Griffin's Shadow

by Leslie Ann Moore

  Ashinji followed Aruk-cho back out into the shimmering heat of the yard, then stood and watched as his fellow neophyte slaves emerged from the barracks. He counted ten others, all young and apparently fit. Six of them Ashinji recognized as native Soldarans by their skin color and facial features. He knew the rest were human, but of types he had never before seen.

  Two of the men had skins the color of a bay horse, with broad, flat noses and hair that hung in long ropes to their waists. Another had skin the color of honey, with narrow, dark eyes and jet-black hair gathered in a topknot at the crown of his head. Ashinji found the last man the most curious of all, for as far as he could tell, this human had no body hair-he even lacked eyebrows-and his pale skin had been seared red by the relentless southern sun. By the way he squinted and hunched his shoulders, Ashinji could tell the direct sunlight pained him much more than it did the others.

  Aruk-cho had gone into the barracks directly across the yard and had re-emerged leading a straggling procession of female slaves. He ordered them to form up into rows behind the men. All six of them were Soldarans.

  “Hey, you!” a voice hissed to Ashinji’s right. He swiveled his head to see one of the Soldaran males, a boy just coming into manhood, sidle up to stand beside him. “Can you understand me?” the boy asked.

  “I can. What is it you want?”

  “You’re an elf,” the boy stated.

  Ashinji sighed. “Yes,” he answered.

  “My ma was half-elf! See? I got pointy ears.” The boy pushed his ruddy brown hair away from the side of his head to display bluntly tapered ears. He grinned. “My ma named me Seijon, after her pa. What’s your name?”

  “Ashinji Sakehera. Seijon is a very old elven name. It belonged to one of our greatest kings, many thousands of years ago.” Ashinji could see the boy’s elven blood in the cast of his features, though he could pass for a full-blooded human if he hid his ears.

  “I never thought I’d get to meet another one of my grandpa’s people,” Seijon said.

  Another? Ashinji thought.

  “I never knew my pa,” the boy continued. “He took off before I was born. It was always just my ma an’ me.” The boy’s voice contained no trace of bitterness.

  “Be silent!” Aruk-cho ordered. “The mistress approaches.” Seijon stifled a giggle and made an exaggerated show of shutting up. Mistress de Guera strode toward them, trailed closely by Corvin. She halted beside Aruk-cho, who bowed his head in respect.

  “The new slaves are all assembled, Mistress,” he rumbled.

  Though Ashinji stood in the front row, Mistress de Guera ignored him. She cleared her throat and began to speak. “My name is Armina Marcela Luiza de Guera. As of this day forward, I control your lives completely. I decide when you eat, when you sleep, when you fight, when you rest. In short, I own each and every one of your bodies, and later this afternoon, you’ll all receive my mark of ownership upon your shoulders. I’m not so foolish or naïve as to believe I own your souls. That is the one thing you still can call your own.”

  Mistress de Guera paused to sweep her penetrating gaze over her new property. “I was born on a farm in Thalacia,” she continued. “At the tender age of twelve, my father sold me to a Thalacian horse trader. Too many mouths to feed, and as I was only a girl, all my real value was located between my legs. So off I went. The trader kept me awhile, and after he knocked two kids out of me, he sold me to a Soldaran agent looking for young, healthy females for the arena. I was big and strong for my age, a good candidate for gladiator training.

  “Eventually, I ended up here, in Darguinia, a slave like all of you, put up for sale at the central market. I had the good fortune to be purchased by Antonius Sisco himself…yes, I see some of you know of him.”

  Several of the Soldarans nodded.

  “Sisco was a legend! The greatest trainer of all time,” Seijon whispered to Ashinji.

  “Sisco trained me personally,” Mistress de Guera continued. “He made of me a finely crafted fighting machine. I was magnificent. None had seen my like before, nor have since.” She spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of arrogance, almost as if she praised another person.

  “I reigned as Female Champion for three years. During that time, I never lost a match, and by virtue of my skill, I earned my freedom. The day I retired from the arena, I became Sisco’s wife and partner. We were married for twenty five years and I gave Sisco five sons and three daughters. This yard you find yourselves in is the business we built together.”

  She paused, and bowed her head for a moment, then raised it. “I lost my dear husband two years ago. The yard is mine now and mine alone, though one day, all that Sisco and I have built will be our legacy for our children.”

  “I tell you all this because I wish to inspire you,” Mistress de Guera said. “If you are talented and very, very lucky, you can survive your time here and earn enough money to buy your freedom. It is possible. I did it. I began with nothing, and now, I’m one of this city’s most respected citizens.”

  “And so I will make this pledge to you all. Put everything you have into this, fight bravely, obey me and my trainers without question…do all of this for me, and when you die, you will be treated with honor. But, if you live …after two years, I will free you, and gift you with a handsome sum for start-up money. You’ll be able to go home if that’s what you wish, or stay and make a go of it here.”

  She slowly scanned the ranks of expressionless faces before her. “Aruk-cho will explain the rules of the yard now.” She nodded toward the akuta.

  “Everyone gets up at daybreak, except on off days, when you can sleep in if you wish,” Aruk-cho began. “Practice starts after breakfast and will run until midmorning, when you get a half-turn break, then resumes until midday. You eat, then you get free time for three turns. You can rest, if you wish, or occupy yourself with personal tasks. Practice matches begin at three turns past midday and go until sunset, then you’re finished for the day.

  “All slaves are on five days, off two. If you live long enough to earn your freedom and you choose to stay on as a prizefighter, you fight as many days as you wish. The Grand Arena runs six days a week. We are but one yard among twenty, but we are also one of the top five; therefore, our contract gives us a lot of days in which we must fill the seats.

  “Four days out of six, our yard runs points matches. These are non-lethal, and the fighters earn points for style and skill. They are usually timed, or sometimes go to first blood. Those slaves who are less skilled will fight these matches exclusively, until I decide when he or she is ready to advance. You advance by improving your skills. The better you get, the more points you earn. Points get you rewards. At first, it will be extra privileges, and later on, it will be money.

  “The other two days, we run lethal matches. These matches are always between yards, and they end only when all fighters on the opposing side are either dead or so badly wounded, they can no longer fight. Only those slaves who are the most skilled will be put into these matches. If you mortally wound an opponent, or if you, yourself are mortally wounded, the kill is required to be swift and clean. Unnecessary cruelty will be punished by loss of points and esteem. The people come to the arena to see feats of skill and bravery, not butchery.

  “You will only be required to fight one lethal match per month until I can see that you stand a decent chance of survival, then you’ll fight one every ten days.”

  He paused to make sure he had each slave’s full attention, then continued. “There are special matches put on for Festivals. Whether or not you fight in these depends on your skill and seniority. These matches always carry very large purses and you can earn a lot of money and points, but they are almost always filled up with prizefighters. Only a few slots are generally available for slaves. Always, these matches are lethal.

  “Finally, there is the Great Festival of Cheos, Lord Of Heaven. This is the biggest festival on the calendar and it lasts an entire week. The Grand Champions are decided during th
is series of matches. All fighters, both slave and free, who have accumulated enough points are eligible to participate. The matches run as eliminations, with the winners advancing to the next rounds. The finals are held on the last day. The winners, one man and one woman, will each be named Grand Champion. If he or she is a slave, freedom is the reward, along with a handsome purse.”

  Aruk-cho paused again and pushed at the sand with a forefoot. He looked to Mistress de Guera, who just nodded. He continued. “So, that is how things are. Not as bad as you imagined, I’m sure. As slaves go, you are the lucky ones. You will get far better treatment here in the de Guera yard as gladiators than almost anywhere else, including the brothels. It is in the mistress’s best interests to keep her stable well fed and fit. Only healthy, skilled fighters make her money. Not all yard owners are as wise as our mistress. Do your best for me and for her and you can count on both of us to do our best for all of you. Dismissed!”

  Ashinji turned to follow the others back to the barracks.

  “Wait, Ashinji!” he heard Aruk-cho call out behind him.

  “I’ll go and grab you a bunk next to mine,” Seijon offered. The boy’s whole body quivered with excitement, reminding Ashinji of Jena and Mariso. He sighed and nodded in assent. Seijon’s face broke into an ecstatic grin and he dashed off toward the barracks.

  “The boy has attached himself to you, I see,” Aruk-cho commented.

  “So it would seem,” Ashinji replied dryly. “Do the Soldarans often sacrifice their children to their blood sports?”

  “Seijon will not be participating in any lethal matches. The mistress purchased him as a house slave some months ago, but he kept pestering her to let him learn to fight. Just yesterday, she gave in and sent him to me.”

  “What is it you want of me, Aruk-cho?”

  “There is someone here that you should meet. Come with me.”

  Intrigued, Ashinji followed the akuta to the far end of the yard where another barracks stood.

  “This is where the veteran females bunk,” Aruk-cho explained. He paused before the curtained entrance. “Gran!” he called out. “Gran…There is someone here to see you!” The curtain twitched aside and an old woman poked her head out, squinting in the sunlight.

  “What do you want, you big ugly beast!” the woman scolded. “Can’t you see I’m trying to take my nap…Oh!”

  Ashinji’s eyes widened in shock.

  The old woman was an elf.

  Chapter 27

  The Key To The Conspiracy

  Silence and the musty smell of places long shut away from the sun surrounded Prince Raidan. As he strode along, the lantern in the prince’s hand cast crazy shadows on the frost-rimed stone walls; his breath rose in thin puffs of steam from his lips and nostrils.

  The prince had chosen the location for his secret conferences with care. This part of Sendai Castle had been closed up and abandoned years ago during his father’s childhood. As a boy, Raidan had stumbled upon a hidden doorway into the block of rooms by accident, during an expedition of discovery. He had revealed his secret to no one, not even his brothers.

  Raidan reached the end of the corridor and paused at what appeared to be a blank wall. Raising the lantern to eye level, he located and twisted aside a round metal disk covering a spy hole. He placed one eye to the hole and looked into an adjacent corridor. A group of people stood in a nervous clutch opposite Raidan’s position.

  Good. They’re all here , he thought.

  He fitted his fingers into a set of depressions in the stone and triggered the releasing mechanism, then pulled the hidden door open. He stepped through and motioned for the others to enter. Silently, they obeyed, and followed the prince as he led them to their meeting room.

  Raidan had already prepared the room beforehand. Several lanterns dangled from wall hooks, their flames flickering in the drafts from the ventilation shafts set high in the walls; braziers burned in each corner, providing some small respite from the biting cold.

  After everyone had taken their seats, Raidan sat for several moments, silently studying the faces of his supporters. He thought about the underlying motives that had driven each of them to endanger all they had to stand behind him and against their king.

  Morio of Ayame and Coronji of Tohru, brothers-in-law and unrepentant racists, would both rather see Alasiri plunged into civil war than accept a hikui as their queen. Saizura of Kinat, the oldest of Alasiri’s great lords, worried more about propriety than purity. She objected to Keizo’s daughter because the girl had been born outside of a legal marriage.

  Seitan of Ograi owes his position to me, thought Raidan. He had convinced the king to name Seitan as Lord over an older sister who had proved herself unfit to run the fiefdom after the death of their mother. Seitan will support me unquestioningly.

  Odata of Tono worried most about the reaction of the hikui populace to the naming of a hikui Heir. She feared the impetus it would give to the hikui movement for social equality.

  Ebo of Suiren had agreed to back Raidan for one reason only. Recently widowed and without an Heir, her price for her support had been simple-a child sired by an Onjara. Raidan had accepted, and his middle son, Kaisik, would perform the service upon his next birthday, when he would officially come of age. The boy was handsome, cheerful, and above all, obedient-a stark contrast to his brooding older brother, Raidu. Ebo would, no doubt, find him more than acceptable.

  “Let me begin by thanking you all once more for your support,” Raidan said. “I pray each day that there will be no need to call upon it. I, more than anyone else in this room, wish to avoid open confrontation with my brother, especially during this time of extreme danger to our nation. Civil conflict right now would only aid our enemies and hasten the demise of the elves as a free people.”

  “Yet, you clearly are willing to take the risk, if necessary. Why else bring us all here?” Morio responded with a voice roughened by years of pipe smoking.

  “None of us wants war among ourselves, but neither do we wish to see one of impure blood ascend the throne of Alasiri. There must be a better solution,” Ebo added.

  “She’s a bastard, plain and simple! How could Keizo have elevated her to such a high station?” Saizura fretted. “He should have just dealt with the girl quietly, provided her with a settlement and sent her packing back to Kerala.” The elderly Lady of Kinat sliced the air scornfully with her bird’s claw of a hand.

  “My brother, so far, has given no indication that he intends to name my niece Heir over me. However, she and Keizo have become very close, and before she lost her husband, she was demonstrating a keen interest in statecraft. Even I have to admit she showed great promise. Now, she is too wrapped up in her grief to do much more than get through each day. And, of course, there is her child to consider.”

  “Perhaps…an accident could be arranged,” Coronji suggested. “It would certainly take care of things. I volunteer to do the job.” His lips curled in a tiny smile, and Raidan thought of a snake anticipating the feast of a mouse.

  The prince’s eyes flashed. “Whatever else she is, she is an Onjara and not some common by-blow that can be disposed of in a back alley!” His anger, he knew, arose from the fact that Coronji had dared speak openly of the very thing the prince himself had already considered.

  “I apologize if I have given any offense, Highness,” Coronji said, but his tone indicated he believed Raidan’s outrage to be little more than pretense.

  “Tell us your plan, Highness. Just what do you intend to do if the king should decide to elevate his bastard over you?” Odata queried.

  “My plan is simple,” Raidan replied. “If Keizo decides to name Jelena his Heir, he will tell me first. He owes me that courtesy. I will then inform him, without naming any of you, that I have the support of over half the council, standing in opposition to his decision. I will also point out that the elven people won’t accept a hikui as queen, no matter that she is the daughter of their beloved Silverlock.

  “My bro
ther has ruled Alasiri wisely and well. He always takes into consideration the will of the people when making any decision that affects them, and this decision would have a profound effect. I believe he will understand this, and reconsider.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Odata pressed. “You said yourself that Silverlock and the girl have forged a very deep bond. Is there a possibility that he may not listen to reason?”

  “Yes, there is,” Raidan answered slowly, “and if he won’t, then I’ll threaten him. Faced with the defection of half his lords and their levies, he’ll have to see the folly of his course. The loss of so many troops will be devastating to the army. The Soldarans already outnumber us. Sen Sakehera is an excellent commander, but even he couldn’t mount a defense with so few bodies. Keizo will realize he is risking the defeat and conquest of all of Alasiri. He won’t allow that.”

  “You seem so sure, Highness.” Seitan, who until now had remained silent, finally spoke up. “You know the mind of the king far better than any of us, but are you certain? ”

  Raidan scanned the tense faces around him. He could feel the emotions of each blowing back at him like the dry wind off a wildfire: fear, anger, resignation.

  Am I sure of my brother? he thought.

  No, not entirely, but I am sure of myself.

  If Keizo will not listen, there’s only one thing I can do to save Alasiri. It’s extreme, but desperate times call for extreme measures. I’ll kill Jelena with my own hand, if necessary, then step aside, and the Kirians’ plans be damned. Raidu will become Keizo’s Heir.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said.

  ~~~

  Raidan made his way back to his apartments through the late night stillness of the castle. The prince had always thought of Sendai Castle as something more than an inanimate structure; it felt like a living organism, with stone flesh and wooden bones. All of the myriad souls who made their homes within its walls were like the impossibly tiny disks he observed floating in his own blood when he examined it with his lenses. He didn’t know the exact function of the mysterious disks, but he knew they must somehow keep his body alive, just as all the maids, cooks, gardeners, grooms, and countless other workers kept the castle ‘alive’.