by L. Penelope
Given their position, she thought he might kiss her again. Her breath caught and her gaze dropped to his lips.
“If I was not already nearly late for the match…” The look he gave her made her want to clench her thighs together. He was already between them. All he needed was to—
“But there isn’t time for what I want to do.”
“Then you’d best get off me,” she said with a laugh.
He groaned and rolled away, leaving her cold without his weight on top of her. She swallowed and sat up, then took his outstretched hand and rose.
“We’ll have to hurry,” she said.
They raced through the pathways and down several levels to the arena. Since each clan celebrated the First Frost Festival on their own, the crowd that had gathered around the brawling circle was smaller than at Ember’s last match—but still represented just about all able-bodied Night Snow members, plus the unclanned who desired to attend.
A troupe of dancers was performing the Winter Totter, a graceful interpretation of the season. It was one of Mooriah’s favorites to watch every year, perhaps if she became clan she could join the dancers one day. But today, nerves about Ember’s performance kept her distracted.
They stood at the entrance to the arena, hidden in the shadows. He was so close his breath tickled her ear. “A kiss for luck?” he whispered.
She smiled, her nerves dissolved for the moment. She looked around—everyone was already inside the arena watching the dancers. No one to see their stolen kiss.
She’d intended only a peck on the cheek, but he turned his head at the last minute and their lips met. It would be so easy to shut out the rest of the world, the beating of the drums, the plucking of strings, the pounding of feet against the ground. But she knew they had to keep it short and pulled away before she fell under. Even still, she was left breathless, blinking up into his slow smile.
“Now there is no way I can lose. After the match, I need to talk to you about something.”
And with that mysterious statement, he was off, jogging into the arena to prepare. Leaving her wide-eyed with a heart that had already missed several beats.
She turned around, intending to enter through another passageway and find a seat. No one was paying attention to her, but for prudence’s sake it shouldn’t look like they arrived at the same time. But her plans were dashed when she discovered Glister standing behind her.
A scowl marred the woman’s beauty. Rage fizzed from her like steam. Her icy gaze shifted from Mooriah to the crowd beyond, where Ember had gone.
“You harlot,” she spat through gritted teeth. Then she grabbed Mooriah’s arm and, with her free hand, stabbed her with something small and sharp, muttering the words of a spell that made Mooriah’s bones feel like they were melting. She could not resist as Glister dragged her off and away from the arena.
“You think a dalliance with him will get you anywhere?” Glister seethed. “The next chieftain will be mine. I will be Lady of the Clan.”
Mooriah’s mouth would not even work to protest, her tongue was heavy inside her mouth. The music from the dancers pealed and the drumbeats thrummed underfoot— they had not traveled far—when Glister stopped in an alcove cut into the stone. With her foot, she nudged at something embedded in the ground. The covering for an old maintainer’s hatch. The clay lid was thick and round and protected the hatches that the maintainers used to service the plumbing lines and renew the firerocks.
Mooriah had never before been inside the warren of passageways used by the diminutive men and women who served the clan in that way. But now, Glister shifted the covering aside with her foot and then shoved Mooriah into the darkened pit.
She felt no pain when she landed, her body was still boneless and unresponsive to her commands. The shaft was as about three times her height and must have outlets, but she couldn’t control her body yet to investigate. She’d landed on her back and looked up at Glister replacing the cover and leaving her in darkness before disappearing.
A few minutes later, the paralyzing spell wore off and Mooriah climbed to her feet.
“Glister! Glister! Help!”
The music from the dancers still overwhelmed all other sounds. Soon the crowd would be roaring, all keyed up for the brawl. No one could hear her. And she would not be there to protect Ember.
She slammed her hand against the rock wall and screamed in frustration. But there was no one to hear her cries.
Ember wiped the sweat from his brow, never once turning from his brother’s glare. Taking his eyes off his opponent would be folly. Especially when that opponent was as ruthless as Rumble.
The two were well matched in height and weight, but Rumble had one advantage—sheer meanness. He also had access to a well of ferocious fury that Ember had never been able to tap into, and it made him brutal.
The last days spent practicing blood magery instead of training did Ember no favors either, though he’d been disciplined with his exercises for two decades—a few days here or there should make little difference.
Still, the blow Rumble had just landed on Ember’s jaw made his teeth rattle. He prodded one with his tongue to see if it was loose and tasted blood. He swallowed it down, imagining his stomach lined with stone. He heard Mooriah’s calming words in his mind, which helped him seal away his disgust.
He longed to find her location in the crowd but was almost glad he hadn’t yet—he’d want to watch her, and that was a distraction he could not afford.
The chime signaling the end of the first round sounded, and he retreated to the sidelines to swish his mouth with water. He took the time then to search for her, surprised when he couldn’t spot her immediately. His gaze had always been drawn to her like a magnet, and because of her coloring and hair, she usually stood out.
Movement across the circle drew his attention from the audience. Glister was there whispering in Rumble’s ear. Ember had had the feeling that she was attempting to ingratiate herself with both brothers, hedging her bets to ensure that she found favor with whomever would be the next chieftain.
Still, whatever she told him made Rumble’s gaze zero in on Ember and harden. A chill went through him.
The match had already been brutal, but he got the sense his brother had been holding back. This was confirmed when Rumble spoke briefly to an assistant, who then retrieved a dagger.
In fights to the short death, the second round was when the stakes were raised. Weapons were not allowed in round one because longer matches kept the crowd more entertained. But now the blades would be drawn.
Ember sucked in a deep breath and searched for Mooriah again. Somehow, he’d expected her to be in the front row. But being unclanned, she’d probably been pushed to the back by someone eager for a better view.
As long as he won, he could ensure that she never had to face such indignities again. He palmed his own dagger, his resolve hardening as the gong sounded.
Back in the circle, they fought hard, both drawing from their long experience. Ember had been battling his brother all his life and knew his tricks. He managed to nick Rumble’s shoulder, which made the man growl and retreat.
“I hear you’ve been spending time with the little sorceress,” Rumble said as they circled one another, crouching low. “Wonder where she is now?”
Ember faked right but Rumble anticipated and was there to meet him, lashing out with the blade, but Ember was too quick and avoided the strike.
“After I win, I’ll make sure she’s never initiated,” Rumble continued. “She’ll be wandering the peaks with the nomads, reduced to eating guano before she’s ever a member of Night Snow.”
Ember grit his teeth, refusing to take the bait and lose focus. “You won’t touch her because you’ll never be chief. And she will be clan. She will be my wife.”
Rumble snorted. “Wife? She’s not good enough to even be our servant. When I’m chief there will be none of these unclanned parasites hanging around. They’ll all be kicked out, left to fend for themselves in the darkland
s or on the Outside.”
Ember shook his head and took advantage Rumble’s unguarded side. In a calculated move, he slashed out and retreated, but Rumble caught his leg and flipped him. As he fell, he reached out and embedded his blade in his brother’s side, just under the ribs.
His bones rattled as he hit the ground, hard, and Rumble howled in pain.
Blinking up at the ceiling high overhead, Ember’s jaw dropped. He’d landed a killing blow. He had won.
Rumble was on his knees, holding the knife sticking out of him. Ember sat up, beginning to rise, when Rumble attacked and struck his own blade into Ember’s belly. The move was illegal, the match was already over, but worse, the burning in his abdomen made it feel like the blade was made of pure fire.
He sputtered looking down at the blood pouring from him. It bubbled and frothed unnaturally.
Poison. He stared wide-eyed at his brother.
Ember’s ward against blades would do nothing against one with a poisoned tip.
He fell back to the ground in disbelief and stared at the ceiling until the darkness welcomed him.
Chapter Twelve
Tempest of Enmity: Inflame tensions between opponents.
A fistful of ground blue ginger, two pinches star root, sweetened with rubia honey. Blood from five incisions corresponding to the Five Doorways of Breath.
— WISDOM OF THE FOLK
* * *
The sounds of the crowd rose and fell as the fight went on. Mooriah had tried everything she could think of to get herself out of this pit. She’d tried climbing, but the walls were smooth and slick. The maintainers used ropes and pulleys to get in and out, and she had none. She had beaten her hands against the rock walls until they were numb, to no avail.
She found no outlets from her dark prison. No holes to crawl through or other passages leading from where she was. Blood spells had not helped either. There was none she could think of that could make her fly or climb smooth walls. She tried to summon Oval or Murmur or one of Murmur’s family group—but nothing. Could Glister have blocked her summoning in some way? Though Mooriah was the better mage, Glister was no slouch—it was certainly possible.
Everything she tried fizzled, but it was not until the crowd grew hushed that she truly became afraid. It was as if the entire audience took a collective gasp. One of the warriors had fallen, Rumble or Ember?
She cried out again, screaming in rage and pain, when light flared overhead. She looked up to find Murmur’s face peering down at her. “Thank the Mother!” she cried. “Can you get me out of here?”
The elder waved a hand and murmured an incantation too softly for her to hear. The smooth stone of the walls changed and morphed into stairs which she used to climb out. She had no idea such a spell was possible and cursed her ignorance.
“Mooriah, I’ve been searching for you. I’ve had a vision—”
“I must check on Ember,” she said racing past him back to the arena. She sped down the aisle to the brawling circle then stopped short.
Ember lay on his back in the center, a knife protruding from his belly. The wound was putrid, the blood foamed and was tinged with a bluish tint. She approached and dropped to her knees, horror making her movements jerky. The crowd was quiet.
This was poison. Even had Ember’s wards been at normal strength, he would not have been protected from such.
Across the circle, Rumble stood with Glister. The match official had not yet awarded Rumble the winner’s ribbons, but the warrior’s expression was smug. Glister appeared flustered, her gaze returning again and again to Ember’s motionless body and his bubbling wound.
Crimson stood at the edge of the circle, his gaze stormy. Mooriah had no idea what the chieftain was thinking or feeling as he watched his son succumb to what was obviously poison, but at the moment it didn’t matter. She sank into the embrace of her Song and reached for Ember with her power.
He was nearly gone but not quite. Wanting to cry with joy, she drew away the Nethersong filling him, pulling him back from death’s door. Vaguely she heard the rising voices of an argument between the match official and Rumble, and Crimson’s voice intervening, but her only focus was on keeping Ember from dying.
He was no longer on the cusp, but neither was he healing. She fumbled for the blade at her waist and sliced both her palm and Ember’s, mingling their blood and working a forbidden spell. The damage to his organs from the blade she could patch, but she didn’t know what kind of poison Rumble had used, and it was wreaking havoc on him.
She removed the Nethersong from the substance, making it inert, but it had already worked so quickly, affecting Ember’s blood. Rumble had planned well, choosing something to kill his brother that a shaman would find nearly impossible to fix. Their magic required the patient’s blood, and Ember’s was tainted.
She looked around wildly and found Murmur only a few steps away. She pleaded with her gaze, but he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, child. This is not something I can undo. His blood is toxic, the blood cannot save him.”
“Can we purify it?” Her mind raced for a spell that would do such, but Murmur’s expression was her answer.
Her breathing became stuttered and a ringing jangled inside her head. Connected to her Song, she pulled away the Nether as it formed around Ember, but his chest had ceased to rise and fall.
Rumble’s laugh drew her attention to him. Apparently tired of the arguing, he wrenched the ribbons away from the official’s hand. “Enough! What does it matter what the rules say? I am alive; he is dead. I am the chieftain’s heir.”
He lifted a hand in the air, seeking a cheer from the crowd. A low murmur rose, but not the exuberance he seemed to want. Next to him, Glister shook with fear. Had she somehow found the blood poison and shared it with him? She seemed to be afraid of him now, but Mooriah wouldn’t put it past the woman to get in deeper than she’d expected with such a character.
“Did you hear me? I am the chieftain’s heir!” Both of his arms shot into the air, and the audience caught hold of his mood. More enthusiastic cheers rose all around, though the people still seemed confused.
Mooriah stood and faced him. “You will never be chief.”
She unleashed her Song from its tether and struck Rumble down where he stood. The cheering of the crowd echoed in her ears. How dare they applaud Rumble’s fraud? How dare they support this pretender?
Grief and rage took flight, and her Song swooped outward on wings of pain. Was this the clan she wanted so badly to join? One who would encourage this charlatan?
A lifetime’s worth of slights and judgment exploded from her, and her Song rode this wave. It took down everyone in its path; the roar of the masses was silenced.
Everyone around her fell to the ground, taken out by her power. Even Murmur was silent and still, laying prone beside her.
She swallowed, once again leashing her Song. Tears streamed down her face, and her heart hurt. All here were warded against her, they would awaken.
But Ember, her Ember.
Nethersong could not heal him. Blood magic could not save him. He needed Earthsong.
She raced to a cart used by one of the food vendors and emptied it, then levered Ember’s body into it. He was so heavy that she wasn’t certain she would even accomplish it, but pure force of will drove her forward.
She pushed the cart along the pathways and toward the only person who could help her now.
She found Fenix at the small plateau outside the tunnel. He faced away from her, staring out at the darkness beyond. Grateful that she would not have to drag Ember all the way to the cornerstone, she stopped, trying to catch her breath. Night had fallen, and a bright moon illuminated the frost, which covered not only the mountain but the farmland beyond.
“Your father has gone. He told me to tell you goodbye. You see, I knew you’d come. I…” He turned and caught sight of Ember in the cart, and the smile he wore dissolved.
She was breathing heavily and sweating from th
e effort of maneuvering the cart through passages that had not been designed for such. Ember was solid and probably weighed twice what she did. But she’d done it. Now she just needed Fenix to help.
She pointed to him. “He’s gone. I won’t allow death to take him, but he’s in a sort of limbo. I need for you to bring him back.”
Fenix frowned, staring down at Ember whose blood coated his abdomen and legs as well as the inside of the cart. It was becoming harder and harder to draw the Nethersong away from him without something else to fill it. But she would do it for as long as she could.
“Help him,” she pleaded. Whatever force had held back her emotions up until now shattered, and she bent over the cart, tears streaming down her face. Sobs heaved themselves up from deep within. She fell to her knees, fingers gripping the edge of the cart. “Please.”
Fenix’s feet came into her vision; he kneeled next to her and tilted her chin up. “Of course.” He gazed at her with tenderness and sorrow as she tried to stop her breath from hiccupping.
Fenix stood, then lifted Ember easily and lay him on the ground. Mooriah had forgotten her cloak, but even the bitterness of the cold or the frost at her knees didn’t penetrate. Grief, hope, desperation—the emotions were like quicksand seeking to pull her under.
With a wave of his hand, the frost melted and the ground beneath her warmed. She looked up, surprised. But of course, she knew little of the extent of Fenix’s power.
He knelt at Ember’s head, hands at his temples. Very quickly, a bright light enveloped Ember’s body and the knife she had been too afraid to remove, pushed its way out. The blood congealing on his skin disappeared, even his stained waistcloth was now clean.
When Fenix pulled his hands away, Ember’s chest rose and fell as if he was in a peaceful, deep sleep.
Mooriah gaped and sat back in a daze. “I— I—” She shook her head trying to clear it.
“He’ll need to sleep for a while. When he awakens, he will be perfectly fine.”