The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One

by Kim Wedlock

  "He's right, actually," said an astounded voice close from their other side, at which Rathen visibly jumped. He turned a scowl, and Anthis smiled apologetically/sheepishly - an action lately quite unexpected of him. Something had clearly changed. The inherent kindness had returned to his eyes, so easy and natural it was as if it had never left...but there was more, some kind of elation. For reasons unknown, it made Rathen deeply uncomfortable.

  The historian frowned as he edged a half step away, then shrugged it off, closed his satchel and stepped back from the defaced public notice board of pleas and bounties to smile fondly up at the coliseum. "Pre-magic, originally, but it was used and maintained by hand by short post-magic elves, too. A thousand years ago this would have been a truly magnificent place..." the corners of his mouth pulled suddenly downwards. "I wish I could have seen it as a theatre and watched these stories in motion...not as an arena of bloodshed." He brushed his fingers delicately over the stone, then looked wistfully across the city that sprawled away from it in all directions. "All this history, this passion; a city built by such wholesome people, and now look at it... This place is...a shame."

  "That's a mild way of putting it," Rathen mumbled, then glanced off to one side, his attention snatched by more phantom movement. He sighed to himself and tried to suppress his skittish agitation yet again.

  "We should leave." He turned towards Garon. "We have what we need and enough to last beyond Tarun. There's no sense in staying." He made his feelings so excruciatingly clear in his eyes that Garon simply couldn't miss them.

  "Fair enough," he nodded. "Let's go."

  "No, we can't without Petra!" Aria protested as Rathen began to pull her along, having yet to let go of her hand for more than a moment since they'd arrived.

  "She isn't coming with us," he replied softly.

  "But we haven't even said goodbye!"

  "I'm sorry, little one, but she's better off away from us; we only seem to attract trouble, and it's not fair to drag her into it." He offered her a reassuring smile. "It's for the best, I promise."

  Aria scrutinised his expression for a very long time, but she remained unconvinced.

  "Just where have you been, anyway?" Rathen asked, turning towards Anthis as they moved away from the Crucible and back into the city at the inquisitor's lead.

  The young man frowned. "You're a very suspicious person, do you know that?"

  "That's just his face," Aria assured him, and Anthis chuckled.

  "I was securing us some horses, actually. I don't know about the rest of you, but I wouldn't mind my boots lasting a little longer."

  "Where did you get the money for those?"

  "There it is again. Well I don't shout about it, but I'm not exactly impoverished..."

  "Remember, Daddy? He lives all on his own in that great, big house!" Clearly, Aria was still in awe of the fact.

  Rathen hushed her as he glanced around at passing groups of people, but he conceded to the point, and silently admitted that he wouldn't mind not having to walk everywhere anymore.

  They hadn't gotten far when a ruckus sprung up ahead of them. A crowd had formed, hidden initially by the shadow of the Crucible itself, and as they drew closer along the western road, the cheering and jeering became more fervent. The four moved cautiously and made a point of keeping themselves to themselves as they neared, but it was quickly apparent that the mob was quite engrossed.

  Anthis frowned and peered across curiously. "It's a fight." He glanced around, expecting to see guards hurrying towards the scene, but the streets were conspicuously clear of them. "Where are the guards?"

  Garon grunted and his pace slowed as he caught a very informative glimpse through the crowd. "Distracted."

  "Then should you not intervene...?"

  "No."

  They frowned as he drew to a stop and followed his gaze back towards the chaos. The onlookers had formed a ring, and at its centre were two figures with swords drawn, dancing nimbly around one another. One of them was Petra.

  Rathen and Anthis stumbled and stood with their mouths agape, staring in from the higher path and watching as the young woman faced an adversary of certainly stronger build. They watched her ground her feet as her opponent charged towards her, his blade angled to hasten his approach rather than hinder it, making his skill in combat already quite evident. He held the sword easily, neither choking the hilt nor sliding his grip, and he swung it precisely with no unnecessary vigour.

  But by the smile she seemed unable to contain, Petra wasn't deterred. Indeed, she appeared to be willing him to attack.

  Moving her sword in a smooth arc, their blades met.

  Garon pulled Anthis back as he took a panicked step forwards.

  The combatants pushed off from one another and circled for a moment, then, upon an unseen cue, the man flew into a rapid attack. Quick shifts, timely counters and nimble side-steps made it clear that Petra could stand against him, while a single, precise riposte proved she was a match, and the subsequent flurry of short, sharp stabs and slices which pushed him several steps backwards and very much onto the defensive set her out on top.

  For the first time since entering Carenna, Rathen forgot his own anxieties. They all did. Instead they watched her intently, holding their breath against every close scrape, then feeling foolish when she easily turned each to her advantage. Even Garon observed with more interest than a figure of the law should have.

  But whoever her opponent was, he wasn't blind to her skill. He was taking her seriously - rather than grinning and taunting her, declaring that a woman couldn't do him any harm, he was silent and observant, timing his own attacks and responses accordingly. But it still seemed to the four of them that he was underestimating her - and it also seemed that she was allowing him to.

  Perhaps it was the unmissable fact that she was female. She couldn't hide the point - or, rather, she made no attempt to - and instead seemed to use the instinctive male sense of superiority to her advantage. They knew they were about to fight a woman, despite the fact that she was not only clearly armed but also clearly skilled. She made no effort to deceive them. And yet they still fought her willingly, as if they thought she couldn't truly stand against a man, reputations aside. In fact, it was probably that very detail that had allowed her to make some kind of a living out of duels.

  As he watched her in growing awe, Rathen absently supposed he'd fallen for the same thing by feeling the need to see to her wounds in Edam rather than leave her to them herself.

  The expert strikes continued, the clash of steel competing with the hammering rain, and every one of them was met by a parry or a counter-attack by the other. They seemed to read each other with every action - even following a particularly fearsome blow, Petra responded in perfect time, having surely gleaned his intentions by his movements. Not even its strength had surprised her.

  But despite their intensity and precision, neither blade found contact with anything but the other. They were evenly matched, and both had an affinity with their blades that Rathen would have considered romantic drivel had someone merely described it to him. They were used not only to block or attack, but to force distance, aid in balance and improve the finesse of the rest of their body's movements. The weight of the sword hindered neither of them; it truly was an extension of their bodies.

  And though they both moved fluidly, even as they each slipped on the rain-sodden road at one moment or another, Petra's grace was particularly difficult to miss. She moved and evaded as if she was dancing, as if she weighed nothing and the wind could just carry her away. Disregarding the arsenal she carried, and her apparent prowess with them, she was not unladylike, but it was ironic that she seemed her most feminine when putting those very factors to work.

  Petra's footing slipped on the greasy cobblestones again, and Anthis took another hurried step forwards. There was nothing he could do but gasp, of course, but Garon pulled him back anyway, and their concern was quickly proven unwarranted as she artfully recovered, using the
momentum of the sudden misstep to evade another quick attack.

  Anthis growled as the crowd cheered. "He took advantage of that."

  "Of course he did," Garon replied. "What would it do to his pride if he lost to a woman?"

  Her opponent was becoming desperate. He came at her harder now, forcing her to parry when she should have counter-attacked, to step away from strikes when she should have parried. Even the enthusiasm had dwindled from her eyes.

  Rathen felt his heart hammering, and he sensed the same tension from the others. Even Garon edged a half step forwards and stared with growing intensity.

  She was being forced back towards the crowd under the assault, and in her efforts to regain ground, she slipped again. But this time she didn't just drop to one knee; she landed on her rear, her weight on her elbow - but her sword was still in her hand, so the bout was still live.

  Anthis cursed, Garon gritted his teeth, and Rathen held Aria back as she tried to hurry forwards to help in some ill-conceived manner.

  Her opponent took full advantage. He moved in for a strike, a single blow meant to end the fight while he had the upper hand, and it seemed his desperation had forced aside his reason. These duels were not supposed to be to the death...but sometimes, in the heat of the event, that little courtesy was forgotten.

  This time all three of them stepped forwards in a panic as his blade descended, making for the crowd in an attempt to break the fight apart, as it should have been long ago.

  But they'd made it only three paces when her opponent suddenly faltered. A kick to his leg had knocked him off balance, and Petra rolled aside the very moment he began to teeter forwards. He used his sword to catch himself, completing his strike to plant its tip in the ground where she had been only a second before, but she shot another sharp kick towards the flat of the blade and knocked it out from beneath him. He lost his grip and his fall resumed.

  She sprung immediately back to her feet, her smile having returned from nowhere, and planted a dirty boot on his back to press him the last distance to the ground as the tip of her blade kissed the back of his neck.

  The three of them stumbled to a stop. The crowd fell silent.

  A long moment dragged by before a single voice erupted into a cheer, and the rest shortly followed. There were ovations, complaints, curses and 'I told you so's - but Petra didn't celebrate. She stepped back off of the man and offered him her hand, and though his cheeks were ruby with embarrassment, he accepted her help, rose to his feet, and graciously inclined his head before reclaiming his sword and limping away.

  Only then did she accept the congratulations of the audience.

  Rathen folded his arms as they watched her, a small and pleasantly surprised smile playing about his lips. "Well..."

  Anthis nodded his full agreement, his eyebrows high in shock.

  They watched as Petra turned towards someone in the crowd, a man of similar age who had only smiled at her victory as though he had readily expected it, and threw her arms around his shoulders.

  Garon turned away. "Go and get the horses," he said to Anthis who frowned curiously at the sight, "the rest of us will leave through the western gate. We'll meet you outside."

  "What about Petra?" Aria insisted again as the young man walked away and the crowd dispersed but for those collecting on their bets. She stared at Garon almost pleadingly, but he barely glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "She'll be fine here."

  "But how do you know?"

  "Because this is her home."

  Rathen looked to him in surprise as they resumed along the road, pulling the reluctant young girl along. "How do you know that?"

  "Aside from it being my job to know these things," he replied with disinterest, stepping ahead of them, "I overheard her mention it to Anthis. Now let's move. We've been here too long."

  The dirt and grime returned to the city the further they ventured from the Crucible, and the air became just as foul, laden with the myriad of heavy scents that had assaulted them as they'd arrived. But the rain had begun to weaken, and the streets were busier than they had been before.

  They kept their heads down, their hoods up, and passed by the pickpockets, whores, drunks and addicts among the increased populace without drawing any attention. Rathen breathed a little easier when they turned a corner and the small, weakly guarded gate elbowed its way into view. They were nearly there.

  "Oi!"

  A flash of heat filled Rathen's chest, and he knew that the brusque heckle from up ahead was aimed squarely towards them.

  "Don't turn," Garon warned quietly, maintaining his pace, "just keep walking."

  "Oi! I'm talkin' to you!"

  Rathen held Aria's hand tightly and pointedly kept his eyes fixed to the gate as five suitably shifty figures broke away from one of the buildings, losing interest in the young women they'd been harassing who took the opportunity to sneak away.

  They blocked the road, forcing the three to stop, and Garon stepped forwards to confront them. They were far flimsier in frame than he, and the inquisitor's naturally powerful bearing made them seem even slighter. But what they lacked in build and physical intimidation, they made up for in numbers and gruesome smiles.

  "Step aside please, gentlemen," Garon said with far more civility than the thugs could likely comprehend. "I'm sure you're unaware, but you're in our way."

  The man at the centre raised his blonde eyebrows. He was suspiciously cleaner than the others and free of any visible scars, though he carried the same hint of desperation and instability in his eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he drawled, turning to his lackeys. "Apparently, we're in the way."

  "No need to apologise," Garon said with a far too easy smile, "these things happen."

  But the thug stepped in front of him again as he attempted to make his way around them. "They do seem to, don't they," he replied conversationally. "You know, you're a little too well-dressed for this part of town. You wouldn't happen to be lost, would you?"

  Garon followed his gaze down to his own boots, for his cloak concealed the rest of his uniform. They were dirty - such here was hardly surprising - but they were certainly in far better shape than that of his adversary, or of anyone else around, for that matter. Some had no shoes at all.

  He looked back up and offered his smile once more. "Won them in a card game just now - brand new, too! Luck was with me today."

  The man nodded, but his already insincere smile became downright hollow. "I'm afraid it's just run out."

  He looked across at the others as they stepped up on either side of their leader, a shared hunger in their eyes. "Oh, come now, gentlemen, there's no need for that. It's all I have! But I'll tell you what," Garon stepped closer, glanced about and lowered his voice, his eyes suddenly revealing the possession of worth-while secrets, "one of the other fellows, he cleaned up pretty well. I didn't get a seat in the game until he left, and the pot was weak by that point, hence the boots - another stroke of luck, that was, if you'll believe me. I'd've lost everything if I'd been in a hand sooner. But this fellow, he cleaned up nicely, like I said - and I know where he went, and I also know he's soused out of his skids by now. He'd already had a skin full when he left, and he was shouting about spending his winnings in the Golden Lily. If I know him, he'll be there for a while..."

  The thug analysed the suggestion in Garon's eyes for a long while. Rathen watched them carefully, as did the others, and the rain seemed to fall more heavily during that lengthy minute, as if it couldn't contain itself in the suspense.

  Finally, he nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for that piece of advice, mate. It'll do much to help us in our time of need. But it seems there's no rush, so we'll follow it up after we've finished with you."

  "But we have nothing," Garon assured them.

  "You couldn't have joined the game with nothing to stake, yourself, and I'm sure you won more than one man's boots." He drew the dagger that was sheathed at his hip, the others following suit behind him. But his eyes shifted
beyond Garon for a moment, and he gave the slightest nod of his head.

  Rathen grunted as his knee buckled beneath a sudden kick from behind him, and his descent was hastened by the dazing strike to the side of his head. In that brief moment of broken attention a scream rose from his right, and as the clouds in his vision began to clear, he watched disorientated as Aria was snatched away.

  "No..." He scrambled to find his feet despite the dizziness, but he was quickly kicked back down.

  Two new figures restrained her, both pressing a blade to her throat. There was sheer terror in her eyes. Rathen's heart tore to shreds and a white-hot fire exploded in its place.

  "Do nothing!"

  Rathen stared up at Garon in utter disbelief, but though it was only a glance, he didn't miss the intensity of the warning that had been in the inquisitor's eyes.

  "Daddy!"

  "Garon," he growled in a grave warning, but though he thought he'd sounded furious, he hadn't noticed the tremor of panic that had rippled through his voice. "Garon, you had better do something now..."

  The inquisitor didn't reply. He drew his sword, his previously friendly and urgently helpful demeanour having long crumbled away, and he squared his bearing to his foes.

  But as Rathen stared at Aria, trying to smile reassuringly, making her promises that she would be just fine, he pressed his fingertips helplessly into the ground and swallowed his blinding need to form every spell he could think of.

  A new scent broke through the tangle that hung in the air, carried towards him by a shift in the breeze, and the instant it passed beneath his nose he noticed the tell-tale darkened veins on the backs of the hands of both of her captors. Their skin looked thin, slightly translucent.

  He looked back to the twisted faces of the men, a new but cautious hatred piercing his eyes. These were not only thieves, they were addicts. He could smell the opiac, see the madness in their eyes. These men were more than desperate; they were looking for a fix, and they were prepared to do whatever they had to to fund it.