It was a few minutes before Seventh-hour when Devlin settled himself amongst the other members of the royal council. The first match of the day would begin momentarily, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Primarily, he was wondering if Oliveah Oslund was somewhere in the surrounding stands, cursing his very existence and preparing to unleash another wave of unmitigated fury upon him.
He could not truly blame her. He had, after all, given his assurances that Nathon and Taleb would be ousted from the competition as quickly as possible, and while he had not guaranteed this would occur in the first round, it had been his intention. Evidently he’d underestimated Nathon Wythe.
The man Devlin had selected for him to fight was a Dhan’Marian of about thirty years, and while little was known of him by the populace, the jester knew him well enough. A few years ago, he’d come to Aralexia looking the join the knights of King DeSiva’s royal guard, and had made it far through their testing process. What eventually foiled him was he appeared to have serious reservations when it came to the matter of taking lives; he’d actually stated plainly to Captain Poage that while he would have no qualms with incapacitating or wounding, he would not, under any circumstances, kill. Captain Poage had been sorry to do it, but he’d had no choice but to deny the man admittance to the knighthood, regardless of his talents.
Taking all of this into consideration, Devlin had therefore seen this man as the perfect instrument to fulfill his plans, pairing him off with Nathon and then deeming the matter settled. Witnessing the ease Nathon had in overcoming him had proven an unpleasant surprise, and continued to cause him a fair amount of anxiety. He could only hope he would see more favorable results today, when Taleb fought at Eighth-hour, although he now looked toward the encounter with a fair amount of nervousness. He did not want to imagine Oliveah Oslund’s wrath should his attempts fail again.
Devlin nodded across the field to the bell-ringer, who gonged to call the first combatants of the day to their places. The seats encompassing all sides of the field were densely packed, and loud cheers hailed from every direction as the fighters took the field. Devlin looked away and made a quick glance to take in the expressions of those he sat with; Captain Poage and Commander Catala appeared their usual stoic selves, while the king ate grapes and looked to the field with anticipation. Prince Luken, whose own enthusiasm to engage in the fights had been visibly dwindling day by day, was staring ahead with a grimly determined expression, probably counting down the hours to his own match, which would not occur until Sixth-day, the final day of the first round.
To his other side, the jester took in Dusan Galaz, seeing the seneschal’s face adorned in its typical calm look, and Cadien Stavrakos. The treasurer, he noted with interest, appeared irritated. This was unusual simply because Stavrakos, like Devlin himself, made it a point to never reveal even a hint of his true thoughts, which implied he must be extremely vexed now.
Stavrakos noted Devlin’s glance, and his lip curled into a brief snarl. Devlin grinned back at him in response, even while making a mental note to discern the cause of the man’s irritation. It was possible the reason was something he could exploit, but even if not, he’d found it prudent to keep himself apprised of as much of Stavrakos’s business as possible.
The second gong of the bell commenced the day’s first duel, and Devlin quickly looked back to the field. A Justice officer was now trading blows with a fellow Dhan’Marian man who, Devlin knew thanks to his assistants, made his living as a hired thug. Apparently there was little the man would not do, including murder, rape, and robbery, and while he remained a suspect in many crimes all across the country, the Legion had yet to find enough evidence to have him jailed. Devlin was hoping the Justice officer he now faced would kill him, but the fight, unsurprisingly, quickly began to lean in the other direction.
Many in the crowd gasped in disgust several minutes later. Devlin kept to his neutral expression, but a wave of revulsion rolled its way through his stomach. The Justice officer was now dead, and his face all but unrecognizable as his opponent’s sword was buried in it almost up to the hilt. More gruesome than even the beheading of two days earlier, Devlin surmised that there appeared to be a much higher body count already this year than what was normal. Truly, for there to be nine dead even before the conclusion of the first round, this year’s games were on track to be the bloodiest yet. Not a thought to put him at ease, seeing as he had several men to get through them alive, and one of them scheduled to appear in the very next fight.
Of the entire royal council, only Cadien Stavrakos opted to leave his seat during this first intermission, and Devlin watched him start off with suspicion. He was extremely tempted to follow after the man, to maybe discern a clue as to his foul mood, but he forced himself to ignore the urge and remain seated. It was possible one of his spies would take note of Stavrakos’s movements and keep with him, but if not, Devlin would just have to hope that he’d receive another opportunity to learn the source of Stavrakos’s discontent.
The remainder of the hour passed quickly, but for the twenty minutes King DeSiva used to expound upon the danger of pockets, giving his theories that they existed only for devious purposes. He came very near to outlawing them from all clothing worn in Aralexia, only relenting when Devlin smoothly interceded to remind him that pockets were, in fact, invented by one born to Healing, and for the express purpose of carrying medicinal supplies without having to be bogged down by numerous satchels and purses. In short, he finished, there was absolutely nothing devious about them.
After a healthy silence that saw the king thoughtfully digesting this, he’d finally agreed; but only because he feared offending all Healers, Devlin presumed. In any case, he’d managed to avoid another crisis, and he shared a long look with Prince Luken directly after doing so. The prince, he knew, was growing extremely worried over the fate of the entire realm, and that worry was entirely warranted so far as the royal jester was concerned.
As the hour of Eighth drew nearer, Devlin found himself growing increasingly more nervous, barely even glancing at Stavrakos when he returned to his seat. Such anxiety was most unlike him, but under the circumstances he found it understandable. After his miscalculation with Nathon, he now feared a similar result with Taleb, although this wasn’t the complete cause behind his nerves. He was, in truth, almost positive Taleb was the man he was looking for, and his reason for this simple; it was their Choice medallions. While Nathon wore Harvest, and, according to Knoxx, had little desire for a life beyond the Oslund vineyard, Taleb had chosen Destiny and aimed to travel to Lutarre Keep. This was actually the precise move Devlin would expect the man he searched for to take, and it was to the warlords he would have initially gone had the diviner not first steered him toward Oliveah Oslund. But until he could say for certain that this was the truth of it, he would hold to his word and do his best to protect both men.
As the bell-ringer tapped his bell to call the combatants to the field, Devlin found he had a rather tense grip upon the armrests of his seat. Hoping Stavrakos hadn’t noticed, he relaxed his hands into a loose hold and watched as the two men came forward.
What if you chose wrong, and he is killed? his thoughts lashed out at him ruthlessly. All of Dhanen’Mar will suffer for it!
He fought to stifle this voice, focusing instead upon the combatants. His first look at Taleb, at least from this distance, had his physique appearing quite similar to Nathon’s, although Taleb held himself differently. His movements were much more assured, although Devlin allowed that this could just be an attempt to mask his nervousness. Most likely not though, he decided after another moment. In fact, he guessed, if Taleb truly was the one he presumed him to be, he was likely very anxious, but not the least bit nervous, to begin the duel. Nathon had not killed—or even seriously wounded—his opponent. The jester would be very interested to see if Taleb would do the same, should the unthinkable happen and he gain the upper hand.
The man he’d selected with the greatest o
f care to face Taleb was a foreigner, the only participant to come from the country of Kathwei, which lay clear upon the northern continent. It was extremely rare to find a Kathwein here in Dhanen’Mar, and never had one committed himself to the Challenge, or at least not during any of the years Devlin had been running them. He had taken the presence of this one, here and now, as a gift from the Patrons.
The Kathwein were an interesting lot. While known throughout the world for their speed and stealth in combat, this information had only been realized after the sole two occasions they’d had cause to fight. The Kathwein were a peace-loving and harmonious race, and because of this they had twice been mistaken for an easy target—once over a century ago by the Cejans, their western neighbors, and then only a score past by the Kolasi. On both occasions did the Kathwein utterly annihilate their attackers, actions that more or less shocked the world and made any think thrice before trying any such invasion again. Peace-loving they may be, but interfering with that peace brought about a swift and certain death.
Devlin could think of no reason why a Kathwein had come here now. It was rare for any of their race to venture beyond their country’s borders, and it certainly seemed odd one had come all this way to participate in something so far removed from the creed they existed by. But one thing the jester could be relatively certain of was that this man would not kill to confirm his victory.
The Kathwein revered all life, and regarded the killing of any man or animal as the greatest sacrilege. The decimation of the armies come to threaten them had been allowed by their leader only so they could preserve this way of life within their borders; left alone, theirs was a race of extreme passivity.
Devlin regarded the Kathwein now taking his stance opposite Taleb. The two men appeared of about the same age, but while Taleb carried a typical Dhan’Marian sword and shield, his opponent’s blade was thick and slightly curved. The foreign man himself was swathed entirely in black, including the scarf he’d tied about the lower half of his face.
Looking at them, Devlin again tried to figure a reason why the Kathwein had come to Dhanen’Mar and entered the games, finding himself growing very uneasy when he could think of none. He was suddenly overcome by the instinct that something here was not at all right, although not a glimmer of understanding would come to him no matter how hard he struggled.
Not that it would have mattered if it had—for his time to interfere had now run out, as the bell-ringer sounded out the start of the match with a resounding gong.
The Kathwein immediately began a dizzying display of speed, rolling the hilt of his sword through his fingers in a maneuver obviously meant to confuse. His weapon was little more than a blur as it whirled about the air before him, and Devlin found himself disoriented just trying to keep up with the path of its movement.
Taleb appeared to be sharing the same difficulty, as he had yet to make a move himself, instead preparing to defend from a strike he could only try to anticipate.
The Kathwein at last moved to land a blow, stepping forward and extending his sword in a sharp arc.
Devlin was barely aware of the fact that he was holding his breath, transfixed as he saw Taleb lift his shield in time to block the slash that would likely have lost him his arm. He retaliated with his own thrust, which was met and deflected with a stunning speed. The Kathwein moved to deliver another fatal blow, which Taleb avoided only by throwing himself to the ground and rolling.
The crowd was cheering wildly in excitement.
What is happening here? Devlin thought frantically, staring. It was obvious the Kathwein was out for blood, and that simply made no sense at all. His assistant sent to gather information on this man had turned up nothing of interest, but Devlin had been unconcerned simply given his race. This was clearly a severe error on his part, as it was now evident he’d put one of the men he was risking his very existence to protect into a staggering amount of danger.
Taleb had so far managed to avoid taking any hits, but it was obvious he was growing frustrated with the blindingly quick movements being launched at him. He also wasn’t managing many strikes of his own, needing all of his concentration just to defend himself.
Finally, Devlin saw, he seemed to lose his patience. Leaving his left shoulder open in sacrifice, Taleb allowed himself to take the slash as he angled his own blade toward its target, sinking it deeply into the Kathwein’s thigh.
The foreign man bellowed in rage and swung at Taleb’s throat.
Taleb blocked with his shield and simultaneously raised his boot, kicking the man in his freshly wounded thigh.
This appeared to utterly enrage the Kathwein, and he began swinging wildly, his blade moving more quickly than ever. Taleb was crouched slightly just before him, his eyes trained upon every move of that sword.
Devlin didn’t see an opening in the movements, but apparently Taleb did—moving at a speed to suddenly rival the Kathwein’s own, his sword shot straight out as the enemy blade whirled outward and landed dead center in the Kathwein’s chest. Still Taleb pushed, thrusting his sword in even farther, until, fully impaled, the foreign man began to grow limp.
Devlin abruptly found himself capable of breathing again, and fought not to pull in a great breath of relief. He casually pried his fingers from about the armrests and made certain his expression was in check as he continued to watch the field.
It appeared Taleb was at last content his opponent was dead, now pulling free his sword and letting the body fall. The audience roared their approval, to which he paid no notice.
Devlin suddenly realized he was supposed to be moving to officially declare Taleb the victor, and he forced life into his limbs, managing a graceful rise. As he strode out across the field, he thought it extremely likely Oliveah Oslund was, at this very moment, cursing his very existence.
Taleb was still looking down at the body when Devlin drew up next to him. Despite himself, he took a quick moment to search the man’s features, and in doing so he realized it was neither guilt nor remorse that held Taleb’s attention.
“I presume,” Taleb said, glancing over at him, “that this was not known to you?”
Devlin frowned faintly in confusion and then dropped his own eyes to the dead Kathwein. He immediately saw what had prompted Taleb’s comment, and began shaking his head. “Of course, his Birth medallion was recorded. But his Secondary he’d kept concealed.”
Taleb looked back at him dryly. “I suppose we know why now, don’t we?”
Devlin worked hard to fight off a wince. The Kathwein’s Secondary had fallen loose and revealed itself when he’d fallen lifelessly to the ground, and it was now displaying a very grim and telling picture. Death, backed by Death. The man had been utterly and completely mad.
But at least this explained his presence in the competition—only an insane Kathwein would have taken such an action willingly. Wanting to curse himself for not foreseeing this possibility, Devlin pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind and grabbed a hold of Taleb’s arm, raising it in a show of victory.
“Taleb Okin is declared the victor, and shall move on to the second round!” he bellowed, as thousands of voices reacted in cheer.
Taleb pulled his arm from Devlin’s grasp and gave him a foul look.
Devlin couldn’t fault him for his anger, although he was certain it would have no measure against the rage Oliveah Oslund planned to unleash his way. He was convinced he could feel her eyes on him now, searing into his very skull.
“On behalf of the entire royal council, please accept our apologies. Obviously, had we any idea the man was afflicted by madness, we would never have allowed him to take part in the competition,” Devlin said now.
Taleb stared at him a moment longer, and then shrugged. “I suppose it matters little now. I tried to draw the fight out for as long as I could, but truthfully, all that flashing about was giving me a headache.”
Devlin stared at him wordlessly for a long moment without comprehension. �
��Are you saying,” he finally managed, “you never deemed yourself to be in any danger?”
“Of course not,” Taleb scoffed. “He was all flash and no substance, sane or mad. His speed was impressive, certainly, but no more than my own. Which I think I evidenced well enough,” he said, with a nod down at the body.
The jester was still staring at him, while trying very hard not to.
It must be him. There can be no question, not with words and skills such as those.
“If that is the case,” Devlin then said, quickly gathering his wits, “the matter of your bitterness is rather perplexing.”
Taleb flashed a grin. “I was just curious to see if you would actually humble yourself with an apology. The royal council is not thought of well in Aralexia’s streets, you know. The populace feels you are all rather . . . out of touch with the common people.”
Devlin was staring again, now incredulous. I could shatter your world with but a single sentence, you arrogant son of a bitch, he thought savagely, even while donning a bland smile. But I am glad to see you’re possessed of such spirit, for you are going to need it. And we are going to need you.
“Words I will be sure to take under advisement,” the royal jester said.
“Until the second round, then,” Taleb replied, giving him a nod before turning and starting away down the field.
Devlin watched him go for a brief moment. There now remained absolutely no doubt in his mind—Taleb was without question the one he was looking for. He would continue to do his best to protect Nathon in the second round—although his protection was really turning out to be something of a joke—but it was Taleb who would have his full focus. He forced his eyes away from the man and headed back to his seat to await the next round.
Ninth-hour began the duel between one Gliddion Xaz, a man from the country of Balsh whom his assistant Reagan had designated a high threat, and one of the knights of the royal guard. The savagery of the day continued when the Balshan managed to disarm the knight, lift him clear over his head, and then break his back by bringing him down upon his uplifted knee. Devlin heard the man’s spine snap even from where he sat, and he gestured emphatically for the Healers to rush in and attend the poor man. Sadly, however, they weren’t given the chance, for Xaz then finished the duel by unnecessarily sticking his sword clear through his shrieking victim’s skull.
Devlin could see several of the women in the audience—and some of the men—leave the forum directly following this, and didn’t think many would return for the day’s final two fights. The jester further noted Prince Luken’s pallor growing noticeably by the hour.
At Tenth-hour a knight faced off against a Justice officer. The worst damage done in this fight was a broken arm, seeing the knight victorious and moving on to the next round, and what remained of the audience appeared to breathe a collective sigh of relief when no further blood was shed. Even the most vicious of citizens seemed to have gotten their fill this day.
Unfortunately, the final fight was to again result in death, but the knight who finally managed to land a killing strike upon the Jennite he fought was given little choice; it had been clear from the outset that his opponent meant to kill him.
Out of the five duels fought today, four of the men defeated had been killed. Devlin found this extremely concerning, but could see no obvious reason why this year was proving to be especially deadly. Perhaps the most frightening fact was that they were only four days into the competition, with eleven more to go. He didn’t even want to imagine what the remainder of the week might bring.
With the games now over for the day, he excused himself from the king’s presence, explaining that he had supper plans with his brother. This was actually true. He had not spoken to Knoxx since the evening before the start of the Challenge, and was much looking forward to an evening free of intrigue. He did nothing to disguise his path as he made his way toward The Dancing Damsel where they were to meet up, having no reason to care if Stavrakos’s spies were trailing him. He found his brother awaiting him in the common room.
“We need to talk. Come up to my room,” Knoxx said in greeting.
Devlin held back a sigh and followed his brother up to the second floor. He saw no sign of Flynn Fajen, and wondered if this had something to do with him and his threat of earlier. He would not be concerned, if so. He had much bigger problems to deal with.
What Knoxx began to tell him once they were settled privately into his room, however, was a matter much more interesting.
“I do not know what Sylvain is looking to accomplish here in Aralexia,” the mage summed up, “but whatever it is, rest assured he is not someone you want conspiring with Stavrakos.”
Devlin wondered if this could in any way explain why Stavrakos’s mood had appeared so very sour today. “I’m not certain what business he could have with a thief, but I have every intention of finding out,” he said.
Knoxx looked at him somewhat askance. “Do you intend anything further?”
Devlin took him in. “I suppose that will depend on whatever I discover.”
“I would advise you not to wait.”
He paused. “Because of the threat he represents to me, or to Fajen?’
“Both. Do not underestimate this man, Dev. He’s always lusted for power, and I can only imagine his reasons for holding counsel with Stavrakos. A worse pairing I would be hard pressed to find.”
Devlin considered this in silence for a time, which Knoxx apparently took for a sign that he was not going to respond at all.
“One further thing that might interest you,” the mage finally went on. “I had an intriguing encounter a couple of days ago.”
The jester listened as his brother then recounted the tale of his run-in with Taleb and Nathon. He was pleased to hear the two seemed to be adhering to Oliveah’s oath, but he didn’t perk up until Knoxx began explaining how he’d turned them on Rydin Kale, and why.
“That matter in Tyrell,” he spoke up, “was brought to us here in Aralexia. You are not the only one suspicious that Thieves were not wholly responsible.”
Knoxx looked surprised. “Really?”
Devlin nodded. “Several nobles have sent messages, requesting that we further investigate the matter. I find the events of the Tulan ball especially concerning.”
“So, has anything been done about it?”
“Not as yet. I’m afraid the events of the Challenge have most of the council distracted, but I plan on readdressing the matter as soon as this week has past. Although your theory regarding this Jennite is interesting.” He actually wasn’t very happy Knoxx had set Taleb and Nathon on Kale, for the man was obviously dangerous, whether gifted with Magic or not, and Devlin didn’t want to have to start worrying for their safety while off the field as well as on.
But, since he had no intention of telling his brother the deeper truth of the matter, he kept his silence. He would also be keeping a much closer eye on one Rydin Kale.
Chapter 33
Auguries of Dawn Page 33