And why did that bother her? Stone offered many an honorable profession, she had decided. Necessary in the structure of Fae life and society. But Raaf knew nothing of other options, and that ignorance of choices bothered Dari.
“Today brings justice for Lord Altar’s niece,” she said, hoping that would appease the boy’s curiosity.
Raaf looked at Lord Altar again. “Seems to me the likes of him, he’d have other reasons to be here. Now, I mean. Instead of out on the battlefield.”
Dari gave Raaf a longer, more discerning look, even checking once more to be certain he had no significant amount of legacy. “Very few lords actually fight with their armies,” she countered, relieved and disappointed to find nothing special in the color of Raaf’s essence.
Raaf seemed oblivious to the close brush of her mind-talents. “Lord Brailing fights with his army. Aron says it’s madness and meanness that drives him.”
Dari coughed and glanced around to be certain no townspeople were close enough to hear the boy’s disrespect. “Lord Cobb and Lord Ross often fight alongside their Dynast Guard,” she said, lowering her voice in an attempt to lead Raaf to do the same.
“Courage, Aron says, drives those two.” Raaf spoke just as loudly, still staring openly at the steel-and-copper-colored viewing box where Lord Altar waited. “So what does that make him up there? A coward, a cautious man—or up to something?”
Aron shouldn’t have spoken so freely in front of this boy—in front of anyone outside the Den. “Perhaps today, Raaf, Lord Altar is only an uncle who wants to see his niece’s rapist put to death.”
Raaf looked as though he was getting ready to debate with her, but Triune’s bells began to ring. Three long, dolorous notes. A pause. Three more sad notes, another pause, then three more after that.
The Call to Judgment.
No other bell sequence sounded so formal, or so final to Dari’s ear.
The ringing of the bells crushed the crowd’s talk. Bits of words and phrases just spoken lingered in Dari’s mind, echoes of the liveliness that had seconds ago surrounded her—now every bit of it had been converted to unnatural silence. Almost as one, onlookers found seats, and all eyes turned toward the gate where the Judged would enter.
On his bench, Aron sat straight and still, also staring at the door.
When it swung open, Lord Baldric stepped into the fiery blue-white sunlight, carrying a long parchment. He let the wooden gate slam firmly closed behind him, the sound like the crash of a mallet against a tree trunk.
He’s walking on the blood of hundreds, even thousands, of men and women. Dari sucked down a thick breath of early-summer air, and waited for him to reach the center point in the oval. How many Stone Brothers or Sisters have died across the centuries, right where his boots now tread? How many criminals have perished on the same spots?
Odd, that connection between Stone and its many Judged. They bled the same. They died the same. Did anyone at Triune ever pause to give that reality some serious consideration?
Aron’s firm, placid expression gave her the answer.
Of course not.
As far as Stone was concerned, this was inevitable, and decreed by both courts and fate, and absolutely right.
The doorway to the ready rooms opened as well, and Stone Brothers and one Stone Sister Dari recognized as the tall, willowy, blonde called Marilia Deadeye filed out to stand behind the apprentice bench. Each wore their traditional gray robes and scabbards crisscrossed over their backs. Sword hilts rose like horns from behind their shoulders, and Dari knew each guild member also carried at least one dagger. They, like their potential prey, were allowed to bring up to four weapons of their choice into combat.
“There’s Stormbreaker in the front,” Raaf said, disrupting Dari’s firm attempt not to look directly at the Stone Brother’s face.
When she did, she immediately wished she hadn’t.
His squared stance and folded arms made him seem otherworldly, and his emotionless expression made him that much more enigmatic and handsome.
Dari tried to breathe, but found her chest too tight. Her fingers worked into a tangle with one another, jumping in her lap like some child’s captured frogs.
Raaf put his hand atop hers and patted her once. “He’ll come out the winner,” the boy murmured so quietly his words seemed like nothing but a bit of breeze. “He always does.”
Dari glared at the boy, then immediately felt ashamed of herself when his cheeks colored and he snatched his hand back before adding, “I’ve come to every Judgment Day since we got here, that’s all. I’ve seen Master Stormbreaker with his blades. Nobody can beat him.”
“Good,” she whispered.
“Most sword battles are over in just a few seconds,” Raaf went on. “The first blow landed—it’s usually the last.”
Enough, Dari wanted to shout, but she somehow held her peace. Her chest squeezed tighter and tighter, and it was all she could do not to make some sign against ill fortune, like a superstitious Fae.
Lord Baldric came to a halt in the center of the arena, pushed up the sleeves of his spotless gray robe, and unfurled his parchment. In his gruff, booming bass, he gave the traditional statement that marked the true beginning of Judgment Day.
“Be it known that we have gathered here on the morning after full moons, in the fourth cycle, in the year one thousand forty-eight from the founding of Eyrie, to seek justice and pass sentence on the Judged.”
As Dari forced herself to study Aron or Lord Altar or Raaf, anyone but Stormbreaker, Lord Baldric read seventeen names, all male, and listed crimes that ranged from repeated robbery to rape to murder or murders. He added dates to each crime, then announced the date of conviction, and the dynast court that issued the writ against each Judged.
The entire time he spoke, no one in the crowd uttered so much as a whisper. Raaf remained motionless beside Dari, and she was overly aware of how loud her own breathing seemed in the freakish quiet.
When he completed his list, the apprentice nearest the gate—Aron—stood, walked quickly to the closed barrier, and pounded his fist against the wood three times. Before he got back to his seat on the bench, the gate once more swung wide to admit seventeen Judged. They filed in one after the other, walking without chains or shackles, and they wore the clothing they came with, varied in design and tradition, but all clean and in good repair. Three had swords from Stone’s own armory, and bulges in their tunics and breeches suggested concealed weapons. Dari knew that these, at least, would fight. The other fourteen men seemed twitchy and overly focused on the gates, and Dari figured these would elect to flee and take their chances.
Indeed, Lord Baldric then read fourteen of the seventeen names, and those men stepped forward. “These are the Judged who have chosen flight. In the order that I spoke your name, do you have anything to say on your behalf?”
Each man denied the accusations against him. Dari couldn’t listen to their explanations or speeches. She didn’t care what they had to say, only that Laird Reese, the name of Stormbreaker’s Judged, hadn’t been included with that list. So he must be one of the three men remaining.
One of the three very seasoned-looking opponents who planned to fight their way out of condemnation.
Dari wished Raaf would take her hand again, but she didn’t want to appear weak or stupid, seeking comfort from a child.
Stormbreaker is a Stone Brother. He knows how to handle himself.
She tried to make her muscles relax.
But it’s not impossible.
Dari squeezed her eyes closed.
For the sake of all the gods, stop this chatter in your own head!
She made herself look at the Judged again, and chastised herself a few more times for her worry as Lord Baldric read two more names and sets of charges, and noted that these were men charged In Absence—convicted, but hiding from Judgment Day, not yet captured. Even this strategy couldn’t delay Stone forever.
“This is their third reading, and this
day, they join those who flee.” Lord Baldric’s statement was simple enough. The men In Absence, having been given ample chance over the past year to present themselves at Triune, or surrender to a Stone guildhouse, were now to be hunted, whether or not they knew their doom was coming.
“Upon the next ringing of the bells, the gates of this Arena and the gates of Triune will be opened. Leave as you will. You will not be watched or followed. At this same time tomorrow, the bells will ring again, and you will be hunted by all fair means. May fate favor the truly innocent.”
A few of the Judged who planned to run looked smug, even excited, but most already had the wide eyes of prey too close to fangs and claws. Every Fae in Eyrie knew that combat offered a chance of survival, however small, but flight almost always resulted in death on some random and lonely night in the future. Still, more often than not, criminals fled, as if each hour they remained free and alive gave them power and bettered their odds of victory.
Moments later, the bells along Triune’s battlements gave another trilogy of jangling rings. Dari’s gaze returned to Stormbreaker, and her heart seemed to jump with each beat of clapper to sound bow.
At that moment, she would have traded her own breath for Stormbreaker’s Judged to be leaving with the rest. Aron, on the other hand, his lanky frame and tousled hair almost glowing in the day-bright sun, looked eager for combat to begin. So did little Raaf, hanging at the edge of his seat beside her.
Dari wanted to slap them both.
Each time she took a breath, she smelled dirt and sweat and fear and excitement. She smelled soaps and perfumes from nearby onlookers, and even a hint of the roasts Triune’s kitchens must be preparing for lunch.
The thought of a normal meal on Judgment Day seemed awry to Dari, and she couldn’t reconcile what her senses told her with what her mind knew was about to happen.
The gates opened.
Most of the criminals ran from the arena, while three sauntered out at their own pace. Dari watched their slow egress, and realized they must have some plan or plot. They must believe they had their battle won, or not care about the outcome. She had no other explanation for why they would waste a single precious second in getting clear of Triune.
The moment the last of the men walked through the arena’s big gates, the wooden barrier swung shut, sealing off the field of battle.
Dari’s breath deserted her once more, until her throat threatened to crush itself along with her chest.
Don’t let him be first.
Or last.
Gods, resolve this some other way and don’t make him fight at all.
Once more, she wove her fingers together and squeezed her own hands.
Not first. Not first.
She didn’t want to see this. She didn’t want to watch.
But there was Aron, little farther from Lord Altar than most apprentices could toss a rock. He was still peaceful and focused, still doing well concealing his legacy, but she kept herself ready to act, should his composure falter.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DARI
“Zane Morgan,” Lord Baldric read from his parchment. “Laird Reese. Coryn Kull. These are the Judged who have chosen combat. In the order that I spoke your name, do you have anything to say on your behalf?”
Dari stared at the second man, the tallest and most muscular of the bunch, with his thick black hair and scarred face, barely hearing Zane Morgan proclaim his innocence. Laird Reese said nothing. Coryn Kull only bowed toward a front row of spectators and said, “I ask your pardon, and hope my death brings you comfort.”
The peal of Stone’s bells almost made Dari cry out, though she knew by now to expect them.
Zane Morgan strode to the center of the arena as Lord Baldric walked to the bench where the apprentices waited and took up a position behind it.
Marilia Deadeye’s eldest apprentice rose, checked the soundness of her scabbards, then sat as his mistress glided out to meet her Judged. Her movements were more liquid than solid, and Dari remembered how graceful she was each morning, dancing the fael’feis in the Den courtyard. Stormbreaker’s sister would be proud of her former apprentice when she returned.
Dari felt the barest measure of pity for the man Marilia would face, Zane Morgan from Dyn Cobb, convicted of murdering a man in a tavern brawl. She gave him a moment’s attention, from his average height and build to his brown hair and beard that he kept long in typical Cobb fashion.
He didn’t really look like a killer or even a criminal, nothing at all like the glowering moving mountain Stormbreaker would have to fight. To Dari’s eye, Zane Morgan appeared to be carrying nothing but a single sword from the Stone armory, and a dagger strapped to the outside of his thigh. He might have the other two weapons he was allowed concealed somewhere on his person, but she couldn’t detect them.
His expression was grim as he faced Marilia Deadeye, who was easily a hand shorter than her opponent. Marilia’s countenance held no emotion at all, much like the blank looks Stormbreaker seemed to achieve so easily. After a quick mutual bow, the two combatants crossed swords in greeting, as was traditional in any civilized fight between two Fae.
Dari kept trying to breathe correctly and failing. This was all happening too quickly. Why had she thought it would take longer? It needed to take longer. All day, even. She didn’t want to watch Marilia fight any more than she wanted to watch Stormbreaker’s battle.
Ignoring Dari’s wishes completely, the clang of metal on metal tore open the arena’s stillness, and a roar rolled through the crowd.
Moving exactly with the noise, Marilia leaped backward and swung her sword in a tight arc, barely missing Morgan’s chest as he dropped to his knees to avoid her blade.
Cat-fast, the man sprang to his feet and drove straight at Marilia, smashing his sword against hers with such force Dari thought her own teeth might rattle. How Marilia kept her footing against such an assault, Dari couldn’t begin to guess. Her fingers ached, she was clenching them together so hard.
The Stone Sister seemed to flow backward, spinning and pivoting, keeping her blade high and her arm flexible. Morgan couldn’t get any closer to her than the edge of her sword—or swords, once she drew her second blade.
“Get him,” Raaf murmured beside Dari, moving his fists in rhythm with Marilia’s footsteps.
Fighting two-handed, Marilia parried and moved again and again, deflecting Morgan’s powerful lunges and even his brutal overhead swings. She regained balance, and her blades seemed to twirl like spinning lightning as she drove Morgan back toward the fence separating the apprentice bench from the arena.
None of the gray-clad apprentices moved, except to lean forward and gain a better view of the fight.
“Power and determination against skill and speed,” Raaf allowed as Marilia caused Morgan to stumble. When the crowd’s roar died, the redhead said, “An even match.”
Dari glanced down at Raaf because the boy had sounded worried. He looked worried, too, as if he could see something in this fight that she might be missing.
She quickly turned her attention back to the battle, sizing up both combatants as they disengaged and paced around each other like a pair of prowling rock cats. Both were breathing heavily already, from the exertion of their first engagement, but they both seemed oddly relaxed. Feet apart. Shoulders wide. Bodies balanced.
That’s it, Dari thought. Raaf sees that Morgan knows to keep his muscles loose and ready.
So the man must be experienced at battle, from the Dynast Guard or some other training. And calm, even though he knew this fight would end with Marilia’s death or his own. Morgan matched Marilia motion for motion, sliding his feet along the dirt to be certain his balance never suffered. Sweat beaded across his forehead, and his grip on the hilt of his single sword seemed to tighten.
Morgan’s next charge was slower. Much more deliberate—and even stronger than his first assaults. He had the measure of his adversary now. After a few parries, Marilia spun in an outward circle and
disengaged.
The crowd muttered in nervous waves, and most spectators were watching even more closely.
Before the noise died away, Marilia took the lead and sprang at Morgan, once more driving him hard toward the wall protecting the apprentices. The man gave ground easily and quickly, keeping his balance, blocking each strike. Between blows, his elbows remained bent, and his sword pointed directly at Marilia’s throat. To compensate for height, Marilia moved even closer, her two swords flashing so fast in the sunlight Dari had to blink from the glare.
As Marilia danced closer, Morgan raised his blade out of battle position, as if he might be frightened or overwhelmed, or even overmatched.
Marilia took her opportunity and lunged forward, blades extended.
“No!” Raaf jumped to his feet at the same moment Aron did, and two other apprentices Dari knew to be proficient with bladework.
Before Marilia’s tips plunged into Morgan’s chest, he made use of his advantage in arm length and drove his blade crosswise across Marilia’s throat and chest.
Her eyes flew wide, her arms jerked backward. She let go of one sword, then the other. Both blades clattered into the dirt.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan said, loud enough to be heard in the row where Dari stood with the now-trembling Raaf. Morgan stepped aside and lowered his sword as a ribbon of blood flowed from Marilia’s throat, slow for a moment, then horribly fast and thick. “I told you I was innocent.”
The crowd went silent and still again, this time in shock. Many had mouths open, or hands to their faces. Disbelief permeated the atmosphere of the arena, but Dari gripped Raaf’s shoulder to hold him still. Below them, the apprentices all stood motionless, too, faces struck with misery and grief.
A Prince Among Killers Page 8
