Chapter 27

The storm crashed down on Taol with a fury that felled trees and flooded rivers all across the province. The rain lashed at Tithian’s face, but he kept his visor open, relishing; the feel of it—for the rain washed away his tears.

Cathan put away the Disks, then bent to lift Ebonbane from the ground. “A duel?”

“Just so,” Tithian said. “The stakes are your freedom, and the Peripas.”

“And my life. I will not yield.”

Tithian nodded. He’d expected that, even though his old master appeared a broken man, starved and exhausted. Even Ebonbane could not guarantee his victory.

“And if I should win?” Cathan pressed. “Will you truly call off the search?”

Tithian simply raised Bron’s sword, pressing its hilt to his lips. His gaze remained locked with Cathan’s, who sagged slightly, as though already defeated.

“Very well,” Cathan sighed. “But we must not fight here. I do not wish to disgrace Tavarre’s grave with our blood. Let us go to a secret place, you and I, where we can take care of this business with only the gods as witnesses.”

The other knights stirred, and Bron opened his mouth to protest, but Tithian held up a hand to stay them. Lightning blazed, with a great crack of thunder following a second later. Tithian winced at the sound, then smiled.

“Very well,” he said. “I trust you not to try any trickery, Cathan. Lead on.”

Bron followed them as far as the ruined keep’s gate, then stopped when Tithian flashed him a stern look. The young knight flushed angrily, but obeyed the silent command. Tithian was right—the Divine Hammer had its laws, and the right of Ponfobo Ifas, or the trial of combat—was one. Many years had passed since the last time two knights had fought to the death, but the rite remained.

The rain made the path slippery. Cathan moved with the sure-footedness of one who had grown up in such surroundings, and he had to stop now and then for the Grand Marshal to catch up. They went on past Luciel and into the wilderness, sometimes pushing their way through the scrub, sometimes hacking with their swords. The storm got worse; the sky turned the color of charcoal, flaring every few seconds as a new lightning-bolt raged from cloud to cloud, or to the ground.

“Let’s avoid the hilltops,” Tithian said. “The lightning will kill us both.”

Cathan laughed and pushed on. They walked for that seemed miles, until Tithian began to wonder if he could ever find his way back to Luciel. Oddly, he realized he didn’t care. He was alone with his master again, one last time. It felt good. Finally, they came to a steep-walled ravine whose entrance was hidden by spruce and hawthorn trees. Within, at the edge of a creek already swollen by the storm, Cathan stripped off his pack and rain-heavy monk’s robes. It left him naked, except for sandals and a breechclout Tithian could see his ribs slide beneath his skin as he stretched, taking a few practice swipes with Ebonbane.

“What if you just let me go now?” Cathan asked. “Say I led you into a trap and then ran away. Your men would believe you.”

“You know I can’t do that” Tithian replied, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t he honorable.”

Cathan drew a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, my honor” he murmured. “All right, then. If I fall, bury me in this place. This was my home, once.”

Tithian glanced around, recognizing the ravine now. Cathan had spoken of it often, when they were master and squire; it once served as the hiding place for Tavarre’s bandits. Beldinas had performed his first healing miracle on this very soil.

They raised their swords in salute.

“Apodam mubat pucdum,” Tithian recited.

May the righteous prevail.

Cathan nodded. “Sifat.”

They stared at each other, each assuming his fighting stance. Above, the sky flickered, and thunder growled from one end of the ravine to the other.

Their first pass at each other was a test, an exchange of four blows—high, low, low, high—each fast but light, not meant to truly harm. The two men parried with ease, instinct driving their moves. Tithian felt exhilaration flow through his veins: This was going to be a real fight, not some sparring match in the Hammerhall’s yard, and while Cathan might not be the warrior he’d once known, still he was a practiced veteran. They parted, circling each other. Pine needles and bits of slate slid under Tithian’s feet.

Cathan came on first, attacking with a sudden wildness that brought a spike of fear to Tithian’s heart. He was forced to give ground, blocking one cut after another. He parried, nearly tripped over a gnarled tree root, stumbled, righted himself, and then parried again. Then, as quickly as he’d moved in, Cathan backed away. Tithian’s sword-arm burned from the force of the Twice-Born’s attack, and he stared in disbelief. Where was Cathan’s strength coming from?

“You’re better, stronger, than I expected,” he admitted.

Cathan shrugged. “I taught you everything you know, not everything I know.”

A grin spread across Tithian’s face. Indeed, this would be a good fight. Lightning flashed, striking a distant hilltop with an earsplitting crack, and now he attacked, whirling his blade in a pattern his old master hadn’t taught him. It was a new form, from the Zaladhi school of swordsmanship, and Cathan hadn’t learned it. His blocks were clumsy. Tithian pressed his old master to the edge of the stream.

Finally, his blade slipped through Cathan’s defenses. One of Cathan’s parries was late, and diverted a thrust aimed at his throat into his own left shoulder. It wasn’t a killing stroke, not by a long shot, but it was still first blood, and he avoided a more serious follow-through by leaping back and plunging into the creek’s frigid water. He stood in the water, blood running down his arm.

“Not bad,” Cathan allowed, regarding the wound.

“I’ve learned a few things while you were away too,” Tithian replied.

Cathan raised his eyebrows, then edged out of the stream. His next attack surprised Tithian: It was a perfect imitation of the style the Grand Marshal had just boasted! Now it was Tithian’s turn to back away, blocking furiously. He knew the Zaladhi style well enough to anticipate each thrust, though, and no blow had landed when they parted again.

Tithian dipped his sword in acknowledgement. His arms ached, but he knew he had more stamina than Cathan did. If he wore his former master down, he could press the advantage… maybe knock him unconscious and take him alive. He moved to his right, ducking under a low-hanging branch, his eyes fast on Ebonbane.

“Tithian,” Cathan said. “I have something important I must tell you.”

The Grand Marshal hesitated, just a moment, then shook his head. “Nice try, old man,” he said. “That’s an old trick. You can’t distract me with talk.”

“I’m not trying to. Listen to me, lad—won’t you do that?”

Tithian moved in again, trading blows—one-two, one-two—and then backed off, the two circling each other again, keeping the creek in view.

“Well?” Tithian asked.

“Promise me one thing,” Cathan replied. “When you’ve finished me off, you must leave the empire. Take the Disks and go west. Don’t return to the Lordcity!”

Tithian’s brow furrowed. “That’s ridiculous—why?”

“Because before long, there won’t be a Lordcity.”

One-two, one-two, part.

“What in the Abyss are you talking about?” Tithian asked, breathing more heavily.

“It’s Beldyn,” Cathan replied, also panting as he shifted to his left “What I said back at the keep was true. He’s going to destroy Istar. And not just the city—the whole empire! I have seen a vision of what is going to happen.”

One-two. One-two, one-two, part.

Above, lightning flared.

Tithian blinked, his brow furrowing. There was a gleam in Cathan’s empty eyes that said this was more than just some ruse. “I—I don’t believe you.”

“No, part of you does believe me,” Cathan said. “But you don’t want to admit it. The Kingpriest’s gone too far. The burning hammer will be his punishment.”

One-two. Part. Cathan was bleeding from a new cut, across his upper leg. He grunted with pain as he backed away.

Tithian stared at him. The worst thing was, Cathan could be telling the truth. He certainly looked like he was telling the truth… and Tithian did have reservations about Beldinas’s plan to command Paladine. It seemed a sacrilege in many ways… but wasn’t he the Lightbringer? Hadn’t the gods chosen him? Half of him wanted to believe Cathan, the other half wanted to trust the Kingpriest.

A bolt blazed, striking a tree not far away and turning it into a living torch. The roar of thunder struck his ears like two giant fists. He saw Cathan grimace, too, saw his old master’s knees buckle, and he had his chance. One crippling blow, and he could end this now. He leaped forward, Jolith’s name on his lips.

One-two, one-two, one-two…

Three.

It was the simplest break in the pattern, but it came as a surprise to Tithian, as steel slid home. The two of them stumbled back from each other, letting go of their swords as blood splashed onto the rocky ground. Cathan fell to his knees, shutting his eyes with a groan that came from deep inside him.

Tithian stood still, too stunned to move. “Palado Calib,” he breathed. “Cathan…”

Then his mouth filled with blood, and he toppled onto his side.

Cathan gaped in shock. He’d been fighting to stall, not to win. He’d thrust aside nearly a dozen opportunities to finish Tithian, looking for some way to convince him to give up the fight. But the last onslaught had been too much, too fast. Panic had taken over for brief moments. Now Tithian lay beside the creek, Ebonbane buried in his stomach halfway to its quillons. There was blood everywhere, and the rain carried it into the stream, turning the waters a ghastly pink.

The Grand Marshal was still alive. His fingers clutched feebly at the sword’s hilt. His lips, dead white with shock, moved without making a sound.

Cathan found he didn’t have the strength to stand back up. So he crawled over, and lifted his former squire’s head, and laid it down gently in his lap.

“Oh, lad,” he wept, pulling off the Grand Marshal’s helm. He smoothed back the long, sandy hair from the pale face. “Oh, lad…”

“You’ve… learned sssss—” Tithian began to say, then choked off in a hiss of pain. “Ssssome new… things, too.”

“You should have listened to me,” Cathan said, choking on his tears. “I was telling you the truth. You should have listened. I never meant—”

Tithian nodded. “You’re right, Cathan,” he said. “I… should have. I ssssss-see… that now. I see the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” Cathan said.

“Now pull it out.”

It took Cathan a moment to understand. He looked at Ebonbane. “You’ll die,” he murmured.

“And if you… leave it in? How… old will I… live… to be?” Tithian asked with a crooked grin. His teeth were now bright red.

It was true. Tithian might last hours, maybe even days, but the pain would be excruciating, and he wouldn’t survive. He squeezed his old squire’s hand. “First, will you tell me one thing?” he asked.

“If… I can.”

“My sister… what has happened to Wentha?”

Tithian’s grin became a smile. “Karthay,” he said. “A good household there… slave. I saw her board… the ship mysssself.”

Cathan felt a rush of hope. Karthay was as far from the Lordcity as any place in the empire. He bent low over Tithian and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Now… end this.”

Wordlessly, Cathan rose to his feet. He signed the triangle over Tithian, adding the horns of Jolith, and the tears of Mishakal. Then he planted his foot on his old squire’s shoulder, and gripped Ebonbane’s hilt.

“Farewell, my friend,” he said, and tugged the blade free. Tithian let out a bubbling sigh.

Cathan stood beside his friend for quite some time, unmoving, while the rain washed the blood away.

It was almost dawn when the storm finally let up. By then, the knights were bone-weary and a chill lay on their hearts: Tithian should have returned to the keep by now. So, as soon as morning’s first light broke over the hills, Bron sent a group out to search for some sign of their leader.

It took them most of the day, but at last they stumbled upon the ravine. Bron heard the distant call of the signal horns and ran to follow them. He found Sir Girald and two other knights up-slope from the high-cresting creek. They were standing by a cairn of stones. Bron’s sword was planted at its head.

Sir Bron’s anger was too great for tears.

“Track the Twice-Born,” he said. “He will pay for this.” Girald looked at him, wide-eyed. “But, sir… he won the trial by combat…”

“To the Abyss with the trial!” Bron raged, advancing on the younger knight. “I am your commander now, and I say Cathan MarSevrin is no true knight. He murdered your Grand Marshal. Now, track him!”

“Y-yes, sir,” Girald muttered, and hurried away, followed by his men.

Bron watched him go, then reached out and yanked his blade from Lord Tithian’s grave. The Twice-Born had tricked them. He had a day’s head start—maybe more. But the knights had horses, and they were many while he was one. Bron intended to catch up with him, sooner or later. And Cathan would pay.