by Giles Carwyn
Brophy clenched his teeth in silence.
“He’s got good height and weight for his age. He’s strong. I’ll give him that. And Ohndariens are usually fleet of foot with all that senseless wall running. But, in the end, the thickness of a man’s blood is what makes him a champion. I’ve seen some of the fastest boys bleed thin and quit early. No way to know how hard a man’s heart pumps until you cut him a few times.” Vakko looked Brophy up and down. The scarred veteran put his fists on his hips. “Your boy knows how to hate.” He conceded. “Slow and hot. I’ll give him that. But one month? No. Give me six, and he’ll be ready,” he said, then added, “If he can keep his mouth shut. I can’t stand braggarts.”
“I don’t care about this barbaric game!” Brophy exploded. He turned to Ossamyr. “And I wouldn’t listen to that man if I did. He has nothing to teach me that I don’t already know.”
Vakko’s huge chest swelled, and he glared at Brophy.
Ossamyr smiled, cold and imperious.
“You think you can defeat Vakko?” she asked.
Brophy looked at the massive veteran. For a moment, he regretted his rash words, but he wasn’t about to back down.
“I know I can.”
“I’d like to see that,” she murmured.
“One-on-one? Or is he going to cheat again?” Brophy asked, flicking a gaze at Vakko. The man chuckled.
“One-on-one,” Ossamyr said. She glanced at Vakko.
“Shall I tie one hand behind my back?” he growled.
“I think not. If you are to teach him, he must learn.” She took a few steps back, standing in front of her two guards. “To first blood then.”
Vakko grinned, showing stained teeth.
Brophy’s heart thundered in his chest, but he strove to calm himself. Fear had no place in battle.
Two students brought Vakko and Brophy real spears. Brophy spun his weapon in hand, testing the balance. He shifted it from one hand to the other and inspected the tip. They were broad-headed weapons, like boar spears, except they were only sharp for the first inch. A thick ring was forged behind the tip to prevent the weapon from penetrating farther. They were designed to wound, not kill, but with enough force it wouldn’t matter.
The arena fell silent. The other students and trainers slowly gathered around to watch.
The two men squared off and circled. Brophy kept his feet pointed forward and was pleased to note that Vakko did the same. The older man threw a pair of quick strikes, and Brophy lulled him with awkward deflections. After a few passes, he had the man’s mettle, but Brophy had been trained to be cautious. He circled and flicked his spear out a few more times to be sure.
Vakko’s left leg was weaker than his right, it made him slow to retreat.
The Nine Squares teacher launched another strike and Brophy made his move. He deflected the attack with his shield, feinting a short strike at his opponent’s shin. Vakko’s shield went low, and Brophy’s true strike went high, catching the trainer on the shoulder. His hit was pinpoint accurate. He punctured the skin, but went no deeper. A spurt of blood flecked Brophy’s spearhead and he drew back. Vakko would have another scar, but it would heal in a week.
A trickle of blood ran down the trainer’s naked chest. Vakko stared at his arm. The crowd of students hooted in approval.
“Your shield is slower than your wits,” one of them shouted.
“Should have stayed on the balls of your feet,” another called out.
The older man stared at Brophy, his face red. He roared and charged.
Vakko jabbed his spear high and low, making vicious strikes for the shins, for the eyes, for anything he could get.
Brophy blocked the spear again and again, spinning his shield and shifting his feet. The futile clangs echoed through the arena. Vakko began to shout, his face red as he pursued. Brophy backed up, slowly giving ground and wearing the other man down. He saw several opportunities to counterattack, but he had lost his stomach for this fight. He’d already made his point.
With a final roar, Vakko threw his spear and shield away. Brophy lowered his weapons, but didn’t let them go. Vakko turned and stalked from the arena, knocking aside an unfortunate boy who got in his way.
“Should have tied an arm behind your back,” one of the boys called after him.
The students continued throwing hoots and catcalls at the trainer’s back. Ossamyr remained quiet, but her eyes twinkled as though she and Brophy shared an intimate secret.
Brophy felt ill. He stared after Vakko for a long moment, then took off his shield. He went to the wooden rack and carefully put away the weapons.
“I see a champion in you, Brophy, just waiting to get out,” the queen said, when he walked back to her.
The rest of the students and trainers slowly drifted back to their workouts.
“I’m done with this. Fighting isn’t a game.” He looked off the way Vakko had gone.
The queen pursed her lips. “Come,” she said. “High Sun is nearly upon us. It’s time for you to return to your room.”
BROPHY SLEPT lightly that night and awoke when he heard a shuffled step. He opened his eyes, but didn’t move at first. Someone was in his room. Moonlight shone through the chimney overhead, reflecting off the metal panes and giving the room a ghostly glow. Slowly, so as not to move the bed, he looked toward the sound. A fully cloaked and hooded figure stood in front of the desk.
Ossamyr pushed back the white cowl. She remained where she was, and they watched each other in the half-light.
“Have you been reconsidering your decision?” she asked softly.
“No,” he lied. He jumped lightly from the bed, stopped its swing with his hand. The chains clinked lightly.
Ossamyr’s eyes were depthless in the scant moonlight. Her white cloak shone like a pearl.
“I told my husband that Scythe recruited you to be my new Champion. He will only tolerate your presence as long as you make me—and therefore him—look good.”
“He will kill me if I don’t fight?”
“You are an indulgence he is allowing me for the time being. That is all I can say.”
“How does Scythe know the king? Is he a spy?”
“Yes. Although I assume he spies on us as much as for us.”
“You don’t trust the man?”
“Of course not.”
“Neither do I.”
“You realize that Scythe asked me to throw you into Nine Squares.”
“I guessed as much. Does he expect me to become ruthless like him? Is that why?”
“I didn’t ask. I owed him a favor, and I will honor his request.”
“Why? What is a Kherish cutthroat to you?”
Ossamyr’s eyes narrowed, and Brophy knew he’d crossed the line.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said.
“No,” she said, thoughtful. “I will answer your question. Scythe gave me advice once, when I desperately needed it.”
“That’s all, advice?”
“And he carried my favor in the arena.”
“Scythe fought in Nine Squares?”
“Yes.”
“Was he any good?”
“Better than most. His success brought me a certain prominence in Phandir’s court. I took that small bit of attention and parlayed it into a marriage proposal.”
“Parlayed? You mean fell in love?”
She laughed. “Of course, yes. That is what I mean. I fell in love with the King of Physendria. He swept me away, and we have lived happily ever since. Isn’t that the way the story goes?”
Brophy frowned. “I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to presume.”
Ossamyr paused, and they watched one another for a long moment. Finally, she reached up to brush a lock of his blond hair out of his face. “Oh, to see the world with innocent eyes.”
Brophy turned away. “What advice did Scythe give you?”
The queen walked to the bed and sat down. She scooted to the center of the platform and crossed her legs.
Her shimmering white robe cascaded over her knees, pooling onto the bed. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded different, younger and softer than before.
“I was not born into the best of families. My father picked the wrong business partners and lost a great deal of money. He owed the king more than he could pay, and my mother, siblings, and I were in danger of being sold as slaves.”
Brophy knelt with his elbows on the edge of the bed, staring up at her.
“When I came of age, my family sold the last of our assets to buy the clothes and jewelry that would make me presentable at court. A successful marriage was the only chance my family had. I failed. I was a shy and bitter child and squandered my chances in sullen silence.”
The queen’s voice quavered once, but other than that she betrayed no emotion.
“I received a second chance when a small man from Kherif asked to carry my favor in Nine Squares. I had been sponsoring my oldest brother, but he was a timid boy, never anything more than a Beetle. Scythe’s success brought me invitations to royal functions, and I put his good advice to use.”
“What did he say?” Brophy asked.
“He told me to crawl, he told me to kill, he told me to fuck, to lie, to cheat, to steal. He told me to do whatever I had to do to make my way in this world.” Ossamyr clenched her jaw and turned her face away. Her thin hands curled into fists. Brophy put his hand on her knee. She looked down, then covered his hand with her slender fingers.
“It worked,” she said. “I did everything he told me. I worked my way into the king’s bed. I saved my family. And now I am a queen, ruler of all that I see.”
Brophy climbed onto the swinging platform. She took his hand.
“You are the first person I ever told that to,” she said in a quiet voice. “I don’t usually say such things.” She stopped, shook her head. Her black hair fell across her cheeks. “Even a queen can dream.” Slowly, her dark eyes found his. She undid the golden phoenix clasp at her throat. The gossamer cloak slipped off one shoulder. She was naked underneath.
Brophy opened his mouth, then shut it.
“Do you understand?” she whispered.
“I…” Brophy swallowed.
“Will you make me say it?” she whispered. “Am I not flesh and blood?”
With a shaky hand, he touched her cheek. She pulled him forward. He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, slid her legs around his waist.
“Fill me with fire again,” she breathed. “I am so cold…”
7
WHEN THE LIGHT of morning reflected through the underground room, Ossamyr was gone. Brophy drew a deep breath and rolled to one side. The feather blanket rustled, and the chains of his bed creaked. He closed his eyes again. Of course she was gone. She could not stay. She was the queen.
The queen…
He remembered the thrill he felt as her tanned arms slid around him, her skin warm against his chest. He could taste the salt from her sweat. The faint, mesmerizing scent of her lingered. Her breath smelled of mint and something else he could not place.
This was what Shara did. By the Seasons, no wonder Zelani were so highly prized if they could harness that incredible feeling and use it.
Brophy lay back on the bed and relived the moments in his mind. He saw Ossamyr’s black hair falling in her face as she hovered above him. Her breasts shifted as she moved with him. He heard her gasp quietly in pleasure.
With a frown, he sat up and jumped from the bed. He had work to do. He still couldn’t trust the queen. She was using him. As much as he enjoyed being used, he couldn’t let it go on for too long. Ossamyr was playing a game, and he didn’t know the rules. Yet.
It looked like, for the moment, he could do more good here in Physen than back in Ohndarien. If the king wanted passage through the locks, perhaps Brophy could arrange a compromise. If he joined their bloody game, he might gain enough influence to save Ohndarien from slavery.
Last night, after their lovemaking, he had promised the queen he would compete. What was done was done. If Baelandra held the walls, Brophy’s sacrifice would go unnoticed, but if Ohndarien fell, he might have power to help.
His plans to sneak into the city and take the Test of the Stone would have to wait. Brophy would deal with Nine Squares before Krellis.
He went to the wardrobe and quickly dressed. The door to his room stood ajar. Ossamyr had kept her promise. If he was committed to the games, he was free to roam the city.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled the thick, wooden door open. One of the Ape guards stood on the other side. As tall as Brophy and twice as thick, the huge soldier gave him a glance, then continued to stare straight ahead. The Apes were elite swordsmen, the sixth echelon of the Physendrian military. Only Falcon officers and Lion generals outranked them. And, of course, the king and queen.
He slipped past the man, leaving the door to his room open. The guard paused long enough for Brophy to get two steps ahead, then followed. Brophy stopped. The guard stopped. Brophy backed up. The guard backed up. Shaking his head, Brophy continued.
There weren’t many people in the hall. Brophy passed a few Physendrians, richly dressed in feathers and silver, some in gold. A few gave him curious looks, but none paused to talk.
He wandered the halls, trying to remember all the twists and turns. He wanted to be able to find his way out if need be. Along the way, he opened every door he could. Most were locked, but he poked his head into a few rooms. He found a vacant dining hall, a library, a few empty bedrooms, and finally someone’s study.
The door was wide-open. He gave the room a cursory glance and was about to move on when he noticed a huge diorama meticulously laid out on a table. Moving closer, he realized the model was Ohndarien. The guard followed silently.
Ohndarien’s walls, her locks, her bay, even the Spire was crafted in meticulous detail. Ruffled blue silk represented the Great Ocean to the west and the Summer Sea to the east. Tiny pieces of blue marble represented the houses within. It was beautiful and chilling. It wasn’t some craftsman’s hobby. This was a war map.
Hundreds of miniature Physendrian soldiers in red massed at the base of the Water Wall. Hundreds of miniature Farad soldiers in brown massed at the base of the Quarry Wall. A vast fleet of blue ships from the west swarmed at the Windmill Wall. The tiny models bore three-pointed stars on their sails, the symbol of the Ohohhim Empire.
Phandir was going to attack Ohndarien, with armies from the north and south and a fleet from the west. It would work. It was the only plan that could. The city could withstand a siege forever unless they were surrounded on all sides.
How had Phandir convinced Faradan? Physendrians hated Farads more than they hated Ohndariens. Why would they join forces?
But Brophy knew the answer. Because they could win. With Ohohhom’s help, the two countries could finally overrun Ohndarien and take her for their own. They could do together what they had never been able to do apart.
A man entered the room from a side door, a cape of red-and-gold feathers draped from his shoulders to the floor. The man wore golden armbands emblazoned with a fiery bird. He seemed strangely familiar, his auburn hair curled down to his shoulders, and his dark eyes struck a chord in Brophy. Add a beard, darken the hair, and the man could have been Krellis.
This giant had to be Phandir, King of Physendria.
Brophy froze. An image leapt to his mind of Ossamyr’s naked body straddling the king, pushing against him as she pushed against Brophy.
“Well,” Phandir boomed, smiling so wide that he showed white teeth. “This is an unexpected surprise. I don’t usually get guests so early. It’s my planning time, you see.”
In one quick motion, the Ape drew his sword and hit Brophy in the back of the legs with the flat of the blade. He crashed to his knees.
“Kneel before your king!” the Ape roared.
Brophy spun about and leapt to his feet. The Ape brought his sword under Brophy’s chin, but he jumped back, putting the dior
ama between them. Gritting his teeth, the Ape followed.
Phandir laughed. “I suggest you listen to him. He’ll kill you if you don’t.”
The Ape stepped between Brophy and the king. Brophy glanced at the open door leading back to the hall, but he wasn’t sure he would make it.
“Kneel!” the Ape repeated.
Hesitating a moment, Brophy descended to one knee. As soon as he did, the guard closed the distance between them and whacked him on the back with the flat of the blade. “Kiss the hem of your king’s robe.”
Brophy did as he was told, astounded by the entire show. Was this how they commanded respect in Physendria? At the end of a sword? It was humiliating. Did they really think loyalty could be bought by such a thing?
“Well done, boy,” Phandir said, sounding eerily like Krellis. “Self-preservation is a fine quality.” He helped Brophy to his feet.
Brophy longed to have a weapon in his hand. One quick slash, and the whole war could be over. If they had been alone, Brophy might have grabbed the king’s sword, but with the hulking guard right behind him, he had no hope.
“Come on, let’s take a walk,” Phandir said.
Having no choice, Brophy followed. He felt a trickle of blood on the back of his thigh where the Ape’s sword had struck. The guard remained two steps behind them, as impassive as before. It made Brophy nervous to have the hulking warrior at his back. It had been a long time since he’d been struck like that. His anger lingered, keeping him on edge.
The king led him across the room to a stairway that spiraled upward through solid rock. As they climbed, Brophy finally found his tongue.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” he said, not sure how to approach this man. There was too much he didn’t know about King Phandir.
“Ah, that. Yes. Well it wasn’t my idea, I must confess,” he said with a jovial laugh. “You’re either a spy or a criminal. I ought to have you killed, really.” He looked over his flame-feathered shoulder, smiling. “But Ossamyr has taken a liking to you.” He sighed melodramatically. “And I’m a fool for love, truth be known. I can deny her nothing. She is determined to have another young man carry her favor to victory in Nine Squares. Nothing to be done about it. The woman is crazy for the contest. No one has won at Nine Squares for twenty months. Quwrence was the last champion, and he bore Helliua’s favor, not Ossamyr’s.”
