Chapter Twenty-one

After all the anticipation, Caelan did not fight on the first day of the season. Locked in with the veterans, it seemed he was forgotten. No one came for him the first day or the next. The gladiators paced about or played with dice, locked in the gloomy quarters beneath the arena. The thunder of the crowd rolled incessantly from noon until dusk, day after day.

On the third rotation, guards came with a small wooden pail. Without being told, the gladiators lined up against the wall. Caelan took his place at the far end, watching to see what to do so he wouldn’t have to ask. Each man drew out a small bronze tag with a number engraved on it.

The guards swept the litter of their game off the crude wooden table and shook out a pair of dice three times. “Numbers three, twelve, and eight. You go in tomorrow.”

One guard made notations on a tablet while the other collected the bronze tags and put them back in the pail.

Caelan’s number had been four. He loosed a sigh of relief, and the tight knot in his stomach eased a little.

Nux had drawn number three. He scowled at Caelan with his small beady eyes and grunted. But Nux left him alone.

At the end of the following day, only Nux returned. Soaked with sweat and blood that apparently wasn’t his, he shrugged off his leather harness and stripped down to his dirty hide to climb into a big stone tub of water in the corner. There, by lamplight, he splashed and scrubbed and soaked out his tired muscles.

Caelan watched him and wondered what he felt, being the victor yet again.

The guards came in for the drawing of lots. Excluding Nux, they passed down the line, then threw the dice seven times. Seven men were selected. Caelan’s number was not among them.

This time dirty looks were cast his way. When the guards left, Nux climbed out of the tub and dripped his way across the room. Belting on a tunic, he glared at Caelan.

“What’s your nick?” he asked.

Caelan put down the dice he’d been rolling idly and sat very still on his stool, trying not to betray his tension. “My what?”

“Your nick with the guards. What is it?”

Caelan shook his head. “Just luck.”

“Naw. You got put with us, you! Green as grass, you are. Now you’ve missed two draws. What’s your nick?”

“I’m telling you,” Caelan said warily, never letting his eyes off Nux for a moment. “Just luck.”

“Get off, Nux,” called one of the other men. “You saw how they pounded him in training. It’s luck.”

“Better be. But why’s he here with us? Don’t deserve it.”

Grins broke out around the room. “Why, the trainers are just giving us the privilege of killing him instead. Right?”

They laughed, and Nux moved away. Caelan sagged on his stool and wiped sweat from his forehead. Another moment gained, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

The guards didn’t return until the following week. Caelan knew they had been drawing veterans from another room. The next draw missed him again. He began to wonder at his luck just like the others. They muttered and glared.

“Midway through season already, and him left,” Nux complained to the guards.

“Shut up!” one of the guards retorted. “What’s it to you?”

They left with a slam of the door.

Nux stood up and came over to where Caelan was standing. His eyes glared over his broken nose, and his teeth were bared. “You ain’t being saved, not you. I’m going to—”

“Better save yourself for tomorrow,” Caelan said quickly, tensing himself on the balls of his feet in readiness for attack. “If you use up your strength on me, then you’ll die in the arena.”

Nux drew back with a frown, looking momentarily frightened. “Gault’s blood!” he swore. “You putting a curse on me?”

The other men exchanged looks. “Giant put a curse on Nux.”

“A curse.”

They murmured and shifted back.

“It’s not a curse,” Caelan said, although if they wanted to think so he wasn’t going to try too hard to talk them out of it. “Just a prediction. You jump me, and I won’t go down easy.”

Nux lifted his hands and took a step back as though agreeing.

Caelan relaxed and straightened.

At that moment Nux attacked with a roar, driving him back against the wall with a thud. Nux’s fists were like battering rams, pummeling him. Caelan drew in his elbows and blocked the blows as best he could, then struck back, catching Nux in the jaw and sending him staggering.

Nux crashed into the table, breaking it like kindling, and lay sprawled there, shaking his head and blinking.

Someone helped him up, but the fight was over. Blowing on his aching knuckles, Caelan slowly eased away from the wall and kept a sharp watch on the others.

Nux kept touching his jaw and wagging it back and forth. He glared at Caelan, and the hostility in the room was thick enough to cut. Caelan steeled himself, but Nux finally swung away and pounded on the door.

When a guard opened it, he said, “Take me to the haggai.”

He returned just before dawn, bleary-eyed and smug, looking well satisfied with himself. Then he and five others went out to fight. That night, however, Nux did not come back.

None of them could believe it.

‘The guards said he lost an arm,” Bulot said. “You know what happens to a man without his arm.”

“Bleeding like a stuck pig,” another contributed. “Great gouts of it shooting across the tunnel. He died before he got to the surgeon.”

“Nux dead?” Bulot kept saying over and over. He was a short, wiry man, quick and agile. “I can’t believe Nux is dead. He was too good. The best in the arena. He can’t be dead.”

“If he lost his arm, like the guards said, then he’s a dead man.”

Another man spat on the floor. “It’s the giant’s curse what’s to blame.” He pointed at Caelan. “He hit Nux, hurt him somehow.”

Caelan wanted to tell them it was probably Nux’s visit to the haggai that had sapped his strength, but he held his tongue. They were all like rats in a cage that seemed to shrink daily. Caelan was feeling crazy from being cooped up in the gloom all the time. He needed exercise and sunlight, not just halfhearted drills in a stinking, half-lit tunnel where the guards took them twice a day.

That night when the lots were drawn, Caelan was missed again. No one spoke a word as the guards noted names and numbers, but the fighters’ eyes lingered on him with clear hostility.

He sweated through the night, afraid to sleep, certain they meant to throttle him in his bunk. But no one moved against him. In the morning, they huddled together in a  conference that he pretended to ignore, but he could not relax. Not this time, not when they blamed him irrationally for Nux’s death.

The lock turned with a noisy rattle, and the door was slammed open. “On your feet!” bawled a guard with a list. “Bulot, Mingin, Hortn, Rethe, Chul. Move it, now!”

The named men shuffled for the door, yawning and stretching and scratching. But the others were up as well. They closed in on Caelan and shoved him forward. “He goes too!”

“What?” The guards frowned. “Not unless he’s on the list”

“He’s on today’s list,” someone insisted. “Let him take Chul’s place. He ain’t fought once this—”

“Neither have you, Lum,” the guard retorted. The spokesman turned red but he didn’t back down. “Let the giant take Chul’s place. He don’t belong in here with us. He ought to have been fighting with the other trainees, days ago.”

The guard’s frown deepened. He peered at Caelan. “I don’t know you. Name?”

“Caelan.”

“You’re no veteran.”

“No.”

“Never fought!” someone yelled gleefully. “Never even held a sword in his pinkies!”

They roared with laughter.

The guard was looking very stern indeed. “What in hell’s name are you doing in here?”

Caelan shrugged. “I was put here.”

“Don’t get cute.” The guard glanced over his shoulder at his companion. “You heard of any special orders about this one?”

“No.”

“Let him fight!” the gladiators cried. “Let him fight!”

The guard hesitated, then shoved Chul back, into the room. He jerked his head at Caelan. “Come on, then, if you’re so eager. Move!”

Suddenly it was happening. Caelan’s ears roared, and his head seemed to be floating above his body.

He found himself pushed down a tunnel lit by torches. He felt hungry, but he knew it was nervousness that gnawed in his belly. Sweat broke out across his body. His clothes felt too tight. His eyes were burning, and he couldn’t see well. His hearing was even worse.

Somewhere, they were stopped in a gloomy chamber with the rest. Twelve men who might have practiced and eaten together the day before, but who now avoided each other’s eyes, conscious of what was to come.

In silence, they stripped off their clothes and put on minimal loincloths. Little flasks of oil stood rowed on shelves. The men smeared the greasy stuff over every inch of themselves, and Caelan followed suit, aware that the oil would make him harder to hold and therefore harder to kill in a clinch.

The door banged open, and Caelan jumped about a foot, his heart hammering foolishly. One of the fighters noticed his reaction. He nudged someone else, and they chuckled softly together.

The sound had an evil, hostile quality that made Caelan swallow hard.

Orlo came in, flanked by four other trainers. Bald and burly, he stood with the cattail club in one hand, his feet braced wide and his other fist on his hip. He glared at each of them in turn.

When he saw Caelan, he blinked and dropped his jaw. In that instant, explanation was revealed in his face. He had clearly forgotten about putting Caelan in with the veterans. It was as simple as that.

Then he recovered his composure and cleared his throat. “We have a good crowd today,” he said sternly. “You will give them their money’s worth in entertainment. Any man shirking or trying to save himself will be speared by the guards. Am I clear?”

As he spoke, he glared straight at Caelan.

“You’ll fight your unworthy guts out today. You’re a miserable lot, this pick. But you’ll fight like champions, each and every one of you! The emperor is here today. Aye, here to see your blood spilled.”

The fighters exchanged looks. Caelan felt both confused and excited. Outside he could hear the crowd roaring thunderously. Something elemental and primitive in the sound made his blood charge. He wiped his sweating palms on his thighs and wished his heart would not beat so fast.

Orlo gestured, and the other trainers passed out leather fighting harnesses. Caelan’s fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar buckles; then his hands were pushed aside.

Orlo stood beside him, stripping off the harness and fetching another one. It looked old. One strap had been mended. But the leather was well oiled and cared for. Caelan noticed the straps were dyed blue, even as Orlo let it out a notch, then another, then another in order to buckle it across his chest.

“Breathe,” he commanded.

Caelan obeyed.

“Too tight?”

Caelan felt the restriction and nodded.

With a grunt Orlo used the point of his dagger to make an additional hole and loosened the harness. “Aye, that fits right. Were you worth it, you’d wear a custom-made one.”

Caelan fingered the leather, remembering his disrobing so long ago when the masters had forbidden him to wear blue. Then, blue had represented life. Now it stood for the taking of it.

He swallowed. “Does blue show who owns me?”

“Aye.” Orlo stepped back and looked him over critically. “Although you’ll be a humiliation for the prince quick enough.” He showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Perhaps it’ll be worth it, just to see his face. Hah!”

The fighters filed out and marched double-time up a ramp. The cheering was louder now, deafening as it echoed through the stone. With every step, Caelan felt his blood stirring. He opened his mouth to suck in lungfuls of fresh air. He could smell sun-baked earth as well as roasted goat and sweetmeats.

They stopped, half-hidden in the shadows. Beyond an archway flanked by soldiers in full armor, dazzling sunlight streamed down. A breeze blew in, bringing heat to the dank coolness.

Orlo walked ahead, pacing back and forth in the archway as though he were about to enter the ring himself. Another trainer passed down the row of twelve men with lots for them to draw.

Muscles tight, Caelan drew his bronze tag. His thumb traced over the number. He would go in ring six. Handlers moved among them, pushing and shoving them into the correct pairs. Caelan eyed his opponent, a grizzled heavyset man he had never practiced with before. He was relieved it was none of the men he’d been quartered with lately. His opponent refused to look at him at all and kept his gaze stubbornly on the floor.

Irrational hope rose in Caelan as he noticed the gray in the man’s hair and the slight flabbiness of his muscles. Perhaps he would have a chance after all. Youth and quickness must count for some advantage. But to temper his growing optimism he reminded himself that experience outweighed almost everything else.

The first pair was pushed forward to a spot at the top of the ramp just short of the archway. The armored soldiers there hastily crossed their spears across the archway, but the gladiators ignored them.

Caelan heard a creaking noise, and the pair for ring one disappeared into the floor. He stared, mouth open, and could not believe it.

A few seconds later, the second pair were positioned on the same spot, and they also sank from sight.

As the line moved forward, Caelan saw that a section of the floor was really a platform that was lowered into the bowels of the catacombs beneath the ramp. He relaxed, ashamed of his own amazement. No sorcery was at work here, just simple mechanical devices.

When it came his own turn to descend through the floor, he watched with curiosity and saw sweating slaves hard at work on the pulley ropes that lowered and raised the platform. Down here beneath the ramp, he could see the framework of heavy beams and timbers supporting it.

“Move along,” a guard shouted, and Caelan had to jog along a curving passageway with his opponent at his shoulder.

Halfway around, the man started puffing, and he ran as though his knees hurt him. Caelan filed the information away. He was determined not to go down in the first round.

The inside wall of the passageway was built of thick boards with bolted doors set into it periodically. At the sixth door, the arena guards stopped Caelan and his opponent. The door was opened, and they stepped through into total darkness. A piece of cloth was flung over Caelan’s head. Instinctively he started to fight it, then held himself still as a weapon was pressed into his hand.

It fell heavy and thick. The haft of it was wood. When he ran his other hand along its length, he discovered it was only a club. Disappointment crashed through him. Was this to be his fate, bludgeoned to a pulp like a dumb animal?

“Go,” said the guard and pushed him up a ramp.

At the top he stumbled through a doorway, guided by another guard who yanked off the cloth as he passed. Caelan found himself stumbling outside in dazzling sunlight. Squinting, his eyes watering, he staggered around in deep sand. His opponent came jogging out after him and lifted his arms to the crowd, which was already roaring in excitement.

It was impossible not to gawk at the stone bleachers of spectators rising up on every side, impossible not to be stunned by the enormity of the sound, impossible not to be distracted by the burning sand under his bare feet and the heat itself that radiated up furnace-hot in the bottom of the arena.

His opponent might be old and out of shape, but he was arena-seasoned, and in those first few critical seconds he reached Caelan and swung his own club into Caelan’s kidney.

The blow drove Caelan to his knees with a yell of pain that was drowned out by the crowd, already surging to their feet and cheering with bloodlust.

From somewhere through the haze of agony, Caelan could hear Orlo’s exasperated voice: “There are no rules in the arena! Remember that, you blockheaded fool, or you’ll be dead in the first five seconds.”

The opponent swung again, and Caelan somehow wrenched himself around in time. The club thudded deep into the sand beside him. Caelan rolled and kicked, knocking his opponent’s feet out from under him. The man should have fallen but he didn’t. Miraculously, he kept his balance and went staggering over to one side.

Wincing, Caelan climbed to his feet, grateful for the momentary respite that gave him time to reset himself. He didn’t deserve this second chance. He knew that. Already he was berating himself sharply for his initial mistake. If they had been equipped with swords instead of clubs, he’d be dead by now.

He couldn’t afford to make another mistake. Most certainly he would not underestimate his opponent again.

Warily, they circled each other in the heat. The walls that confined them thudded occasionally from the impact of combat in the adjacent ring. The crowd went on screaming in waves and surges of sound, now on their feet, now sitting down again, calling out encouragement and curses alike.

The opponent moved like a crab, low to the ground, well centered, his eyes steady on Caelan. He dragged the tip of his club on the sand as he moved, conserving every bit of his strength.

But while Caelan noted his tactics, the younger man was also aware that not keeping a weapon high and poised meant wasting precious seconds of time to get it into position.

He attacked, yelling Trau cheers at the top of his lungs, and caught the opponent fractionally off guard. As he expected, it took the man a small amount of time to dodge and lift his club. Still he managed it, blocking Caelan’s swing so that the two clubs struck each other with a sharp crack of sound.

The impact jolted into Caelan’s wrist, and he nearly dropped his weapon. Desperately he changed to a two- handed grip and swung again just in time to block the opponent’s attack.

They blocked and swung furiously for several moments, then retreated to circle again, each catching his breath while looking dangerous for the crowd.

Caelan was learning fast how to provide entertainment while staying alive. He also knew that the longer this conflict lasted, the more spent he would be. And there were still five more opponents ahead of him, providing he survived this one.

As though sensing Caelan’s momentary lapse of concentration, the opponent attacked. Some piece of Orlo’s  instructions filtered through Caelan’s mind. Instead of dodging back, Caelan rushed forward, stepping inside the man’s lunge. With the club whistling over his shoulder, Caelan jabbed his own weapon like a dagger, thrusting it deep into the man’s solar plexus. The opponent’s face turned pale. He staggered back. Caelan could hear Orlo’s voice shouting in his mind to drive hard.

Swinging short, Caelan caught the man in the ribs. The opponent fell to one knee, still trying to bring up his own club. Caelan knocked it from his grip. Cheering rose in the air, and Caelan felt something inside him cry out even as he swung his club one last time.

It bounced off the man’s skull with a sickening thud. The opponent’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

Breathing hard, Caelan straightened up and turned around. Sand clung to his sweaty arms and legs. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then remembered to raise his weapon in a victory salute to the cheering crowd. Most people weren’t even looking in his direction, but he did it anyway.

Then he saw the door had opened to his ring, and a guard was gesturing at him impatiently.

Obediently, he circled the fallen man and went inside, where the cloth was immediately thrown over his head and the club ripped from his hand.

He was hustled down the dark ramp and out into the circular passageway to a nearby stone tub of water.

“Climb in,” the guard told him.

Still panting, Caelan immersed himself in the cold water. It acted like a shock to his system, cooling him off rapidly. Blowing water from his face, he shook back his dripping hair and stood up just as his opponent’s body was carried by on a stretcher of leather webbing. He wanted to ask if the man was dead or merely stunned, but he knew  better than to ask. It was considered bad luck in the ring to know until the fighting was finished.

Sobered, Caelan watched them until they were out of sight; then the guards put him in a holding cell, where he drank liberally from a water pail and waited until the other victors came in. They in turn looked drained, excited, or bored with the whole business.

Caelan did not think he would ever be bored. Right or wrong, killing was nothing to be indifferent about.

When there were six of them present, the door slammed open and they again drew lots. This time Caelan’s opponent was Bulot. His momentary confidence faded, and he counseled himself to take care. Bulot hated him and would be a far more dangerous opponent than the first man.

They filed out, paired off as before. Orlo stood in the passageway, and when he saw Caelan he blinked in approval but said nothing.

Caelan’s chin lifted a bit higher and he squared his shoulders. Inside, he tried to make himself quiet and ready.

Back around to a door, back into the darkness and the ramp that led upward. At the top, a short sword was pressed into his hand and the blindfold whipped off as he was pushed out into the sand of ring three.

This time, Caelan kept his eyes squinted to protect them while they adjusted to the sunlight. He jogged forward and spun around quickly, expecting Bulot to charge him straight out of the door, which the man did.

Wiry and strong, Bulot was far different from Caelan’s first opponent and twice as dangerous. He skipped over the sand, small but light-footed. His quickness was disconcerting, and he was utterly familiar with a sword, which Caelan was only now holding for the first time.

Bulot swung, lunging hard. Caelan stumbled back, momentarily forgetting his training. He defended himself clumsily, and felt a razor-sharp sting of pain slash his arm.

Looking down, he saw a cut already dripping blood. It wasn’t deep, but it hurt. The sight of his own blood soaking into the sand was mesmerizing.

But Bulot was already charging again. Regaining his concentration, Caelan forced himself to spring aside. Again, he was driven back under Bulot’s expert charge, getting no chance to set himself or find his rhythm. Bulot’s eyes were flat with menace and deadly purpose. Yet as he met their gaze, Caelan felt a shiver pass through him.

Although he was not actually touching the man, Caelan experienced a jolt of sevaisin. The joining was quick, momentary, and yet suddenly Caelan understood what Bulot was thinking, the pattern of his strategy, and his whole plan of attack.

Caelan shifted aside a split second before Bulot struck. Surprise flashed across Bulot’s face. Again, Caelan anticipated him, but this time Caelan did so with a feint of his own, and only Bulot’s own quickness saved him from being spitted on the end of Caelan’s sword.

The blade began to hum as though the metal was warming, coming alive. At first Caelan thought he was imagining things. It was a trick of acoustics, something in the roar of the crowd, but this time when he raised his sword in a quick parry and the two blades crashed together, Caelan’s sword sang shrilly.

The sound was for his ears alone, and it vibrated through the length of him. He was deep in sevaisin, joined with the weapon in a way he had never experienced before. Not only did he know what Bulot intended, but now his sword was telling him secrets of its previous victories in the hands of others. How to pause, how to move, how to parry and thrust, the correct angle of the swing—back and forth—in deadly rhythm.

Now he understood the footwork and the arm action, how the two worked in deadly concert. For the first time it all made sense. He had found the language of fighting, and nothing Bulot tried fooled him. Caelan’s own body, his muscles and heart and blood all sang with the sword, harmonizing effortlessly.

Bulot began to tire. His attacks grew more desperate, his risks bigger. Again he barely managed to fling himself back from Caelan’s sword, but this lime he stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet.

Caelan sprang, seeing the opportunity, and sank his sword deep into Bulot’s side. The impact shocked him; then death agony washed over him in a tide that sent him staggering back. He left the sword in Bulot’s side, his own hand tingling with a fire he could not flex out.

In his madness, he had forgotten to sever the joining. Bulot’s death seemed to extinguish him as well. The sky went dark. His vision left him. He could hear nothing. There was only a brutal pain in his heart, as though the organ had stopped.

Then somehow he found a breath, then another. His heart started thudding again, and his sight returned. A second later he heard the crowd screaming and chanting, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

The door to his ring was open, and a guard was gesturing furiously. Caelan stared at him stupidly a long while before he finally understood.

Slowly he returned to Bulot and drew out the sword. Blood gushed with it, leaving a dark stain in the sand. Bulot’s eyes stared sightlessly at the heavens. Feeling sick, Caelan raised his bloody sword high in the victor’s salute.

Across the arena, he saw the emperor’s box this time. Unmistakable, with its flying banners of the imperial two- headed eagle, the box was filled with people in expensive dress. Servants moved about constantly, bringing fresh drinks on trays while others held up sunshades against the relentless light. Still others fanned and kept flies shooed away. Caelan squinted, but he could not make out the  emperor’s features. The man leaned over and said something behind his hand to his companion, a younger, dark-haired man in blue.

The prince was holding a tube to his eye and staring in Caelan’s direction. Conscious of ownership, Caelan raised his sword again, although he wasn’t sure whether the prince was actually looking at him or doing something else.

This time the crowd at least had noticed Caelan’s victory. Clapping and throwing him kisses, some people even tossed flowers his way.

He turned his back on them and walked into the darkness.

It was a repeat of the previous routine. The sword was wrested immediately from him. At the bottom of the ramp, he climbed into the tub of water again, washing off the grime and blood—although what could wash his heart?

Numb, he walked with heavy footsteps into the holding cell. Another man waited there before him, a lithe individual with a handsome face and skin the color of soot. Their gazes met briefly, then broke.

Sighing, Caelan seated himself on a stool and closed his eyes. His father’s face floated in his mind, stern and disappointed. His first kill. And all he could feel was shame.

It was as though something important inside him had suddenly crumbled to ashes. Even during the long years of uncertainty and grief since he’d been taken from home and sold into slavery, he had always been intact inside. He might grieve and he might mourn, but he had never been broken. Now he wondered why he should feel so flat and empty within. He wanted to go back, to reclaim what he had lost, but he knew it was impossible to do so.

This, then, must have been what his father knew, all those years ago. Beva had tried to warn him against becoming a soldier. Agel even had understood what it meant to take life. But Caelan hadn’t listened. He had been so full of his boyhood dreams and ambitions, so eager for glory.

Was this glory now? To win? To hear the erowd cheer approval? To have flowers tossed at him?

Was it a suitable tribute for the blood on his hands?

Caelan’s hands were trembling. He sat on them so the other man would not see, and told himself to stop this. He could not tear himself apart every time, not if he was to survive this ordeal.

It was the fault of sevaisin. If he’d only remembered to break the joining before he thrust the final blow, it wouldn’t have been so bad.

Even now, he thought he could hear an echo of the sword, still calling to him, still singing in his blood. Beneath his wretchedness, he knew something even more alarming: he had been born to battle. The weapons knew it. That’s why they had called to him so strongly all his life.

What am I? he wondered.

He had no answer to that question, but he understood why he could not do well with the fake weapons in practice. They were not real. They could not speak to him.

The third victor came in, breathing hard and looking exhausted. He drank water, but scarcely had he dropped the dipper back into the pail than the door opened and the guards entered with the final lots.

“No free-for-all?” the black man asked. His voice was smooth and deep. He alone seemed completely fresh.

“Not today. The emperor doesn’t like them.”

Caelan reached in the tub. His tag was numbered three.

“One and two, step lively.”

The black man and the one who’d just arrived went out. The door was slammed shut for what seemed like forever.

An hour passed, perhaps an eternity. Finally the guards came for Caelan and took him up the dark ramp for the last time. He did not know who his opponent was to be until the door opened and he was shoved out into the sunlight. He saw the black man holding both a dagger and a broadsword, waiting some distance away in the center of the largest ring.

Caelan had the same weapons. He could not handle both at once, so he tucked the dagger into the waist of his loincloth and settled a two-handed grip on the broadsword. The weapon was incredibly heavy and long. Blunt-tipped, it was made for hacking, not thrusting. Not until he tried to lift it into readiness did Caelan realize how exhausted his shoulders were. His arms felt leaden.

But the weapons were already hot and alive. He could feel them against his skin, humming with purpose. But to enter sevaisin again was too draining. It took tremendous amounts of energy. He was not used to so much contact. He did not believe he could protect himself if he needed to.

He crossed the ring while the crowd roared and stamped its feet. They were crying, “Amarouk! Amarouk!” over and over. Caelan realized that must be his opponent’s name.

The black man’s eyes were steady and alert. His muscles rippled beneath his skin as he raised the broadsword, but he let Caelan come to him.

Caelan knew this meant he would have no time to get set. He knew also that it was Amarouk’s right. The man was already the favorite, marked as today’s victor. Knowledge of that shone in Amarouk’s face, but he was far from cocky.

He crouched slightly, settling his haunches the way a great cat might before springing.

Caelan stopped in his tracks, slightly too far away for combat, and heard the cheers change to boos. Caelan barely heeded them. Something felt wrong to him. A broadsword was a weapon of war, requiring a shield or heavy armor for protection. Two seminaked men hacking at each other would cut each other to ribbons. What was the dagger for? To finish off the business?

Orlo had not trained him for this. The weapons were both humming, but not in harmony. They did not belong together. He could not do this.

Abruptly, Caelan turned and flung his broadsword away. It went spinning through the air, sunlight flashing along its blade as it landed with a thud and little puff of dust at the far side of the ring.

A hush fell over the crowd, broken by chatter here and there. People were gripping each other’s arms and pointing.

Even Amarouk’s eyes widened in surprise.

Caelan didn’t care. His own doubts were spinning in his mind, calling him a madman and worse. He closed everything away and sought severance. With a snap, everything was cut off. He entered the coldness, isolating himself, and waited for Amarouk to strike first.

The black man didn’t like it. His expression changed from surprise to annoyance, then to fleeting satisfaction. Circling, he closed in on Caelan, who circled with him, dagger held loose but firmly, wrist taut.

With a yell, Amarouk lifted the broadsword with both hands, swinging it in an arc as he lifted, the whole motion smooth and correct. He was clearly a master of the weapon, but even as he swung Caelan’s senses were alert and prepared.

The sword’s motion grew slower and slower. Caelan ducked and lunged, coming up under Amarouk’s arm. His dagger thrust hard, but Amarouk shifted away barely in time.

The dagger tip skidded through hide, slicing along a rib without doing any real damage.

But the blood splattered red on the sand just the same. The crowd shouted and groaned, all in the same breath.

Fury flared in Amarouk’s eyes. He swung again, and again Caelan dodged the broadsword, dancing too quickly for it to reach him. With an oath, Amarouk tossed the unwieldy weapon away, eliciting a cheer from the crowd.

He drew his own dagger, and Caelan’s grew hot in his fist. The blade was suddenly screaming through him, driving severance away just as Amarouk came at him with a bloodcurdling yell.

Caught half off-guard by the changes inside himself, Caelan barely met Amarouk’s charge. They slashed and parried and circled. Amarouk leaped, kicking at Caelan’s head. When Caelan dodged, Amarouk drove his dagger at Caelan’s chest. Caelan twisted and blocked with his own weapon. The two blades locked, and they were straining against each other with all their strength, feet digging deep into the sand, arms trembling between them.

Then Amarouk reached out and gripped Caelan’s hair.

The physical contact brought sevaisin with a jolt that enabled Caelan to thrust him back. Amarouk went sprawling, still clutching a plug of Caelan’s blond hair in his fist.

Caelan, acting without thought, broke one of the principal rules of short knife fighting: he flung his dagger at Amarouk.

The blade hit its target and went through the meaty part of Amarouk’s arm, pinning it to the ground. The black man screamed and writhed over, pulling out the dagger with a grunt of agony. Blood ran down his arm in a crimson stream, and he raised the dagger in his other hand.

Caelan ran for the nearest broadsword and scooped it up just as the dagger flew past him harmlessly and thunked into the wooden wall.

Caelan left it quivering there and swung the sword around just as the second dagger came at his head. In severance, Caelan danced in the coldness, watching the dagger slow in midair as his senses heightened. He swung the sword and deflected the dagger. It went spinning harmlessly aside and landed on the ground.

Now Amarouk was weaponless and hurt. Pressing his injured arm to his side, blood still streaming, the man backed up from Caelan’s advance, looking from side to side as he tried to locate the remaining sword.

Caelan charged him, but Amarouk dodged and scrambled on his hands and knees to grab the sword. Lifting it just in time, sand flying from the blade, he blocked Caelan’s swing. Steel rang against steel, sliding until their grips locked.

They strained against each other, well matched in strength; then Amarouk twisted and managed to sling Caelan around into the wall.

Caelan’s shoulder ached from the impact, but rather than try to regain his balance, he slid down into a crouch and slashed at Amarouk’s legs.

The man danced back, but not fast enough. The blade sliced through meat and tendon, and suddenly Amarouk was down. The thews in his neck corded up like ropes as he tried to heave himself back up. He made it, kneeling with blood streaming around him, and screamed obscenities at Caelan.

Their swords clashed with a jolt that traveled up Caelan’s wrists. Caelan’s own flesh wound had reopened, and the blood and sweat trickling down his arm made the hilt slippery. He broke first, stepping back on his rear foot, then swung again. Now he did at last find the rhythm of the weighty sword. But even on his knees Amarouk refused to give up. He met blow for blow, the sword blades ringing out mightily again and again.

“Kill!” the crowd roared, on its feet now, fists shaking, voices screaming. “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

And as he fought the valiant Amarouk, a corner of Caelan’s mind went back long ago to something his father had once said when trying to teach him a lesson in healing.

Opening his kit, Beva withdrew a copper scalpel and held it up so the firelight could flash along the burnished blade. “This is a tool with which to heal. It can assist life. It can also take life. Sometimes I must cut away that which is diseased and damaged in order to save life. Sometimes I must take life in order to grant mercy.”

He ran his finger along the blunt edge of the blade. “Safety.”

Then he ran his finger along the sharp edge. Blood welled across his fingertip, and he flicked it at the wall, leaving tiny crimson splatters. “Danger. Everything in the universe has two sides, the aul and the zin, the brightness and the shadow, the good and the evil. That is how balance is maintained.”

Caelan sighed. He had no desire to listen to one of his father’s lectures.

“It is not necessary to walk among evil, boy, in order to fully understand good. By looking into good, you will find the evil. Do not go seeking more.”

Caelan frowned. As usual when talking to his father, he felt there were more riddles than answers. “So you’re saying that with every wrong committed, good is lost. Until one day the balance shifts and it cannot be regained at all.”

It was Beva’s turn to sigh. “No, boy. That is not what I’m saying.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In healing, sometimes we take the disease and turn it upon itself. It will kill itself when properly guided. There are many ways to the desired end. Many journeys, none of them more right than another, but all the same in result if needed.”

Within the vision, Caelan frowned. This no longer felt like a memory. They had never had this conversation. His father had not said these words, yet Beva’s face hung suspended in his mind. Beva’s voice rang in his thoughts.

“You’re saying I must kill this man,” Caelan said, far away from the battle his body still fought with Amarouk. “You, Father? The peace lover?”

“Ultimate severance,” Beva whispered. “The taking with the mind. The creation of balance by first walking through shadows and out again into the light.”

Caelan felt split inside, as though he were losing his reason. The coldness was more pervasive than any he’d ever felt before, as though he’d become frozen to the marrow. His consciousness was gone. What was he doing? Fighting? Dying? He was lost to everything except this moment before his father.

“Don’t make me a saint, boy,” Beva said. “I have touched evil and walked with it. I have dipped my hands in it. I have drunk from the shadow, then left it, returning to the light of reason and sanity, back to doing good for humanity, back to life and the saving of it.”

“No,” Caelan whispered, horrified. If it were true, that made his father’s cruelty even less understandable than before. “No, you can’t be telling the truth. If you did that, you would have understood me. You would know why I wanted to go my own way.”

“Your way is toward death. You stand there now, boy. Just as I warned you.”

“But I am here because of you!” Caelan cried. “You left us defenseless. You and your ideals—”

“No! Listen now and share my understanding!” Beva said sharply. “Share it, or you will die by the other’s hand. He is possessed by the taint of his own gods, and will not surrender to you. Why are you so fearful of my way, boy? Why do you close yourself against me?”

“Because you will not let me be who I am,” Caelan said.

“All men are the same!” Beva said. “You and I are the same. See it, Caelan. Understand the pattern of harmony.”

“No!”

“You walk now in the same darkness as I did. You must accept that, then leave it. Look into the darkness, Caelan, and admit that you like taking life. You like the power. You want it now. The craving grows inside you. Face it, boy! Admit it.”

Caelan was shaking. Horrified, he knew his father was speaking the truth. He did want it, the glory and strength, and yet he didn’t. The ultimate power, one life over another ... he could see a dark mist looming over him, gathering force around him and his father. He shivered and was afraid.

“You take, boy,” Beva said, drawing closer. “In healing, you take away pain and suffering. You take away disease. You take away madness and fits. You take away wrong intentions. You take what is necessary. You take the life force itself if it will help you. You take in order to work long hours without rest or food. You take in order to receive the deference and acclaim that is due you. You take in order to achieve your goals.”

“And what do you give?” Caelan asked softly.

“Give?” Beva said as though he did not know the word’s meaning. “There is no give. The pattern restores balance after you have taken. No void is left. If men with their foolish minds wish to say you have bestowed on them health or happiness or restoration or riches of the heart, that is their choice of sayings.”

Caelan could barely look at him. His fear kept growing like the dark mist, like the coldness spreading so deeply into his soul. “All your goodness is a lie,” Caelan said. “Like a piece of clothing you put on for the day.”

“In severance I take,” Beva said, unmoved. “If goodness restores order behind me, I will take the credit for it.”

“Why did you teach me differently?” Caelan asked in anguish. “When I was a boy, why did you pretend?”

“Why should I give you the truth?” Beva retorted. “You do not like it, now that you have it. Like all gifts, it is spurned. Truth should be earned. It should be sought. Yet have you not come seeking, by entering true severance at last? You seek me here. Will you remain blind?”

Frustration filled Caelan. He was left again, as in all his father’s lessons, derided and scorned, his failure to understand and agree like ashes at his feet. As always, Beva spoke truth and lies, so tangled together there was no dividing them.

“I did not come seeking you,” Caelan said bitterly.

Neva, fading in and out as the mist shaped itself around him, did not change expression. “But I am what you found. I am your guide into true severance.” He swept out his arm, where the darkness lay cold and waiting. “Enter, boy.”

The coldness inside Caelan was painful now, burning and intense. He stepped back, shaking his head, putting as much distance between him and his father as possible. Yet it was as though he had not moved at all. Beva was still just as close as he had been before, but Caelan had the sense of a gate shutting between them.

What did it mean?

Wasn’t the ultimate severance death?

He thought it must be, if he needed a spirit guide across a bridge into another life.

Shivering, Caelan drew back only to bump into a wall of clear ice. Turning, he pressed himself against its cold smoothness, feeling its surface melt slightly beneath the warmth of his breath. He could see through it, a distorted picture of the arena with him circling and fighting the tireless Amarouk, still bleeding but valiant, refusing to surrender or go down. Amarouk had somehow regained his feet, although he was limping and slow. Yet the black man’s arms were like steel.

“Stay with me and learn,” Beva said. “Stay with me and become what you were meant to be.”

Still watching the battle, Caelan realized what Amarouk intended to do. Ignoring Beva’s summons, Caelan hurled himself at the wall of ice, desperate to return to himself. He had to warn himself, had to—

With a snap, Caelan blinked and staggered back, finding himself back in the merciless heat of the arena. The sand was burning his feet. His shoulders screamed with exhaustion, and his arms were trembling. Amarouk sank down on one knee as though finally weakened by his wounds.

The crowd surged up, waving fists and screaming, the noise so loud it was incomprehensible.

Caelan saw Amarouk’s free hand scoop up a fistful of sand and fling it at his face even as Amarouk’s sword arm drew back.

The sand hit Caelan’s face, but he closed his eyes and twisted his body to one side so that the flat of Amarouk’s sword slid harmlessly past his belly. Caelan lifted his own sword with an effort that wrung a grunt from him and brought it down.

Amarouk’s head went spinning across the sand, spraying blood as it tumbled. His headless body continued to kneel there for a second longer; then it toppled over slowly and crashed at Caelan’s feet.

Only then did Caelan realize he had won. Gradually he became conscious of his sweat-burned eyes, the desperate sawing in his lungs, his pounding heart, and the deep burn of fatigue in his muscles.

He staggered back, and somehow managed not to drop his sword.

The crowd was cheering, “Victor! Victor!”

They did not know his name.

Caelan dragged his forearm across his face, then faced the emperor’s box and found enough strength to lift the heavy sword in wavering salute.

Someday, perhaps by tomorrow, the crowd would know his name. He had achieved the first step toward  winning his freedom. One victory, despite his doubts, despite his strange talents that he did not fully understand, despite the haunting of his father.

He swallowed, conscious of burning thirst, and let the sword fall from nerveless fingers.

The guards came running out, hustling him out of the ring back into the darkness of the ramp. They did not praise him. Instead they looked shocked, as though they had lost wagers because of his upset.

At the bottom, Orlo was waiting for him with a strange look on his face. He said nothing, however, and turned Caelan away from the tub of water to hustle him on.

“Hurry!” he said. “Step lively.”

Caelan’s legs were weak and trembly now that it was over. He found himself still struggling to believe it had actually happened.

“Don’t let your head swell from this,” Orlo said, stopping him next to a wide ramp that led up into the stands themselves. Guards stood everywhere, arena men mixed with soldiers in crimson uniforms. “Mind your manners and try not to act like the barbarian you are.”

Caelan frowned, feeling bewildered. “I don’t understand. What do you—”

“Your owner wants to give you the victory crown personally,” Orlo said in a mixture of exasperation and pride. “Understand now?”

“Oh.”

“Bow. Don’t look the emperor in the eye. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Don’t linger. Don’t forget you’re nothing but a gladiator and have another day’s battles ahead of you on the morrow.”

After all the yelling and doubt, at last Orlo himself had called Caelan a gladiator. Caelan’s heart swelled with a fullness he could not express. No compliment could be higher than the one he’d just received.

He looked into Orlo’s eyes, struggling to thank him, but the trainer only smiled. “I guess Traulanders can fight after all,” he said, then held out the amulet pouch.

Wordlessly, his heart too full, Caelan took it. “I—”

Orlo clapped him on the shoulder. “Hurry!”

Shoved forward, Caelan found himself flanked by imperial soldiers. He walked up the ramp, too stunned to take it in, yet beginning to feel dazzled by all that was happening so quickly. He emerged into the fading sunshine, and slicked back his long, sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.

He was met by a wall of sound. People were grinning and cheering him as well as Prince Tirhin. Caelan found it inexplicable, this sudden popularity, and warned himself none of it could be real or lasting. They had been cheering Amarouk only a short time before.

A tap on his shoulder made him turn. He climbed to the emperor’s box and found himself sweating anew. As a child he had dreamed of someday seeing this man from afar. Even his own imagination had never brought him to the point of actually meeting the ruler of all the world.

Feeling dizzy from the way his heart was pounding, Caelan kept his eyes down respectfully and moved where the soldiers pointed.

He glimpsed a flash of blue; then the prince was standing before him.

“Well, well,” Prince Tirhin said. “It seems I have found my missing property again. Thanks to you, my popularity with the common man has just jumped tenfold. That could cost me my head should my father decide to take offense.”

Caelan stared at him, unsure how to respond to his mocking words.

“What is your name?”

“Caelan, my lord.”

“I am not addressed as lord,” the prince corrected, but with a smile. “You may call me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come.”

Pulling Caelan by the shoulder, the prince escorted him across the box where courtiers and their ladies stared openly or made comments behind their hands. There were court musicians present, lyres idle in their hands, and concubines with painted faces and heavy perfume. Then he was at the front, before the throne. A haggard, gray-haired man in the polished armor of the emperor’s protector stood behind it, his keen eyes missing nothing. The emperor himself was sitting on the splendor of crimson silk, sipping from a wine cup and smacking his lips appreciatively.

This was the man said to be immortal. This was the man who had dared to bargain with the gods to cheat death. This was the man who had molded a ragtag army into an invincible fighting force, the man who had proclaimed himself king, then emperor as he forged a united state of provinces that spanned the known borders of the world. This was Kostimon the Great—a legend beyond all comprehension.

“The victor at last,” he said in a gruff, amused voice. “The unknown fighter who made a mess of all my wages and confounded the touts. Hah! Come here.”

Even Caelan knew this honor was practically unheard of. He hurried forward and knelt at the emperor’s feet. The man wore soft boots of purple leather. Caelan dared not look higher. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He felt as though he were dreaming.

“You’re a barbarian,” the emperor said.

Despite his instructions, Caelan lifted his face and met the man’s gaze squarely. “If it please the emperor,” he said softly, his mouth so dry at his own daring it nearly choked him, “I am from the loyal province of Trau and was born free to good family. We are loyal to your imperial majesty, sworn to allegiance, and require no standing army to guarantee our obedience.”

An uproar rose in the box. The protector moved quickly, smacking him across the back with the flat of his sword and bending him low. “Dog!” the protector shouted. “His imperial majesty needs no lesson in civics from you!”

“Let him up, Hovet,” the emperor said, chuckling. “The wretch has spirit.”

“He has foul manners,” Tirhin said angrily.

“He’s a fighter, a scrapper, like I was once. I like him. Get back, Hovet. Leave him be.”

The protector stepped away, sheathing his sword with an ill-tempered snick of the blade.

The emperor snapped his fingers. “Well, victor, look at me again. Look!”

Slowly, Caelan straightened his aching back and met the emperor’s gaze. Legend or not, he looked to be a man like nearly any other. Kostimon had been handsome once, but his face was now weathered and creased. Dissipation had carved unfriendly lines around his mouth and eyes. His hair was white and thick. It sprang back from his forehead in unruly curls. His eyes were yellow like a reptile’s and frightening somehow, for all the amusement alight in them just now.

“Not many would dare correct me, much less in public,” the emperor said softly.

Caelan’s face burned and he bit his lip, wondering how it was he still lived. Would he never learn?

“Trau is loyal to me, as I recall. I have not been there in years. A rude, stiff-necked people not much given to hospitality.”

People chuckled around them. Caelan gathered the emperor had made a joke, but he dared not smile.

“Do you have a name?”

“Caelan E’non.”

The emperor sipped wine and settled back in his chair. “Well, Caelan E’non, you have pleased me today. You’re a terrible fighter, nothing consistent about your form at all, but you’ve cournge and heart and the guts to use them. I’ll grant you a reward. What do you want?”

Torhin frowned and looked disgruntled. Many of the others grinned and exchanged glances.

Caelan hesitated very little. “I want the chance to train with a champion team, so I can fight for my freedom.”

The emperor sat boll upright and hurled his cup away. “Damnation! What kind of request is that? Why not ask for your freedom outright?”

Even now the temptation to do that was choking Caelan. But according to barracks tales, slaves who asked the emperor for freedom were always killed. It was said to be the emperor’s favorite irony, in that death was the only genuine freedom a slave could ever know.

Caelan struggled to answer well: “Majesty, how can I ask such a request when I am not your property?”

Standing behind the throne, Tirhin relaxed visibly and even begun to smile. The protector ran his hand suddenly across his mouth.

The emperor’s yellow eyes smoldered. Glaring at Caelan, he leaned forward and gave him a little kick. “You have the slick tongue of a courtier, arena dog! How did you come to be a slave?”

Caelan’s brows knotted with the old rage, checked just in time by his own prudence. Fighting down the emotion, he lowered his gaze. “The answer would displease your majesty.”

“Hell’s garden, I’m displeased now as it is! Give me your answer!”

Caelan’s own temper rose to meet his. Setting his jaw, Caelan looked the old man in the eye. “Thyzarene raiders burned my home and sold me into slavery, majesty.

Thyzarene raiders assigned to your eastern army, but set free to plunder loyal subjects as though we were enemies—”

“Enough!” the protector shouted.

Abashed, Caelan bowed low. Silence hung over the box, and during it Caelan dared not move.

“Well, Tirhin,” the emperor said at last, snappishly. “He’s your property, as he’s had the stupidity to point out. What say you to his request to train for a championship?”

“I am not opposed to it. He’s an ill-bred dog, but he does have potential. My trainer—”

Caelan looked up sharply, but just in time managed to curb his tongue.

Still, the emperor noticed. He sighed and raised his brows at Caelan. “Truly you are a fool. Do you have an objection?”

Again the courtiers laughed, but Caelan treated the question as though it were literal.

“If it please your imperial majesty and your imperial highness,” he said breathlessly, “I would prefer to be trained by Orlo.”

Tirhin snorted, and the emperor slammed his hand down on the arm of his throne.

“By the gods, I’ve not seen the like in years! Not only does he dare to correct me, but now he has specific instructions in how he’d like his request to be honored.”

“He needs his tongue barbered,” Hovet muttered darkly.

“Perhaps,” the emperor said, eyeing Caelan with displeasure. “Were I not in such a good mood, I might have you cut into dog meat to feed my hounds.” He snapped his fingers, and a slave put a victor’s crown of ivy into his hand.

Leaning forward, the emperor squashed it onto Caelan’s head. It was scratchy and smelled pungently where some of the leaves had been crushed.

“Hail, victor,” the emperor said, suddenly sounding bored, “Take your wretched property away, Tirhin. I’m tired of the fellow.”

Caelan somehow managed to swallow the knot of disappointment in his throat, he had gambled and lost. He tried to remind himself that today had been far from a failure. He would somehow persevere.

Standing up, he backed awkwardly away from the emperor.

Tirhin and the emperor exchanged a brief conversation in low voices, and Tirhin flushed. frowning, the prince exited the box without looking back. Caelan followed, with the soldiers flanking him again as though he might suddenly go mad and spring at one of the concubines who tittered at him.

Out of sight of the crowd, nearly halfway down the ramp, Tirhin suddenly stopped and turned around. His eyes held something unreadable.

“Are you worth the trouble of defying my father?” he asked aloud.

Caelan stared at him, not understanding what he meant and knowing he wasn’t supposed to.

Tirhin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps. He wants me to sell you to him for his own team.”

Caelan held his breath.

After a pause Tirhin laughed unpleasantly and gestured at an arena guard. “You, there. Have Orlo brought to me.”

In moments the trainer came running, still carrying his cattail club, his head bowed respectfully, his eyes shifting up in quick, furious glimpses at Caelan. “Yes, sir?”

“I have decided to take my property home to my own arena,” Tirhin said loftily.

“Yes, sir.” Again Orlo glanced at Caelan. His gaze could have frozen meat.

“My trainer doesn’t have time for additional men,  especially new recruits as raw as this one. Yet I have seen courage today, and my property has acquitted himself well.”

“He fought better than I expected, sir.”

“I ask you to rejoin my service, Orlo,” the prince said. ‘To work as an assistant in my arena, but chiefly to train new recruits such as this, who need hours of basic drills. Will you consider it?”

Orlo bowed low, his face expressionless. “Your highness honors me,” he said in a toneless voice. “I will consider it.”

“Your answer tonight, or nothing,” the prince said. Giving them a general nod, Tirhin walked away with the imperial soldiers behind him.

As soon as he was out of sight, Orlo moved Caelan down the ramp and shoved him over into a corner out of everyone’s way.

“Are you mad?” he asked furiously. “What did you ask for?”

Caelan said, “To fight where I could win my freedom.”

Orlo’s anger didn’t soften. “Gault, you have the nerve. It’s a wonder the protector didn’t cut out your tongue.”

“It’s what I want,” Caelan said simply.

“A sane man would have asked for money or a dancing girl.”

Caelan raised his brows. “In a place like this, where would I put either?”

“Why your stupid games during training?” Orlo asked, with a rapid change of subject. “Why the fooling about, pretending you couldn’t fight? Did you think it would deceive your opponents?”

“I—” Caelan found himself without an answer he thought this man would understand, or accept. Since his beliefs were forbidden, it was impossible to explain.

“No, don’t tell me it was because I took your amulet away. I’ll never believe that.” Orlo snorted. “Your ruse worked, but don’t count on it again. Rumor spreads fast. They may not see the conflicts, those locked below, but they hear about them. You understand? Great Gault! You killed Amarouk, the best man in my barracks. The best! Do you know where that ranks you now?”

“Yes,” C’aelan said.

Orlo glared at him. “And me? Why me? Why the hell, after all this time, does Tirhin ask me to serve him again?” Orlo paced back and forth, fuming. “Why does his sublime highness think I’d want to go back to wearing his colors? You tell me that!”

“Because I asked for you to be my trainer,” Caelan said.

Orlo swung around to face him, his mouth open. “You?” he said, his voice almost squeaking. “You asked!”

“Yes.”

Orlo flung his hands up in the air. “I do not believe this. You are mad. Truly.”

“They asked what I wanted.”

“And you mentioned me,” Orlo said. “Before the emperor and before the prince. You mentioned me.”

“Yes.”

Orlo stared at him. “Do you know what lies between me and the prince? What have you been told?”

“Nothing,” Caelan answered honestly. Orlo turned half away from him and stared into space, oblivious to the bustle passing them. The arena still had to shut down. The crowds were leaving now, and there were lighters to be fed and secured for the night, the arena to be cleaned, a thousand tasks requiring supervision.

But Orlo stood there and stared at nothing, his jaw working in time with his thoughts.

“I do not know that I can go back,” Orlo said softly. “But for him to give me the chance ... it is a peace offering and a great honor. I owe you for this, Giant.”

He faced Caelan again, frowning as though he did not know what to think.

Caelan met his gaze squarely, feeling hope rising once again. “Then help us both,” he said and dared to hold out his hand.

Orlo hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one saw. Then slowly he gripped Caelan’s hand in the shadows.

“It is a bargain,” he said. “If you want to be a champion, I’ll take you the farthest I can. Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed before I make my fortune with you.”

It was Caelan’s turn to stare into the distance, into the future. What lay before him, he did not yet know. He only understood that since this afternoon, everything had changed. By breaking through the ice wall in his vision with his father, he had crossed some threshold or passed some test that he did not as yet fully comprehend. He suspected, although he did not know how or why, that there were other tests still to come.

“Did you hear me?” Orlo said sharply, bringing him back to the here and now. “You’ve got to learn to concentrate, otherwise you really will find yourself bleeding on the sand.”

Caelan shook his head with a faint smile. “That is not in my plans,” he said softly.