He turned his head to look at them. “I'll do my best to prove you wrong, my Lo–”
Rahne didn't get to finish his sentence as Kalik covered the distance between them in two bounds and caught him with an open-palmed slap to his face. Rahne winced as he rubbed his cheek, which stung like he'd been set upon by a swarm of harvester bees.
The blow had been little more than a love-tap. If Kalik had used a closed fist, he'd likely have had his jaw dislocated.
He's toying with me, Rahne thought. He's two hundred pounds of solid muscle with years of experience. I'm a fisherman's son. What was I thinking when I agreed to this?
Kalik moved in again, swinging his left hand in an uppercut destined for Rahne's chin. Rahne leaned back to avoid the hit and swung his own fist at the shorter man's face. Kalik ducked and landed his next blow to Rahne's gut, knocking the wind from Rahne's body. Kalik's other hand followed suit, driving a hard punch into Rahne's chin.
Rahne collapsed to the ground, trying to suck air through what felt like several bruised ribs. A great whoop went up from the crowd, who were clearly not on Rahne's side.
He expected another flurry of blows, or perhaps a kick to his ribcage, but nothing came. Kalik seemed to have backed away. He was practically dancing with joy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was going to draw out his pleasure as long as possible.
Rubbing his jaw, Rahne clambered to his feet, spitting out a gob of blood that had formed inside his mouth. He'd just resumed an upright position when Kalik charged again, but Rahne saw it in time to dodge a furious right jab, then ducked under Kalik's left fist as it swung around in a wide arc designed to take his head off.
Sensing an opening, Rahne balled up his right fist and caught Kalik with a straight jab flush to his nose. The man's head snapped back, but he didn't fall. Despite his nose looking slightly askew and the blood trickling from his nostrils, Kalik smiled as if Rahne had just tickled him.
Oh, blag.
The smaller man, taking advantage of Rahne's moment of indecision, drove a combination of punches into Rahne's gut. All the air left Rahne's lungs, and he doubled over. The reaction was enough for Kalik to grab him by his hair and drive another hard fist into the spot below his right eye socket. The ground came up to meet him, and his vision went fuzzy. His ears, however, heard every syllable as the crowd began chanting Kalik's name again.
On all fours, Rahne shook his head to regain his senses, but only succeeded in making it hurt more.
And then, above the rising tumult, he heard the words that filled him with more dread than Sekker's boasts: “Finish him!” It was Elzor's voice.
Images from Rahne's life flashed through his mind: the day his father, on one of their fishing voyages, let him rig their boat's sail for the first time; his father staggering home from the tavern, drunk, with a different woman on his arm every night; the sight of his father's body, sprawled out at the bottom of the steps leading to the docks, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his dead eyes staring up at the last cloudless sky he would ever see.
Those memories were all he had left of his father. An honest yet flawed man who had taught him how to survive the cruelties of life. A life he would never escape unless he got … up … now!
Out of his left eye, he noticed Kalik had circled around behind him. Seeing him move in for the kill, Rahne lashed out with his booted foot, catching Kalik in the shin. A satisfying yelp from Kalik's mouth was music to Rahne's ears as, for the first time, Elzor's man showed a sign of pain. But he didn't fall. Instead, his face twisted into a blood-infused mask of rage, his eyes wide and his teeth clenched together.
Kalik stepped forward, his right leg now noticeably impaired, circling back around to Rahne's front, presumably to get another clean shot at his face. He raised his fist, preparing to bring it down on Rahne's skull, but in doing so came within striking distance. In one motion, Rahne pulled himself to his knees and struck out with his left fist. It landed flush on Kalik's crotch. A cry of agony escaped his opponent's mouth, and the cheers of the crowd suddenly went silent.
Great Arantha … I hurt him!
Pressing his advantage, Rahne hauled himself to his feet and rushed at Kalik, tackling him by the legs. He had just enough weight behind the charge to knock the shorter man off his feet. They both hit the ground, sending up a small cloud of dust. Landing on top, Rahne straightened up and laid another blow on Kalik's face, widening the stream of blood flowing from his nose.
Kalik drew his right fist back and, because Rahne's depth perception had left him, he failed to see it in time to block it. His last-second attempt to dodge it was feeble, and the teeth-rattling strike caught him on the chin. His head snapped back, and pain exploded in his brain again. He didn't even see the blow that followed, a punch that impacted his sternum so hard he could swear he felt his heart stop. He fell backward, his legs splayed, all the fight gone out of him. Pain like he'd never felt in his life wracked his body, radiating to every one of his limbs and making it a struggle to breathe.
Well, I tried. At least it'll all be over now.
Through a foggy haze, Rahne opened his eyes to see Kalik kneeling on top of him. The scowl on the man's face as he grabbed a tuft of Rahne's hair was murderous. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he drew his other fist back.
May Arantha protect my soul.
“Kalik!” came Elzor's voice.
Rahne couldn't see Elzor from where he was, lying supine with Kalik on top of him. Several Elzorath had pressed forward to get a closer look at Rahne's ultimate defeat, but they too were looking at whom he presumed was their leader.
“My Lord?” Kalik seethed, obviously disappointed to have his victory interrupted.
“That's enough.”
Out of breath, yet itching to continue, Kalik's face finally relaxed, as did his fist.
And then, the most unexpected thing happened.
A toothy, bloody smile appeared through Kalik's facial hair. Rather than hit Rahne again, he gently slapped his uninjured cheek, like they were the best of friends. “Ya fight dirty, boy. I like that.” Then he took Rahne's hand and hoisted him to his feet.
Threads of pain shot through Rahne's head again, and he had to lean on Kalik's beefy arm to keep from collapsing. Steadying himself, he looked at those who would decide his fate. Elzor's eyebrows were raised in what Rahne hoped was a gesture of admiration. Elzaria, too, looked impressed—meaning she didn't look like she wanted to fry him like a fish—and even Langon's stony countenance had eased.
“So how long did I last?” Rahne said in as loud a voice as he could manage. Many Elzorath laughed, but for the first time, he felt like they were laughing in his favor, not at his expense.
“Langon?” Elzor asked his general.
“Eighty-three seconds, more or less,” the burly man said.
The final judgment, of course, was Elzor's. He stared at Rahne for several moments, and then nodded. In a voice loud enough for all to hear, he announced, “Welcome to the Elzorath.”
A great whoop went up from the crowd, and several men who had been fanatically rooting against him mere moments ago came forward to give him a friendly jostle and a slap on the back. This, unfortunately, sent him into another wave of pain, but this torment he was happy to endure.
Elzor was still staring at him. “Have you the strength to saddle the lawgiver's merych, Rahne?”
Rahne could barely speak, his jaw hurt so much, and his ribs felt like he'd been hit by a charging chava. But he'd passed Elzor's test. He faced his new leader, smiling the most painful smile of his life. “Yes, My Lord.”
“Then do so immediately. We leave Agrus within the hour.” And with that, he strode away, Elzaria right behind him.
As he watched them depart, Rahne could only wonder where this new path would lead him.
Chapter Ten
The innkeeper, a bald man in his forties with a scraggly mop of hair and a trim brown beard, almost threw his back out bowing as Mizar strode thro
ugh the door. He wasted no time directing Mizar and Vaxi to their rooms. He also informed them that Sen was waiting in the dining room, and that he'd had his cook prepare the best meal the King's Rest was capable of serving, in honor of the High Mage's visit.
The room was slightly larger than the one Vaxi had occupied in Deegan's home. It housed a bed-frame with a soft mattress, a small table and chair, several shelves, and a medium-sized clay pot in the corner. On the table was a pitcher of clean water. She took a few minutes to moisten her hair and, using two small wooden rings, tie her hair back into a simple braid.
Refreshed, she joined Mizar and Sen in the dining room. It was a large, enclosed space, with many tables of various sizes and a warm, comforting fire ablaze in a small pit in the center, over which several containers of a boiling, sweet-smelling liquid brewed. Their table was in the back corner, presumably to keep their conversations as private as possible.
Both men rose as Vaxi made her way to the table. A variety of aromas, each one more wonderful than the last, filled her nostrils as she sat. A roasted bird that Vaxi could not identify graced a platter in the center of the table, surrounded by an assortment of vegetables and several fist-sized rolls of bread. Next to that was a small cauldron of bubbling soup that smelled so tasty she wanted to just dive right in. Her favorite smell, however, came from a large pitcher of steaming brown liquid that gave off a scent both spicy and sugary. That must have been what Mizar called honey cider.
As he had all day, Sen conspicuously avoided looking at her, instead concentrating on the food. His standoffish attitude was starting to annoy her. Right now, however, she was too hungry to care. Allowing Mizar to serve himself first, she ladled some soup into her own bowl before using a provided knife to carve a slab from the side of the bird onto her plate.
“Thank you,” she said to Mizar between mouthfuls. “For the arrows.”
Mizar looked up after taking a hearty gulp of his cider and nodded. “You are quite welcome. I know the bow is your weapon of choice, but it would make me feel better if you also took this.” He reached into his cloak and produced a small metallic object, which he laid on the table in front of her. It was a small dagger.
She picked it up, sliding it out of its sheath. The hilt looked similar to several swords displayed on Sevrin's wall, with a circular pommel at the top of the handle. Inside the circle was an engraved symbol she didn't recognize. Gripping the handle, she felt hard metal underneath the tightly-bound strips of rust-colored cloth. The hilt-guard was unremarkable, only a couple inches from end to end. The blade itself was about the length of her hand, and it tapered to a point that looked so sharp it could slice the air itself.
Vaxi halted her inspection when she saw both Mizar and Sen studying her reaction.
The gift worried her. She was on her way to Castle Randar, the home of King Aridor. Why would she not be safe there? Why would she need a dagger?
Unless …
She fixed Mizar with a concerned stare. “Did you have a vision? Am I in danger where we are going?” Sen also looked at Mizar, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing.
Mizar held up his hands with a disarming smile. “No, nothing like that, my dear. Just an instinct I have. Sometimes, that's all a person has to go on. As a huntress, I would think you'd understand that.”
She placed the dagger back on the table. “I do. But such a gift –”
“Is well within my means,” Mizar interrupted. “In the world you are about to enter, sometimes it is necessary to protect oneself. Should you and I be separated, this dagger will help you do that. It should fit snugly inside your boot, and is a useful tool in many situations that a bow is not.”
Curious to see if he was right about the fit, she reached down and slipped the dagger into her left boot. The sensation of the weapon pressing against her skin was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. “I humbly accept your gift, High Mage. What does the symbol mean?”
Mizar grinned. “It is an ancient Elystran symbol that means 'protected one'.”
She looked over at Sen focusing on his half-empty plate, and she bristled again.
To combat her growing irritation, she took a slow sip of cider. It was like swallowing pure, comforting warmth. During the cold season back in the village, the tribe's head preparer, Aarna, would often concoct her special brew of spicy tea and fruit juice along with several herbs, and it would warm Vaxi's insides for hours. This, if it were possible, was even better. It was like wrapping oneself in lyrax pelts on a frigid night.
Just then, shouts and a loud rush of footsteps sounded over the crackle of the fire. The innkeeper bustled into the dining area, bowing as he reached their table. “Forgive me, High Mage,” he panted. “We are in need of your assistance.” His face was flushed, and he was wringing his hands in agitation.
Mizar dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “What is it, Varan?”
“The tavern down the street has caught fire!”
Mizar jumped to his feet, clapped the crumbs from his hands, adjusted his cloak, and took a deep breath. “I will be right back.”
“Do you want us to accompany you, Master?” Sen asked.
He shook his head. “No, you remain here. I will send for you if the need arises.” Then he turned on his heel and followed Varan out the door to the street.
Vaxi watched him leave, her eyes drifting to an elaborate tapestry on the far wall after he disappeared from sight. It was a vivid representation of the ringed city of Thage, though it appeared to depict a time when the city was not as large or populous.
A soft scraping sound drew her attention back to Sen, who had pushed his plate away from himself and was staring at his hands. She waited for him to meet her gaze, but he stubbornly refused to do so.
She considered reproaching him, but stopped herself when she remembered what Mizar had told her about Sen's childhood. His father treated him much the same way her grandmother treated her, treatment that often included painful reminders of what a failure she was and how she could never live up to the standards set by her mother, Ilora.
She'd tried, year after year, to improve herself in Susarra's eyes, becoming one of the Ixtrayu's best trackers and archers despite her young age. No matter how much praise Runa or her sister huntresses gave her, no matter how many kova she successfully tracked and killed, all she got when she returned home was her grandmother's disapproving frown. Nothing Vaxi did, she'd finally realized, would be enough to earn Susarra's approval. Just like it had been with Sen and his father.
And now, thanks to the information she'd provided, Sen knew why his mother had hand-delivered him straight to his father: it was for no other reason than that he was a boy.
It wasn't hard for Vaxi to figure out who among the Ixtrayu could have given birth to Sen. Only three had healing abilities that could have been passed along to him. Katura was far too old to be Sen's mother. Sershi was far too young. It could only be Lyala.
Because of Vaxi's many injuries, she'd been to see Lyala numerous times over the course of her adolescence. Though Lyala hadn't spoken directly to Vaxi about her children, she'd once overheard Kelia say that Ixtrayu mothers who had to give up their sons often did so reluctantly, and for Lyala it had been especially difficult.
Looking at him now, it struck her just how alike Sen and Lyala were, as well as how much he resembled not only Lyala but her daughter Sershi: they were all tall, thin, quiet, and studious, with dispositions that seemed outwardly fragile but hid an inner strength. There was also a sadness that emanated from them, a sense of loss that hung in the air around them like a mist.
Eight hundred years of tradition. The Ixtrayu had accomplished so much. But it hadn't been without casualties.
Vaxi reached out and placed a hand on Sen's wrist. “Sen?” Her voice was a hushed whisper, and she hoped he wouldn't lash out.
Inch by inch, he raised his head. A fierce storm brewed in his sky-blue eyes. He said nothing.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
Aga
in, she waited for him to reply, to pull away, to bow his head again. For long seconds, he just continued to stare at her. Finally, a barely audible “For what?” escaped his lips.
She lowered her voice to match his. “For what your father did to you. For what my people did to you. For what I did to you.”
He stared at his plate again. “You didn't do anything to me.”
“I struck you. Twice. I know I hurt you.”
“You were delirious. And I healed myself afterward.”
“You're not … angry?”
He shook his head.
She squeezed his hand tightly. “Then why won't you talk to me? Why won't you even look at me?”
His shoulders slumped, and he let out a sigh as he met her gaze again. “For most of my life, I wondered why I was brought into this world. I wondered why any woman would choose to mate with such a bitter, hateful man as my father, let alone abandon a helpless child to his care. Every second of every day, he and his other sons made me feel worthless. I used to dream of my mother coming to rescue me from that place. But it never happened.
“When I turned sixteen and was finally old enough to fulfill King Sardor's decree that I travel to Dar and be tested for Wielding abilities, I was sure my father would find a way to stop me, to keep me under his thumb. But he didn't. The day I left, he gave me no provisions, no well-wishes, not even a single coin from his bulging purse to make my journey easier. All he said was, 'Finally, you'll be someone else's problem.' ”
Vaxi winced at the words, the tone of which was all too familiar.
He continued, “It took me seventeen days. I had to beg for transport, for money, for food every step of the way. But I made it. That day, there were forty other boys my age, from all over Darad, standing in front of the Castle Randar. I'd heard stories about the place, but seeing it in person … it was wondrous. Magnificent. A fitting home for the King of Darad.
“We were led into the castle and through a large gate that led directly into Mount Calabur. No one spoke as we emerged into the Crystal Cavern, the single largest room to be found anywhere on Elystra.” He smiled. “Master was there, and he greeted us as if we were all potential apprentices. One by one, each boy stood on the Nexus, waiting for Arantha to reach down and touch him. He didn't, of course. Apart from Master, no boy had been revealed as a Wielder in the last forty years.”
Queens (The Wielders of Arantha Book 2) Page 7