They talked quietly among themselves. Davian was full of questions about the Song of Swords; to his surprise Wirr was able to answer more of them than Taeris. The last two winners of the Song were fighting in this tournament, apparently, though Selbin Hran—the victor from fourteen years ago—was almost forty now.
Caeden seemed fascinated by the entire concept, but, as always, he kept his thoughts mostly to himself. Davian observed him surreptitiously for a while, as he’d tried to do a few times this past week. He liked Caeden, but he knew he had to be careful about his instincts. It was his credulous nature that had landed them in this mess in the first place. He couldn’t just give Caeden the benefit of the doubt—he had to wait until they were safely in Ilin Illan, and their companion’s role in all of this had finally been explained, before trusting him.
Eventually the door to the main chamber opened again, and a much more composed-looking Nihim stepped through. His long black hair was now bound, and the redness around his eyes had all but vanished. He was also tall, Davian realized with a start; he must have been slouching considerably before. He moved with a sure step and confident air that were much more befitting a priest.
“I apologize for the wait,” he said to them in a strong, clear voice. “Even with the medicines at my disposal, this time of year can be a trial.”
“Not your fault,” said Taeris amiably. “Do I need to do the introductions again?”
Nihim chuckled. “No, no. Davian, Caeden, Wirr.” He pointed to each in turn. Then he sighed, giving them a considering look. “So, Taeris, you’ve gathered a small group of friends. I never picked you as the type to enjoy company.” His tone was casual, but there was definitely a question behind it.
Taeris gave him a slight smile. “You’re right about that, but sometimes we don’t have a choice in the matter.” Wirr rolled his eyes at Davian, who grinned.
Nihim just nodded. “I hear there was some trouble down south. Bad stuff, Gifted involved and everything. A man caught helping someone mixed up in that would probably not end up on the good side of the Gil’shar.”
“True. But then, a favor that large would clear a lot of debts, too,” said Taeris.
Nihim smiled at that. “I wouldn’t go that far, but it will be a start.” He clapped Taeris on the back. “So beyond giving you a roof over your heads, what can I do for you?”
“I need to get a message to the king,” said Taeris. “Before he leaves Thrindar.”
“Ah.” Nihim nodded. “Of course. Safe passage across the border. A good thought, I’ll give you that.” He shrugged apologetically. “One problem. The king isn’t here.”
Taeris’s smile slipped. “What?”
“There’s still a delegation,” Nihim rushed to assure him, “but it’s led by the princess.”
Taeris frowned. “Karaliene is being given duties of state? She’s just a girl!”
“She’s eighteen, Taeris,” said Nihim with a grin. “She’s old enough to have suitors trailing after her like a pack of wolves.”
Taeris shook his head. “Eighteen,” he muttered to himself. “Time has flown. Still, I would not have thought King Andras comfortable enough to send her to Desriel. Not in these times.”
Nihim shrugged. “From what I hear, one of the tournament favorites is a close friend of hers. She wanted to come.”
“Regardless.” Taeris turned back to Nihim. “Karaliene may not understand the message, but she will surely have an entourage of Gifted who are old enough. If you can give them this”—he pressed something into Nihim’s palm—“and arrange passage for us into the stadium to meet them, that will be more than enough.”
Nihim inspected the small metal token in his palm. It was a simple design, like a coin, but steel and with three triangles punched from the middle. “What is it?”
“A symbol from the Unseen War—a request for sanctuary. Any Gifted who lived in Andarra through those times will know what it means.” He pointed to the triangular holes. “One triangle meant the person asking was in no danger. Two meant they were in some danger, but not immediate.” He shrugged. “Three meant that if sanctuary wasn’t granted, the Gifted was most likely going to be captured and killed.”
Nihim nodded. “I think you are probably right to use the three triangles, then,” he mused.
“As it is, it’s the only one I have left.”
Nihim inspected it for a few more seconds, then gave a sharp nod, slipping the token into his pocket. “Very well.” He glanced at the boys, then back to Taeris. “I would have a word in private first, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Taeris inclined his head, looking unsurprised by the request. He turned to the boys. “Wait here,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
He followed Nihim out the door. Davian, Wirr, and Caeden exchanged curious glances, but none made any move to follow.
“So who do you think he is?” asked Wirr as soon as the door had closed.
Davian shrugged. “He knows we’re Gifted, and isn’t trying to kill us. That’s good enough for me.” Caeden nodded his agreement.
Wirr was having none of it. “He’s a Desrielite priest—or posing as one, anyway. Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He leaned forward. “My guess is that he’s one of Tol Athian’s spies. An informer.”
Caeden gazed at the closed door. “Dangerous job if he is.”
“More so, now we know he’s a friend to the Gifted,” observed Wirr. “Even if he’s not a spy, this is a significant risk he’s taking. He must owe Taeris for something big, to not have turned us away.”
“Maybe that’s what they’re talking about,” said Davian.
Wirr cast a longing look toward the door, and for a second Davian thought he meant to follow the two men. Then he sighed. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously nothing they want us to overhear.”
After that there was only the occasional wisp of conversation as they waited; mostly Davian and Wirr talked, though occasionally Caeden would contribute a word or two as well. The young man rarely spoke more than that at one time—he’d sometimes ask about things he’d either forgotten or never known about, but mostly he just listened, apparently fascinated by what others were saying.
For all that, when Caeden did talk he had a friendly if shy manner, and was unfailingly polite. Not for the first time, Davian found himself convinced that—if nothing else—the Gil’shar’s charges against him had to be false.
A half hour had passed by the time Taeris returned.
“Nihim is taking the message to the Great Stadium,” the scarred man said in answer to the boys’ questioning looks. “If he is successful, we should be escorted there within a couple of hours.”
Davian nodded, allowing himself a glimmer of hope at the news. He flashed a tight smile at Wirr, but his friend was staring concernedly into space and didn’t respond, looking more upset than relieved at the news.
“Everything all right?” asked Davian, giving his friend a gentle nudge with his elbow.
Wirr blinked, then shook his head as if to clear it. “As right as it can be, given the circumstances,” he said with a shrug. He still looked uncomfortable, though.
“Wishing you hadn’t come with me?” asked Davian.
“Fates, yes,” said Wirr with a grin. “But you wouldn’t have made it a day without me, so maybe it was worth it.”
Davian gave a half smile, half grimace back; the words were said in jest, but a pang of guilt stabbed at him anyway. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” he said softly, so only his friend could hear.
Wirr shook his head. “You’ve been apologizing all week, Dav. You don’t need to any more,” he said, his tone firm. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. And anyway—if what Taeris tells us is even close to true, some good may yet come of all this. If we can get Caeden to the Tol, find out whether there really is something dangerous going on with the Boundary, it will all have been worth it.”
Davian paused, then inclined his head. “Thanks.”
“How do you know Nihim?” Davian asked Taeris. “He didn’t seem too concerned about having four of the Gifted in his temple.”
Taeris paused in what he was doing. “He’s an old friend. Someone we can trust.” He gave Davian a hard look. “More than that is not my place to say.” There was an air of finality to the statement, a tone that brooked no argument. Davian accepted it with a reluctant nod.
Some time later the door opened and Nihim stepped through, trailed by two uneasy-looking Desrielite soldiers. For a panicked moment Davian thought they had been betrayed, but Taeris rose smoothly from his seat, calm as he gestured for the boys to do the same. Trying to look composed, Davian stood.
“Children of Marut Jha,” said Nihim grandly. “These soldiers have been ordered to take you directly to the Great Stadium for your audience with Princess Karaliene Andras.” He paused, and though his expression was serious, Davian thought he saw laughter in the priest’s eyes. “If they do not carry out this duty swiftly and faithfully, you will let me know.”
Taeris bowed. “For the glory of the Last God.”
“For His glory alone,” responded Nihim.
They followed the soldiers from the temple, with no further good-byes uttered to or by Nihim. Soon they were back within sight of the Great Stadium, the massive walls towering above them. The crowds outside had thinned somewhat; the gates had been shut, and Davian thought he could see more than one disappointed face among the crowd. The stadium must be at capacity.
For a moment he wondered if they would be allowed entry, but as soon as the soldiers at the entrance saw them, they were opening the steel gates a crack and ushering them through.
The stone passageway in the underbelly of the stadium was pleasantly cool compared to the outside. Davian barely had time to marvel at the intricate stone friezes set into the walls before they were ascending a set of winding stairs; at the top a pair of burly guards waved them through into another long passageway, with a narrow window cut out of the side overlooking the arena itself.
Davian couldn’t help but gape a little as they walked along. Thousands upon thousands of people were packed into the stands; it was a writhing sea of color such as he had never seen before, could not have imagined. There was the low rumble of countless excited voices in the air, and the atmosphere itself felt alive, buzzing with anticipation.
Finally their escorts reached another set of guarded doors, these ones closed. There was a quick discussion between the two pairs of soldiers, and then they were being guided into a side room, isolated from the crowd and completely empty. A small window gave them a view of the arena, but only when they stood right up to it.
“You will wait here until after the final bout,” said one of the soldiers. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. He evidently didn’t want this delay getting back to Nihim.
Taeris frowned, looking displeased, but he obviously decided it was not worth risking closer examination by forcing the issue. “Very well.” There was a pause, and then Taeris added, “You may leave us.”
The soldiers, clearly relieved there would be no reprisal for the delay, fled gladly.
Wirr glanced at the window. “While we’re here…”
Davian was already moving. “Agreed.”
Taeris and Caeden soon joined them, and the four stood in a line along the elongated, paneless window, leaning forward against the ledge it provided. In the center of the arena were two men. One stood relaxed, casual as he sauntered around in small circles, swinging his blade through the air to test its weight and balance. He was slim, lithe, and looked much the same age as Davian.
His opposition was a giant of a man. Muscle rippled along his arms with every movement, and in his hand his sword looked more like a rapier than the broadsword it actually was. His face was crisscrossed with scars; it was difficult to tell, but he looked older, possibly in his early forties. He stood stock-still, staring at the other man as if watching his prey.
“They’re not wearing armor,” Davian noted in surprise. Both men wore simple pants and loose-fitting shirts that were open at the front; there was no protection to speak of. Their swords glinted in the afternoon light.
“The edges of the swords are blunted,” explained Wirr.
“Surely that’s still dangerous?” asked Davian.
“It is a sword fight,” noted Wirr.
“It’s very rare anyone gets killed,” interjected Taeris. “Broken bones are usually the worst of it.”
There was silence as they watched for a few more seconds. The beginning of an announcement had caused the crowd outside to hush, though the voice was too muffled from their position to understand it.
Wirr squinted at two large banners draped from a far balcony, evidently representing the two finalists. “I think one is an Andarran. I recognize the sigil… Shainwiere. I think.”
“Which one?” asked Davian.
Wirr studied the two men in the arena. “The younger,” he said eventually. “Lord Shainwiere would be too old to be here, and I doubt he’d have the skill anyway. It must be his son.”
A trumpet sounded, signaling the beginning of the fight. The crowd roared as the combatants began circling each other warily, each feinting occasionally with his feet but otherwise simply sizing up his opponent.
“Our man’s a bit smaller than the other one, then,” observed Davian drily.
Wirr shrugged. “Strength is important, but it’s usually the quicker, smarter man that wins.”
The two men were still circling, but suddenly Shainwiere flew into action. He launched himself forward in a blur of movement; his sword flashed again and again as the other man blocked blow after blow, moving quickly backward as the younger man threatened to come in under his guard. When the swords touched there were sparks of light, and the large man’s eyes were wide as he desperately tried to follow the arc of Shainwiere’s blade. Some in the crowd leaped to their feet, and a rousing cheer echoed thunderously around the stadium.
Shainwiere had broken off the attack; Davian could tell even from this distance that both men were breathing heavily. The larger man did not wait long before responding, though. He came forward in a rush, swinging his enormous sword as if it were light as a feather.
It was Shainwiere’s turn to move backward, though when he retreated he did so smoothly, catlike, as if it had been his intention to do so all along. Despite the blaze of sparks he appeared to be blocking his opponent’s blows almost lazily at times, though Davian had no doubt that it was taking every ounce of his strength and concentration to do so.
Without warning, Shainwiere stopped retreating and dove forward, evidently picking up on some flaw in the other man’s footwork. Even from this distance Davian could see the surprise in the big man’s eyes as Shainwiere’s sword slashed across both his legs; Shainwiere rolled and came to his feet behind the massive man, watching as he slumped to his knees, mouth open in a bellow of pain that was lost beneath the roar of the crowd.
For a second Davian thought the fight was over, but the big man forced himself to his feet and began circling again, his smooth motion showing no sign of his injury.
Swords clashed again and again; minutes passed as the two combatants fought. With each engagement the crowd roared louder, with more fervor, and before long Davian realized that the cheers were heavily favoring the larger man.
“They don’t want an Andarran to win,” murmured Taeris to no one in particular, as if reading his thoughts. “The Song’s not supposed to be about politics, but there’s a lot of bad blood between the two countries right now. It would be a slap in the face to Desriel if Shainwiere got the victory here.”
As he spoke, there appeared to be a slight shift in the battle. The muscular man pressed forward at a furious pace; rather than
breaking off as he had done previously, he kept up the offensive, his sword a blur as Shainwiere backed away desperately. Just as it seemed he could attack no more, the man gave one last, heavy blow, the force of it knocking Shainwiere’s sword from his grip and sending it sailing out of reach. The younger man’s shoulders sagged, but he clenched his fist and held it over his heart, a sign of both surrender and respect. The crowd screamed its approval, and then it was over.
Davian looked at Wirr with a disappointed expression, but his friend seemed relieved, as did Taeris. Caeden just looked thoughtful.
“Good,” Taeris muttered to himself, turning away from the window. “Time to get out of this place.”
If he had been expecting an immediate audience, though, he was to be disappointed. It was at least another hour, well after the presentation to the winner had been completed, before the door to the hallway outside finally opened again.
Taeris groaned under his breath as a tall, thin man in a red cloak swept into the room. “He’s from Tol Shen. This may be more difficult than I first thought,” he muttered to Davian.
The Elder stopped when he saw Taeris, staring hard into his scarred face for several seconds. Then he gave a sneering laugh. “Taeris Sarr,” he said with a smile that held a complete lack of warmth. “I almost didn’t recognize you. So you’re still alive. I always thought we got rid of you a little too easily.” He examined Taeris disdainfully. “What happened to your face?”
Taeris stiffened, but ignored the insult. “Administration was… not kind, before I escaped,” he said quietly. “We’ve had our differences, Dras, but I hope we can look past them today. I need your aid. We have nowhere else to turn.”
Davian watched Taeris silently. None of them had asked their companion how he had come by his myriad scars, but Davian had wondered—and now he knew. Another on the list of sacrifices Taeris had made for him.
Dras sighed. “I’ve already distracted a Gil’shar escort and Karaliene’s two Administrators just to come and see you. I’m not sure what more I want to do for a criminal like yourself.”
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 21
