by Gail Dayton
"Just how much clout do you have in this place?"
He pulled the rope that fed through a square opening in the gate and the familiar muffled clang sounded.
"Much,” he said. “I have all nine marks of the dedicat vows fulfilled. I left the skola with all I had been gifted, a wealthy man. And I have married well.” Satisfaction flooded through him. He'd married for love, his own choice, not that of his Line's Head. “This is my triumphal return. I survived. I thrived. And those who said I would fail are proved wrong."
The gate swung slowly open to show a stocky, white-kilted champion with tattooed hands and face who stood blocking the gap. His eyes widened when he saw Obed's body tattoos, warmed when he looked up at his face.
Obed bowed, Adaran style. He no longer belonged here, but to Kallista's Line, Kallista's land. “The Reinine and Godstruck of Adara, with her mate, with all of her Godmarked and her champions, to see the grand master."
Old Jaget bowed respectfully and opened the gate wider, backing with it. Obed tucked Kallista's hand into his arm so that they entered the outer, defensive courtyard together. A boy of perhaps fourteen with a thick scruff of short black hair waited to escort them through the inner gate and beyond.
"When you said you survived, just now,” Kallista spoke for Obed's hearing only. “You meant that literally, didn't you?"
"Yes.” Hadn't he explained that to her? Hadn't she understood?
"How many usually survive these dedicat vows?"
"Very few."
"Numbers, Obed. Specifics.” Kallista held his arm a fraction tighter. “How many made dedicat vows when you did?"
"Nine. Five here at Ebadi. Four from other skolas."
"How many are still alive?"
"One."
A shiver raced through her and she tucked him even closer. “How many survived from the year before you?"
Obed let out a quiet breath, finally realizing how little she had understood about everything. “None."
"And the year before that?"
"None."
"So, say, in the five years before you finished your vows, how many others completed them?"
He shoved his loose hair back with a hand and met Kallista's eyes. “One."
"One other than you?"
"Yes."
"And where is he now?"
"Here. Teaching."
"He didn't leave the skola?” That seemed to surprise her.
"He had nowhere else to go.” Obed's smile reached only his eyes where the mask let it out. He might have been like Carrek, but for—"I did. I was coming to you."
"Do most dedicats who complete their vows stay on?"
"Most, yes. Or they return after a short time. The world outside can be a strange and frightening place.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I know you recall how I struggled to adapt. How I still struggle."
"I imagine you had more to adapt to than most.” Kallista squeezed his arm. “I'm glad you came to find us."
"As am I.” His smile, a true one, flickered as he bowed her through a door into the main arena. He ruled the mask.
Floored with deep sand, it was lit by clerestory windows high above. Polished wood columns divided the central arena from the wings off to either side, and a wide, smooth plank walkway encircled it two steps above the thick sand footing. The scent of wood polish, sweat and dust swept him back. Obed loved this place, and he hated it. The boy led them along the decking to a room tucked behind the columns on the left, separated from the arena by a protective screen of fine metal.
Inside, a man waited, small, wiry, with an open robe exposing a full set of body tattoos. What hair he had left was snow white and his face held lines laid down by his living. A scar bisected his right eye, the pupil white with scarring. The left eye glittered with sharp intelligence. Murat.
Obed hid his hatred in reflex, but his hand tightened over Kallista's, bringing her closer as they entered the room. Obed started to bow, but Kallista's pinch stopped him before he did more than incline his head. He'd almost forgotten. His vows were to Kallista now. The old man inclined his head in return.
Obed waited until everyone had crowded into the room behind them and turned to Kallista. “My Reinine, this is Murat, the Grand Master of Edabi Skola.” He paused and the old man bowed deeply, but without respect, to Kallista.
Scowling, Obed spoke again. “Grand Master Murat, this is Kallista Reinine, Ruler of all Adara, Godstruck by the very hand of the One. My beloved, my mate, the mother of my son."
Murat's face showed no outward emotion, but Obed knew it roiled underneath. The old man was not happy to see her, and he was still less happy to know she had given Obed a child. Murat hated anyone who had claim to those he thought his own, as Obed had once been. Kallista held his gaze as she bowed, not so deeply, throwing back her own unspoken challenge. Obed clung to the warmth her attitude gave him. She claimed him as hers.
"Allow me to introduce you to the rest of Adara's Godmarked,” Obed said. “Those of us who did not need to be marked by men because we have been marked by the One's own hand."
The grand master's disapproval grew, though it didn't show in his expression. It seemed he did not trust the One to do Her own Choosing. Obed knew from experience that Murat did not trust any but himself. After Obed presented their godmarked iliasti, he presented the eight champion-candidates.
"You cannot be serious,” Murat said when Obed finished. “Put women in the arena?” The grand master shook his head. “No, women cannot fight."
"I'll take you on, old man,” Leyja snarled.
"I am sorry.” The old man bowed. “I did not mean that you are not capable of fighting. I have heard of Adara's woman fighters. But a woman's blood is too precious to waste in the arena. A man—” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “A man's death is a small thing. Men are born to die in the service of the Line that has given them birth. But—"
"No death is a small thing,” Kallista interrupted. “No life is less valuable than any other. But are we not all born to die? Does any of us escape death? So if these have the talent and the will to enter the arena, if that is their calling, who are we to deny them?"
Murat's expressionless mask cracked with displeasure. He must be very angry indeed, Obed thought, to show this much. “On your head be it,” the old man said, almost evenly. “Their death is on your hands."
Kallista's eyebrows flew up with her alarm. “Death? No one dies today, Grand Master. That was the agreement for this contest. First blood only, no serious injury."
Murat shrugged, a sly, secret satisfaction rolling off him in waves so thick Obed almost choked on them. Goddess, he hated this man.
"It is the arena,” Murat said. “One cannot always control what happens."
"Yes,” Obed spoke up. “One can. A true champion is in control of his blade and his actions at all times. Did you not teach me this yourself?"
"True, true.” Murat seemed even more satisfied. He had to be looking forward to deaths this afternoon. He would not get them. “But I have not had the training of your champions."
"I have.” Obed's scowl didn't change as he felt the pleasure of Kallista drawing magic.
"No one dies today,” Kallista said it again.
"I share your hope.” Grand Master Murat bowed politely and Kallista jumped, as if the magic she drew had kicked her. It must have told her Murat lied. Obed did not need magic to know. Murat always hoped for death.
"Thank you,” Obed said. “May the One grant that it be so."
"Please,” Murat gestured toward a door in the far wall. “Show your brothers and sisters our skola. Let your—your wife see where you lived so many years.” He seemed to have trouble saying the word ‘wife.'
Obed reveled in the old man's struggle. You have no more hold on me, old man.
When they had all filed out of the screened-in viewing room, their boy-guide brought them to a man with tattooed face, hands and one foot, also unfamiliar to Obed, who held a fat ring jangling with keys. H
e unlocked a door at the end of the corridor and folded it back, revealing a shallow chamber lined with racks of pole weapons—quarterstaffs, pikes, bills, halberds and such. Obed was a swordsman. He didn't know all these.
After viewing a fraction of the armory, which extended down both sides of the very long corridor, Obed took them to see the practice arenas. Row after row after row of enclosures, both indoors and out, held champions-in-training, beginning with awkward, clumsy twelve-year-olds whacking at each other with sticks up to the slashing grace of those on the verge of leaving their teen years.
"When they come here, the boys’ heads are shaved and they receive their first tattoos.” Obed indicated the marks on his face. “Their heads remain shaved until they exchange the wooden weapons for metal and win their first contest with a true weapon. Then, they may begin to let their hair grow."
He brought them to the last arena. The young men here wore their hair braided close to their heads, the braid doubled back on itself into a thick difficult-to-grasp club. Sweat sheened on their bodies as they practiced their combat with bright, sharp steel.
"These will face examination soon,” Obed said, “to see whether they will go on to make dedicat's vows, or qualify for further training, or go out as champions to keep the peace."
"Why do they seem so...?” Kallista frowned.
Obed flicked a surprised glance her way. Could she sense their desperation? “Some of them will not survive the examination."
"Some?” Viyelle crowded close, her gaze on the fighters. She had Kallista's appreciation for the masculine form.
"Many,” Obed amended. “Many of them will not survive."
"Goddess,” Viyelle murmured. “What a waste."
Obed felt the tug of magic again as Kallista called it, the ready rush of power through his body. She seemed to struggle with it, gasping for breath.
"Are you all right?” Worried, Obed sent a glance Torchay's way and instantly her red ilias was there, peering into her eyes, counting her pulse.
"Water here, for the Reinine!” Torchay called out. Five people—their young guide, three Adarans and one of the Daryathi champions-intraining—leaped to serve.
"What is it?” Torchay plucked aside a strand of hair that had stuck in the sweat on Kallista's face.
"Sending out magic. Demon-hunter. Cleaning out demonshadow.” She fought to control her breathing, without much success. “You know how much of an effort it is without Stone.” Her voice cracked on grief, but she refused to give in to it. Obed didn't dare offer comfort. She wouldn't welcome it here.
The Daryathi dedicat-candidate brought her water in a wooden cup. Kallista smiled as she accepted it from his hands, and a ruddy blush rose on his dark skin. Another conquest for Adara's Reinine. Obed crushed the upwelling of fresh jealousy. He didn't need to be manufacturing new rivals.
"What is your name, champion?” she asked.
The young man blushed again, bowing low. “This one is called Ruel Dobruk-sa, my Reinine.” Ruel fidgeted, looking back over his shoulder at his comrades who had clumped together, making faces at him.
Kallista drank again. “Can I do something for you, Ruel?"
"I—that is—” He stammered another moment, then bowed again. “My Reinine—"
Did he understand what that meant—adding the “my” to “Reinine"? That he offered her his allegiance? Obed thought perhaps he did. He didn't blame the boy.
"May I ask a question?” he finally managed to say.
"Of course.” She nodded, smiling a little.
"Is it true that this—that the nine-marked is your mate? That he left the skola after his vows were complete, and found you and you married him?"
Kallista looked at Obed and her smile grew, warming his heart. She did love him. She'd said so a hundred times. Why did he ever doubt?
"Yes,” she said. “It wasn't quite so simple as that, but yes. He is my mate and the father of my son."
"When I was finally free of my vows, I left the skola,” Obed said, driven to tell them his tale. “I journeyed for a year, seeking the call of the One. Finally, I was led into the Mother Range where the One marked me with His own hand.” This time he turned, bowed his neck and moved his loose hair aside to show his mark. All the dedicat candidates crowded round to see.
"The One led me across the mountains, across valleys and rivers until I reached the fabled white city of Arikon. And there, I found my fate. My Kallista."
"I wasn't Reinine then,” Kallista said. “Just a captain in Adara's army.” No one paid attention to her. They were lost in the truth of Obed's tale.
"So live.” Obed gripped Ruel's shoulder. “All of you live so you can receive the treasures the One has waiting for you.” He hoped they would take his advice.
With another smile, Kallista handed the cup back to young Ruel, and Obed led her beyond the wall to the residences. He tried to see them as a stranger would. As she would.
The cluster of oddly shaped buildings contained an internal maze of tiny cell-like rooms. No two rooms opened onto the same corridor without a turning between. Each doorless room was just enough larger than the narrow cot it held to have space to walk around it. A small chest was tucked beneath the cot and a rack for weapons hung on the wall of each identical room. Only in the type of weapons on each rack did the rooms differ.
"Students are to focus on their studies,” Obed said as he led them unerringly through the narrow, twisting hallways. “They are allowed no distractions. Rooms are given at random, first-years scattered among their elders in the places that have become vacant.” Deliberately, to make it difficult for friendships to form. But he had survived anyway.
He stopped outside a cell no different from any of the others, save for a single, scarlet silken cord that stretched across the doorway. “This was mine."
For twenty years, he had lived in this place. Alone. With nothing but the possibility of death—his own or another's—waiting every time he ventured forth. No wonder he had turned to the comfort and the promises of the One. But even now, even when he had received more than he ever dreamed, he had trouble believing it could last. Because it never had before. Goddess, he had been so very alone.
His cell did have one or two differences from the others. The long curved saber over the bed bore a knotted cluster of multi-colored tassels dangling from its hilt. Around the rack on the white plastered wall someone had painted the same nine symbols Obed wore on his body, and a bright blue blanket covered the cot, rather than a gray one.
"Achievement has its rewards.” Obed's smile took on a wry twist. “The tassels were won in various tournaments. The blanket, a gift from a grateful client."
"This was all the reward you received? A bit of color, a dash of decoration for your room?” Kallista sounded horrified. “How long were you here?"
"Twenty years.” Obed stared into the doorless room, his mind lost in memory. “The eight years of my training, and the twelve years of my vow."
"Is this the door they gave you?” Torchay flicked the cord stretched over the opening with a finger and set it to swinging.
Obed gave a soundless laugh. “Hardly. The only privacy here is in the turn of the corridor. The cord was set in place when I left, walked out naked leaving this place behind. I fulfilled my vows. I won. Only the rooms of the nine-marked, those of us who finish our vows, are set aside this way."
"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.
