“No,” Caelan whispered, horrified. If it were true, that made his father’s cruelty even less understandable than before. “No, you can’t be telling the truth. If you did that, you would have understood me. You would know why I wanted to go my own way.”
“Your way is toward death. You stand there now, boy. Just as I warned you.”
“But I am here because of you!” Caelan cried. “You left us defenseless. You and your ideals—”
“No! Listen now and share my understanding!” Beva said sharply. “Share it, or you will die by the other’s hand. He is possessed by the taint of his own gods, and will not surrender to you. Why are you so fearful of my way, boy? Why do you close yourself against me?”
“Because you will not let me be who I am,” Caelan said.
“All men are the same!” Beva said. “You and I are the same. See it, Caelan. Understand the pattern of harmony.”
“No!”
“You walk now in the same darkness as I did. You must accept that, then leave it. Look into the darkness, Caelan, and admit that you like taking life. You like the power. You want it now. The craving grows inside you. Face it, boy! Admit it.”
Caelan was shaking. Horrified, he knew his father was speaking the truth. He did want it, the glory and strength, and yet he didn’t. The ultimate power, one life over another ... he could see a dark mist looming over him, gathering force around him and his father. He shivered and was afraid.
“You take, boy,” Beva said, drawing closer. “In healing, you take away pain and suffering. You take away disease. You take away madness and fits. You take away wrong intentions. You take what is necessary. You take the life force itself if it will help you. You take in order to work long hours without rest or food. You take in order to receive the deference and acclaim that is due you. You take in order to achieve your goals.”
“And what do you give?” Caelan asked softly.
“Give?” Beva said as though he did not know the word’s meaning. “There is no give. The pattern restores balance after you have taken. No void is left. If men with their foolish minds wish to say you have bestowed on them health or happiness or restoration or riches of the heart, that is their choice of sayings.”
Caelan could barely look at him. His fear kept growing like the dark mist, like the coldness spreading so deeply into his soul. “All your goodness is a lie,” Caelan said. “Like a piece of clothing you put on for the day.”
“In severance I take,” Beva said, unmoved. “If goodness restores order behind me, I will take the credit for it.”
“Why did you teach me differently?” Caelan asked in anguish. “When I was a boy, why did you pretend?”
“Why should I give you the truth?” Beva retorted. “Youdo not like it, now that you have it. Like all gifts, it is spurned. Truth should be earned. It should be sought. Yet have you not come seeking, by entering true severance at last? You seek me here. Will you remain blind?”
Frustration filled Caelan. He was left again, as in all his father’s lessons, derided and scorned, his failure to understand and agree like ashes at his feet. As always, Beva spoke truth and lies, so tangled together there was no dividing them.
“I did not come seeking you,” Caelan said bitterly.
Neva, fading in and out as the mist shaped itself around him, did not change expression. “But I am what you found. I am your guide into true severance.” He swept out his arm, where the darkness lay cold and waiting. “Enter, boy.”
The coldness inside Caelan was painful now, burning and intense. He stepped back, shaking his head, putting as much distance between him and his father as possible. Yet it was as though he had not moved at all. Beva was still just as close as he had been before, but Caelan had the sense of a gate shutting between them.
What did it mean?
Wasn’t the ultimate severance death?
He thought it must be, if he needed a spirit guide across a bridge into another life.
Shivering, Caelan drew back only to bump into a wall of clear ice. Turning, he pressed himself against its cold smoothness, feeling its surface melt slightly beneath the warmth of his breath. He could see through it, a distorted picture of the arena with him circling and fighting the tireless Amarouk, still bleeding but valiant, refusing to surrender or go down. Amarouk had somehow regained his feet, although he was limping and slow. Yet the black man’s arms were like steel.
“Stay with me and learn,” Beva said. “Stay with me and become what you were meant to be.”
Still watching the battle, Caelan realized what Amarouk intended to do. Ignoring Beva’s summons, Caelan hurled himself at the wall of ice, desperate to return to himself. He had to warn himself, had to—
With a snap, Caelan blinked and staggered back, finding himself back in the merciless heat of the arena. The sand was burning his feet. His shoulders screamed with exhaustion, and his arms were trembling. Amarouk sank down on one knee as though finally weakened by his wounds.
The crowd surged up, waving fists and screaming, the noise so loud it was incomprehensible.
Caelan saw Amarouk’s free hand scoop up a fistful of sand and fling it at his face even as Amarouk’s sword arm drew back.
The sand hit Caelan’s face, but he closed his eyes and twisted his body to one side so that the flat of Amarouk’s sword slid harmlessly past his belly. Caelan lifted his own sword with an effort that wrung a grunt from him and brought it down.
Amarouk’s head went spinning across the sand, spraying blood as it tumbled. His headless body continued to kneel there for a second longer; then it toppled over slowly and crashed at Caelan’s feet.
Only then did Caelan realize he had won. Gradually he became conscious of his sweat-burned eyes, the desperate sawing in his lungs, his pounding heart, and the deep burn of fatigue in his muscles.
He staggered back, and somehow managed not to drop his sword.
The crowd was cheering, “Victor! Victor!”
They did not know his name.
Caelan dragged his forearm across his face, then faced the emperor’s box and found enough strength to lift the heavy sword in wavering salute.
Someday, perhaps by tomorrow, the crowd would know his name. He had achieved the first step toward winning his freedom. One victory, despite his doubts, despite his strange talents that he did not fully understand, despite the haunting of his father.
He swallowed, conscious of burning thirst, and let the sword fall from nerveless fingers.
The guards came running out, hustling him out of the ring back into the darkness of the ramp. They did not praise him. Instead they looked shocked, as though they had lost wagers because of his upset.
At the bottom, Orlo was waiting for him with a strange look on his face. He said nothing, however, and turned Caelan away from the tub of water to hustle him on.
“Hurry!” he said. “Step lively.”
Caelan’s legs were weak and trembly now that it was over. He found himself still struggling to believe it had actually happened.
“Don’t let your head swell from this,” Orlo said, stopping him next to a wide ramp that led up into the stands themselves. Guards stood everywhere, arena men mixed with soldiers in crimson uniforms. “Mind your manners and try not to act like the barbarian you are.”
Caelan frowned, feeling bewildered. “I don’t understand. What do you—”
“Your owner wants to give you the victory crown personally,” Orlo said in a mixture of exasperation and pride. “Understand now?”
“Oh.”
“Bow. Don’t look the emperor in the eye. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Don’t linger. Don’t forget you’re nothing but a gladiator and have another day’s battles ahead of you on the morrow.”
After all the yelling and doubt, at last Orlo himself had called Caelan a gladiator. Caelan’s heart swelled with a fullness he could not express. No compliment could be higher than the one he’d just received.
He looked into Orlo’s eyes, st
ruggling to thank him, but the trainer only smiled. “I guess Traulanders can fight after all,” he said, then held out the amulet pouch.
Wordlessly, his heart too full, Caelan took it. “I—”
Orlo clapped him on the shoulder. “Hurry!”
Shoved forward, Caelan found himself flanked by imperial soldiers. He walked up the ramp, too stunned to take it in, yet beginning to feel dazzled by all that was happening so quickly. He emerged into the fading sunshine, and slicked back his long, sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.
He was met by a wall of sound. People were grinning and cheering him as well as Prince Tirhin. Caelan found it inexplicable, this sudden popularity, and warned himself none of it could be real or lasting. They had been cheering Amarouk only a short time before.
A tap on his shoulder made him turn. He climbed to the emperor’s box and found himself sweating anew. As a child he had dreamed of someday seeing this man from afar. Even his own imagination had never brought him to the point of actually meeting the ruler of all the world.
Feeling dizzy from the way his heart was pounding, Caelan kept his eyes down respectfully and moved where the soldiers pointed.
He glimpsed a flash of blue; then the prince was standing before him.
“Well, well,” Prince Tirhin said. “It seems I have found my missing property again. Thanks to you, my popularity with the common man has just jumped tenfold. That could cost me my head should my father decide to take offense.”
Caelan stared at him, unsure how to respond to his mocking words.
“What is your name?”
“Caelan, my lord.”
“I am not addressed as lord,” the prince corrected, but with a smile. “You may call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come.”
Pulling Caelan by the shoulder, the prince escorted him across the box where courtiers and their ladies stared openly or made comments behind their hands. There were court musicians present, lyres idle in their hands, and concubines with painted faces and heavy perfume. Then he was at the front, before the throne. A haggard, gray-haired man in the polished armor of the emperor’s protector stood behind it, his keen eyes missing nothing. The emperor himself was sitting on the splendor of crimson silk, sipping from a wine cup and smacking his lips appreciatively.
This was the man said to be immortal. This was the man who had dared to bargain with the gods to cheat death. This was the man who had molded a ragtag army into an invincible fighting force, the man who had proclaimed himself king, then emperor as he forged a united state of provinces that spanned the known borders of the world. This was Kostimon the Great—a legend beyond all comprehension.
“The victor at last,” he said in a gruff, amused voice. “The unknown fighter who made a mess of all my wages and confounded the touts. Hah! Come here.”
Even Caelan knew this honor was practically unheard of. He hurried forward and knelt at the emperor’s feet. The man wore soft boots of purple leather. Caelan dared not look higher. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He felt as though he were dreaming.
“You’re a barbarian,” the emperor said.
Despite his instructions, Caelan lifted his face and met the man’s gaze squarely. “If it please the emperor,” he said softly, his mouth so dry at his own daring it nearly choked him, “I am from the loyal province of Trau and was born free to good family. We are loyal to your imperial majesty, sworn to allegiance, and require no standing army to guarantee our obedience.”
An uproar rose in the box. The protector moved quickly, smacking him across the back with the flat of his sword and bending him low. “Dog!” the protector shouted. “His imperial majesty needs no lesson in civics from you!”
“Let him up, Hovet,” the emperor said, chuckling. “The wretch has spirit.”
“He has foul manners,” Tirhin said angrily.
“He’s a fighter, a scrapper, like I was once. I like him. Get back, Hovet. Leave him be.”
The protector stepped away, sheathing his sword with an ill-tempered snick of the blade.
The emperor snapped his fingers. “Well, victor, look at me again. Look!”
Slowly, Caelan straightened his aching back and met the emperor’s gaze. Legend or not, he looked to be a man like nearly any other. Kostimon had been handsome once, but his face was now weathered and creased. Dissipation had carved unfriendly lines around his mouth and eyes. His hair was white and thick. It sprang back from his forehead in unruly curls. His eyes were yellow like a reptile’s and frightening somehow, for all the amusement alight in them just now.
“Not many would dare correct me, much less in public,” the emperor said softly.
Caelan’s face burned and he bit his lip, wondering how it was he still lived. Would he never learn?
“Trau is loyal to me, as I recall. I have not been there in years. A rude, stiff-necked people not much given to hospitality.”
People chuckled around them. Caelan gathered the emperor had made a joke, but he dared not smile.
“Do you have a name?”
“Caelan E’non.”
The emperor sipped wine and settled back in his chair. “Well, Caelan E’non, you have pleased me today. You’re a terrible fighter, nothing consistent about your form at all, but you’ve cournge and heart and the guts to use them. I’ll grant you a reward. What do you want?”
Torhin frowned and looked disgruntled. Many of the others grinned and exchanged glances.
Caelan hesitated very little. “I want the chance to train with a champion team, so I can fight for my freedom.”
The emperor sat boll upright and hurled his cup away. “Damnation! What kind of request is that? Why not ask for your freedom outright?”
Even now the temptation to do that was choking Caelan. But according to barracks tales, slaves who asked the emperor for freedom were always killed. It was said to be the emperor’s favorite irony, in that death was the only genuine freedom a slave could ever know.
Caelan struggled to answer well: “Majesty, how can I ask such a request when I am not your property?”
Standing behind the throne, Tirhin relaxed visibly and even begun to smile. The protector ran his hand suddenly across his mouth.
The emperor’s yellow eyes smoldered. Glaring at Caelan, he leaned forward and gave him a little kick. “You have the slick tongue of a courtier, arena dog! How did you come to be a slave?”
Caelan’s brows knotted with the old rage, checked just in time by his own prudence. Fighting down the emotion, he lowered his gaze. “The answer would displease your majesty.”
“Hell’s garden, I’m displeased now as it is! Give me your answer!”
Caelan’s own temper rose to meet his. Setting his jaw, Caelan looked the old man in the eye. “Thyzarene raiders burned my home and sold me into slavery, majesty.
Thyzarene raiders assigned to your eastern army, but set free to plunder loyal subjects as though we were enemies—”
“Enough!” the protector shouted.
Abashed, Caelan bowed low. Silence hung over the box, and during it Caelan dared not move.
“Well, Tirhin,” the emperor said at last, snappishly. “He’s your property, as he’s had the stupidity to point out. What say you to his request to train for a championship?”
“I am not opposed to it. He’s an ill-bred dog, but he does have potential. My trainer—”
Caelan looked up sharply, but just in time managed to curb his tongue.
Still, the emperor noticed. He sighed and raised his brows at Caelan. “Truly you are a fool. Do you have an objection?”
Again the courtiers laughed, but Caelan treated the question as though it were literal.
“If it please your imperial majesty and your imperial highness,” he said breathlessly, “I would prefer to be trained by Orlo.”
Tirhin snorted, and the emperor slammed his hand down on the arm of his throne.
“By the gods, I’ve not seen the like in years! Not only does
he dare to correct me, but now he has specific instructions in how he’d like his request to be honored.”
“He needs his tongue barbered,” Hovet muttered darkly.
“Perhaps,” the emperor said, eyeing Caelan with displeasure. “Were I not in such a good mood, I might have you cut into dog meat to feed my hounds.” He snapped his fingers, and a slave put a victor’s crown of ivy into his hand.
Leaning forward, the emperor squashed it onto Caelan’s head. It was scratchy and smelled pungently where some of the leaves had been crushed.
“Hail, victor,” the emperor said, suddenly sounding bored, “Take your wretched property away, Tirhin. I’m tired of the fellow.”
Caelan somehow managed to swallow the knot of disappointment in his throat, he had gambled and lost. He tried to remind himself that today had been far from a failure. He would somehow persevere.
Standing up, he backed awkwardly away from the emperor.
Tirhin and the emperor exchanged a brief conversation in low voices, and Tirhin flushed.frowning, the prince exited the box without looking back. Caelan followed, with the soldiers flanking him again as though he might suddenly go mad and spring at one of the concubines who tittered at him.
Out of sight of the crowd, nearly halfway down the ramp, Tirhin suddenly stopped and turned around. His eyes held something unreadable.
“Are you worth the trouble of defying my father?” he asked aloud.
Caelan stared at him, not understanding what he meant and knowing he wasn’t supposed to.
Tirhin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps. He wants me to sell you to him for his own team.”
Caelan held his breath.
After a pause Tirhin laughed unpleasantly and gestured at an arena guard. “You, there. Have Orlo brought to me.”
In moments the trainer came running, still carrying his cattail club, his head bowed respectfully, his eyes shifting up in quick, furious glimpses at Caelan. “Yes, sir?”
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