03 - The Eternal Rose

by Gail Dayton

  “I don't understand.” Joh was frowning. “Where did all your wealth come from? If you lived like this, why is it so expensive to arrange a trial?"

  “Ah.” Obed smiled as he moved down the hall to allow the rest of the crowd to see into his old room. “The gifts—it's not actually called ‘payment', though it is. Champions who are not cloistered like the dedicats keep their pay, of course. Many of them live well—very well—because they do not know how long they will live.

  “A champion may remain at the skola, earn the hand and foot tattoos, but may leave at any time. Only the dedicats may earn the body tattoos. Only the dedicats stay in the skola for the full twelve years of their vows, leaving only for trials.

  “Dedicats do fight for those who cannot pay. There is a rotation to determine who fights next. But when there are gifts—some of it goes to the skola. Most of the rest goes to the winning champion. A dedicat's gift is held until his vows are complete. If the losing champion has been hired for pay, they get a percentage, if they survive the combat."

  “And you won,” Joh said. “Frequently."

  “Yes.” Obed nodded. “I won. Bekaara invested my winnings. As I drew near the end of my vows and could have a monthly visitor, she began to teach me how to run the business she created for me. By the time the visits became weekly, in my last year, I was making many of the decisions. What to buy, where to sell."

  “And we are all most grateful to Bekaara for her teaching.” Torchay touched the hilt of his Heldring short sword.

  Obed had bought nine Heldring blades as gifts before he ever met Kallista—ten, if one counted each of Torchay's pair. The weapons were rare and astoundingly expensive because of the magic hammered into each blade. A Heldring sword bonded with its owner. It never broke, never rusted, never went dull, never failed its owner. Obed's enormous wealth had provided that much, and more, he hoped. Perhaps using it for his new family would help erase the taint of the way his wealth had come to him, through the deaths of so many he had faced in combat.

  “What if you hadn't survived?” Kallista asked. “If you died before completing your vows? Where would your wealth have gone?"

  “A generous portion would have come to the skola. The rest would have gone to my family, to Shakiri—they gave most of it, since I fought for them most often.” Obed glanced at Kallista and lost himself in her gaze.

  “No wonder Shathina let Bekaara invest it,” Joh said. “I don't imagine she was best pleased when you finished your vows."

  Obed's smile flickered to life, his eyes never leaving Kallista's. “Especially since I did not return to Mestada to allow her to arrange my marriage. Fulfilling my vows set me free of Shakiri and the skola. I would not bind myself to anyone or anything again unless it was of my own choosing.” Surely Kallista understood this much.

  “But what does the skola do with the gifts it receives?” Viyelle asked as they began moving slowly along the corridor again. “If everyone lives like this. Does everyone live this way? Even the masters? What do they spend the money on?"

  “I have been in the masters’ rooms. They are much the same as their students'.” Obed walked backward a few paces to watch them before coming to another turn. “There are many mouths to feed, and they feed them well. A man cannot fight if he is hungry. A boy must grow as well as fight. Weapons break and must be re-forged or replaced. More money buys better weapons."

  “Heldring?” Torchay asked.

  “No. I had heard of the legendary blades made in the Heldring, but I never saw one until I purchased these.” Obed touched his own hilt, gestured toward Torchay's double scabbard.

  “The metalsmith naitani seldom sell outside Adara,” Kallista said.

  Obed led the way out of the maze of chambers, through another gate into a vast vegetable garden. A scattering of boys worked picking produce, hoeing or pulling up spent plants.

  “Discipline.” Obed smiled as he tipped his head toward the nearest boys. “I spent many bells in the garden over the years. And I hated every one of them."

  Kallista laced her fingers through Obed's, as if offering comfort to the boy he had been. But he needed more for her to love the man he had become. He had to trust that she did. It was time to return to the arena.

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fox looked around the arena when they entered, familiarizing himself with the space. Backless benches had been set up on all sides of the arena and strangers stood on one side, chatting idly, pretending not to notice as the Adarans entered. He couldn't afford any distraction. Obed had warned them that this competition could be more difficult than the trial itself.

  They had debated long and hard whether Fox should participate in this contest, whether keeping his skill a surprise or letting the knowledge out to intimidate would be more effective. The decision had finally been left up to Fox, and if the choice was between doing or watching, his choice would always be to do.

  He removed his belt and scabbard. Champions would enter the arena clad only in kilt, and shoes if they wished. Fox wore the light lace-on shoes. Most of the others did not, but he had grown up in Tibre's colder climate. He wasn't used to fighting—or doing much outside the bed and bathing rooms—without shoes.

  The Heldring blades were fortunately not an issue. A champion always fought with his own weapon. Fox's sword was long and straight, sharp on both sides, what Adarans called a mountain sword. He used a dagger in his left hand. Obed fought with a long, curved, single-edged saber, using it with both hands, and Torchay had his short swords.

  The other eight Adaran champion-candidates fought with an assortment of weapons, primarily mountain swords like Fox's, though two used paired short swords and one of the women had a halberd rising over her head and banging against her legs where she carried the pole weapon on her back. The long wicked ax with its razor-sharp spear points behind and above was a weapon Fox had no desire to face, even if he was a head taller than Genista. The shaft's length made up for the difference in reach.

  “These will meet in the arena for combat to first blood,” Grand Master Murat said in his strong, old man's voice, “in the order that your name is called."

  “Genista Fynli.” Obed named the halberd-wielding bodyguard.

  “Ruel Dobruk-sa.” Murat called the name of the young dedicatcandidate they'd met as Genista's opponent, and they each took a step down onto the level just above the sand.

  The matching-up went on, moving as planned up the skill level, though in fact the differences between fighters were small. Fox noted his designated opponent, but could tell nothing about him.

  Then Obed called out the last name. “Torchay Omvir."

  The echoing chamber already buzzed, but now the babble grew louder. Torchay and Obed had pitted their skills against each other almost since their first meeting, and neither had yet been able to win over the other. Obed had explained that the vanity of the skola's masters would have them believing no Adaran could hold his own against a Daryathi dedicat, much less best him. Naming Torchay last, after Obed, could do any number of things, from instilling false confidence that Obed's skills had fallen so far that a foreigner could beat him, to wondering whether the Adarans were actually that much better.

  The combatants moved back up onto the decking, save for Genista and young Ruel. They stepped down into the sand of the arena. Fox reviewed the procedure Obed had drummed into them as he watched Genista and Ruel perform it. Three strides across the sand. Stop. Bow and bring weapons slowly up to ready.

  The lower end of Genista's halberd was weighted to counterbalance the ax head, creating a club very nearly as deadly as the sharp pointy end. Sometimes Fox wondered how she could wield the thing, but she managed, to devastating effect.

  The old man gave the signal and the combatants began a slow, circling advance. You don't have to be flashy, Obed had said. You only have to be good. Was Genista good enough?

  Ruel used a pole weapon too, Fox noted. The young Daryathi seemed reluctant to close, as
if fearful he might injure the woman opposing him. He'd have to get over that right quick or—yes, there she went, spinning past him, smacking him on the backside with the flat of the ax hard enough to stagger him.

  “Come on, boy, fight.” Genista's voice was a purr, not a taunt. “It's only to first blood. A little blood won't hurt either of us. I've been hurt worse. Shall I show you my scars?"

  She made as if to raise the hem of her kilt and Ruel did something—shook his head, perhaps. At this distance, Fox's knowing sense wasn't good with the finer motions, especially when they weren't aimed at him. The young candidate swung his weapon at her, a half-hearted threat, and Genista laughed, swaying out of the way without bothering to move her feet.

  “I know you can do better than that, sweet Ruel.” She circled him, forcing him to turn with her. “I know what you really want, darling Ruel, but you have to prove you deserve it. If you beat me, I'll give it to you freely, no holding back. But first, you have to win."

  If that didn't inspire the lad to fight, nothing would. His questions on the practice field had betrayed a wide romantic streak. Even Fox could tell Ruel wanted to fall in love.

  Finally, the young man attacked in earnest. Genista parried just in time. The weapons flew, spinning in attack and defense, clashing, ringing, scraping along each other in odd squeals of sound. The fighters whirled apart, breathing hard. Ruel gave her only a moment before he charged, spear point out. Genista ducked, swept his feet out from under him, but when she sprang up and spun to end it, he was already standing again.

  They exchanged another flurry of blows. Ruel was younger, stronger, larger. Genista was faster, more expert, had more stamina. The young man already panted, began to falter. And she had him.

  Both of them went utterly still in the arena, the endpoint of Genista's halberd touching the skin of Ruel's neck. Fox held his breath, concentrating hard to see whether this match would end as Obed had said it should. Ruel let go his weapon. Very carefully, he leaned into the point of Genista's halberd until the steel pierced his skin. Fox couldn't sense whether blood flowed down the young man's neck, but he could smell it.

  In the silence, the strangled sound Genista made echoed across the arena. She walked hand over hand up her halberd until she reached her opponent. She let her own weapon fall to the sand as she thrust her fingers into the waist of Ruel's kilt and hauled him hard against her. Stretching onto her toes, she caught the club of hair at the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss so searing, Fox could feel the heat where he stood.

  The grand master shouted, but everyone else stared as Genista ran her tongue up Ruel's neck—licking away the blood, Fox thought, given the way she lingered. Old man Murat was stamping his feet, making the decking boom, and shouting like a maniac. Fox thought he might jump into the arena—strictly forbidden for any but the combatants and the medics standing by on either side in their robes.

  The Adaran competitors began cheering and hooting at Genista's behavior. As Ruel's companions broke out of their shock to harass their comrade, Genista took a step back. Her hand lingered on her defeated opponent's face a moment longer before she bent, picked up her weapon and walked away, hips swaying in that way of women who know they have achieved exactly what they intended.

  “I thought you said I had to beat you to get what I wanted,” Ruel called after her.

  Genista looked back over her shoulder. “I did say it."

  Ruel picked up his weapon. “Then what was that?"

  She paused, one foot on the bottom step, and turned to look at him. “What I wanted, sweet Ruel.” She blew him a kiss and sauntered off to stand beside the non-combatants.

  “Just so you know,” the next Adaran competitor, Sandrey, called out before stepping onto the sand. “I'm not kissing you, no matter who wins."

  The entire arena burst into laughter—save for Grand Master Murat. Fox kept his face turned toward the arena, but focused his attention on Murat. There was something wrong with him, but was it demons? Or was it Murat's own twisted soul Fox saw?

  Fox eased back from the arena's edge. There were six more bouts before his turn. He could wander where he liked within the building. He came to kneel beside Kallista.

  “I do not like this Murat,” he said softer than the clang of metal on metal.

  “Didn't you say you saw no demons?” Kallista never looked away from the arena.

  “I never see demons,” Fox said. “Gweric does that. I see—I know things. It's how I tell one person from another. I can't see what they look like, but I can know ... who they are. What kind of person they are. A demon twists people when it rides them. I usually can't see much twisting until after it leaves them. But some people are just twisted, just wrong. It doesn't take a demon to do it, they get that way on their own."

  Obed and Torchay had drawn close for this whispered conference, joining the rest of the godmarked already listening.

  “Is that what you see in Murat?” Obed asked. “His own evil?"

  “I don't know.” Fox shook his head. “My knowing isn't that delicate. I can tell what—that he's wrong—but I can't tell why."

  A shout went up from the Daryathi champions and Fox turned with everyone else toward the arena, though he didn't need to. Sandrey was looking down at his arm.

  “What is it?” Fox asked.

  “The other got through Sandrey's guard,” Leyja said. “Long scratch up his forearm. He fought well. An instant of bad luck."

  Sandrey lowered his sword and bowed. His opponent dropped his sword and began to stride forward with intent. Sandrey sent his sword spinning into the sand near the Adaran side and yelled as he turned to run. To the accompaniment of much shouting and laughter, the Daryathi champion chased the Adaran bodyguard until he cornered him behind the colonnade and planted a teasing kiss on his mouth. Fox was not the only one convulsed with laughter when Sandrey emerged, swiping his forearm across his mouth and spitting into the sand as he retrieved his sword.

  "Enough," Grand Master Murat bellowed as the Daryathi champion collected his weapon on his way to rejoin his companions. “Will you desecrate the holy purposes of the One with your jokes? This is combat, not play!"

  “Did the One not create laughter?” Kallista stood as she spoke. “And play? The combat was finished. There is no harm."

  Even Fox could sense the white-hot anger boiling off the man. Murat's fists opened and closed as if he wanted to do Kallista injury.

  “Let us continue.” Kallista gestured for the next in line, one of the short-sword men, to step into the arena and begin the next match. But the moment had ended, all sense of play fled.

  The matches continued. Some of them whirled from one side of the arena to the other, both combatants exhausted and slippery with sweat before the finish. Some ended in mere moments. The Adarans lost almost as many as they won, but Fox wasn't worried. Obed had told them it would be thus, and the three iliasti had not yet entered the arena.

  Finally it was Fox's turn. He drew his long sword from its scabbard, found his left-hand dagger, and stepped down onto the sand where his opponent waited. Three steps into the arena. Bow. Raise your weapon slowly to ready. Fox concentrated on his opponent, his eyes focused who-knew-where. It didn't matter since they couldn't see, had nothing to do with his knowing.

  “Athen.” Fox spoke the other man's name, using it to focus.

  “Fox.” The other man lowered his saber. He took a step toward Fox who circled the top of his sword in case this seeming halt to the action was a ruse.

  “This man is blind!” Athen accused. “Aren't you.” It wasn't a question.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Fox slid to the side, daring the dedicat to test him.

  “I can't fight a blind man. Where is the honor in that?"

  “Are you afraid?” Fox taunted. “Your Ruel wasn't afraid to fight our Genista. He learned she knows how to fight. So do I."

  “Knowing how doesn't matter if you can't see where your opponent is or what he is do
ing.” Athen threw down his saber in disgust and started off the arena floor.

  “Pick it up."

  Athen stopped, turned to stare over his shoulder.

  “I said, pick it up, Athen, unless you are afraid.” Fox showed his teeth in a mockery of a smile. Stone had always claimed it a frightening sight. “I do not need to see. I know. I am godmarked, Athen. My lack of faith cost me my sight when I was marked.” Kallista denied it, but Fox believed it was so.

  “My naitan gave me something else with her magic. I did not see you drop your sword, but I know you did."

  Fox advanced, dug his sword into the sand beneath Athen's gently curved weapon and flipped it toward the dedicat. “Pick it up. Try me. Discover what I know. I dare you."

  “You heard it fall,” Athen said, uncertain.

  “Perhaps.” Fox shrugged. “It is magic. I don't know how it works.” He dropped into his ready position again, knees bent, sword and dagger pointing at Athen. "Begin."

  Wary, eyes on Fox as he bent, Athen picked up his sword, wrapped both hands around the hilt and adjusted his stance. Fox didn't wait longer to launch his attack.

  Athen was good, as Obed had said. More than once, Fox got his dagger up to parry just in time. The saber tactics would have given him trouble, save for all the practice against Obed who used the same sword, same skills. The mountain sword gave Fox a thrusting attack as well as fore- and backhand slashing, but Athen had practiced against his weapon as well. This would be one of the long bouts.

  Athen attacked, driving Fox across the arena under relentless blows. Fox allowed Athen to think he was winning, and watched for weakness, for some fault that would give Fox the edge he needed to win. And there it was, the key.

  Thus far in the fight, Fox had used his left-hand dagger strictly for defense, so much that Athen seemed to have forgotten it was a weapon as deadly as the sword in the right hand. Fox stopped retreating, closed, and had to whirl away again to avoid a slash at his torso. A few more attack-parry-advance-retreat exchanges, and the opportunity opened again. Fox engaged the saber with his sword, closed and pricked Athen's sweat-glistened chest with the dagger, just over his heart.