“You will kill the Madrun.”
Caelan bit back a sigh. “Yes, Lord Sien.”
“You will tantalize him and play with him as a cat toys with its prey.”
“I will, Lord Sien.”
“The object is to win the crowd’s approval for your master.”
“Yes.”
There was something heavy and hypnotic about the priest’s voice. His statements and Caelan’s responses had the solemn cadence of a religious ritual.
“You will rob the emperor of his acclaim.”
“I—” Caelan’s voice died in his throat.
He stepped back, forcing himself to break Sien’s intense stare. Blinking furiously, and sweating as though he’d run a long distance, Caelan scowled.
“Get back from me, priest!” he said, spitting the words in his fury. “Keep your filthy spells to yourself!”
“Caelan, silence!” Prince Tirhin commanded. “Remember your place.”
Caelan turned on him. “My place is to serve you. I will fight, sir. I will give my best to this contest, as I do every time I enter the ring. But I need no spells cast on me. I need no one to tell me how to fight. I will not submit to such—”
“You will have your tongue cut out for this insolence,” Sien said rapidly. “Speak to your master—or me—in like manner again, and you’ll—”
“Beat me, and I cannot fight,” Caelan retorted. “Cut out my tongue, and I’ll bleed my strength into the sand. You’ll have no victory then.”
The three of them glared at each other in long silence. Caelan knew well that Sien could carry out his threats, but he was too angry to care. The Vindicants had tried to meddle with him before. He wouldn’t submit to their blasphemy. He’d rather die than lose his soul to their brand of darkness.
It was Prince Tirhin who was the first to speak. “My Lord Sien,” he said, “I think it best if you step outside.”
Sien scowled in outrage.
“Please,” Tirhin said. “Your efforts have served to gain the slave’s attention. Now let me finish the persuasion.”
“You cosset him and spoil him, granting him privileges above his station, allowing him ideas of his own importance.”
“He is important,” Tirhin said, still calmly. “It is not boasting to state a fact. My father surely requires your return by now. Let me have the bag.”
Sien hesitated further, but at last he drew a small leather pouch from his robes and put it in Tirhin’s hand. “Make very sure,” he said, his voice hoarse with anger. “This chance must not be wasted.”
Tirhin’s handsome face tightened with annoyance. “I know what’s at stake, Lord Sien.”
Inclining his head slightly to the prince, Sien strode out. The door closed behind him with an echoing thud.
Caelan and the prince faced each other in the small space. Tirhin laid the pouch casually on the table, but to Caelan its presence seemed to throb in the room. He could smell herbs in the compound, mixed with something tainted and unnameable. Swallowing his distaste, Caelan took another step back.
“If that is a potion for me, I won’t take it,” he said.
Tirhin’s mouth tightened for a moment; then he turned to gaze at the wall. “Sien is right,” he said. “You have grown full of your own importance. It is not good for a slave, even one as well favored as you, to forget his place.”
Fresh anger roared up inside Caelan. Now that they were alone, he knew he could speak freely to this man, who was master, yet almost friend. It had ever been so between them, although such moments of privacy were rare.
“I have never lost a combat in all the time I have worn your colors,” he said, his voice tight with hurt. “Why am I treated so today? Why do you doubt me? My loyalty, my strength are yours. When have I failed, that you should distrust me like this?”
Tirhin sighed and tipped back his head for a moment. “I knew you would take this wrong,” he muttered, half to himself. He glanced at Caelan. “Why must you always be so damned difficult?”
Caelan knotted his brows, too full of resentment to permit himself a reply.
“We came to help you, you damned, stiff-necked fool. Sien’s potion will give you extra strength.”
“I am strong enough.”
“Against a Madrun?” Tirhin’s voice rose with doubt.
Although he made sure nothing showed, something inside Caelan withered and died. To his people, killing for any reason was a horror. Caelan, stolen from his homeland and exiled from his people, had found himself forced to fight if he was to live. Moreover, he had found in himself an unexpected gift for battle. Put a sword in his hand and he became a different man, quick and complete. He was efficient, tireless, ruthless. And all the while he was triumphing in the ring, glorying in the acclaim, it seemed the spilled blood of all his many defeated opponents kept seeping into his very bones, into his heart, into his conscience.
Take him from the arena, take him from the cheers, take the sword from his hand, and he was a man uneasy with his own conscience, never settled one way or the other. His own pride in his fighting ability shamed him, yet why should he hate his skills? When the gods gave a man a certain talent, was he not to use it? Still, what trick of fate was it to grant him exceptional ability in killing others? He could find no peace, although he had formed a shell between himself and his own trampled morals. Only at night, when the nightmares came, did that shell break.
He told himself that to fight to protect one’s home, or loved ones, or life, was a different matter. To fight and kill simply to provide entertainment was a stain against mankind. His soul felt black and heavy with it. Yet he belonged to Tirhin, and Tirhin commanded him to serve in the arena. For Tirhin, a man he admired above all others, a man he longed to emulate, he was willing to do anything.
The prince was strong, courageous, and intelligent. Despite his high station, he found time to listen to the people who came to him for help. He was generous to the poor, kind to his slaves, fair to his soldiers. He had served his father loyally and patiently, at least up till now. In all respects, he was someone to admire. Had Caelan been free, he would have sought to be in this man’s employ, and he would have longed to be Tirhin’s friend.
Now, however, Caelan found himself witnessing a side of this man he had never seen before. A resentful, angry man, barely keeping his emotions in check. Tirhin had lost confidence in Caelan for no explainable reason, unless ... unless it was because the prince had lost confidence in someone else, his father perhaps, or even himself.
Whatever the reason, it hurt. Hurt terribly to know that Caelan had sacrificed his conscience for someone who now showed how little he cared.
Like a vine scorched by fire, Caelan’s trust and admiration curled up inside him. He swallowed, and found himself adrift in bitter disillusionment. Yes, stupidly he had continued to hope that if he kept serving Tirhin faithfully and well, that if he kept winning championships, one day the prince would free him as a reward. Now he saw he had been a blind fool, a fool filled with dreams and fantasies as insubstantial as the air.
“So,” Caelan now said in a flat, toneless voice. “You believe I cannot defeat this Madrun.”
Apology, or perhaps consternation, appeared in Tirhin’s face. He said, “I have fought them in the border skirmishes. They are relentless. They fear nothing. It’s terrifying to stand on a plain at dawn and have them come swarming out from the mist in a yelling horde.
“Yes, Caelan, you are strong and relentless. As for fear, you don’t know what it is. But champion or not, I cannot afford a gamble of any kind. Too much depends on this victory.”
“Such as?”
“You’ve been told enough,” Tirhin said impatiently. “You wouldn’t understand the intricacies of our political intrigues.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched hard. He drew in two deep breaths, fighting to keep his temper. “The priest said I must win the people’s favor today. Are they not shouting for me now? Am I not already popular? The people know I belong to you.
I came here as the favorite. The betting odds are—”
“There must be more. You must do more. I cannot explain it. This coronation business ... the insult to me. It is the final straw in—” Breaking off, Tirhin pointed imperiously at the pouch. “Take it. Take the strength it will give you.”
Caelan stared at him, not moving. Then finally he walked over to the small table and picked up the pouch. It wasn’t necessary to loosen the strings to smell its contents. Revulsion shuddered through him. The very thought of swallowing an infusion made from this choked him.
There was something in it that would give him more than strength. He could feel the taint crawling through the leather into his fingers, searching for him, reaching for him. And a part of him welcomed its horribleness, reached back eagerly, longing to be set free.
Caelan opened his fingers and dropped the pouch onto the table. Little shivers ran through him. He felt wretched, as though he had been vomiting from stomach grippe. Forcing himself under control, he turned to his master.
“There is another way to make sure I fight beyond all I have ever done before,” he said, his voice tight and hollow. “A cleaner way, sir. An honorable way.”
Tirhin flinched at that accusation. His face darkened, but he kept his temper. “Take care,” he said softly.
Caelan knew the danger he courted, but he would not back down now. Too much was at stake. “May I speak?” he asked.
Tirhin’s eyes flashed. “Damn you, yes!”
A flicker of triumph went through Caelan then. Whatever Tirhin was plotting, he needed Caelan, and that gave Caelan the advantage.
“I will fight this Madrun in a way that will bring the people to their feet,” he said in a low, determined voice. “I will fight in a way you have never seen before. I will give you everything that potion would have dragged from me. But it will be by my will.”
Tirhin frowned as though impatient with such narrow distinctions.
“I will defeat the Madrun.”
“You cannot promise that! No matter how good you are, or have been, you cannot give me complete assurance.”
Caelan looked him right in the eye. “I do. I give you my word.”
“You can’t, you fool. The word of a slave? Bah!”
Tirhin swung away, but Caelan blocked his path.
“No,” he said, his gaze meeting Tirhin’s intently, “not the word of a slave. I give you the word of a champion. You will have your victory, but you will pay my price for it.”
Tirhin frowned. “You dare bargain with me? You?” he said, his voice rising. “You are my property. You fight because I command it. You serve because you are mine!”
Caelan’s own temper flared. “If you believe that, then you are a simpleton, sir. Truly I know different.”
Shock spread across Tirhin’s face. He stared at Caelan as though he couldn’t believe Caelan would dare speak to him in that manner.
Caelan could have said more, but he didn’t. Already he had crossed too far over the line. Besides, he was choking with his own tangled emotions. How much did a man have to reveal in order to convince another to trust him?
He backed up a step. “Sir—”
But the fire was already dimming in Tirhin’s eyes. He held up his hand to silence Caelan. “You have never been a slave,” the prince said softly. “Even wearing shackles, you have never been a slave. You were born a free man, and you have kept that freedom in your heart always. In that sense, you were never gentled. Even Orlo could not break you. You have served me because for some insane reason you wanted my praise.”
It was Caelan’s turn to grow red. He wanted to look away but didn’t.
“From such a desire grows loyalty,” Tirhin said. “It is what makes men serve their commander through the worst conditions. They will follow him anywhere and give him their all in battle. This is what you have given me. This is what Lord Sien and I have trampled on today.”
He had put his finger on it unerringly. Caelan dropped his gaze and said nothing. There could be no apology from a master to his slave, but there had been an admittance, and that was enough.
“What, then,” Tirhin asked wearily, “is your price? What reward do you want? Better quarters? Another servant? More gold to line your pockets? Special privileges to travel? The opportunity to serve me as my protector when I have the throne?”
How casually he said that last, as though it carried no more weight than the other offerings.
Caelan’s heart dropped inside him. He felt suddenly hollow and adrift, as though he had ceased to exist. Thoughts spun inside his head until he could not grasp them all.
The emperor’s protector... sworn to save the emperor’s life with no heed for his own ... constantly at the emperor’s side .. . awarded rank and privilege ... the highest honor for a soldier to attain ... a lifetime of work that was honorable and true ... no more torn conscience ... no more doubts ... freedom.
He looked into Tirhin’s eyes, seeking honest intention, and found it. His voice seemed to have left him, but he managed to gasp out a simple “Yes. That is a sufficient price.”
Tirhin’s face held a tangle of conflicting emotions, chief of which was worry. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great Gault, I must be mad to trust you.”
“To escape the ring I will fight with all that I have, and more,” Caelan said.
His voice rang out too harshly, too forcefully, but he didn’t care. His heart was soaring at this chance. The Madrun was doomed. Caelan intended him no mercy.
Tirhin still looked doubtful, but he nodded and headed for the door. Just as he reached it, he glanced back. “Bring me victory, Giant,” he tried to say lightly, and failed.
Caelan faced him with shoulders erect and chin high. “I will. It seems, sir, that this time we must trust each other to keep our word.”
Tirhin frowned. It was as though the temperature in the room grew icy cold. “There can be no failure,” he said harshly. “None. Win a victory for me in the manner I request, or die on the sand. For by all the gods, I swear that I personally will take your life if you fail me today.”
With a swirl of his blue cloak, he was gone, leaving his threat hanging heavy on the air.
Chapter Two
Orlo returned, bustling and flustered. “These damned delays,” he grumbled. “Your muscles will be tight and cold again.”
Rubbing his hands briskly together, he reoiled Caelan’s taut shoulders, massaging deeply, then slung a blue cloak around Caelan, tightened his wrist cuffs, and straightened his fighting harness.
Caelan endured these preparations in grim silence, his thoughts on the arena.
Each of his wins had built up a larger and larger reputation that had to be met or surpassed constantly in order to please. After his first championship, it hadn’t been enough to kill. No, then he was expected to fight with panache, drama, and flair. With each successive win came the added pressure of sustaining his record. He lived with the small, gnawing fear that someday he would meet his match. Then would come public, humiliating defeat, and probably death. No one remained champion for long; no one had won as many seasons as he.
And now all that he had done wasn’t enough for his master. If he did not prevail today against the worst opponent he had ever faced, Tirhin would have him killed.
Caelan’s jaw tightened, and he gathered all his determination. He had to succeed. No other option lay before him.
“Now remember,” Orlo said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re in better condition and better trained. You’re fit and well prepared. You know the arena; you’re used to the crowd. Most of all, you’re champion. He is nothing but a foul enemy of the empire. The crowd will be with you every step. And use every dirty trick you know.”
Caelan gave him a long look, but said nothing. He felt distracted and tense, off-balance in some way.
The door opened and a guard looked in. “Didn’t you hear the summons? Produce your man, Orlo. The crowd is ready to tear down the stands.”
“About bloody time,” Orlo retorted. He turned his back to the guard and handed Caelan a sword.
Caelan took the weapon and immediately tucked it out of sight beneath his cloak. Orlo was breaking the law to give him this privilege. Already the weight and heft of the wire-wrapped hilt felt good and right in Caelan’s hand. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the strength of the steel enter him.
His doubts and inner torment faded. He merged as one entity with the weapon, as though it became a natural extension of his hand. Years of fighting lay inside the blade, which had remained as true as the day it was forged.
“Come,” Orlo said.
The guards swung the door completely open, and Caelan strode out.
“You trainers,” one of the guards muttered as Caelan and Orlo passed. “Always stretching things out in hopes of keying up the crowd. We’ll have a riot on our hands if you don’t hurry.”
Orlo snorted but did not reply. This delay had been the emperor’s fault, or perhaps Tirhin’s, no one else’s.
Out in the passageway, chaos reigned as usual. A few weary fighters were being dipped in the water vat to clean off the worst of grime, sweat, and blood. Somewhere in the infirmary, a man was screaming over the rasping sound of a bone saw. Armed guards watched everywhere, alert and tense today because of the emperor’s presence. Boys ran here and there, carrying bundles of clothing, bandages, and oil jars. Trainers stood in small groups, huddled in conferences that paused as Caelan strode by.
He looked neither right nor left, but he was aware of their eyes, narrowed with speculation and assessment as they watched him pass. Orlo flanked him, glowering fiercely in evident pride.
Ahead of them ran the call: “Make way for the champion! Make way!”
A path was cleared. Conversations halted in mid-sentence as people stared. It was considered bad luck to speak to a fighter on his way into the arena, for at this moment Caelan’s life was held in the hands of the gods. But although no one whispered a word, he could feel waves of emotions beating at him. Envy, admiration, hope, frustration, dislike. A tangle of feelings he forced himself to resist.
Shadow War Page 2