The pain of this exchange, this taking of death and giving of life, brought her to her knees many times. At these times, the wounds she took in were her own and she wore them openly, but she maintained her walk among the squads until she reached the farthest ranks. Here it was G’rkyr’s will and G’rkyr’s will alone that allowed her to keep her feet and walk with steady determination back to the sunlounger. Through it all, she took of G’rkyr’s strength as much as she dared. By the time she sat and resumed her scrutiny of the Prince of Praxix, she was again herself. G’rkyr, on the other hand, could hardly keep his feet, but he hid his weariness well.
“Indeed, full of surprises,” the prince said. “Your mastery of light is as strong as your mastery of shadow. Both things you wanted me to know.”
Dierá’s gaze focused on the prince alone even as G’rkyr dismissed the squads and Nostik showed the warriors the way out. “These are the deepest of my gifts, and I lay them bare so that you may know me as I will come to know you.”
She waited until certain there was clear understanding between herself and the prince, then she told G’rkyr, “Remove him. Send in Nostik.” To Nostik, she said, “Fetch the young ones.”
Exhausted as she was, she felt like celebrating this victory. The young ones she referred to were her musicians. Her discovery of the luven’s aptitude for music pleased her immensely. Theirs was a natural talent. She put it to use playing the romantic operas her father so loved.
The luvens’ glass and wind instruments helped her recreate the most haunting theme imaginable—that of Veden’s 50th Summer, which drew together the romantic ideas of love and death and played on the contact between the natural world and the worlds beyond. The power of storm was in that music as was the strength of earth.
Her favorite instrument was the glass organ with its pedals and spinning bowls. The luvens secreted a sweet fluid from their hands; they used this to keep their fingers wet while they played the spinning bowls. When stroked just right, the sounds that sprang forth evoked images of wind blowing across fields, down rivers, and through forests. It was transcendent, sublime.
Dierá had not heard music played so beautifully since her mother lived. Her mother played the concert harp in ways that moved listeners to tears; luvens achieved as much with their simple winds and odd glass. She fell asleep even before the luvens finished the first movement.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Yarr heard a faint shifting and slipped his eyes open a touch, reluctant to leave the drau world where Dierá called to him. He saw the white bone first, sharpened and made into a blade. The hand that held it next. The new ones are a danger to themselves, he thought to himself. “To slit my throat, you’ll need to move quieter, Arger,” he said in the Rweng language, making no move to defend himself.
The other replied in the same blunt tongue. “Scaet, if I wanted you dead you’d be. I want you afeared is all.”
Yarr sat up. “I’m sure wat not as it may.”
“Mock, scaet, while you’ve wind to dwy it.”
In one swift, fluid movement, Yarr reached out, gripped the other’s wrist, and turned the blade back to its owner’s neck. “I told you. I did what the masters wished. Nothing more. Twinnit?”
The fire in Arger’s eyes increased. “Uog was as brother to me. Slit my throat if you must for I will slit yours when I’ve a chance.”
Yarr dropped the sharpened bone to the floor, leaned back with an arm behind his head. “Let me go to my dreams. I will kill you soon enough. Then you can join Uog.”
“Death, is it so easy to your hand?”
“It is.”
“More’s the pity. Auy. I will see Rwe again. I will walk its paths. Erland is my homeland. Wat where I will die.”
Yarr responded by closing his eyes. He heard the tall Erlander pick up the bone knife and tuck it into the back of his pants. Then the other retreated to the opposite corner of the cell. Go, he told the other in his thoughts. I have no need of you.
He had pledged to stop trying to befriend those the ageless put in the cells with him. It was easier to kill them when the time came if he did not know them, and the time for death always came. He had no control over it. He had no control over anything or anyone.
Only thoughts of Dierá kept him. She was the whisper, the thought, the dream that staved off madness. Often he wondered if she was real and not a thing conjured of a need. He conjured his mother and father of a need. They spoke to him from the blessed land. At times he even walked with them in Élvemere—the place that was also whisper, thought, dream.
Though he had long since been unable to, he tried to see Dierá’s face. He saw her form in his mind’s eye, caught snatches of her voice in his ear, yet there was no substance to any of it, and her face remained as elusive as ever.
Yarr focused, tried again to see Dierá’s face. She called to him. Only something was different. Something was changed. For a fleeting moment, he thought the voice was that of Akharran, as the Wërg queen was ever with him. Of all the faces hers was one he had not forgotten, and he always could see her clearly. But the voice was from without and not from within.
“Arger,” he said without opening his eyes. “I told you I would kill you later, but if you persist—”
“Yarr, it is I, Martin. Martin of Voethe.”
Yarr went to the bars of his cell, looked out at the dark-haired man of Voethe. “What passes?” he asked.
Martin replied in the language of the Élvemere, “You’d know yourself if you could bite your tongue.”
Purposefully, Yarr replied in the language of the Kingdoms of Men, “It is not in me to submit or kneel. I know not why, I only know that I cannot.”
“Then you will rot in this cell.”
Yarr cast glum eyes to Arger in the far corner. The angry Erlander spoke Rweng and little else. “Tell your masters to return. I am ready to go to the pit.”
“I will not. It would mean your death. You fought yesterday— and they are your masters as well as mine.”
“I have no masters. I am death.”
—
To task, Martin told himself. The dream, the plan. Plans within plans. He stopped midstride, turned, grabbed at Yarr through the bars but Yarr was too quick for him. “Will you stop this foolishness? I pledged for you and you’ve brought me nothing but misery. Would you prefer if I left you to die?”
“I am dead. I am unseen. You are too, only you refuse to accept your fate.”
“Truly? When I do not breathe, I want for air. When I do not eat, I hunger. When I do not drink, I thirst. You take breaths same as me. You must eat and drink same as me.”
“Death is mine, I am hers. I’ve her marks to prove it,” Yarr said, pointing to the lines etched in the near wall.
“I’ve long since known the marks were not to track the passing of days,” said Martin. “You mark death to take account and find absolution, and if you must know, I’ve judged you and found you not wanting. You take no joy, no revelry, in it.
“You knew I was no soldier. You and you alone kept me alive in this place when all others would have left me to die. Within you beats a kind heart. I believe in you even if you’ve long since stopped believing in yourself.”
Though he did not reply with words, Martin saw an answer in Yarr’s eyes. That answer was pain. Pain as deep and profound as the deepest of rivers, and that pain ran through Yarr, devouring him. “Submit. It is all the masters ask. Bend your knee. Kiss your blade. Swear your oath.”
Yarr spat. “There’s to your oath.”
Martin grabbed at Yarr through the bars. Yarr made no move to step away. “You are as brother to me. If I had but half your gifts, I could rule Cyvair in ten cycle’s time with the masters’ blessings, and yet you waste your talents as you waste your life. Look at me, Yarr, I have aged.
“My beard grows thick and full if I wish it. My father would say it means I am a man now. Yet you have not aged a day. You look the same as you did five winters past.
“Do you not understand that
my people are not long lived? I must live a lifetime in the span you say is but a turning of the hand. I will die of old age before you enter the full depth of your manhood—if you live that long and do not die here in this place.”
Yarr took a step back as Martin released him. “You don’t know how old I am, Martin. Don’t presume that I am not yet of a full age.”
“I’ve seen others of Élvemere. Cyvair is rife with them. If you ever get beyond this cage, you’d see that too. Perhaps you’d even find some of Lekloren.”
“You know I can’t.” Yarr said nothing of the grave danger in such; this was unspoken but implied. He had never purposefully told Martin who he truly was, though Martin had learned it. They had shared the cell for several cycles and Martin had brought him back from death once. Any other, Yarr likely would have killed to keep such a secret—or simply let die when the opportunity arose, which it often did, but Yarr trusted Martin and Martin trusted him.
“If ever I was of Voethe, you are of Lekloren. Your fair hair and steel gray eyes, your build, your idioms—all these things declare it to all who see you if they know anything of the Hundred Worlds.”
With a soft focusing of the way and will, Yarr changed the color of his eyes to a deep rich red. The color of blood and crimson. His price for using the forbidden was pain, which Martin watched him fold into the pain he already wore as if a shroud. “I was told once that nothing happens by chance. Perhaps there is a reason I must be in this ‘cage,’ as you call it.”
“The only reason is your pig-headedness.”
“This ‘pig’ you are so fond—”
“A beast with…with…You know this…” Martin’s voice trailed off as he saw the faraway look in Yarr’s eyes—the look that told him Yarr was no longer in the here and now. He clenched his hands in fists and stalked off, returning to his duties. Chasing tears from his eyes, he looked back and shouted out in Cikathian, which served as a common language in Cyvair, “Die then. Your death is as nothing to me.”
In his haste to get away, Martin knocked into the Trojk Master of Keys and a book fell out of his inside pocket. He scooped it up, stood and met the master’s eyes. This possession brought a capital punishment. Martin knew this and yet he willingly risked it. When the Trykathian looked the other way, Martin knew what Yarr also knew in that instant. Yarr was being called forth. The pit awaited.
As if in unspoken answer, the Master of Keys opened Yarr’s cell and called him forth. Then the Master of Keys called Arger forth.
Martin’s step quickened as he raced away. There’s time yet, he told himself. This thing that comes can be turned away—it must be.
—
Yarr stepped out of the cell. He watched Martin recede down the long, straight corridor, resolved that he would never tell Martin the real reason he preferred the pit to the master’s halls. In the pit, all were enemies and no one had yet proven his match. In the master’s halls, his enemies would have the faces of friends and rusecraft would bring his end. Better to be Yarr, the pit fighter, than Rastín Dnyarr Túrring, the dead son of a dead king from a dead land.
He walked alongside the Master of Keys. Arger followed a step behind. The master was a tall Trykathian with a girth more akin to an ancient oak than anything else. Though oafish in appearance, he was kind, and Yarr never made the mistake of underestimating him as others did. In battle, Trykathians were fearless and their thick skin gave them great advantage. One did not slash and slice a Trykathian. One stabbed and hacked a Trykathian, and hoped to dig deep enough to draw blood.
“Listen closely,” the old Trykath said. His voice was almost a whisper, though it did not need to be for Yarr was certain Arger could not speak Cikathian. Uog knew not a word of it—even after a turning of trying to learn it, hadn’t. The language was simply too foreign to his tongue and ears. “This is the second and final day, but soon a tenday of games comes. The spectacle marks the rising glory of Makhatar. Survive the stage this day and you will still die. It is divine will.”
Yarr did not speak. Instead, he counted his steps. The maze of tunnels between the pits and cells were impossible to navigate otherwise. By the count and turnings he knew the key master led him to the far side. He would be close to the masters at the start of it. This meant the one who called him forth wanted to know or study him—or perhaps watch him die.
“Yesterday’s spectacle was as nothing. This battle you will play at is where the death of your people began as surely as it is where the divine’s rise began.”
Yarr’s thoughts turned dark, to the coming fight and the bloodletting. Death comes for us all, he told himself. Embrace death to live. To the master, he said, “I will not die because of anyone’s wish.”
“The whisperers have turned the mob against you. They say you are soulless, that you must die for the glory of the Hundred Worlds.”
The Trykathian stooped down, circled through his keys. Yarr took a step back and away. It was here at the pit doors that the desperate tried to overwhelm the key master. Yarr’s act told the old master that he had no intention of doing such a thing.
The same was not true of Arger. This was his first time to the pits. He knew of them from Uog and feared his own mortality.
Yarr watched Arger slip the bone knife from its hiding place. Arger reeked of fear. Fear no doubt controlled him.
Arger stepped in with his blade, reaching for a place in the Trykathian’s back. Yarr jumped, brought his elbow down on Arger’s arm, followed up with a knee to Arger’s chin.
Arger dropped the knife, stepped back, hands held to his bloody mouth. “I’ll kill you, scaet.”
“Likely not.”
Arger took a swing at Yarr. The Master of Keys shoulder -butted him into the pit. Yarr picked up the bone knife, slipped it into a calf pocket in his hidepants. The Trykathian bobbed his head in thanks as Yarr stepped into darkness.
The Trykathian closed the door, whispered to Yarr as he did so. His words in Cikathian. “One above all others has come to see your death. He is titanus.”
The light from the doorway shrank to a sliver. Yarr nodded, looked out at the master from the darkness. The Master of Keys reached into the darkness with his words. “Tolleck block will be empty without you.”
Yarr grinned, certain the words were as close to kindness as the Trykathian could offer. He looked up, no sadness or regret reflected in his eyes. “My bones are yet my own.”
“Auy, agreed,” the Master of Keys said. He handed Yarr a gilded coin or token of a sort, carved with the image of a lady. “She is Beqheth, Mother of the Warrior. She will keep you if any can.”
Yarr nodded his thanks, gripped the charm in his fist. The thick rounded metal felt cool against the flesh of his palm. He secured the charm in a hidden pocket partway up the tight sleeves of his hideshirt. The Master of Keys closed and locked the pit door.
When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the pit in its entirety. The weapons and armor cache were in the middle of the chamber. Allowing him into the pit before the others was a courtesy the master gave him. Although Erlanders could not see in the dark as those of Élvemere, Arger had already helped himself to its contents. Yarr told the other, “Cast off that heavy shield and helm. They’ll do you no good.”
Arger spat, swung the shield in a wide arc. “You only want them for yourself.”
“They are overweighted, poorly made. They’ll slow you down.
You’ll find your end sooner.”
“You are no friend to me. I’ll take my chances.”
Yarr sifted through mostly poorly made goods for the stupid and the weak, found a sword with good balance, a serviceable dagger, and a spear with a sharp tip. “I was friend to Uog, who you said was as brother to you. He died with honor, and it was not my will to bring his end.”
“Rwe waits for me. I will walk its paths to Erland before my spirit rests, and then I will go to Aegot.”
“Aegot doesn’t even know you exist—” Yarr edged toward the other as he spoke. “—
and your spirit will be traveling sooner than you think. Might as well take you to Rwe myself.” His words ended as he struck out with his fists. His first blow crushed the Erlander’s nose. His second boxed the side of the Erlander’s head.
The Erlander staggered forward, crying out into the darkness. “Scaet, your death comes.”
Yarr jumped up, thrust down into the small part at the base of the other’s throat with both elbows. This brought Arger to his knees, where Yarr’s well-placed kick found the side of his head, sending him to the dirt in a heap. Arger was in pain but mostly intact.
“I told you the helm and shield were useless.” Yarr stripped Arger of the armor, tossing both helm and shield away before thrusting the spear, dagger, and sword into the ground at the other’s feet. “Use the spear to stave off the first charge. If you still draw breath, use the sword. Use the dagger at the last for the close work.”
Arger looked up, both hands held to his nose to stem the flow of blood. “Why crush me and then help me?”
“You Erlanders are here only for the blood count. You are plentiful and die quickly. The crowd likes it. I like to remind the masters that even those they deem weak can be strong. So be strong, Erlander, and perhaps you will live through this day. Then perhaps, when it is your time, Aegot will know you as I’m certain he knew Uog.”
—
The machines awoke with the whines of their pulleys. The earth trembled. The floor of the pit began to rise. Yarr readied himself.
The light came. A sliver at first, then a shaft. Soon Yarr could see beyond the darkness. He spread his arms wide, hefting a spiked chain in one hand, a long-headed spear in the other.
The gathered masses came alive. Yarr turned a wide arc. His eyes found his foes while his mind took the balance of each.
He felt the presence then, a soft touch at the back of his thoughts. It spoke without speaking, telling him who had come to see his death.
He answered as ever with action, showing the watcher that death would find others and not him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rise of the Fallen Page 13