Phoenix Unbound
Page 8

She had retreated to a corner when the door opened and three guards crowded into the cell. They shackled Azarion’s hands and feet, securing the short lengths of chain to a collar snapped around his neck. The fetters forced him into a subservient hunch, and he shuffled instead of strode.
He had left the cell bound and returned the same way, except for the reek of perfume and the musk of sex. In the small hours before dawn, the catacombs’ dim torchlight revealed a faint limp and shoulders held more stiffly than proudly.
She’d awakened from a fitful doze at the first creak of the cell door and watched as Hanimus himself accompanied Azarion into the cell and removed the chains. The tattoos on his cheeks twisted into macabre shapes as he scowled at his champion fighter.
“You’ll not be fighting tomorrow with those injuries. You’d go down in the first melee.” He took a bucket of water and washcloth from one of the guards and set it at Azarion’s feet. “Have your bitch help you clean up.” He shook his head and exhaled a disgusted sigh. “I don’t see any other broken bones, but if you hurt too bad to stand it, tell the guard to summon a leech.”
Gilene almost believed Hanimus held some infinitesimal regard for his best fighter until she heard his last muttered comment as he exited the cell.
“Stupid cunt. She’ll end up killing him, and I’ll lose a fortune.”
Quiet returned to the cell once the guards left, except for Azarion’s staccato breathing. “Woman, are you awake?”
She’d hugged the tattered blanket he left with her. “Yes.”
“Help me with my shirt.”
His voice was no less commanding for its softness. Still, she heard its weary strain, the hints of pain suffered in silence.
He loosened the lacings in preparation and smothered a gasp when she eased the shirt off his broad shoulders. She winced as new scabs tore away with a crackle. A crosshatch of lashes ran the length of his back and disappeared into his trews.
She tossed the bloodstained shirt to the ground and stepped back for a look at his injuries. They stood out among the mural of old scars carved into his back, glistening a crimson-black from the oozing ribbons of dark blood that trickled down to stain his trews. Gilene forgot her reluctance to touch him. Her fingers glided a hairbreadth over the wounds. He must have sensed her near touch. Gooseflesh pebbled the bronze skin.
“Did the empress do this to you?”
He spoke to the wall. “Aye, and other things. You’ll need to clean the wounds and wrap my chest. I’ve a cracked rib or two as well.” He eased out of the trews, pausing to lean against the wall and take shallow breaths. More blood had dried in rivulets that ran the length of his thighs. More whip marks decorated his buttocks.
Empress Dalvila’s particular carnal preferences were fodder for gossip and sly laughter throughout the Empire. The reality of those preferences robbed any humor from the conjectures. Gilene wondered in which arena Azarion faced his deadliest enemies.
The tepid water had turned scarlet with the first rinse. He remained quiet as she cleaned the torn skin on his back and washed away the blood on his legs. There were no poultices to prevent the wounds from poisoning. He’d lived years as a Pit fighter; she suspected he’d suffered much worse than these and survived to fight again. Unwelcome sympathy welled inside her. He was lucky to still be standing. By the look of him, the empress enjoyed doling out a good flaying as much as she did a fucking.
Azarion helped her tear the moth-eaten blanket into strips, pausing only once to hold his side as he took a deep breath. His nostrils flared, his lips went white, and sweat beaded his forehead.
Compelled to compassion by such obvious suffering, Gilene rested her hand on his arm. “Do you want me to call for the leech?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve had my fill of the Empire’s gentle touch for the night.”
The flesh along his left side sported a darkening bruise. Azarion favored that side, careful not to raise his arm too high.
She held a cloth strip in her hands. “It will pain you, but you have to raise your arm higher so I can wrap the bandages tight enough.”
He did as she instructed, emitting a soft groan when she tied the first strip snug around his chest. Despite her resentment of his extortion, she didn’t wish to visit more cruelty on him.
“Forgive me,” she said. “This is necessary.”
He accepted her apology with a grunt, remaining docile beneath her ministrations until she had swaddled his chest in a layer of makeshift bandages. Gilene surveyed her handiwork. It was a fair enough job considering what she had to work with and the fact that she wasn’t a trained healer.
Azarion gingerly tapped the bandages and gave a nod of approval. “This is good.”
She told herself she couldn’t care less if he lived or died. A small inner voice whispered that she lied. “A temporary measure to lessen the pain a little. If you wear it too long, you’ll bring on lung sickness.”
His scrutiny sharpened. “Are you a healer as well as a dyer?” He didn’t mention her ability to wield fire.
“I knew a man in our village with a similar injury. Our healer gave him the same instructions.”
His prolonged scrutiny made her tense. “You can take the bed. Sleep. I’ll breathe better sitting up.”
She had avoided his pallet earlier in favor of a seat on the floor. Since her arrival in his cell, he’d shown no interest in bedding her. Still wary, she had accepted his offer and stretched out on the bed, careful to keep the cell door and Azarion in her view. Sleep was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. The catacombs were a dangerous place, her cellmate a threat despite his injuries and reassurances he wouldn’t hurt her. But she fell asleep as soon as her head rested on the straw-filled mattress, the image of Azarion sitting straight-backed against the wall next to her the last thing she saw.
She had awakened to a comforting warmth and the tickling vibration of a voice whispering in her ear. A heavy body pressed against her back, long legs entwining with hers. Panic roared through her, scattering away any vestiges of sleep as she lunged to break free. A muscular arm tightened around her midriff, and the legs tensed, trapping her as effectively as any cage.
“Be still,” Azarion ordered, his tone gruff, his grip unyielding. “The guards are coming to get you, and your illusion has faded.”
Unlike fire magic, which she could summon by will, illusion required true, incanted spellwork. Gilene spoke the words her mentor had taught her to revive her illusion, hoping she’d gotten it right. The guards’ voices echoed in the distance as they ordered gladiators awake for their breakfast and retrieved the sacrificial tithes from some of the cells.
Her stomach churned, and she forced back a hard knot of tears. She hated the Empire. Hated the power, the debauchery, the careless disregard for its citizens and vassals. She traveled to the capital each year, suffered degradation, burned in the Pit, and returned home scarred in both soul and body. She shifted, and Azarion’s hold loosened just enough so that she could turn onto her opposite side and meet his gaze. She and this slave fighter shared a common truth. He dealt death with sword and ax, and she with fire. Neither commanded their fates.
As if he heard her thoughts, his hand left her waist to stroke her jawline. He was sickly pale, and she wondered how much pain he was in as he lay beside her in a position that no doubt made his ribs ache. “Do we have an agreement?” he said.