Moonshadow (Book 1 of the Torrent Skies Saga)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Doubt of Finality

They stood in front of a large set of ornate double doors. Serpents were carved around it, writhing and staring at any who would approach. The snakes were finished with silver and had gems inlaid in their eyes. Another hall had met them outside the last portal. Carpets and tapestries to make the richest of kings rife with jealousy had decorated the last ten minutes of the hallways.

Everyone was tired, fatigued, and not one of them cared at all for the lavish display. No one of them even knew what time it was anymore—they had spent so long wandering these halls— nor was anyone talking. There had been no change in the gem, no sign of the Uhma'zarhins. Fykes was shaking and getting paler by the minute, still promising that he would be just fine, saying he was not sick at all.

Katerin pushed all those worries from her mind and focused on the door with her magical sight while Juen'tal looked it over for any technical traps. Either there was nothing to be found or it was hidden too well. She sighed and waited for Juen'tal to step back before pushing the doors open and stepping through. She had to pause as she entered, blinking away the brightness of flickering orange torchlight. She stood atop sand and stonework that wound around the gigantic room. She could make out rows of benches and stone railings, curving up and around the sand.

It was an amphitheater. A fighting pit.

She scanned the room—past the stone pillars, to the second level with small, ornate railings. Tall walls surrounded it all, with seating far above. This was meant to be a place of great showmanship, she supposed. For a moment, she thought she caught movement from one balcony. A flash of gray, rustling behind a banister. And then she could only stare as she started forward, her feet carrying her without thought.

She could see a table, with two figures sitting at it, near the other end of the arena. She saw a pale, thin, elven man, holding a small cup. And even without seeing his face, she instantly recognized the other man, whether by the set of his shoulders or the cut of his hair. Byron's blade was leaning with its hilt against the table, and the sight of it made her shiver.

She walked toward them, fighting not to break into a run as she wondered if she could kill him before he turned around. She heard the rest behind her, hurrying to match her pace. She got within thirty feet before Byron turned—his elven companion still sitting relaxed in his chair.

Her lips pulled back in a snarl as she watched him. Anger and fear both fought to dominate her reaction, bubbling over the calm she had been losing grip of for days, now. She kept walking—stopping only when she could stare him down. She refused to be so terrified of him. Would not give him any chance to think she was worried, or afraid.

"Katerin," he greeted, smiling as he looked past her to Fykes. "Are you going to put your foolishness aside and make a deal?"

She almost laughed, but it caught in her throat. "You know that isn't why we're here." As she looked at him, she remembered the relic and flashes of his life played across her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. A boy, as scared and angry as she was right now. A man, loved and respected, proud of the people around him. A broken man, lost and injured and alone. A fleeting thought grasped at her, wondering if she might see the same fate.

Byron sighed and shook his head. "You could've made this so easy," his cold eyes piercing as they ever were. "You didn't have to die here."

"And you didn't have to end up here," she said, her face softening as more of his memories flashed behind her eyes. "It could've gone another way."

His face stayed as still as stone, but something flashed in his eyes. Longing? Anger?

Arnet stood, then, and leaned over the table, staring at them with excitement. "What did you think of my pet?" He smirked, showing sharply pointed, narrow and inhuman teeth. "Such a shame you let him go. He was supposed to die."