The Bonding

by Imogen Keeper

He stroked a hand down her hair, as he had when she’d been a young child. “I didn’t know your mother when we were wed. We came to understand one another. Perhaps you will grow to care for the man who is selected for you.”

  Nissa didn’t want to fight. “I miss Mother,” she said instead.

  He nodded. “I do too. She was strong. She loved you.” He swallowed, as if he was about to say something else.

  Nissa turned away, to look at the crowd spread before them.

  A mass of taupe linen clothes, like those she wore, mingled with hair in shades ranging from dark black to pale strawberry red. She was struck anew by the changes that had been wrought on the Trianni people in the last five hundred years.

  Five hundred years ago, before the Vestige, before Tam, the arena had been filled with a rainbow of red dresses that had spread across stadium’s dark stones like a climbing garden. Half of the people appeared now to be more Vestige than Trianni.

  Some were still small, as though they were largely Trianni genetically, but the majority had changed. What was the difference, she wondered, not for the first time. How different were the Trianni really, in their hearts from the Vestige? From the Tribe? Did it matter?

  Were they even Trianni anymore, she mused. Their customs had changed so drastically. The Games had become so bloodthirsty, so inherently different from the way they’d been.

  The Games had been as much about intelligence as about strength back when Criamnon had won her hand. He’d solved puzzles. The contestants had to work together in teams. Politics had been as important as strength.

  The Games were barely recognizable now. The last four days had been a contest of brutality.

  The competitors drenched in crimson mud as if they’d bathed in blood. It reminded her of Tam after they’d been attacked on the cliffs.

  In the distance they blurred together, featureless. Discernable only by their bodies and the way they moved.

  At first there had been hundreds of contestants of all shapes and sizes but now, only five remained. Only the strong. Three were so large, she wondered if they’d have actually been taller than Tam. They must have been nearly all Vestige. The other two possessed a wiry strength.

  This last phase of the game would be a combat. How stupid. If only Tam were here. They wouldn’t fight to the death. Her father had decreed the blows should not be fatal.

  They’d been given small round shields and large bulky bokkens—heavy wooden swords. The rules forbade stabbing but the stakes were high. The victor won a queen and a kingdom. She hoped no one was seriously injured.

  Her father grinned, jubilant beside her. “Do you feel any excitement, daughter?”

  No. None. She said nothing.

  “You couldn’t have borrowed a red dress?”

  “No, Father. I think it would be wrong anyway.” They couldn’t make red dye yet. The berries had to cure for two years to make a stain strong enough to dye clothes.

  He looked irritated. “I’d like to bring back some of the old ways.”

  “Perhaps we shall. But for now, on the day you wish to betroth me to one of them, I should look like one of them.”

  He dropped his gaze. “You do. You’ve grown freckles on your nose. You’ve grown as muscled and tanned as a farmer’s wife.”

  Nissa glanced down at her arms. It was true. She raised her shoulder.

  Tam had been born a farmer. What would it have been like if she’d been born a simple farm girl like him, perhaps only a few miles away from his family’s farm? What if they’d found each other, if there had never been a biological attack? Could they have had a simple life together, growing blue crops instead of red?

  The crowd’s cheers rose to a fever-pitch. The competitors appeared at the deep-brown entryway of the arena. Too far away to see individual features. The sun would set in an hour or so, which put it directly in her eyes. A deliberate ploy of her father’s, to have them seated in the spotlight of the sun, but it made for a poor view.

  She cupped a hand above her eyes in a makeshift visor to block the sun but it did nothing to help her get a clear image of the five helmeted men below. They wore little in the way of clothing and all of it covered in the dark, bloodlike mud.

  Moving in tandem, the contestants beat their swords against their shields. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The crowd quieted. The contestants quieted. Her father stood, raising a loudspeaker to his lips. He spoke in Vestige, the words carefully rehearsed beforehand. “People of Trian. Let the final Game begin. Today we chose your future leader. The king of Trian will be selected this day.”

  Chingassa. Chingassa. Chingassa. The crowd’s voices rose wild. All around the stadium she saw people pumping their arms and stomping their feet.

  Her father held his hands up in a grand gesture to let the Games commence. Nissa glanced over her shoulder to see Tycho, her personal guard. He gave her a tight smile and returned his eyes to the five men below.

  “Which one is Chingassa?” she asked.

  He frowned and shook his head. Beside him she saw the five Tribe warriors who stayed with her father at all times lean forward. Tycho’s eyes tightened.

  “There’s barely any doubt that he will be victorious,” said Pinoton, from her father’s left. “Supposedly he killed all the gang members without so much as a stick. Just him and those ridiculous pants.”

  Shanchoton nodded sagely.

  “Which one is he?”

  Pinoton, Shanchoton and her father all raised their arms and pointed.

  Shanchoton spoke. “The one on the far side, farthest on the right.”

  The man was large and lean, muscles gleaming and rippling under the mud, no more than a dark blur. The way he moved reminded her so much of Tam, her stomach fluttered.

  The crowd took up a slow, rhythmic clap as the five warriors in the center of the arena spread out in a circle. Each held a shield and a sword in their hands.

  Two of the competitors were as large as Chingassa. They moved in a slow circle. Nissa leaned forward, resting her hands on the edge of the balustrade before her. The crowd quieted.

  A loud shout sounded from one of the competitors and the four other than Chingassa fanned out, to surround him.

  Tycho stepped forward, standing beside her now, leaning over the balustrade. Tribe warriors had better eyes than she did.

  “What’s happening?” she asked. “Why are they all turning to him?”

  Tycho angled his head a little, a weird smile on his lips. “They’ve made some sort of an agreement. I imagine they knew they couldn’t beat him. So they teamed up. Work together to take out the biggest threat, then every man for himself, I guess.”

  She squinted, irritatingly desperate for a view. The sun was too blinding, the action too distant. It was frustrating.

  The crowd hissed, calling out their displeasure at the turn of events. Bits of ephemera floated down from above as the crowd lobbed napkins and ribbons.

  Chingassa moved in a blur of action. Blocking with his shield. Parrying with his bokken.

  One of the small competitors darted in, moving past the others, while Chingassa was distracted but he turned like water, too fast to track. A moment later the small Trianni lay on the floor, clutching his arm.

  There was something so familiar in the way he moved. “What does it mean? Chingassa? Is that Vestige?” she asked.

  Tycho nodded absently. “Yeah, it’s never made sense to me though. It means Little- Pants.”

  She frowned. “Little-Pants? Why?”

  “I imagine because he wears such little pants.”

  Shanchoton spoke, over the shouts of the crowd. “No one knows why he wears such small pants. You’d think he could afford a larger pair.”

  Little-Pants. Her father would have her wed a man named Little-Pants.

  36

  You slay me.

  IT DIDN’T SURPRISE TAM in the slightest when the other four guys in the arena closed ranks and raised their weapons against him.

  They weren�
��t trained. They’d never fought for real before. Never anything more than rough wrestling matches over food probably. They’d been slaves. Not soldiers.

  No one had taught them how to hold a sword or a shield, how to drop and duck and take a hit.

  No one had shown them the quickest ways to incapacitate an enemy. It wasn’t a fair fight. Not really. Until you added up their numbers. Tam was good, but there were four of them.

  Two of them were small, heavy on the Trianni side of the gene pool. The other two were big. Only one of them came close to Tam in size though. He was a big guy. Tam had met him back in the holding room. His name was Walisso and he’d worked in the mines. The guy rippled with thick, honed muscles from years of swinging a hammer, and his face bore the kind of mean desperation of someone who’d spent his life subjugated and had something to prove.

  He presented the only legitimate threat on the field. He moved like Vestige. He might not have held his sword with the proper grip or positioned his body in the most effective stance but he was big and with three other guys to distract Tam, if Walisso connected and got lucky, he could probably fell Tam with a single killing blow.

  The biggest problem was the damn helmet which blocked about three-quarters of his vision.

  Tam took four steps back, a move to keep them from getting behind him, steadying his bokken and flexing his grip on the shield on his arm, peering up, twisting left and right to keep them all in his sights.

  The crowd cheered for him. Chingassa. Chingassa.

  Little-Pants. Their chosen name for him. He blocked out the noise, focused on the crunching of the other men’s leather- soled shoes on the sandy arena floor. He gridded out the distance between them and him. Eyed their legs, the speed with which they could move, the arc of their swords.

  He slowed his breathing. Steadied his still-haywire heart. It wasn’t easy because finally he could see her. In-the-fucking-flesh. Nissa. All he wanted to do was to drop to his knees and beg her to take him back. She sat far enough away that he knew she couldn’t recognize him but he could see her. The sun caressed her face like the gentlest, most ardent lover. He’d never been jealous of a sun in his life. He was now.

  He shook his head, returning his focus to the four panting men before him. Thump. Breathe. Thump. Breathe. With a quick dart, he smacked his play-sword at the closest of the Trianni, one of the small ones. A quick cut to his biceps dead-armed him. Tam hurled his shield at one of the big ones, because he didn’t need it. He’d rather have two of the bokkens. He snatched the little guy’s wooden sword, easy and smooth, and didn’t even pretend not to grin.

  A swift slap of the sword to the side of the head and the little guy went down. He’d sleep for at least another fifteen minutes. Maybe more.

  The crowd’s shouts muffled out into a solitary wave of sound. Tam retreated ten more steps, circling around, drawing them out. Thump. Breathe. Thump. Breathe. The three who remained followed his movements, following Walisso’s grunted commands.

  Tam shut out the noise. None of it mattered. The crowd’s shouts didn’t matter. Walisso’s plans didn’t matter.

  The only thing that did matter was the woman sitting in the sunlight. Would she accept him now? Would he be enough? Without the chemistry that had yoked them together, would she still want him? His belly clenched, cracking the painted red mud on his abdomen. It stuck to the hairs on his belly.

  Walisso bellowed, long and low, and all three of them attacked as a unit. Tam had two arms, each holding a bokken, and he had two legs. He’d trained his whole life for this. They had no idea what was coming.

  He couldn’t see, but his body remembered where they were and their acceleration and angle of approach. He ducked low, spinning, and took out the knees of the one closest to him, his sword crashing down on one of the big Triannis. The guy’s shield snapped in half where he blocked it. Tam loosened his grip at the very last second to reduce the ricochet as the vibrations pulsed through his sword.

  Two down. He was back at his full height, stepping over the man on the ground. Thump. Breathe. Thump. Breathe. He wanted to turn and look at Nissa. The compulsion tore through his system like a rabid animal.

  There’d be plenty of time for that later, he hoped. Walisso jumped out of the way, snarling. The other dropped his broken shield, skidding on the sand as he backed away from Tam, eyes searching avenues of escape.

  Tam shook his head, spinning the bokkens in his hands. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, grinning. “Not badly anyway.”

  Walisso shouted again, in coarse Vestige. It didn’t really matter what he said. He telegraphed his moves so clearly Tam could practically hear them.

  Walisso scurried in, sword thrashing, and the other Trianni tried to circle behind Tam.

  Something moved in the air that Tam could sense. Some battle instinct that warned him. They’d just changed their plan. This was no longer a friendly contest.

  They’d kill him if they could. Tam couldn’t kill them. Nissa wouldn’t approve of him slaughtering her people. Fighting an enemy who wanted to kill you was one thing. But fighting an enemy who wanted to kill you who you couldn’t kill, was another thing entirely.

  Breathe. He took a quick step in, feinting with his right shoulder, and smashing in with his left to whack Walisso in the side of his head.

  The man reeled backward, wobbling on his feet and shaking his head as if he was struggling to see. With Walisso preoccupied, Tam spun, and swung his sword in a long lazy arc that the other Trianni took on the top of his shield, leaving his entire right side open.

  Tam jabbed him hard in the rib, probably hard enough to crack one, but not enough to do any real damage. The man grimaced, clutching his side.

  Tam shook his head, and aimed another sound slap of bokken to the side of his pale, exposed neck. The man crumbled to the floor.

  Tam turned back in time to see Walisso regain his fighting posture. He sank down, taking his weight on his knees, backing away from Tam.

  Smart man. He’d learned something. Tam frowned, looking up at the chanting crowd. Chingassa. Chingassa. He took a quick flurry of steps closer, taking easy jabs right at the center of Walisso’s shield. The other man met them easily, blocking and growing more confident.

  Walisso’s eyes narrowed. His shoulders lowered. He dug his feet into the sandy ground, and charged, bokken swinging with enough power to crack Tam’s skull if it made contact.

  It didn’t. The guy had broadcast the move. Tam stepped lithely to the side, and landed a hard blow to the back of his head with the flat of his own bokken.

  Walisso turned to face him, confused and stunned. Tam stepped back, and watched as Walisso fell to the ground. Too easy. The adrenaline tearing through his system hadn’t been sated. He needed a good battle. Give him a trained, armed Vestige warrior to kill. He tore off his helmet, tilted his head back and expelled a single feral roar. He wouldn’t touch Nissa until he’d released some of his pent-up fury.

  When the final roar died in his throat, the sounds of the arena returned. The crowd had gone silent. Tam flexed his shoulders, rotated his neck, dropped chary eyes to the blood-mud on his body. He hated the thought of facing Nissa for the first time drenched in the stuff. Would she remember the last time he’d been covered in blood? Would it scare her?

  Tribe warriors flooded the field to haul away the wounded men for healing treatment. Tam threw his weapons to the ground.

  The crowd barely moved. Barely breathed. Disappointed probably by his easy victory. So was he.

  He strode forward, his footsteps the only sound. He stopped in the center of the arena. And dropped heavily to his knees. Bowed his head.

  The crowd lurched to life, chanting his ridiculous moniker. Little-Pants. Chingassa. Chingassa. Chingassa.

  Only one person mattered. He looked up at her. Angel-bright and everything that mattered in the universe, in the form of one tiny person, and fuck if he deserved her.

  Beside her, the king raised his arms wide, hands stretched to the h
eavens, encouraging the people to chant louder, rejoice more fully.

  This victory had been vital. Tam could only imagine how thrilled the old man must be with this turn of events.

  He still couldn’t believe the old bastard and the admiral had colluded to send Reyback for him.

  After a long round of cheers, the king lowered his arms and silence fell across the arena.

  He held a little horn-shaped loudspeaker to his lips. The king paused. Reveling in the moment, ramping up the tension. The man had changed in the days since he’d seen him last. Broken no longer. He was in his element.

  Had they told Nissa?

  “That was some victory, Chingassa,” the king said, his voice echoing across the stadium. It held amusement and maybe secret mirth.

  The crowd roared louder. Tam stayed on his knees. Sweat dripped down his chest, leaving streaks in the blood-red mud. Even now, she wouldn’t recognize him. Across the bond, he felt almost nothing from her but emptiness.

  The king spoke on and beside him, Nissa stared down.

  “I congratulate you. Our future-king.”

  Drums beat somewhere and the people chanted even louder, buzzing like a thousand plaguing flissa-flies.

  Reyback crossed the clearing, his jingling bells nearly impossible to hear under the din. He held a stack of wet towels. “Good job, lover-boy.”

  Tam didn’t make a move to take the towels.

  As Tam watched, Nissa took the speaker from her father. Her voice sounded across the arena, clearer than cold water, soft as the air. Tam let his eyes fall shut, on a long inhalation. He released a long breath.

  “It was indeed, a fearsome victory, Chingassa.” Her voice moved through his blood like one of Ajax’s medicines. Like music in his ears and sugar on his lips, an embrace on the skin.

  Be merciful and kill me now. His heart clenched in fear.

  “I do not doubt that you will become a king of whom the Trianni can be very proud.” Her voice worked on his spine, a velveteen caress, and his stupid dick got hard in his little-pants. She didn’t know he was Chingassa. Would she marry him anyway? It wasn’t reasonable but he really hoped not.