from one of the girls, inhaling the hearty aroma.

I snag a large chunk of flatbread and dip it immediately, the giant bite as rich and spiced as expected, though it’s not the kurrie I’m used to, but some other earthy flavor that has me digging in for more.

Brem laughs. “Or not, just so.” She dives into her own meal, the two of us eating in happy, companionable silence.

She feels like someone I could easily fit into my company, to add to my elite cadre who ride with me into battle, and though I know and have reminded myself only recently that trusting strangers in this odd land will put me at risk, I can’t help myself.

Romouth joins us partway through, drifting from table to table with a low, quiet word for each of the small groups who gather to eat.

I note that she pauses next to the silver-toothed Kasha, the woman’s expression turning sullen but accepting, before Romouth comes to sit across from me and Brem, accepting a plate from Gerthi herself along with a soft pat on the cheek and a toothless grin from the old cook.

“She’s been with me since I was a gladatte ,” Romouth says, fond smile kind. “I’d have kept her on for that fact alone, the old dear, but her food makes her even more worth the effort.” She’s as enthusiastic in her eating as we are, sipping the odd drink that everyone seems to gulp down.

“It’s not alcoholic,” Brem tells me when I hesitate, so she’s noticed me sipping. “They infuse it with some sort of bubbling, that’s all.” The burning sensation that I’ve started to like very much. “It seems to invigorate.”

Very good to know. I guzzle the glass, then, as I had last night, and accept more from the girl with the pitcher, who quickly comes to refill me before I even look up.

“I’ve heard of Heald,” Romouth says in a casual voice that is far from it, her head down over her food.

“Many tales of it, though I’ve never been that far north.

” She raises her gaze, meets mine. “Your armies are feared far south of your territory, as is the name of your queen, Jhanette.” If she notices my startled response, she doesn’t show it, and I’m swiftly hiding it behind a long drink.

“Her legend lingers after almost thirty years.” What had my mother done to earn such a reverent tone?

“Though I’d always thought it a fable to make us fear the north. ”

I shrug, tearing off more bread to sop up the rest of my stew.

“The armies of Heald are the sword arm of the Overkingdom,” I say.

“And my—” I cut myself off before I say “mother” and use her honorific instead, “queen was the finest warrior I’ve ever known, from a long line of war queens.

” I’m about to ask for the tale that Romouth mentioned, longing suddenly for a fable about my mother, when Brem asks the hard question.

“Was, you say,” she says in a soft voice. “She’s passed, your queen?”

Why does that simple query make me choke? I force down my last swallow and answer, voice thick. “She died in battle,” I say, “as it should be.”

They both murmur agreement, these two women my mother would have broken bread with herself, given the chance.

Romouth had welcomed me home, last night. Is it wrong that I feel like she knew what she was talking about?

“There is an exhibition match in two days’ time,” Romouth says.

“A trial to test you against another arena.” She doesn’t sound concerned.

If anything, she’s eager. “I hope you’ll show the same talent then as you have today.

” The mistresse rises without waiting for my assurance and leaves us, taking her cup with her, heading for her quarters while I watch her go.

“This will be fun,” Brem chortles, taking the last piece of bread.

When she splits it and offers me half, I’m surprised and honored and accept it, though I’m stuffed already, nibbling as she goes on, eyes bright.

“We’ll be facing the Dome of Death from Cheseco.

” Her grin has me smiling back, even if I don’t know why she’s excited.

“Their masterre , Noloc, is an asshole, and mistresse hates his foul guts.”

“Then, by all means,” I say, “let’s fuck his shit up.”

Brem laughs and bumps me with her shoulder.

It’s not until the sun is fading and our next meal is over that, exhausted but satisfied, I accept that I’m making progress. As frustrating as it is to feel any kind of weakness, I’ve done what I can for today, no weaker than I would be after a long campaign of low rations and too much fighting.

It will do, and I’ll only get stronger from here.

That part of my plan moving in the right direction, I march back to the armorer and enter, spotting Prenese hunched over her bench, muttering to herself, working on something. I’m storming over to her, ready to force her to listen, when she looks up and sees me coming.

She lurches toward me like a woman with intent, grasping me and jerking me toward the bench, too, standing me in place, hands busy on my garments.

“I need to talk to you about my armor,” I say, batting at her while she spins me and starts unlacing the vest, stripping me bare, and then turning me around again.

“Prenese, listen to me.” She’s saying something under her breath, tossing the pieces as she unwinds them, my biceps sighing when they’re freed, as does my stomach, though I’ve come to appreciate the tightness of the bindings and realize she’d somehow known where my weaknesses were.

That stops me in my attempted complaints as I stare down at her. She’s squinched her face into a scowl while she mutters and mutters.

“How did you know where I needed support?” I try to stop her from stripping the leather bottoms away, but now I’m fully naked, and she’s turning away from me, reaching for something that she holds up to me.

When I look down, I realize what she’s done.

What she’s made. And I gasp at it. Not the armor I’m used to, the fitted full-body leather that usually sheathes me from head to toe, knee-high, steel-studded boots, and full belt and tall-collar fastened to my chin, all fitted to me so well that I can sleep in it and feel rested.

No, not that, far too heavy for this climate.

But her equivalent of what I need? Yes, this I can work with.

Thin of grain, but carefully crafted, the edges curved and flattened, somehow bonded to a depth that I know won’t chafe, metal studs hammered to a polished sheen where the pieces connect.

It’s still short in the leg, but this set comes to my mid-thigh, and while there’s a gap in the midriff, it’s decorative, my sides covered fully, the gap enough for a flash of flesh rather than an invitation to stab.

It’s not ideal, no, but perhaps it suits this arena far more than my armor would.

“Test and test and try and see,” she whispers, “still not perfect, Prenese, not perfect, but it will be.” She backs away, ignoring me completely, leaving me to find my tunic and dress myself, but with more faith in her than I had before.

I will trust, even if, as with much these days, I don’t understand.

***