by D L Sims
Khett entered the room, blinking at the sudden onslaught of bright afternoon sun. The room was small with only a wooden bench, which Dallin sank onto, twisting his hands in the fabric of his trousers. There were three stone walls, the fourth was made of iron bars. Through the bars Khett could see the stadium. He was underground; a set of three steps was just beyond the bars, leading up to the field. He could see part of the audience, their cheers drowning out the Master’s words. “Our Champions have Three minutes inside the arena, each strike equals one point. The round ends when I ring the bell, or one of the Champions can no longer stand on their feet.”
Bile rose in Khett’s throat.
The Master stood at one end of the Coliseum, on a platform built into the raised walls where the audience sat. The other Champions sat behind him, dressed in elaborate coats.
Below Master Roxell were two banners nailed to the stone wall; one was the Amadon colors with their family motto: The people are our strength. The Pedgram banner had the words, Honor, truth and heart--long may they reign.
“Today, we have the great honor to witness history, a woman will be fighting in the first battle of the forty-third King Trials!” the Master exclaimed. His words were followed by the buzz of whispering at this news and cheers. “Lady Andalen entered the Trials under false pretenses, but out of the goodness of my heart, I have allowed her to continue in the tournament.”
Khett scoffed, anger burned in him along with the fear. They should have known the Master was going to take the credit for Andalen continuing in the Trials. He could see the other Champions frowning at Master Roxell as he continued speaking.
“With top scores across the board, please welcome, Lady Andalen!”
The iron bars on the other side of the field lifted, and Andalen entered the arena, her face calm, unworried. Her hair was styled so each ringlet fell around her head like a perfect spring. She was dressed in gold trousers and a green tunic, armor gleaming in the sun. Her quiver was strapped to her back, and her bow was gripped in her hand. Several daggers were strapped to her waist and thighs. Cheers thundered, and all around her green banners waved in the air. She stood in the center of the arena, looking around the audience with feigned confidence, but even from where Khett stood he could see the bow shaking in her hand.
“Next, please welcome Elthare’s favorite son, Lord Khett!”
The bars in front of Khett lifted. He turned to Dallin to see tears streaming down the man’s face. “Your father would be proud, Lord Khett.” He cleared his throat. “May the Gods bring you favor.”
Khett nodded and ascended the stone stairs onto the dusty field. Cheers erupted all around him, and the women called his name. He saw Fresia in the crowd wearing a red rose, the Pedgram flower.
‘Good luck,’ she mouthed to him.
He turned his head towards Andalen. Her brown skin seemed to shimmer in the sun, and the kohl around her eyes made them darker. A golden lily, the Amadon flower, was painted on the part of her chest that was exposed, a symbol of luck and strength.
“Let the battle begin!”
The stadium filled with cheers, but neither of them made a move. They circled each other, and Khett’s hold on his spear became sweaty. For several long moments, neither of them spoke as they created a round path in the sand.
“Fight. Fight. Fight.” The chant of the crowd started out as a whisper, but then erupted like a tidal wave. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
His sweaty grip slackened, but he adjusted his hand, holding the spear tighter. His legs shook as he continued wearing down the sand. “I don’t wish to fight you, Andi.”
There was a hesitation in her stance, a flicker in her dark eyes as they shuttered, and then she flew at him. One second she was across from him, and the next her fist was connecting with his jaw. He stumbled back, and in his shock, he let go of his shield. He worked his free hand over his jaw, popping the bone.
He looked at her stunned. “Andi--”
An arrow flew at him. It was as if someone had flipped a switch in her brain, and she attacked him as if he were nothing more than a common enemy. He saw her hesitation, but he also saw the warrior within her that would stop at nothing to bring down her opponent.
With his hand shaking, he hovered it over the earth. His powers made the rocks and sand at his feet fly through the air. A boulder slammed into Andalen’s chest, knocking her back into the stone wall.
He gave her no time to react. He threw his spear, catching her in the shoulder. She screamed out in pain. He backed up to the other side of the arena as she pulled herself from the ground, blood dripping from her wounds. She turned, slamming the spear against the corner of the wall where she had exited from. He winced as the spear crunched against the stone, and the end of it broke off, leaving a jagged two-inch wood stake in her shoulder.
She turned, blood coating her skin and tunic; her eyes teary and narrowed with determination.
“Andi!” He yelled over the cheering.
An arrow slammed into his leg, just above his knee. He howled and fell to the floor, crying out as pain wracked through his body, so intense it nearly blinded him.
“Get up!” He heard a voice from the crowd, louder than the rest, and found his mother leaning over the wall, horror clouding her face. Tears streaked her pale cheeks black with kohl. “Get up, my son. Fight!”
He gripped the end of the arrow, snapping it off. He stood, struggling to his feet, and putting all his weight on his good leg.
Andalen rushed at him, two daggers in hand. Her bow lay a few feet behind her, forgotten. She threw one dagger at him, but he dodged. He swung at her, but she ducked.
He called on the wind, and it blew her back several feet. She tumbled through the air, slamming into the stone wall again. She crumbled at the base, groaning. She didn’t get up. Blood poured from her nose and the cuts on her arms and face. But she was still breathing, the unsteady rise and fall of her chest was proof she still lived.
The crowd cheered.
He felt numb.
He fell to his knees in the dirt. Pain, a different kind than his injuries, bubbled up in him and spilled from his eyes. He sobbed as the crowd cheered around him. His heart, broken and mangled, hammered in his chest.
“The winner of the first--”
The Master’s words were cut off by the sudden movement under the rubble, as several rocks tumbled from the heap.
“Andi!” Khett breathed, but was too shocked to move. “Andi!”
She struggled to her feet, her face covered in bruises and cuts. Her left ankle was odd, broken from her toss through the air. She hobbled toward him, dragging her left leg behind her, a dagger in her hand.
Still, Khett did not move.
He saw her as a child, picking daisies in the gardens while their parents discussed the kingdom’s politics over goblets of wine. When she was fourteen and could brandish a sword better than many of the soldiers in his father’s guard. At sixteen, when her curls tumbled over her face and dripped into her eyes after she had jumped into the river with all her clothes still on. It was then that he had realized he loved her. At seventeen, when she kissed him for the first time, and her lips were soft against his, her body warm as she pressed against him under the apple tree. Then, three weeks later, after they had lost their virginity to each other. At eighteen, when she said no to marrying him, and yet he had still loved her. At twenty-one, when she entrusted him with the secret that she was bedding her handmaiden. And at twenty-four when he saw her on the platform at the train station in her green dress and hat, the pure joy in her eyes when she looked at him. And even though he regretted it, he thought of the day he kissed her in the tent after the second Trial, how familiar she had felt against him after so many years.
How was he supposed to defeat someone he had loved before he even knew what love meant?
She was only a few steps from him now, and yet, he still didn’t move.
“Khett,” she whispered, her bottom lip was split, trickling blood.
“Khett.”
“It’s okay,” he responded. He laid his sword next to him, surrendering himself to her. “Let loose, Andi.”
She paused. Her hand holding the dagger shook. “What?”
“Punch me. Kick me. I refuse to be branded a deserter, but I surrender to you.”
“Khett, don’t say such things.”
He shook his head. The crowd had fallen silent, straining to hear their conversation. He could hear his mother sobbing, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
“Khett, I don’t think I can.”
“You can.” He reached up, taking her free hand. He kissed the knuckles. “You must. Please.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I will always love you,” he whispered, bringing her knuckles to his cheek and leaning into the touch.
He took her other hand, the one that held the dagger, and stabbed it into his own shoulder.
Master Roxell rang the bell.
“The winner of the first battle is Lady Andalen!”
Andalen gathered Khett in her arms, her dagger still protruding from his shoulder. He had passed out from the pain, and she was glad for it.
Several servants swarmed the field, pulling Khett from her grasp. Two of them helped her to her feet, ushering her back inside the Coliseum.
The crowd cheered her name, but she barely heard them.
“Will Khett be alright?” she asked one of the servants.
“The doctors and a warlock will have a look at him,” the servant assured her. “Let’s get you in a bath.”
A witch waited in the Bathing area with a doctor. They both assessed her and deemed she had sustained no real damage from the fight.
“You were so brave, cousin,” the witch, Tulis, exclaimed. She was several years younger than Andalen, but had risen quickly in social status to become an official sacred being. She was blessed with the Gods’ protection and honored at many religious celebrations.
“Thank you, Lis.” Her voice held no inflection. She wanted nothing more than to sleep and see Khett.
Tulis healed Andalen’s wounds, all the while talking a mile a minute about the battle, her mother and brother, and the journey she planned to take when she turned eighteen.
Andalen barely heard a word her cousin spoke.
After Tulis left, Andalen was led to the baths. Servants washed her, cleaning the dried blood and grime from her skin.
Halfway through, the door opened, and Nixema burst in, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Andalen’s tears watered at the sight of her handmaiden.
“Leave us,” she commanded the other servants.
Quickly, the three women left, leaving Andalen alone with Nixema.
“You fought bravely,” Nix breathed out.
Andalen broke down. Large, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Her sobs echoed off the walls.
But Nix was there to hold her. She climbed into the bath, skirts and all, and pulled Andalen into her plump frame.
“It’s alright, love,” she soothed. “It’s alright.”
She pulled back, tangling her hands in Nix’s hair. “I’m sorry about the kiss with Khett, Nix. It meant nothing. I promise you, it meant nothing.”
Nixema studied her for a moment as if trying to see if Andalen spoke the truth, and then she kissed her.
And for that moment, everything else paled in comparison to the feel of Nix’s lips on hers.
Chapter
Fifteen
Mealtimes were quiet and strange without Khett. Ikar kept looking at the chair he usually sat in on the other side of the table; it stood empty now. Since he lost the Trial, he and Lady Pedgram had already been escorted back to their estate on the south-western side of the city, near the ocean. They had left with a tearful goodbye.
“Is it true you bought servants from Master Roxell?” Grant whispered over their dinner. “Why?”
Ikar had no explanation for the madness that drove him to Master Roxell’s ridiculous manor, which was decorated with ugly chotskies from around the world, in order to purchase Belmar and Dolnick for the price of ninety gold pieces. Each.
Perhaps the brothers were the physical embodiment he wished he had with his own brother. More likely, Ikar had gone mad.
“I needed more servants and felt like spending some coin,” Ikar answered. “Why else?”
He looked around the table as he picked at his stew and bread. The others talked amongst themselves, their whispering a slight buzz in the quiet dining room, like a small infestation of gnats around the dinner table. Ikar frowned when he realized his brother was missing.
Where has he gone to now? He wondered, frowning at Yvney’s empty seat.
“Good evening,” Master Roxell entered the room with his signature smile in place. Luane stood at his side, hair in a sleek bun, but she was frowning. At least she could read the room better than the Master. “It has been a week since Lord Khett left, which means it is time to announce the second battle.”
No one spoke, and Master Roxell frowned at their lack of excitement. What was there to be excited about? A friend was gone, not dead, but scarred. And more were going to follow suit, maybe even end up worse off. Ikar wondered if it had been this hard for previous Champions during their Trials. The noble families had always been close; it could not have been easy for any of them to combat their friends either.
Master Roxell’s boots scuffed against the floor as he came further into the room. His hair was tied back with a strip of leather, showing the tips of his pointed ears. He came to a stop in front of the table, between Ikar’s mother and Lord Sinero. He smiled again.
Ikar set his spoon down and took Roslen’s hand in his. He felt unsteady ever since Khett and Andalen’s battle. He had known he would possibly lose a limb, or end up brain-damaged like his cousin during this tournament, but he hadn’t thought of the gravity of the situation until he had seen a battle first hand. He placed a hand over her stomach, which had grown in the past months, swelling with his unborn child.
I have something to live for now. He thought it better if he bowed out of the tournament, get branded a deserter, which would mean he would be kicked out of Elthare. But he could go to Lysic or Soldare, or one of the far, far away lands overseas with Roslen. He had heard Keresh was lovely this time of year.
Roslen leaned forward, her fiery hair brushed over his bare, pale arm. “You will not quit,” she whispered into his ear. “You will finish these Trials. You will fight.”
He pulled back and smiled at her. It still amazed him how well she could read his moods. “Yes, my love.”
Despite his agreement, he still wondered if forfeit would be a better option.
She kissed his cheek, leaving a trail of fire on his skin. The squeeze he gave her hand was gentle, and then he brought it up to his lips, kissing the knuckles.
Master Roxell cleared his throat, and Ikar realized he was not the only one who was having a side conversation. Grant and Lonis were whispering on the other side of the table, and Andalen was speaking to Lady Monneaire in a low voice. He looked over at the Master, catching the man’s frown as he ran a hand over his beard in irritation.
“As I was saying,” he said, piercing them all with a frustrated look. “The second battle rounds will begin in three days. The competitors in this round have the lowest scores of the competition.”
Everyone looked at Phinn, they all knew he had done well in the knowledge round, getting the second highest score out of the six of them, but his archery and hunting skills were severely lacking. It was rumored that it was his servant girl who had brought down the boar during the hunting Trial, and he had only killed one of his ducks. Even Ikar, one to never believe rumors, could see the truth in that. Phinn had admitted that he didn’t have the privilege of learning combat and hunting as the others had in their youth. He was sure the young lord didn’t even know how to hold a sword properly.
Phinn blushed, burying his head in the large porcelain bowl of stew.
“The next battle will be between Lord Phinn and Lord Yvney,” Master Roxell said.
Ikar felt a small smile creep onto his mouth. His brother had one of the lowest scores in the competition.
Hooray for small victories.
Ikar’s boots clicked against the floor as he searched through the Manor’s halls for Yvney. He wanted to be the one to deliver the news that his brother had one of the lowest scores and would be fighting next. He felt sorry for Phinn, of course. There was no way the skinny man was going to best his brother.
Having searched the entire house, he headed outside. It was colder now as the summer began to move into autumn. The trees were starting to change color, and the autumn winds were picking up, biting into his skin. But still, it was nothing compared to the winds in Alithane.
He searched the grounds, the gardens and the stables. As he came to the combat house, he heard voices drifting out from inside. The door was ajar, showing a large room with weapons adorning the walls and a tan padded floor. Yvney’s back was to the door. Ikar made to turn, thinking his brother was with Milden again. He didn’t wish to witness whatever they got up to in the shadows.
Yvney was a vile creature, but then Ikar had seen that the person his brother was around the seamstress was not the same person that tortured Ikar. Yvney treated Milden with respect and gentleness. The dichotomy confused Ikar, and he admitted made him angry. Why couldn’t Yvney have shown that same compassion to his own brother?
The person in the combat house was not Milden, but rather a man with graying brown hair.
The man was older, maybe in his fifties--it was hard to tell in the yellow light coming from the single lamp in the room--with a long beard. The man stood with a regal air, tall and confident. Imposing.
“You owe me money,” Yvney snarled at the man. “15,000 gold pieces. I have not received any of the things you’ve promised me.”
The man smirked. “You will have your money shortly, Lord Yvney. I promise you.”
“I’m starting to think that your promises mean horse shit,” Yvney huffed. “And your daughter? Does she know you’ve promised her to me? Do I get to see her?”
