Chapter Text
Woqhine walked two steps in front of the guard who was escorting him from the infirmary to his cell. Saying he was guarded was ridiculous. If he chose, Woqhine could easily burn the non-magical guard to cinders. But the action would do him no good. Although his powerful fire magic could melt most doors, the doors at the Sarthan arena were charmed with strong magic that his fire could not penetrate. This guard was low leveled enough to have only interior keys and only a few of them at that. His key ring could open a door or two, but Woqhine would still be locked inside the impenetrable walls of the gladiator pits.
When they rounded a corner, the gate guard came into view. Woqhine cursed. He had hoped that Zurtio would be on duty. Woqhine had no more use for Zurtio than for the rest of the slave masters in the pits, but Zurtio was a stickler for the rules. He could not be cajoled, strong-armed, or bribed into breaking them. Some days such strict adherence to the rules was difficult—or downright painful—for the slaves. Tonight, however, it would have meant blessed rest.
Rufio, on the other hand, had come into work dead drunk on more than one occasion just from the palm-greasing he received from fans who paid to view the gladiators. Like animals in the zoo , he thought bitterly. Maybe no one will come tonight. But he knew that was unlikely. He had won a bout against a popular animal mage and been given a token by the king himself. Fans would want to gawk.
His escort unlocked Woqhine’s cell door, and Woqhine entered, sinking onto the stone bed covered with the straw tick mattress. When the lock again clicked into place, Woqhine lay down and allowed himself to groan and touch his side. The wound had been healed, but he knew the site would be tender for days.
He had lain still long enough to think maybe he would in fact be undisturbed when he heard the key click in the lock. For one rebellious moment, he considered staying where he was, ignoring the fans entirely, but Master Rufio could make his life miserable for such defiance. He pushed to his feet.
Into the cell walked two young women. The younger one spouted the usual drivel—congratulations, great bout, handsome, yada yada—but the other intrigued him. There was something different about her, though he could not determine what it was. She winked at him. He nodded warily.
“Woqhine, I bet you do lots of calisthenics around here. You must be wonderful at muscle ups, considering how built you are,” the older one crooned sweetly.
He blinked and studied the visitor. She was obviously a foreigner with her dark skin, hair, and eyes and her accent, but that wasn’t so unusual. The games tended to draw people from all over the Continent. Who are you? Is it possible you’re trying to speak to me in code? But that’s ridiculous. How would you even know it?
In the seconds it took him to assess the other woman, the younger one asked, “What is a muscle ups?”
It did seem odd that this woman knew the gladiators’ exercise routine. If she knew that, perhaps she did know the code. He decided on a test. If she had meant the statement as code, she had said that she had important information for him for later. “Calisthenics are foundational to a gladiator's health.” Your important information had better be right. Trust is not easily given.
She hesitated, as though her next statement was carefully worded. That would make sense for someone who doesn’t use the code often.
She said, “Yes, healthy calisthenics are foundational for everyone. I’m afraid I don’t do them like I should, though.”
Important information that can be trusted. Or so she claims.
She bumped the younger woman out of the way and stepped close to him. “I never have been able to do muscle ups myself,” she said, looking into his eyes.
Later. She keeps saying later. What does she mean?
“I have two things for you for good luck, Gladiator.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “That’s the first one. The second is for when you do your muscle ups.” She pressed the medallion into his hand and winked at him.
He glanced at it and carefully stifled his reaction. Etching. Later. I’ll look at it later.
Woqhine said, “I hope you enjoy the moonlight tonight.” Message understood, he thought at her.
“Thank you, Kind Sir. It was very nice to meet you,” the young woman said, curtsying. “Are you ready, Inea?”
The simpering girl smiled at him and blew him a kiss—he was thankful she didn’t try for anything more. “I’ll be cheering you on next week,” she said. “I’m glad they finally sent you back into the arena.”
Woqhine wanted to huff. You’re glad I’m back to risking my life every week? Gee thanks. He glanced at the other woman who looked disgusted with her companion. At least she seems to have a brain in her head.
He rubbed the token in his fingers, impatient to have the visitors leave so that he could examine it more closely. He knew that the older woman had shown it to the guard who had either seen nothing or seen nothing to be concerned about. What did you hand me, Woman?
As the women turned their backs, Woqhine glanced at the tiny gold-toned token. On one side, it held a snowflake and reindeer. He flipped it over and his heart nearly stopped. Sunshine. He barely had time to note the etched date before the guard had snatched it from him. What do you want with that, Idiot? It’s not real gold. But with the bang of the closing door, the medallion was gone.