Page 54

And when the cause is fully pleaded,

O Jesu, Son of Mary, shield Thou my soul…1

The fight began. Ian’s opponent launched at him in a flash of golden hair and white flesh, with overwhelming power, like a battering ram. It took Ian all he had to not get killed. And even more, to wound his opponent. He didn’t want to kill the man. They were not enemies, not by choice. They were both victims of bad luck, forced to fight against each other.

He slashed the man’s thigh. The wound wouldn’t bring death but was enough to immobilize him.

The man fell, clutching at his leg. Ian stood above him, panting. He’d expected the gates where he’d entered to open again and for him to be allowed to go back to the barracks.

But the crowd yelled. Their voices livid, men stood and waved their arms at him, urging him to act, to do something. Ian glanced at the caliph, the man in a white robe and a white turban, the only man sitting immobile. The caliph had a satisfied half smile on his face. He raised one hand, his ringed fingers glistening with gold and jewels, and archers appeared on the roofs of the buildings that were the perimeter of the courtyard, their arrows pointed at Ian.

The caliph said something in Arabic, which, as Ian later found out, meant that only one man would leave that courtyard alive that day. And it was up to Ian who that would be.

Then the caliph made a gesture of cutting his throat with his index finger.

That was enough to understand. Ian looked down at the giant, who was trying to rise but failing. His teeth bared in a terrible, desperate grin, he waved his sword helplessly at Ian, but Ian only stepped aside.

He had to kill the giant or be killed himself.

Understanding hit him like a cold shower.

It was one thing to fight for his clan, for his family, for the people he loved, for the cause he believed in.

It was another to kill people who hadn’t done him wrong. To kill them because a man with gold and jewels on his hands told him to.

To kill them to buy his own life.

The caliph cried a word, and the archers pulled the strings of their bows back.

Ian couldn’t hesitate. It was either his life or the blond man’s.

“O Jesu, son of Mary, shield my soul,” Ian whispered and slashed the man’s neck with his sword.

The spectators erupted in cheers. Some were happy, others angry. The archers disappeared. The caliph met Ian’s glance and gave a barely noticeable nod, his face impartial and still.

Ian shook himself like a dog, shaking off the memory. He looked at Kate who eyed him with concern and compassion. The words poured out of him, painful and yet cleansing, like opening a rotting wound and cleaning it.

“The Red Death won every single fight,” Ian said. “Eleven years. Dozens of lives. Husbands. Fathers. Brothers. Sons. From Africa. China. India. England. Egypt. Many, many Arabs. At times two or even three were up against me. I killed them all…”

He looked at his hands, surprised there was no blood.

“I’m a beast, Kate. A monster. I will never be whole, and there will never be redemption for me.”

She took his hands in hers, and a soft, gentle current of tingling went through him. He met her eyes.

“You’re not a monster, and you’re not a beast,” she said firmly. “The monster is the caliph. The whole system of slavery is the beast. You’re a survivor, Ian.”

A tremor went through him at her words, like the pus had been cleaned out of the wound and now the healing balm was applied, and it burned.

“Ye are too kind, Kate. I dinna deserve yer good heart.”

“Don’t punish yourself more than life has already punished you. I know you seek forgiveness, but it’s not anyone else’s to give. It’s your own forgiveness that you need.”

He shook his head. “How can I forgive myself when I vowed to God to never kill again and yet—”

He poured more wine.

“Ye’ve seen me.”