I smiled shakily. “I will make frequent use of it, then.”
After a lifetime of running, he was my homecoming.
Rings formed in the pond to my right as the ground rumbled. Arin grinned, gloved hand closing around mine as he tugged me forward. A slew of soldiers stumbled from one of the metal buildings—military compounds—and sprinted to the south. We were behind them, out of view. The sight of so many bedraggled Nizahl soldiers, devoid of the rigid discipline training would bring, brought a chuckle to my lips. The Supreme wouldn’t be pleased I was witnessing this. The Commander had taken an Omalian villager deep into the Citadel’s ground, to the compounds housing Nizahl’s newest recruits.
“The midnight runs,” I said. “Is anyone holding a mop?”
Arin groaned, releasing my hand. My fingers curled around the absence. “You are not to be left alone with my guardsmen anymore.”
We resumed our walk. The sight of his soldiers seemed to have invigorated Arin; he spoke more freely than he ever had. He described the trades the soldiers needed to learn, because their duties extended beyond surveillance and fighting. The recruits rotated between the compounds, and only when they were deemed to have performed with exceptional skill in their trainings and trades were they advanced into the army.
“Do you train the new recruits yourself?”
“Rarely. They are too frightened of me.” He sounded unhappy about a fact most would find pleasing. “They will simply obey.”
I lost track of the number of soldiers who bowed to Arin as we walked. “Is obedience not what a Commander should seek?”
“Obedience should be conscious, not instinctual.”
We turned around, beginning our return to my suites. Another soldier bowed, and I huffed. “Have you considered coloring your hair? You might be able to walk an entire ten feet without being recognized.”
Arin raised a brow. His silver hair was luminescent, a crown in its own right. “Why would I avoid recognition? The only people who do not wish to be known are the ones with something to be ashamed of.”
The Citadel’s silhouette took shape ahead. The heart and soul of Nizahl. Inside, Rawain would be toasting to his Champion’s success in the trials. Anticipating the glory I would bring to his kingdom.
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose you are right.”
The ride to the arena passed in tense silence. Sprawled in the center of massive brown fields, the arena loomed ahead like a blight on the land. To prevent a crush of spectators, carriages were stopped half a mile from the arena. My stomach hadn’t ceased its anxious gnawing since leaving the suites an hour ago. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
“It’s raining,” Jeru said.
I deliberately blinked the water from my lashes to communicate my thoughts on his astute observation.
“I will go with her.” Arin stepped smoothly from the carriage.
Wes and Jeru gaped. “But Your Highness, you’ll be on foot while the other royals are entering by carriage.”
“The Heir is due a bit of impropriety,” I said. Jeru looked as though he could not tell whether I had gone mad, or if he had. Resignation loosened Wes’s shoulders, and the older guard even seemed a little amused.
Arin adopted a brisk pace. The soldiers lined the path on either side of us, far away enough to afford us a modicum of privacy. “My soldiers are set up in every corner of the arena. They are stationed at every entry, every exit, every possible location an intruder could exploit. They are dressed in the colors of other kingdoms, and I have instructed them to carry no weapons that could identify them as Nizahl soldiers.”
“I’m sure you’re ready,” I said.
“I do not want you distracted by security concerns during the trial. Your only goal today is to defeat the Orban Champion, and the rest is mine.”
I lifted a shoulder. “It might be better for the Mufsids or Urabi to get close. Easier for your soldiers to identify the assailants in the crowd if they’re actively attempting to reach me.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Arin whirled, blocking my path. Incandescent anger lit his lovely features. “Not this again! Sylvia—” He cut himself short and glared at the soldiers. “Turn!” he ordered.
They hastily took several steps away and gave us their backs.
Rain dripped from the bottom of his hair, dampening his coat collar. “You will walk out of this trial whole and become the Alcalah’s next Victor. There is no other acceptable result.” The wind carried away the ashes of his anger, revealing a fear that stole my breath away. “Don’t ask me to abide your death at my hands.”