Petra of the Shazastar is a thief on the run from an unforgettable past. But, like all thieves, her luck cannot last forever. When she is caught, she's given a choice: either face execution or become the fortune teller to the Mad Queen.
Not surpri...
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THE ETHBANIAN ROYALS HAD DECIDED to take us out on a day of culture. The atmosphere in the palacio had taken a rather cold turn, due to my brooding. Our first stop was a bull-fighting ring in the center of their city. We sit high in the royal balcony, the seats below us, filled with locals, cheering and feasting.
The Mad Queen does not even try to hide her boredom as her snores ring out loud and true.
"Wake me once this savagery is over, my fortuneteller," she had stated.
Yet, I watch – completely enthralled.
El matador wears a costume of gold and a deep rich purple, handsome, overconfident. In a previous life, he would have been the sort of man I would have enjoyed the company of ... if he survived the fight.
He walks around waving his flag, playing to the crowd. I know the feeling, admiration, being invincible for a moment – of becoming that one being everyone dreams to be –
The bull stands upon wobbling legs, being exhausted already by the previous matadors; poles stick out of its shoulders, ripping the muscles; its breathing irregular and out in puffs of desperation.
My heart wrenches at such a sight.
"It is an honor to be the one to kill it," Valentina whispers, voice tight with excitement.
"Must he?" I whisper.
But no one bothers to hear my plea. Who am I to judge a tradition – who am I to tell them of its savagery?
"Para ti, senorita Fortuna." El matador takes off his gold embroidered hat and bows low to me. For you ... How fitting – a murder for a murderess. I force a smile and a stiff nod. Just be done with it. Put the poor animal out of its misery.
He dances with the bull, waving his bright red flag, round and round, bending just in the nick of time out of the way of its horns; he taunts the bull with fluid movements. Elegant bloodshed, each gesture telling a story.
Kill him.
My hands grip the arms of my seat so tightly; I can feel my palms blister. I wanted the bull to gore him, kill him – for how can he do such a thing to poor animal. There it was huffing and puffing out of desperation -- out of survival.
Was it absurd that I related with the bull more than any other being in the entire ring? Me its only supporter, its only empathizer. I watch as the bull runs around, distracted by the other matadors and their colorful flags, stumbling until it finally falls upon the sands – facing our balcony. Its bright round eyes looking out to us --
