Authors: Deborah Chester
“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.”