Terrill shook out his arms. Spear shouldered, he backed up for his second throw, ran, danced sideways, and heaved it with such force that his body flew forward. He landed on the ground and arched up as the tip smacked into the target’s red eye.
Nallea hopped with excitement. “I won. I mean he won. Well, he hasn’t won yet, but he advanced to the next round, which means I won!”
Raze laughed and handed over his chit, which she tucked proudly into her purse.
~
Raze and Nallea chatted through the balance of the event after Terrill’s first spear missed, and the last aimed true but sagged from the target’s knee and dropped to the dirt.
During the lull between events, Benjmur ordered wooden skewers of heavily spiced Ezarine lamb. Raze’s mouth burned and sweat steamed from his pores. Nallea dared one bite and declared herself on fire. Slaves hurried over with sweet wafers and goblets of water. They fanned her scarlet face until she sent them off, embarrassed by the attention. “How can anyone eat that?”
Her father dabbed a cloth to his lips and smiled. “Practice. One does become accustomed to it after a time.”
“I can’t imagine.” She selected a plate of familiar fruits and retook her seat. “What’s next?”
“Swordplay,” Raze replied. Events with dull-edged practice swords would last the week, broken into a dozen categories including one-handed and two-handed weapons, sword and buckler, sword and dagger, sabers, and a host of other specialty blades, in addition to styles of fighting from lands to the west and south. “Today is a straightforward qualifier for single-handed blades. If Azalus and Terrill survive three quick pairings, they’ll qualify for the competition tomorrow.”
“Azalus’s event,” she murmured. “He said he won’t do well even if he qualifies.”
“Why would he say that? Terrill’s trained him for years.”
“It’s not about training. He’s skilled, but he said most of the competitors have fought in real battles with their lives at stake. They have less restraint.”
“I expect that’s true.” Raze sat with the insight—that both he and his brother had been crippled by the constraints of gentle society, unprepared for battle against a deadly foe.
As far as he knew, only once had Azalus fought for survival, and they’d spared Nallea the details since it occurred on her wedding day. After their father’s failed assassination, Azalus had led the party that tracked down Sajem’s slavers, and he’d slain a woman in the following skirmish. If he shouldered regrets, Raze didn’t share them. They’d saved Bel that day.
As predicted, his brother failed to qualify. His foe in his second pairing handled a sword like a sledgehammer, and if it had been a real fight, Nallea would have witnessed her husband’s body cleaved in two. Terrill survived his bouts and would pick up the blade again in the morning.
The two sweaty competitors showed up in the pavilion during a break in the events, the arena transitioning to the afternoon’s challenges. They had surrendered their formal attire for the scanty garb of athletes and still appeared to melt. Terrill wobbled as he walked, loose on his legs from his earlier efforts.
Azalus dropped into a seat with a grimace and rubbed his bruised shoulder. “Why did I agree to this?”
“You need to get on a horse before the day is over,” Raze reminded him.
“I don’t think I can hold on.” Azalus’s face twisted at the absurdity.
Nallea offered him a goblet of water and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “You’re under no obligation to compete. This isn’t why we came.”
“Of course he has to compete!” Terrill sank into a chair. “Kestrel’s honor is at stake.”
“Kestrel’s honor is better off without me.” Azalus grinned at Terrill and yawned.
Benjmur leaned toward him. “A warrior’s soul would address your weaknesses with the sword.”
“There’s no weakness, Father.” Nallea scowled and sipped her water.
“Ai, of course.” Benjmur patted her knee. “Forgive me. I merely suggest that enhancing one’s natural skills and aptitude is worth considering. Laddon swallowed a warrior’s soul, and it saved his and Athren’s lives when they met slavers on their travels to Avanoe. I’d be pleased to conduct the research and select one for you.”
“Nae,” Raze spoke for his brother. “There are too many lives ruined by swallowing souls.”
Azalus bobbed his eyebrows. “I suppose if I had a say…” He looked from one to the other.
“Nae, don’t consider it.” Raze met his eyes. “Swallowing a soul is a lifelong choice, and there’s no cure for a mistake. Don’t forget Sajem, or the woman near my freehold.” He softened his voice. “Even Lady Athren. They’re all… ill from too many souls.”
“I won’t argue with your observation.” Benjmur picked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “But one more is hardly ‘too many.’ The Temple monks enjoy an excellent reputation when it comes to recommending souls.”
Raze clamped his mouth shut, or his ill manners would have belabored the point. If Benjmur had chosen carefully and the monks were adept at selecting souls, what befell the lord’s wife?
“A discussion for another time,” Nallea said, closing the topic.
Raze rested back in his chair, eyes wandering over the crowds. “We might think about our reply to…”
Something flickered in the corner of his eye. A voice in the crowd yelled. Others joined in. Raze stood up as the shouts transformed into screams. Every face in the stands swiveled in one direction, eyes gazing up at the royal pavilion. Ezalion Tegir, Empress of Ezar, slumped in her chair, lips rouged with blood, an arrow feathering her chest. Danzell knelt beside her, and Kyzan stood at the tier’s edge, shouting furious commands. His hand rose and pointed Raze’s way.
~13~
Terrill grabbed Azalus’s arm. “We have to run. Now!”
“Why?” Nallea’s eyes darted between them, the word a breathless gasp. “Why?”
Raze glanced over his shoulder. Armored soldiers bulled between the benches and scaled the stairs. The whole arena of spectators juddered awake like a tentacled beast, its arms undulating and retracting toward the field. A stray mob climbed against the flow, eager to join the soldiers in pursuit of the assassins.
“Now!” Terrill shouted.
“Benjmur, your surcoat.” Raze tore off his emerald silk with its Kestrel wings. Benjmur stared at him in shock as if his garnet attire were attached to his skin. Azalus grabbed his wife’s hand, yanking her toward the pavilion’s rear and the narrow aisleway jammed with servants and slaves.
“My father?” she called in a panic.
“He’s behind you.” Raze pulled Benjmur from the tent, the man still clad in red. Havoc erupted the length of the walkway as spectators poured from the upper stands.
Benjmur resisted the handling, shaking Raze from his sleeve. “Surely we aren’t suspected.”
“I disagree, my lord.” Raze tracked his brother, afraid of losing him in the swarm of dark heads. At the lead, Terrill carved through the throng. Azalus pressed behind him with a tight grip on Nallea’s hand.
“But that’s absurd. Kyzan wouldn’t—”
“You’re welcome to stay, my lord, but you’ll do so alone.” No time for delay, Raze wormed through the crowd after his brother. Benjmur would keep up or be left behind.
The chaos swelled. Raze’s heart sped up as each step fought the tide of bodies. Ahead, a dense wall of frightened men and women clogged the way down, and those desperate to flee began to shove. People screamed as they fell. Far below soldiers plowed upward, thrusting aside anyone blocking their paths. Panic flooded the air. Terrill halted, powerless to break through. They were trapped in a cage of bodies as impenetrable as iron bars.
“This way!” Terrill pushed through a cluster of servants and darted through a gap into a rear-facing stairwell. Raze leapt down the steps after Azalus and Nallea. A glance back placed Benjmur on his heels. Others followed in a rushing stream like water throu
gh a broken dam. The descent spilled them into a vaulted space beneath the upper tiers of seats. “We’re going around before we go down,” Terrill called back, drawing his sword.
Vendors, servants, and slaves scurried out of his path. Others stood fast, guarding their wares. Braziers coughed plumes of scented smoke, and barrels of wine and ale stood in four-high stacks. Frantic people forced lanes between crates of food piled next to cages of live chickens. Routine tasks that supported the week’s events stuttered as more spectators flooded into the wide corridor, the fevered chaos of the stands spreading like a virus.
“Fleeing makes us appear guilty,” Benjmur warned as they hurried between other hustling bodies.
“Our guilt was decided before we left the Vales,” Raze said without the slightest doubt. He hadn’t misinterpreted Kyzan’s accusatory finger.
Terrill stuck to the interior wall in a half-lope. After a quarter turn around the arena, he broke into the stands again, the crowd thinner and the gate to the city within reach. He abandoned the descending steps to bound from one row of stone benches to the next.
“Soldiers to our right!” Raze called the alarm, his brief swell of hope dashed. Four men and women in lacquered breastplates climbed the tiered seats, swords drawn.
“Keep running,” Terrill ordered, and he halted. “Get Azalus home. I’ll hold them off and duck into the crowd. I’ll find you when I find you.” He waved Azalus and Nallea past him into the denser crowd. Benjmur followed after his daughter, swept into the deluge of people pressing for the arena floor and safety of the city.
“Terrill, come with us,” Raze begged.
“Go!” Terrill commanded. “I can do this.”
“Nae. Not alone. Not against four.” Fear tightened its grip on Raze’s chest. He doubted he’d survive a fight, but he couldn’t abandon his friend.
“Go!” Terrill yelled. “You can’t… you haven’t the skills. I’ll find you.”
“Terrill—”
“Run!”
Raze backed up, spun, and bounded down the stands into the crowd. He lacked the skills. He’d be a burden, a distraction who would get in the way and jeopardize them both. Swords clashed behind him. He pressed into the mass of jostling bodies and merged into the current that pushed toward the exit, his gaze returning to the stands even as he fled.
Terrill fought two-handed, backing up the benches, his opponents pressing from the steps below. Two soldiers split off and charged up and around him, aiming to box him in. Terrill saw it but hadn’t any means to counter the strategy. His only path out of the trap rested on his skill with a sword. Raze held his breath as Terrill’s steel clashed, thwarting a swipe at his thigh.
The startled crowd in the area scrambled back, some fleeing, others craning to watch. Soldiers streamed across the stands. Terrill kicked. His heel connected with a chin and tumbled a man down to the lower bench. An armored woman jumped in, blade slashing Terrill’s ribs. Off balance, he swung, hitting her with a flat edge before she ducked, her light steel sneaking a slice at his calf. Half-bent, he lunged, sword reaching past her exposed neck and ripping back, opening a fatal gash.
Blood arced into the sky and gushed over her armor. The spectators screamed as if the fight had, at that moment, transformed from reckless entertainment into true battle. Raze winced at the gore. His friend glanced at the approaching soldiers and the mass of people exiting the arena, as though judging whether he still had a viable route to flee. “Ai, run!” Raze shouted the words though too far away for Terrill to hear. The arch to the city streets loomed, escape only paces away, and yet Raze sidled out of the human flow, unable to leave his friend behind.
As if he’d heard the order, Terrill broke free and leapt awkwardly down the benches, his bloodied leg hampering his progress. The soldiers bellowed and charged after him. Raze pushed against the crowd, backtracking toward the stands to aide in his friend’s escape.
Six guards sprinted across the arena floor, swords brandished. Terrill limped along the bench’s arc toward Raze, caught sight of him, and grinned. A flicker of light glinted on steel. An Ezari in commoner’s clothes grabbed Terrill’s sleeve as he passed, and the knife in his hand burrowed into flesh. Terrill twisted and pushed away, his sword raised, brow furrowed in confusion. Spinning again, he faced the two soldiers descending from the stands. He dropped to a knee, hand over his wound.
Raze backed up, eyes seeking his brother in the crowd. When he looked again, Terrill hadn’t budged. He knelt, bent over a stone bench, trying to regain his feet, his head hung, blood leaking over his hand. An Ezari soldier heaved his blade, shouted an order, and as Terrill raised his eyes, the man chopped off his head.
~
Through the arch, the city of Tegir rose into a mountain of unforgiving stone. Its beauty turned hostile in the glaring sun, spires and minarets malformed into golden blades stabbing at the sky. Raze pulled up his cowl, hiding his face, emotion blistering his eyes. The vision playing across his mind both terrified and numbed him, the conflicting feelings spinning and alternating as they took the lead. His legs wobbled, bones like rope, stomach a roiling swill. Bile burned the back of his throat, and he swallowed.
“Raze!”
He combed the thinning crowd for his brother and found him across the plaza in the shade of an alleyway. Azalus mouthed Terrill’s name, and when Raze shook his head, his brother sagged against the wall. Legs scarcely holding him upright, Raze filled his chest with a draught of air and tamed his shaking. He strolled across the pavers with a feigned air of indifference and slipped into the shadow.
“Where’s Terrill?” Nallea asked.
“Dead,” he whispered, the air so hot and thick he struggled to breathe.
Her lip trembled. “Nae. Are you sure? We should go back. We’ll explain—”
“He’s dead, Nallea.” Raze stifled the emotion rising with his gorge and pivoted away from the glint of tears in his brother’s eyes. They hadn’t time to grieve. “We have to get away from here.”
“I know a place,” Benjmur said and led the way into the streets, staying with the heavier stream of people. Nallea and Azalus hung on his heels, though he wasn’t difficult to follow, his red surcoat announcing his presence like a banner.
Raze wandered a distance behind, eyes watchful. He needed the separation, mistrustful of Benjmur, of the Ezari, of his own judgment. Death unearthed old hurts, and his beliefs about his power to safeguard those he loved unraveled like threadbare cloth. In the space of a breath, Terrill was gone, his future vanished. And what would become of his soul?
Benjmur skirted the main roads and veered east toward the lanes bordering the sea. The trajectory seemed wise, and if they could book passage on a galley before any search hit the piers, they’d best do it.
The silent procession through Tegir unfolded like a vigil, none of them inclined to speak. Even Nallea’s tears fell without a sound, and when Benjmur stopped before a weathered inn, his voice broke into the quiet shell that kept the realities of their situation at bay.
“Nallea and I will go ahead and purchase fare. We’ll return for you as soon as we’ve secured a ship. I’d suggest renting a room and staying out of sight.”
“I’m staying with Azalus.” Nallea wiped her eyes and clutched her husband’s hand.
“Why don’t we all go?” Raze said. “If we find a ship, we’re off without delay.”
Benjmur sighed. “Because soldiers will patrol the harbor. I’m less worried about myself or Nallea, but we know without question that Kyzan’s guards are seeking you.”
“Why would he seek us and not you?” Azalus asked. “Why assume we murdered the Empress in the first place?”
“I’ve no answer to your questions,” Benjmur replied, “but you made your opinion clear before the Empress and her siblings that you’re displeased with Ezari rule. You are convenient targets.” The explanation made little sense to Raze, but it hardly mattered. Benjmur edged them toward the inn’s door. “Every moment we delay, we reduce o
ur chance of escape. Nallea.” He reached for her hand.
She refused, unflinching by Azalus’s side. “I’ll wait here. Hurry back.”
Benjmur clenched his jaw and headed toward the harbor. Raze angled a glance at his brother. They pushed through the inn’s door into a cramped entry, and Raze squinted into the smoky haze, a stark contrast to the afternoon’s white sunlight. Pegs for cloaks lined the wall, and a staircase rose to the second floor, the treads worn from hundreds of boots. More tavern than inn, the taproom lay at the end of a short hallway.
“I don’t like this.” Raze said. “I’m not convinced we should stay.”
“We have to.” Nallea stood against the wall, out of sight of the patrons and barkeep. “My father will return with our fares. We have to wait.”
At Azalus’s uneasy nod, Raze entered the murky taproom. Several pipes puffed like chimneys, the aroma of oily leaves not quite smothering the stench of unwashed bodies. He placed a silver chit on the sticky bar unsure if it would peel off. “I need a room.”
“How long?” The barkeep frowned at the silver.
“One night.”
“We’re full.” He smeared the counter with a dirty rag.
Raze pressed another silver chit beside the first.
The man pried them up with a fingernail. “One night. You want hot water, something besides a bed, you pay. Top of the stairs on the left.”
“Privacy,” Raze said.
The barkeep chuckled. “That you get for free.”
Raze strode back to the entry. The inn’s front latch clicked, and he eyed his brother. The door swung open. Johzar stood in the portal, silhouetted against the blue sky. Raze tensed, and Azalus reached for his knife as the slaver raised a hand, unarmed. “You need to follow me. Now.”
“We’re not following you anywhere,” Azalus said.
“You will, or you’re dead.”
Legacy of Souls (The Shattered Sea Book 2) Page 8
