The Narrowing Path: The Complete Trilogy (The Narrowing Path Series Book 4)

by David J Normoyle

  Bowe leaned against a wall. “I’m not leaving until you ask Legrand if he’ll see Bowe Bellanger.”

  The clerk sighed deeply enough to suggest that the weight of the world’s afflictions rested upon his shoulders, then lifted up his sheet of paper and returned to reading. After a moment, he got up and went to a door at the back and ascended the stairs there. A while later, he came back down the stairs, returned to his desk, and sat down. He didn’t say anything, and Bowe had to suppress the urge to strangle him. After a long pause, he looked up again and pretended to be surprised to see them there. “Why are you still here? Didn’t I tell you Legrand would see you?”

  Bowe ground his teeth. “No, you did not.”

  “Well, hurry up. Through that door, up the stairs—don’t keep him waiting.” He pointed at the stairs he’d taken.

  Bowe blew out a mouthful of air, then walked across the room and took the stairs, followed closely by the others. They emerged into the open-ended room that was the heart of the Brow. Bowe had seen it before, of course, from below. It looked rather different from this perspective. It was long and shallow, with only short walls on both sides and opposite; where the fourth wall should have been was a wide rectangle of sky, sea, and cityscape. Bowe felt a moment of dizziness. An optical illusion made it seem that the floor sloped downwards toward the opening. Several tables and chairs lined the edge of the room.

  Legrand, the Eyemaster, was sitting at a large desk that occupied one corner. He looked very different from when Bowe had last seen him. His hair was no longer scarlet; instead, it was parted in the center, with one half dyed white and the other half black. It was long and straight and came down to just below his shoulders. He wore a solid scarlet outfit—similar to Bowe’s ascor ball outfit, except in Grenier scarlet instead of Bellanger azure. Four light pink-clad marshals stood at attention beside the door, two on each side.

  “Hello again.” Legrand stood, approached Bowe, and extended his arm.

  Bowe clasped the arm. He gestured to Thrace, Edison, and Sorrin. “This is—”

  “Yes, yes, we’ll get to the introductions shortly.” Legrand ignored Bowe’s companions and placed his arm on Bowe’s back and guided him to the edge of the room. “You started a trend with your colorful outfit at the ball. What do you think of mine?”

  It’s like your clothes are screaming, Bowe thought. “Very nice. I can’t wait to see it in combination with your scarlet hair.”

  Legrand led Bowe between the tables and chairs and they stopped at the precipice. They looked down into the Eye, where a fight was in progress. The fighters’ swords clanged as the closer one made wild swings at his opponent, who blocked each blow, stepping backward. Around them, the crowd roared their approval. “Scarlet hair with a scarlet outfit might be a bit much, even for me,” Legrand said. “I like the black and white hair for the Eye, though. Suitable, don’t you think?” He gestured down at the fighting men. “Two different sides. One will live and one will die. Who will it be today?”

  Bowe could feel the subtle pressure of Legrand’s hand on his back. He was nervous about philosophizing about life and death so close to the edge of this room. He’d likely be just seriously injured rather than killed if he fell...or was pushed. Though a serious injury on the Path might as well be death. “What I dislike most about Eye fighting,” he said, “is that it is often clear who will die before the fight even begins.”

  “Not at all,” Legrand said. “Not knowing who will win is essential to the drama of the Eye.”

  Bowe frowned. “For example, I could take a guess that the man down there swinging his sword like an axeman trying to fell a moving tree isn’t going to beat the muscled warrior who is blocking his blows without breaking a sweat.”

  “I don’t think that particular escay would have a chance against anyone. We might as well put him up against someone who can show the crowd some of the artistry of death. But not all fights are like that.”

  “What’s in it for the escay besides certain death?”

  “A chance. The winner’s purse might save him. At this time of year, there’s many people who won’t survive the Infernam without a few more golds, so the impossible gamble is preferable to boarding a funeral barge with a rock.” Legrand smiled. “Now what can I do for you?”

  Right now, Bowe didn’t want anything to do with the Eye or fighting in it. Remembering his previous visit, the sight of the Eye made him feel ill, and the vertigo didn’t improve matters. But Edison wanted this. Perhaps Bowe could guide Legrand toward not giving Edison a fight while pretending to push for the opposite.

  “What did you think of my Harmony skills?” Bowe asked.

  “Most impressive. If someone had told me at the start of the day that we would decide in your favor, I would have laughed.” Bowe detected the hard edge of anger underneath his oily smile. “But now that you’ve won the match, I’m looking forward to seeing you in action against the Guardians.”

  Bowe smiled back at Legrand. His words said one thing, but his eyes said another. Bowe no longer wondered if Legrand knew he had been manipulated at the match; Legrand looked like he wanted to tell Bowe to take a flying leap. Bowe took another look down at the Eye—the escay was clearly tiring, and the Eye fighter was moving in for the kill—and swiveled out of Legrand’s grasp. If Bowe were going to take a flying leap, he didn’t want it to be off the Brow. “After you voted for me in the Harmony match, I’m loath to ask another favor of you. But there’s something that only you can help me with, and I feel we have a—” Bowe moved his hands back and forth between Legrand and himself.

  “A connection?” Legrand displayed the oily smile with the hard edge again—he was getting worse at hiding his animosity.

  “A connection—exactly. Why you wear robes in your family colors just like I did. We think alike. Now, the favor: my friend Edison wants to fight in the Eye.”

  “You don’t need my help for that. He can give his name to my man downstairs and he’ll get sorted out.”

  “Yes, but—” Bowe paused, striding away from Legrand to the other side of the room, trying to build up the drama of the moment, hoping to antagonize Legrand even more. “Edison is not desperate like that escay down there. For him, the winner’s purse, while welcome—” Bowe turned and strode back towards Legrand. “—is not worth throwing his life away for. He has other options.” His last sentence was followed by a scream, and Bowe looked down to see the warrior’s sword skewering his opponent. Blood oozed from the escay’s mouth. Bowe’s stomach turned. He did another turn and a walk back and forth, this time to control himself. He hoped Legrand didn’t notice.

  “This isn’t a civilized game of Harmony,” Legrand said. “He can’t fight in the Eye and not risk his life. The Eye isn’t for children to learn how to fight.”

  “I—” Edison began, but Bowe held a hand up for him to be quiet.

  “He doesn’t need to be babied. He wants a fair fight. He just doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of a fight like we’ve just seen—one where it’s clear who the winner will be.”

  “So he wants to pick a fight he knows he can win? That isn’t what the Eye is about.”

  “No. We just want to make things fair for his first bout. He wants to fight someone who, like him, hasn’t fought in the Eye before. Like you said, the fights where the outcome isn’t clear have more drama. They are better. And fairer.”

  “Fair has nothing to do with the Eye.” Legrand rubbed several strands of white hair between his fingers. “And I’ve never heard of a deal like the one you’re suggesting. Fighters never know who they’ll get pitted against when they put their names in. But because of our—” Legrand moved his hands back and forth, mimicking Bowe’s earlier gesture. “—connection, I can make you a one-time offer. Have you heard of the mystery fighter?”

  “No.” Bowe frowned. He had been sure Legrand was about to kick them out without offering any deal.

  “See that square tent on the other side of the Eye?” Once it was p
ointed out to him, Bowe noticed the small gray tent guarded by two marshals. “Bet-takers and punters are always looking for something new. So some days, we have a fighter waiting in that tent in the morning—the mystery fighter. Sometimes it’s a seasoned Eye fighter, other times it’s an escay who doesn’t know a sword from a cow’s ass. The mystery fighter is always revealed at the very last moment, allowing bet-takers and punters to make their bets half-blind. I’m willing to let your man be the mystery fighter’s challenger today.”

  “No, absolutely not,” Bowe said. “There is no way we will agree to that. You know who’s in there, and that’s the only reason you are offering this deal.”

  “I know who is in the tent, yes. But I didn’t know you were coming today. You asked for someone who never fought in the Eye before. When we announce the mystery fighter’s opponent, we always give a tidbit of information about the mystery fighter himself. Something to encourage the punters to bet. And today I will reveal that the mystery fighter has never fought in the Eye before. What do you say?”

  At that moment, Sorrin limped rapidly away. “Just remembered, I have to—” And then he was gone, disappearing down the stairs.

  “That was the Green with the limp who’s always hanging around the Eye, right? What’s his name?” Legrand frowned at Sorrin’s departing back.

  “Sorrin.”

  “He probably saw a betting opportunity. I’d better announce the information to everyone else so he doesn’t get a head start. Will your man Edison be the opponent, or should I find someone else? Quickly, now.”

  “Wait.” Something was in motion here, and Bowe didn’t trust it. “We came here to organize a fight for another day. Not—”

  “I’ll do it.” Edison stepped forward. “This time is as good as another. Just give me time to get my gear together.”

  “Fantastic.” Legrand turned to a marshal. “Announce that the mystery fighter has never fought in the Eye before and that his opponent is Edison, a Green, formerly of the Grenier family and currently living in Bellanger Mansion.” He rubbed his hands together. “That should get the bets flying.”

  Bowe grabbed Edison by the shoulder. “Are you sure? This isn’t the way we wanted it.”

  “This seems like the best we’ll get. I want to fight, and this is my chance.”

  “This doesn’t feel right. There’s something going on here.”

  “The mystery fighter has never fought in the Eye before. That’s all I asked for. I don’t expect the fight to be easy; I just want to have a chance. Legrand didn’t know we were coming today—the mystery fighter was already in place when we arrived.”

  That was true, and it worried Bowe more than anything. There was some angle here, and he couldn’t see it. “If you’re sure. Let’s go back to the mansion and get ready.”

  “Wait.” Legrand rested his hand on Bowe’s upper back again. “Your Eye fighter seems to have an admirable second already.” He gestured at Thrace. “Why don’t you stay here with me? Best place to watch a fight, believe me. I’ll have some ale brought up. We can discuss a bet, your man against mine, make it more interesting. What do you say?” Legrand applied an ever-so-slight amount of extra pressure to Bowe’s back, and Bowe became aware of the three marshals standing by the door. He realized that it hadn’t been a request.

  “Edison, Thrace—you go,” Bowe said. “I’ll wait here.” Behind Legrand’s smile there was an edge, but this time it wasn’t anger. Could it be triumph? Bowe had fallen deep into a net and couldn’t see the strands that held him. He just hoped he—and Edison—would be able to fight through it.

  * * *

  Bowe paced to the far side of the room and back again. He was wearing out the floor. Legrand sat at his desk, writing. Every now and again, he’d look up and share one of his oily smiles. Their ales lay untouched on a table. Their talk hadn’t lasted long once Bowe had refused pointblank to make any kind of bet. Bowe had asked if he could go down and wish Edison good luck before the fight, but had been denied permission. Legrand didn’t even have the good grace to pretend that Bowe was free to go if he wanted.

  When was this fight going to start? And how had matters gotten so far out of hand? Bowe paced back and forth. He tried to bore through the tent with his gaze. Who was in there? It wasn’t going to be good, whoever it was. Had Legrand somehow known that Bowe was coming? And where had Sorrin gone? The bloody Green had agreed to help Bowe; the least he could have done was keep Bowe company when he was captured rather than going off making bets.

  Finally, Legrand stood and moved to the table holding the ales. “Come. Drink and be merry. The fight is about to begin. Should be very interesting.”

  The crowd had swelled from the last fight, and they were more raucous and boisterous. They were clearly excited by the choice of opponents. Edison stood just outside the circle with Thrace beside him; he didn’t look confident. Then, at a lull in the crowd noise, the marshals opened the mystery tent.

  For a moment, no one emerged. Then a warrior backed out, holding his fists aloft and flexing his biceps. This was certainly no escay. He held a sword in one hand. Then he swiveled around and Bowe could see his face. It was Dulnato.

  Bowe sucked in a deep breath. This was even worse than he had thought. Below, Edison’s head bowed and he grabbed the railing to steady himself. Bowe couldn’t imagine what he was feeling—Dulnato must have been one of the last people he’d want to face. Edison knew that Dulnato was better than him.

  Legrand’s gaze bored into the side of Bowe’s head, but Bowe didn’t turn to face him. He didn’t want to see Legrand’s smug smile. Dulnato raised his well-muscled arms into the air and looked straight up to where Bowe sat. He’d known, the bastard—he knew exactly where to find Bowe. A trap set and sprung. Bowe reached for the ale and took a chug. It burned his throat and the taste was bitter, but any distraction was welcome.

  “The mystery fighter is Dulnato, a Green, leader of those training under Drakasi in the Fortress,” a marshal announced. “He’s a favorite to become an ascor, but first he has to face a former brother in a fight to the death.”

  Dulnato pranced around the ring, receiving cheers and boos in equal measure. Bowe guessed the punters’ acclaim depended on whom they had bet on.

  Edison looked a forlorn figure, but Thrace didn’t let him feel sorry for himself. Thrace put his hands on Edison’s shoulders and shouted at him. He shook Edison, pointed at Dulnato, and shouted again. Bowe wished he could hear him; he needed a pep talk himself. It seemed to work, because Edison straightened his shoulders before striding into the Eye. He wasn’t as big as Dulnato, but in that moment, he looked every bit the warrior. Though Thrace had to run after him and give him his sword and shield, which ruined the effect.

  They didn’t waste time on formalities. Dulnato darted in, his sword aimed at waist height. Edison blocked it, spun away, and countered with a strike directed at Dulnato’s head. Dulnato took it on his shield, splinters exploding from it as the blade struck. The crowd went quiet; it was clear after only a few blows that this was an evenly matched fight between two skilled opponents. The ringing of swords and the grunting of the two fighters echoed loudly in Bowe’s skull. Could Edison win this?

  “Your man is looking good out there. Are you ready to make that bet yet?” Legrand asked, taking a sip of ale.

  “I told you, I have no money for betting,” Bowe replied. Dulnato launched an attack at Edison that drove him toward the edge of the circle, but Edison circled away and moved back to the center.

  “We don’t have to bet money.”

  “What makes you so sure that Edison isn’t going to win? Have you fixed this somehow?” Bowe turned his attention away from the fight and onto Legrand.

  “Nothing is fixed. Your man could win, Dulnato could win. I like to have an interest in the outcome of a fight—makes it more exciting. Let me see. If your side wins, I will support your selection; if you lose, you will fight in the Eye.”

  “How can you say nothing is fixed?
You expect me to believe it was a wild coincidence that Dulnato was the mystery fighter?” A shout from the crowd diverted Bowe’s attention back to the fight. Dulnato was on the ground. Edison struck down at him and he spun away. Edison struck again, and Dulnato used his shield to deflect the blade into the ground beside him. He sprung to his feet and moved back. They circled each other.

  “Dulnato being the mystery fighter—oh, yes, that was set up ahead of time,” Legrand said. “One of your Deadbeats is not as trustworthy as you thought.”

  “One of my Deadbeats?” Bowe swiveled back towards Legrand. “No. Who?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

  Bowe peeked back at the doorway. Were the marshals standing directly in front of the door now? He couldn’t see them well since Legrand blocked his view, so he shifted to see better, but Legrand’s next word stopped Bowe dead. “Glil.”

  “No. No, Glil wouldn’t.”

  Legrand scratched his cheek. “What was it he said? Something about not being happy he wasn’t chief Defender?”

  “None of the Deadbeats will be chief—” Bowe stopped. Best not to share too much information.

  “So your Deadbeat went to Zidel about returning to the fold—he was with him earlier, I believe. As a price, Glil had to supply something useful. Zidel went to Dulnato with the information about your man wanting to fight against a fellow Eye virgin, they came to me, and a plan was born. Brilliant, eh?”

  I might never hear another Thardassian story, was Bowe’s first thought. Why hadn’t Glil said he was unhappy with the new situation? Then Bowe thought harder and realized that he had, just not in words. Maybe if Bowe had talked to him, he could have made him understand. Could he have, though? Bowe wasn’t even sure himself what he was offering to his brotherhood: hope or certain death.

  In the Eye, both fighters were clearly tiring. Their movements were slower; neither made the wild extravagant maneuvers of earlier in the fight. Most attacks were a simple strike with the sword, and most blocks were done with shields that looked ready to crumble.