Then they’re out of view. I think of Heidi’s mom and the Fears. They’re likely less than an hour from reaching the wheat field, and I won’t be there. They’ll be massacred.
“Crixus!” I manage to bellow.
No answer. A tiro mutters to another something about nightmist. He sounds wary, but cocky. Proud to have Icarus contained, but uncertain if I’m totally subdued.
I have no wheat kernels, and I’ve committed to the light too much to create out of darkness anymore. Nightmist no longer comes to my fingertips, even if I egg on my darker emotions. I don’t think it’s even in me anymore.
I’m truly helpless.
A few tirones move in and out of the stands, hauling big leather bags of something heavy. They set them up on the edge of the Arena, one filled bag every few yards. I’ve never seen these bags as part of the Games before. I recall Luc’s words, “Prepare the Arena for this traitor.”
The bags have something to do with me.
Though there’s no sun, the heat of the fire tower beats down on me, accentuating my thirst. The thirst is more from real life than from the strain in Tenebra. I’ll die from it in real life, but I’ll be forced to endure the torture of it for hours and hours in here. How long until the next Games?
I tug a bit at the leather around my right wrist—the leather Crixus nailed. It’s firmly nailed into the ground. There must be some sort of clay or stone beneath the sand to hold the spike so securely. I twist my hand a bit to test the looseness, but then a sandal presses against my fingers, crushing them so hard they’re close to breaking.
A tiro stands above me. “Keep doing that and I’ll cut off your hand.”
“Noted,” I retort.
He resumes his post, and I keep still, burning beneath the heat and shriveling like a raisin from thirst. I try to tell myself it’s all in my head and none of it is real, but that doesn’t change the dread of lying here vulnerable while Luc and his airborne minions attack my friends.
For the first time I understand why Stranna doesn’t want to risk her life to share the Adelphoi secret. Even though she knows she’ll wake up in the Real World if killed, the fear involved is constant. And didn’t Jesus do the same thing? When it was time for him to be captured, he kept praying that God would take the cup from him?
I suppose if Jesus could dread death, even knowing it would save the whole world and the pain would be temporary, it’s okay for me to dread it too.
Except I don’t know what’s on the other side. Well, I know about eternity. Nole and Mom brought it up All. The. Time. Now I understand why—they had the answer. Despite my hard-headedness and stubborn heart.
But when it comes to Tenebra, I’m not an Adelphoi. When I die, I’ll die.
I have the faith, but the nerves and anxiety still exist now that it’s being tested.
Hours pass before anything new happens. I lift my head a bit to see the stands through my spinning vision. People shuffle in early. Their curiosity is palpable. Many point and whisper. I hear the name Icarus a couple times as their tones get more excited. The Games are finally upon us.
What must it be like to look upon this as entertainment? Do they think they’re coming to watch some sort of stage show with an escape artist? Do they think I put myself here solely to amuse them?
Then they spot the bags. The hush is heavy, reflecting surprise. Shock, even. One looks at me, then the bag, and whispers fiercely to a neighbor. The two plop themselves right in front of the bag. Others skirt the bags altogether and seat themselves far away from them, toward the highest seats of the Arena.
The muttering continues, but it’s no longer casual chatter. There’s a new awkwardness with my body splayed before them and something they understand about the bags that I don’t.
Luc didn’t kill me right away for a reason.
The only reason I can think of is that he wants my end to be public. But he’s off attacking Castle Ithebego. Maybe he thinks it will be a quick victory and he plans to be back in time.
As more spectators take their seats, I realize my opportunity. I don’t have a weapon or physical prowess, but I have a voice. And that has the power to fight these Games in a way Luc never anticipated.
“I know about a cure.” The words feel cursed on my tongue, but I say them anyway because I remember the power they had in the Real World. My voice is a bit raspy, but the design of the Romanesque Arena sends it echoing up the stands.
The chatter stops. Faces turn toward me. I lick my lips. “There’s a cure to death in Tenebra! It costs nothing. Nothing but faith.”
Someone laughs. The muttering picks back up. Already I’m disregarded.
I try to raise my voice. “Listen to me!”
They do. I sound angry now, so perhaps that’s why they give me attention, hoping to witness an explosion of nightmist.
“Your children understand the cure. They understand the faith, and they’re waiting for you.”
“Where are they?” a woman asks, timid, but loud enough to carry to my ears.
“They’re with the Spores. They’re protected for now. And aside from longing for their parents, for you—they’re happy.”
Hisses fill the air the moment I say Spores. Are they so set against the Adelphoi that they are willing to ignore the truth about their own children?
I speak up again. “Luc rescues only the youngest children who can return to the Old World and serve his purposes! Any of you who have been reunited with your kids have seen this. The reunion is here on this sand, but then your child is indentured to the Emperor, right?”
Complete silence. Tension fills the air, as I continue.
“Once they’re too old to serve him, he makes them fight in the Arena for the right to live. At this very moment, the Emperor is attacking your children, intending to murder them. I was there yesterday. Luc and his tirones chased your kids, shooting arrows at them as they fled, trying to get away.”
Gasps litter the crowd.
“Liar,” someone shouts.
“Those of you with children, ask them,” I challenge. “See what they’ll tell you about life before the Emperor and his tirones captured them.”
