He nodded and smiled at everyone, trying to ignore his heart as it attempted to break through his ribcage.
Domine Tedesco leaned toward Michael, his face grave. “You didn't tell us that John died!”
Luckily, the shock on Michael's face as he turned toward the European contingent was legitimate. “I didn't know,” he said in a murmur, his heart leaping. One less on his list than he thought! One of the strongest Power numen in existence was already dead. He leaned forward to catch his son's eye and nodded ever so slightly.
“We should arrest him now,” Rebecca muttered under the cheering of the crowd, her face mulish.
“No. Let them fight, first. Then we can charge him as a full adult,” Michael whispered back, waiting for her reluctant nod.
The entire crowd was on its feet, cheering Nolan on as he approached his uncle and a visibly angry Manas.
"Nice of you to show up, Aeron," he hissed through his teeth, smiling and waving at the cheering numina.
"Wouldn't miss it."
As Jenkins began to explain the rules, Manas immediately protested. “He can’t bring that Sword into the Arena! It’s against the rules!”
Nolan clutched it defensively. “I’m not giving it up to anyone here! It’s mine.”
Jenkins looked at him resignedly. “Nolan, Manas has the right to refuse you your weapon during the fight… no outside assistance, remember? I will keep it in my possession, if you agree.”
Nolan eyed the crowd, all eagerly listening to the exchange. He had no choice.
He removed the shoulder strap and held the Sword out to his uncle, scabbard first. “Keep it safe for me.”
“Of course. Now, shake hands, gentlemen, and to your corners!”
They shook hands and retreated. Before Jenkins could start the match, Michael Warrington rose to his feet. “Nolan Aeron,” he said in a booming voice, “you have been accused of the attempted murder of a fellow student.” The room broke into gasps and whispers, but he ignored them all and continued, “You shall face these charges at the conclusion of your Rite of Passage. Guards?”
The guards stepped up to the walled perimeter, blocking every exit and forming a ring around the combatants. Warrington nodded and resumed his seat. “You may now begin, Proctor.”
“Thank you, Lord Artifex,” Jenkins said with exaggerated courtesy, though Nolan knew his uncle well enough to know he was fuming.
Nolan knew his options were limited. He could use his long arms to try to draw first blood, or he could shock Manas into submission and nick him, but he had to move quickly—Manas had access to thick mud and dirt several feet deep.
He chose to stay still and deliberately planted his feet on dry ground. As Manas began to circle closer, Nolan eyed the connected puddles and rivulets of water and waited for his chance.
The moment Manas stepped into the water, Nolan flicked a fingertip at the puddle next to him and lit the arena up with electricity.
Manas screamed as the Power pumped into him for a few moments. Nolan pulled it all back, leaving Manas shaking but essentially unharmed. He was on his knees, gasping for breath.
Nolan was cautious, remembering his uncle's warnings about tricky opponents. He strafed back to the center of the room, approaching the downed Manas from the side and hesitated just enough to stay clear when Manas burst upward in a flurry of movement, attempting to break Nolan's nose.
"You'll have to do better than that, I think," Nolan said as he back-pedalled across the arena.
"So will you—afraid to hurt me, Aeron?"
"Not at all—just don't want to waste my energy."
Nolan's eyes slid to the competitor's bench directly behind Manas for a moment, seeking out Gia and Pyrrhus. Gia was staring at Manas, eyes frightened, but Pyrrhus looked at him with a stony expression and nodded, only once.
They had discussed the possibility of his being arrested. It was not a possibility they could entertain. He just couldn’t risk it. His actions decided, Nolan began to slowly circle to the left, Manas matching him stride for stride.
"I will not kill you, Manas."
"That’s not what you said the last time. If you won’t, then you'll have to catch me, Aeron... if it's up to me, it will be a battle to the death, don't you know that?"
Manas took a deep breath and began to gather all of the mud in the arena to him, dragging the floor out from under Nolan. He scrabbled in the dirt for a moment, feeling the floor drop lower and lower.
Manas was standing over him—almost ten feet over him, in fact—holding a giant ball of swirling mud above his head.
"You're done, Aeron. Give up."
“Never.”
The crowd was on their feet, craning their necks to see beyond the dirt storm.
He tried to climb up to meet his opponent, but the sides were too steep for Nolan to climb, so he slid back to the bottom, thoughts whirling. Manas would never let him out. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight and stood slowly, feeling with his feet for the center of the pit. He knew that his job now was staying out of Warrington’s clutches—whatever that entailed. Seeing Nolan was at his mercy, Manas sent a rock spinning toward Nolan with his free hand, knocking him in the side of the head and off of his feet.
“He’s bleeding!” Rebecca shouted from her seat, pointing at the trickle of blood dripping from his temple. “The match is over—arrest him!”
Manas paused, confused, as the other spectators began to boo at the interruption of their fun. As security began to hop over the retaining wall, Nolan saw his chance. He shot a bolt of Power at Manas’ ribs, startling him enough that he lost his concentration. The mud ball fell from his control and onto Nolan, burying him instantly.
The room was completely quiet as everyone stared at the filled pit, stunned. Mara’s crying broke the silence as Jenkins struggled to his feet, face white.
“Lift the dirt, Mr. Warrington,” he commanded. Manas was halfway to obeying when his father’s voice rang out even louder.
“Don’t touch it.”
Jenkins turned to face Michael, his face twisted in disbelief.
“He could be dying under there, Michael!”
“My son drew first blood, Proctor Jenkins. It is his duty to decide whether we stop or continue.”
“We continue!” Manas said immediately.
“Manas!” Jenkins was appalled.
“You yourself told the students that they are not allowed any assistance during the Rite of Passage,” Lord Artifex said. He looked to either side and got the agreement of the Council members on either side.
“He’s our Swordsmith!” one of the Europeans objected.
“He is still in his Rite of Passage,” Lady Terra contradicted. “He is nothing but a student at the moment.”
“I believe, in occasions such as this, the rules state that the trap must remain in place for five minutes, in order to give Mr. Aeron enough time to attempt escape on his own. We wait.”
“He’ll be dead in five minutes!” Jenkins said desperately, reaching out to grip Michael’s shoulders.
Michael reached up and grabbed Jenkins’ wrists, removing them from his shoulders and using them to pull Jenkins even closer. He leaned in, smiled directly into Jenkins’ face, and said deliberately, “We wait, Robert.”
BOOK II
THE AFTERMATH
Chapter Twenty-Three
Five minutes.
Five minutes is never just five minutes. It can feel like seconds, or it can drag on for hours. To every single person sitting in the Arena that afternoon in late June, the five minutes they spent waiting for Nolan Aeron’s Rite of Passage to officially end felt like an eternity.
Robert Jenkins was standing by his sister, hands gripping the head of his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"Please, Mother," Alan was repeating softly as he held her by her upper arms, attempting to stop her from shaking.
"My son, my son..." she was chanting, her skin clammy. Her eyes were wild as they latched onto her brother. "R
obert! Tell me he's not dead."
"Lord Artifex has given the order to wait. We will know in moments, Mara."
Every eye in the room was glued to the pile of dirt in the center of the room, waiting to see some sign of life. Manas took the stairs two at a time to stand by his father’s side—only to wait along with the rest. When his father finally spoke, it was not to him.
"Captain Selocrim, you are a Fulmen, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go down to the Arena and retrieve the Sword of the Nine from Proctor Jenkins’ seat. You should be able to touch it as long as you do not try to channel your numina through it. We will decide what is to be done with it later.”
She bowed and hurried to obey.
Finally, Michael’s hand drifted up, checking the time once more. “The five minutes have passed,” he declared. “Call the match, Proctor Jenkins.”
“Lord Artifex, let my nephew go!” he protested.
“Do your duty, Proctor! You are verifying every doubt I had about allowing you to Proctor a year that included your nephew.”
Jenkins grimaced. “Match to Manas Warrington, by decision. Now, please!”
“Manas, raise Mr. Aeron for us, please.”
“Yes, Father.” He raised his hands and closed his eyes, sending his numina through the dirt searching for the odd vibrations that alerted him to a disturbance in the soil. He found a layer of stones... and above it, something in the earth that could only be a huddled body. Smiling triumphantly, he began to move the dirt around the figure, drawing it up slowly through the strata. He pushed his hands upward, clearly straining. After a moment, the dirt began to heave upwards in the middle.
“Here he comes!” someone shouted. Gia leaned so far forward in her seat that Pyrrhus had to catch at the bottom of her shirt to keep her from falling.
With a final push, the crust of the floor cracked, and a body emerged.
It was not Nolan Aeron, however. It was a centuries-old corpse, bones and tattered velvet all that was left.
"You brought up the wrong body, you fool," Artifex muttered. "Bring up the right one—now!"
"There are no others!" Manas protested before freezing. "But that means--"
"He's escaped!" someone shouted loudly, setting off a chain of frenzied whispers, though no one was panicking—yet.
"Move all that dirt right now," Artifex commanded, but Manas looked blank.
"Father, I am exhausted. I could barely pull that body up!"
His mouth tightened, but he said nothing. Instead he turned to face the Arena and, with a grand sweep of his arms, raised a swirl of mud and dirt that immediately spiraled up through the open roof and out of sight. Left behind were only the dusty wooden beams supporting the floor, with a splintered hole directly in the center.
The room exploded in confusion. Jenkins moved to comfort his sister, who was collapsed against Alan’s side sobbing in sheer relief.
"He did escape," Lord Artifex snarled, keeping his voice low. He spun on Rebecca, just reaching his seat with the Sword held away from her body as if she was afraid it would shock her. "Take the Sword with you and find Officer Lamesa. Tell him I want a sweep of this entire building and the grounds—find out where Nolan Aeron went. Detain Robert Jenkins, Marama Aeron, Alan Aeron, Jonas Keller... anyone else?" he spat at Manas.
"Leiani K'Oliu and Giada Disanza were his friends...”
“You have to review Elliot Chancery and Samuel Tomen’s cases, sir,” Rebecca added.
"Them as well, then. The Council will wish to speak to each of them personally. The moment you are done passing on my orders, you are to return to my side with the Sword. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my Lord," she said.
“Nolan Aeron has much to answer for, and we must do our duty in determining the truth. If Aeron is the Swordsmith, and innocent, he should return to us and take his rightful place—it has been too long without him. If he refuses or is guilty..." He smiled, though humorlessly. "Then his grandfather's just punishment will have to be brought down on the heir, instead."
“What do you mean, if he’s the Swordsmith?” Tedesco asked, his expression cold. “The boy had the Sword in his possession.”
“Ah, but he never touched it,” Artifex pointed out. “Rebecca holds the Sword right now, and she is not the Swordsmith.”
“Just what do you plan on doing with the Sword of the Nine?” Nerys Tew asked, her eyes fixated on the blade as Captain Selocrim carried it away. “And what did you mean by his grandfather's punishment?”
Michael sighed, looking mournful. “I did not want to worry anyone, but the reality of the situation is this: John Aeron was convicted of murdering his own son almost twenty years ago.” He gave them a few moments to express their shock before continuing.
“John stole the Sword and fled rather than submit to his just punishment. Under normal circumstances, he would have been executed for his crime, and young Nolan would have been raised by his mother, honored and protected as the Swordsmith from birth. Instead, he has been raised by a bitter, crazy old man, far from our traditions and customs.”
“That doesn't mean that he should be hunted down like an animal!” one of the Hong Kong contingent complained. “And why did your security captain want him arrested before he even fled? He can’t be condemned for his grandfather’s crimes!”
“Not for that reason alone, no. He trapped our children here for almost a year, raising a bailey that would have killed anyone who tried to pass it. He attacked one of our students in March, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. That poor boy has only just recovered the use of his legs. Instead of coming forward to offer some sort of explanation, he fled, going into hiding until just this morning. An innocent man does not flee justice. Either way, there are questions that must be answered, and Nolan is the only one who has those answers. He must be apprehended.”
He saw with relief that many of those around him were nodding, looking thoughtful as they digested this information. He stood up.
“I must go and try to find out where he may have gone. I beg your pardon—duty calls.”
Nerys Tew rose to her feet, ignoring his gesture motioning for the group to remain seated. “I believe the Sub-Lords should be present for these interrogations. If we are entertaining the possibility of submitting ourselves directly to the Council once more, we should be able to witness how you function.”
He paused for a moment, unable to make his mind settle long enough to think of a good reason to exclude them.
“Very well—son, lead the Sub-Lords to the Council chambers in about fifteen minutes. I will meet you there.”
Captain Selocrim was still holding the Sword of the Nine when she approached Gia and Pyrrhus. “The Council requests your presence, Lady Younger Zephyra,” she said, not looking directly at either of them. “You will meet the others in twenty minutes outside the Council Chambers on the third floor.”
“What about me?” Pyrrhus demanded.
“You were not included in this invitation.”
Gia watched her move on to corner Leiani and Alan through narrowed eyes. “She doesn’t deserve to have her hands on that Sword.”
“Shh!” Pyrrhus hissed. “Not now!”
“Why does the Council want to see me, but not you?”
“I’m not sure. Learn what you can, but be subtle … if you can manage it.”
Gia shrugged. “I’ll get the answers however I can—if I need to be subtle, I will be. If I need to make Artifex mad, I’ll do that instead. Whatever it takes.”
“Good.” Pyrrhus was more serious than she’d ever seen him. “Every bit of information will help us later.”
She didn’t have to ask what it would help them with. Nolan’s name pounded through her head, touching the edges of every thought. She wasn’t at her best; things were just happening too fast.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Michael Warrington entered the Council chamber before anyone else and closed the door behind him, shutting himse
lf in the gloom of the unlit space. He stood with his forehead against the door for a moment, steeling himself for what was to come. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blue glow and spun, heart pounding. How stupid of him, to assume Nolan had fled! When he turned, however, the glow was gone and the room empty. He turned away again, and the glow returned in his peripheral vision.
Nolan Aeron was always hovering in the wings, it seemed.
He shook himself, annoyed, and he stepped toward his seat at the table. Things were going so well! His plan, over twenty years in the making, was finally coming together in all the right ways. The Sword was in his possession, and almost all of the Fulmen in the world were dead. Only two remained: Rebecca Selocrim and Nolan Aeron. There were only two heartbeats between him and the Sword of the Nine.
Alixandra slipped into the room behind him. “Michael? The Council members and the Sub-Lords are here.”
“And the witnesses?”
“The witnesses are lined up in the hall, waiting, as you instructed.”
“Excellent. Call in the Councilors.”
The people waiting in the hall watched as the Councilors filed by in order of rank, all still in their Rite of Passage finery, followed by the Continental Sub-Lords. The door closed firmly behind the last in line.
They called in the adults first, and then Jonas and Manas. They never reappeared. After about ten minutes, the door reopened and Lady Tempus emerged to face them. “Alan Aeron,” she said quietly. “The Council would like to speak with you.”
Alan rose to his feet and followed her inside. The Council was seated at the table, though his grandfather’s spot – or his brother’s now, he supposed—was left ceremoniously empty. The Sub-Lords were seated in a half circle of chairs behind them. A single chair sat facing them all, and he took it as Lady Tempus announced him.
“Alan Aeron, member of the Nine Families, of the House of Aeron—betrothed to Leiani K’Oliu, Lady Younger Aqua.”
Lord Artifex nodded as Lady Tempus reclaimed her seat. “Good evening, Mr. Aeron.”
“Good evening, Councilors, honored Lords,” he said, inclining his head.
The Complete Chosen Trilogy (The Chosen #0) Page 22
