Oblivious to Corwin’s quiet fury, Zan turned back to the wardrobe, prattling on as he pulled out a black silk tunic trimmed in gold with breeches to match. “There’s nothing like watching wilders fight. They hurl lightning and fireballs, make windstorms strong enough to knock down towers. You’ve got to see it to believe it.”
He had seen it. Memories of battle stretched through his mind like a slowly unwinding tapestry. He remembered the horror of it, the awesome power. Zan’s excitement disgusted Corwin, but he was in no mood to get into an argument with this boy so eager for the “spectacle.”
Zan brought the clothes over to Corwin, who reluctantly slid out of his robe. There was no point resisting. Every attempt at defiance made him ill, all of it coming back to those simple commands Gavril had magically chiseled into his mind; Tenets, he called them. They were like traps waiting to be sprung.
After helping him into his riding boots, polished so bright they looked like glass, Zan insisted on placing a thin gold circlet on Corwin’s head, the faint color nearly disappearing into his dusty-blond hair.
“Today will be even more exciting than you know,” Zan said, adjusting the circlet. “I heard tell that the Godspear will be fighting today in honor of your nuptials. There’s never been a fighter so fearsome. It’s a great honor.”
Oh yes, because ritualistic slaughter is such a fashionable bridal present. With a tight leash on his sarcasm, Corwin asked, “Is this Godspear a wilder then?” If so, he must have been one of the first captured. Corwin had been in Seva long enough to understand the “god” moniker wasn’t given lightly. The fighter must be the Godking’s personal champion and favorite.
“To be sure,” Zan replied. “He defeated an inferna in his first match. It was near on the size of a house.”
Corwin knew the boy wasn’t exaggerating. Inferna were the infamous red bulls native to Seva. Corwin had seen only one in his life, a monstrous beast with hide the color of raw meat, four horns on its head, a spiked tail, and hooves sharp enough to slice through rock as if it were bread. He and his shield brothers had given it a wide berth.
“Impressive.” Corwin held out his arms to allow Zan to fasten gold bands around his wrists. Carved in the shape of galloping horses, the bands were necessary to hide the scars left behind from the shackles he’d worn as a prisoner in the mines. The golden horses were to remind everyone who saw him that he was Corwin Tormane of Norgard, high prince of Rime. King Magnar preferred it that way, wanting to flaunt his prize to his court. And soon to all the world, once the marriage ceremony was complete. The fact that the ceremony took four days was torture of the worst kind.
Unbidden, thoughts of Kate slipped into Corwin’s mind, threatening to undo him. He should’ve married her first, before coming here. But there hadn’t been time, and now it was too late. Even if he had a means to escape, he didn’t have the will. Gavril had stolen it from him. Besides, he didn’t think a marriage would’ve stopped Magnar.
But at least she lives. Gavril might be the main source of his torment, but the man was a wellspring of knowledge about Rime. With no hesitation, he’d answered nearly all of Corwin’s questions about the state of his country, including the reputation of Kate Brighton, champion of the Rising, the Drake Killer, and the Wilder Queen. Yes, she lived, having survived the Wilder War, no less. And for now she was rumored to be safe behind the walls of Farhold. Sweet goddess, may she remain so.
After breaking his fast, Corwin was taken by litter to the Desol, the amphitheater where the Spectacles were held. The journey took nearly an hour as the litter bearers slowly navigated the crowds lining the streets. Corwin was thankful that the litter was enclosed. Everyone in the city from the lowliest servant to the highest noblemen had come out to celebrate Princess Eravis’s marriage, many of them eager to catch a glimpse of the Rimish prince. Corwin was just as much a spectacle as the wilders and the other fighters soon to compete.
He watched the bustle through the narrow slit of a window in the litter’s side, surprised by how normal it all seemed, how familiar. If not for the language and slight difference in clothing, he might’ve been on the streets of Norgard. Strangely, the familiarity only made him more aware of his isolation, how utterly alone he was in this foreign place.
At last the litter came to a halt, and Corwin climbed out onto the threshold of the Desol. Even though he’d glimpsed the amphitheater from the Sun Palace, the sheer size of it stunned him this close. Constructed entirely of gleaming white marble, it was said capable of hosting eighty thousand people at one time. Corwin believed it.
With Zan trailing behind him flanked by four Sevan guards, Corwin climbed the stone steps into the columned portico where the Godking and his entourage awaited, including his eldest son and heir, Mazen, and his youngest son, Eryx. His other five sons were all away, playing war and politics in different parts of Seva’s immense kingdom. Lord Gavril was present as well, of course, lingering off to the side as if he were a mere attendant. Eravis stood on the right hand of the king, resplendent in a dark-green gown threaded with gleaming silver. Corwin’s breath caught at the sight of her, as if he had been burned. He couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t the only one lured by her beauty. Gavril’s gaze kept returning to the princess, his eyes moving at liberty down the length of her.
Magnar Fane clapped his hands as Corwin approached. Although he was more than seventy, the Godking looked like a man in his prime, broad chested and with a narrow waist, emphasized by a golden belt fashioned to resemble dragon scales. Only the wrinkles on his face and the salt threaded through his brown hair belied his age.
Magnar swept toward Corwin and greeted him with a kiss on the lips. “My newest son has arrived at last.” Magnar took a step back, gripped Corwin’s hand, and raised it in his own, motioning to the assembled noblemen and dignitaries of Seva. They applauded as the king bade them. Corwin felt heat rise in his cheeks, every muscle in his body clenching with hatred for this man who dangled him about like a puppet. But he kept his thoughts carefully in check, remembering Gavril’s Tenets. He didn’t want to be sick now, in front of his assembled enemies.
Finished with displaying his prize, Magnar reached for his daughter and placed her hand in Corwin’s. Corwin started to let go, but saw Gavril shake his head no. At once, the tenet asserted itself in Corwin’s mind, a sickening wave washing over him in warning. He had no choice but to obey.
“You look well, my lord.” Eravis leaned close to him as she spoke, and the soft, flowery scent of her hair filled his nose.
Corwin coolly regarded her beauty once more—she was a fair blossom nourished beneath the sun of wealth and privilege, like many princesses he’d known. And yet she repelled him at every turn, representing as she did this gilded cage he had no hope of escaping and whatever worse trap the Godking had planned.
Fighting to keep the snarl out of his voice, Corwin replied, “Thank you, my lady. As do you.”
Eravis bowed her head in acknowledgment of the compliment, her long hair spilling over her slender shoulders like a dark, silken wave. When she raised her head again, a warm smile remained on her face, her eyes glinting as if with merriment. Corwin couldn’t understand it. She should hate him, as he did her. He remembered clearly her disgust at the news she was to marry him. And yet every time he’d seen her since, she treated him warmly, almost affectionately. Even now she stood beside him docile and happy, the fair blushing bride awaiting her joyous wedding.
As they entered the Desol, she smiled and waved at the people, many of whom tossed flower petals down at them to cover the ground as they walked. With a glance at Gavril walking just behind them, Corwin wondered yet again if the man and his sway were to blame for the princess’s change in attitude. The idea disgusted him. It was bad enough he was being forced into this marriage, but even worse to think Eravis was being made compliant for the union through magic. He didn’t dare question why Gavril didn’t include a tenet to love Eravis among the others. He could only be grateful that he�
��d been left the choice of hating her, if only in his own mind.
Arriving in the king’s box, Corwin took his place two seats to the left of Magnar, Eravis a buffer between them. For once, he was grateful for her presence. Gavril sat just behind them, like a dark shadow.
Despite his dread of the events to come, Corwin soon found himself caught up in the day’s festivities, which started with a race—twelve sleek, well-bred horses running their hearts out. Corwin’s eyes felt full and hot as he watched them run. Several of the horses were Norgard bred, their superior features clearly distinguishable beside the Sevan mounts. Corwin couldn’t guess how they’d ended up here. Stolen, no doubt, by Rendborne’s servants, same as the wilders. To the north of the box, the undulating fog of the Mistfold was visible over the edge of the Desol.
After the races, the fights began. The first few matches were between warriors from other nations—Endra, Rhoswen, even Ruzgar. There was a female fighter from the Esh Islands who reminded Corwin of Signe, and it sent an ache through his chest. What he wouldn’t give to be surrounded by loved ones, instead of these vipers. To be with Kate again.
His despair only intensified when the Eshian fighter took a blow from a morning star in the second round, the weapon’s spikes crushing half her face with a spray of blood and brain matter. The fights didn’t have to be to the death—a fighter could yield and plead for mercy—but few of them ended that way, the prize of winning a decisive match too great. Soon the white sands filling the center of the Desol’s combat area were stained as red as Sevan clay, the blood transforming it to mud. Corwin finally looked away from the fighting. Beside him, he noticed Eravis doing the same, her face wan and her applause meager at best.
At midday, the games halted to allow the attendants time to refresh. Corwin broke bread with the Godking and the rest, and when his thirst for nenath came upon him, Gavril was there to see to his need. The odious man with his elegant hands smiled at Corwin as he handed over the glass, his eyes bright with triumph. Corwin bared his teeth in response, envisioning himself cutting off the man’s head with a single stroke of a stolen sword. Imagining this, at least, didn’t pain him. Gavril had commanded Corwin to obey him, but left open the subject of doing him harm.
Not that it mattered. With a single word, Gavril could stop any attack Corwin attempted. Perhaps I should cut off his tongue. But no, it wouldn’t make a difference. He needed to cut off his magic. But how?
With no answers to be had, Corwin sat down again as the fight resumed. The next round featured a pair of wilders, a hydrist pitched against a pyrist. Unlike the fights before, Corwin found he couldn’t look away. Zan had been right. This was something to behold, and far different from the war he’d been through. In the heat of a large battle, the wilders rarely attacked one another one-on-one. But these two fought head to head, the clash of magic loud and stunning. The pyrist and the hydrist struggled to gain an upper hand with their respective magic, and Corwin realized that was the point. This was theater—they were not meant to kill each other. There could only be one reason for the difference: the Godking didn’t want any of his prizes to meet the same fate as the Eshian fighter. He wanted his wilders alive and unharmed, fit for battle. Could this mean he still planned to invade Rime? But then, why this entrapment, this farce of a marriage? Deep down, Corwin knew the answer. The uror. In Norgard, the gods chose who would rule. And he who ruled Norgard ruled Rime. Magnar might be able to break Rime’s defenses with an army of wilders, but he wouldn’t be able to hold Norgard on his own, not against the power of the uror.
But he can through me.
It made Gavril’s tenet that he not harm himself make sense. Corwin would do it, end his own life in order to save his country. But even that option had been closed to him.
Still, he refused to give up, to give in. Retreat wasn’t in his nature. There must be a way. He just needed to find it. Corwin stole a glance at Eravis, unsettled to discover she’d been watching him. Perhaps she would be the key. If he could convince her that he truly loved her, and she fell in love with him and trusted him, he might be able to use that advantage to escape . . . No, it was a repugnant idea, and he knew he couldn’t go through with it. There must be some other way.
With the final match set to begin, a hush fell over the crowd as the Godking stood from his chair and walked to the edge of the box, which extended out over the grounds below. Raising his arms, he said, “Good citizens of Seva, there is but one more match this day, which we dedicate to our beloved daughter in her marriage to Corwin Tormane, high prince of Rime. May their union bring us the peace and prosperity we have so longed for.”
The crowd applauded at this, and Corwin rolled his eyes. What more prosperity did the Godking need? He was already rich beyond measure, and yet he wasn’t satisfied. He wouldn’t be, until he claimed Rime.
“To that end,” Magnar continued, “our champion in this final match will be none other than the Godspear!”
At this, the crowd erupted into applause, one far greater than its predecessor. The fervor increased as the entry doors to the killing floor opened and a lone figure stepped out onto the sands. The Godspear was massive and well-built, chest rippling with muscles and arms and legs like tree trunks. Same as the other fighters before him, he wore a loincloth and sandals, his only armor a pair of thick iron vambraces and a helmet with a white plume rising out of it, the nose guard and cheek pieces obscuring his face. He carried no weapon—perhaps because he was the weapon. Corwin wondered what sort of wilder the man was.
He strode all the way to the center of the ring and bowed before the Godking, going down on one knee.
“Arise, my champion.” Magnar waved him up. Then he addressed the crowd again. “As his opponent, the Godspear will face a foe never before seen in Seva. We give you . . . the scourge of Rime, the deadly nightdrake!”
The loud creak of metal gears overpowered the shouts of the crowd as a massive cage rose up out of the floor opposite the fighter’s entrance. More than a dozen dragon-like beasts filled the cage. They came in different sizes, some as small as pigs, others as large as horses, all of them boasting poisoned fangs and claws like curved daggers. With their keening screeches, these creatures knew only one desire—to feast on human flesh. The sight of them made Corwin’s skin prickle with memories of the pain and death they wrought.
They weren’t nightdrakes as Magnar claimed, however—they were daydrakes. No nightdrake would be able to survive in this sun, and the black scales of the daydrake were unmistakable. Like the Norgard-bred horses and wilders, they must’ve been smuggled here. No easy task, and one Magnar could’ve only accomplished with help from magists of the gold order—or from the Nameless One himself, the man responsible for all of this. Questions of when these daydrakes came to be here rose in Corwin’s mind. But where Rendborne was now and what he might be doing hardly seemed to matter compared with what Corwin faced in the coming days. It was one subject Gavril never had any information about either.
Eravis leaned toward him, a faint shudder sliding through her body. “They are so ferocious. Do those beasts really emerge every night in your homeland?”
“Indeed. You would never want to visit.” Corwin leaned away from her as best he could in the narrow seat. Oblivious to the reaction, Eravis slid her arm under his and took his hand, fingers gripped in such a manner that warned him that pulling away from her wouldn’t be wise. The ferocity of it surprised him. Who are you really? He cast a sidelong look at her, wondering at the girl he’d first met, the one who’d stomped on his foot to escape him, then threatened to kill him if he hurt her brother. She must still be in there, hidden beneath this pretty, compliant facade.
The fight began a few moments later, the door to the drake cage opening by an unseen force. The beasts charged out, moving as one. They were one, Corwin knew, creatures magically bound by a sort of hive mind. His heart clenched inside his chest as he once again thought of Kate. If she were here, she could stop the beasts with a single thought
.
Gavril could as well, Corwin realized. Not that he would.
The Godspear raised his arms toward the drakes, which moved with the speed of snakes striking. The ground in front of the drakes rose up like a wave, transforming into a solid wall. The man must be an earthist, and Corwin’s heart sank at the realization. An earthist’s power would be fine for fending off the drakes, but he couldn’t see how it would help him kill them. Even as he watched, the drakes were already finding their way around the wall, drawn straight to the Godspear by his human scent.
The wilder put up another wall and another. At the same time, the vambraces on his wrists began to elongate, transforming into crude spears that rose up to cover his hands. One of the drakes broke through the line of walls and charged the Godspear. He raised an arm toward it, muscles flexed. Heedless, the drake impaled itself on the spear with a force strong enough that the Godspear stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing. Corwin sucked in a breath, his pulse quickening both from fear and awe. It wasn’t easy to impale a drake, their hides stronger than chain mail. With the drake already dying, the Godspear yanked the spear free, then spun to meet another drake coming at him.
There were so many. Too many. And yet the wilder slew them one by one, using a combination of his spear arms and his earthist magic. Corwin watched mesmerized as the man wielded the sand as a weapon, casting it at the drakes hard enough to make them stumble or turn back to escape the grains burning their eyes and clogging their throats. One of the smaller drakes got by him, soaring up over his defenses with its flightless wings stretched out behind it. It barreled into him as it landed, sending both man and beast sprawling. But the Godspear recovered quickly, rolling up onto his feet in time to stab the drake through the neck and shoulder before it could regain its balance.
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