Authors: Deborah Chester
The priest looked
Caelan over with open appraisal.
Prince Tirhin
barely glanced Caelan’s way. “Leave us,” he said curtly to the trainer.
Still bowing,
keeping his gaze down, Orlo scuttled out in a way unlike him.
Surprised, Caelan
stared after his trainer for a moment, then returned his gaze to his master. He
was full of curiosity, but questions were not permitted. It was necessary to
wait until the prince chose to speak to him.
“He looks fit,
even after a grueling season,” the priest murmured. He was still studying
Caelan in an unpleasant manner.
Caelan kept a wary
eye on the man. He had been raised to revile the Vindicants. He would never
trust them.
Prince Tirhin
turned his gaze full upon Caelan at last and nodded. “Of course. I told you he
finished the season without a scratch. He’s had two weeks of rest.”
“Those two weeks
are what worry me,” the priest murmured. He circled Caelan. “I know what
fighters do between seasons. Drinking, slackness, frolicking with the Haggai.”
Caelan frowned in
affront while Tirhin raised his hand with a laugh. “None of that,” the prince
said. “He doesn’t care for the witches of ecstasy, do you, Giant?”
Taut with
resentment, Caelan found a very thin smile in response and said nothing.
“Our entrant is an
ascetic, very strict with his native Traulander ways,” Tirhin continued. “He is
fit. I depend on his trainer for that.”
The priest said
nothing.
“You must not
worry, Sien,” the prince assured him. “I tell you this man will prevail.”
The priest shook
his head and fixed his gaze intently on Caelan, who stared back with new
interest. Lord Sien was the high priest of the Vindicants, a man said to have
more power in the empire than anyone save the emperor himself. He outranked
even the prince, who had not yet been officially named heir to the empire. What
was such a man doing down here below the arena, involving himself in the
pitiable life of a gladiator?
“You will fight a
Madrun savage,” Sien now said directly to Caelan. “The creature understands
nothing of the arena, nothing of the rules of combat.”
“There are no
rules of combat in the arena,” Caelan said.
“Silence!” Prince
Tirhin said in annoyance. “Listen to Lord Sien.”
The rebuke was
like a whip crack. Caelan glanced at his master and saw strain in the prince’s
face. Beneath the handsome looks and the expensive tailoring, his highness was
drawn as taut as a bowstring. The corner of his mouth twitched, and there was a
certain dark wildness in his gaze, an impatience, an anger that seethed all too
near the surface.
Caelan bowed his
head in apology and turned his gaze back to Sien.
“The emperor is
clever in choosing his entrant,” the priest continued. “This prisoner is at his
physical prime, very strong and courageous. He fears nothing. He will fight you
to the death without a second thought. However, enemies of the empire die well
before the people. You will defeat the Madrun. You will prevail until you are
victorious.”
Puzzlement filled
Caelan. Of course he intended to win. He always fought to win.
“There is more,”
Tirhin said impatiently. “You must fight as you have never fought before. This
must be a tremendous spectacle.”
Caelan’s
impatience grew. Any veteran gladiator knew how to play to the crowd. It was a
matter of testing the opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, then drawing the
contest out as long as possible. Why did the rich and powerful think they were
authorities in every matter? He didn’t need this useless lecture. “I always
give the people their money’s worth, sir.”
“It is more than
that!” Tirhin said with a scowl. “You fight my father’s choice. The Madrun is
an extension of my father, just as you are an extension of me. When you defeat
your opponent, in a way you are defeating my father.”
Caelan felt alarm.
This was treasonous talk. “Sir,” he said softly, his voice full of warning, “these
walls are honeycombed with listeners.”
“We are safe,”
Tirhin said, but Sien lifted his long hand.
“Perhaps the slave
is right,” the priest said. “Take care, your highness.”
Anger clouded
Tirhin’s face. Clenching his fists, he swung away. “I am tired of waiting! I am
tired of being careful! Swallowing insult after insult. Waiting endlessly on a
man who will not die! I—”
He broke off,
choking back his emotions, and gestured furiously at Sien.
The priest gripped
Caelan by the arm. “Heed your instructions,” he said. “You are to win, by any
means possible. Is that clear?”
Caelan stared at
him. The man was a fool. “Yes, Lord Sien,” he said, keeping his voice as
neutral as possible. “I understand.”
Sien gave him a
little shake. “You are as blind as an eyeless man. You understand nothing.
There is more at stake here than a mere arena victory.”
Caelan glared at
him and pulled his arm free. “I will win, if I am the better fighter. I will
fight my best for my master, as I always do.”
“Not enough,” Sien
said. “There is no passion here, no loyalty to you, sir.” He glanced at Tirhin;
then his gaze returned to Caelan. He had yellow eyes, Caelan noticed with an
inward shiver. Unpleasant, cold, inhuman eyes. They seemed to bore to Caelan’s
very heart.
“There is no
question of who is better,” Sien said. “Do as you are told. Nothing more,
nothing less.”
The room was
suddenly close and still. The air felt hot, stifling. Caelan tried to swallow,
but his throat felt constricted. There was a strange roaring in his ears, and
through it came Sien’s voice:
“You will kill the
Madrun.”
Caelan bit back a
sigh. “Yes, Lord Sien.”
“You will
tantalize him and play with him as a cat toys with its prey.”
“I will, Lord
Sien.”
“The object is to
win the crowd’s approval for your master.”
“Yes.”
There was
something heavy and hypnotic about the priest’s voice. His statements and
Caelan’s responses had the solemn cadence of a religious ritual.
“You will rob the
emperor of his acclaim.”
“I—” Caelan’s
voice died in his throat.
He stepped back,
forcing himself to break Sien’s intense stare. Blinking furiously, and sweating
as though he’d run a long distance, Caelan scowled.
“Get back from me,
priest!” he said, spitting the words in his fury. “Keep your filthy spells to
yourself!”
“Caelan, silence!”
Prince Tirhin commanded. “Remember your place.”
Caelan turned on
him. “My place is to serve you. I will fight, sir. I will give my best to this
contest, as I do every time I enter the ring. But I need no spells cast on me.
I need no one to tell me how to fight. I will not submit to such—”
“You will have
your tongue cut out for this insolence,” Sien said rapidly. “Speak to your
master—or me—in like manner again, and you’ll—”
“Beat me, and I
cannot fight,” Caelan retorted. “Cut out my tongue, and I’ll bleed my strength
into the sand. You’ll have no victory then.”
The three of them
glared at each other in long silence. Caelan knew well that Sien could carry
out his threats, but he was too angry to care. The Vindicants had tried to
meddle with him before. He wouldn’t submit to their blasphemy. He’d rather die
than lose his soul to their brand of darkness.
It was Prince
Tirhin who was the first to speak. “My Lord Sien,” he said, “I think it best if
you step outside.”
Sien scowled in
outrage.
“Please,” Tirhin
said. “Your efforts have served to gain the slave’s attention. Now let me
finish the persuasion.”
“You cosset him
and spoil him, granting him privileges above his station, allowing him ideas of
his own importance.”
“He
is
important,” Tirhin said, still calmly. “It is not boasting to state a fact. My
father surely requires your return by now. Let me have the bag.”
Sien hesitated
further, but at last he drew a small leather pouch from his robes and put it in
Tirhin’s hand. “Make very sure,” he said, his voice hoarse with anger. “This
chance must not be wasted.”
Tirhin’s handsome
face tightened with annoyance. “I know what’s at stake, Lord Sien.”
Inclining his head
slightly to the prince, Sien strode out. The door closed behind him with an
echoing thud.
Caelan and the
prince faced each other in the small space. Tirhin laid the pouch casually on
the table, but to Caelan its presence seemed to throb in the room. He could
smell herbs in the compound, mixed with something tainted and unnameable.
Swallowing his distaste, Caelan took another step back.
“If that is a
potion for me, I won’t take it,” he said.
Tirhin’s mouth
tightened for a moment; then he turned to gaze at the wall. “Sien is right,” he
said. “You have grown full of your own importance. It is not good for a slave,
even one as well favored as you, to forget his place.”
Fresh anger roared
up inside Caelan. Now that they were alone, he knew he could speak freely to
this man, who was master, yet almost friend. It had ever been so between them,
although such moments of privacy were rare.
“I have never lost
a combat in all the time I have worn your colors,” he said, his voice tight
with hurt. “Why am I treated so today? Why do you doubt me? My loyalty, my strength
are yours. When have I failed, that you should distrust me like this?”
Tirhin sighed and
tipped back his head for a moment. “I knew you would take this wrong,” he
muttered, half to himself. He glanced at Caelan. “Why must you always be so
damned difficult?”
Caelan knotted his
brows, too full of resentment to permit himself a reply.
“We came to help
you, you damned, stiff-necked fool. Sien’s potion will give you extra strength.”
“I am strong
enough.”
“Against a Madrun?”
Tirhin’s voice rose with doubt.
Although he made
sure nothing showed, something inside Caelan withered and died. To his people,
killing for any reason was a horror. Caelan, stolen from his homeland and
exiled from his people, had found himself forced to fight if he was to live.
Moreover, he had found in himself an unexpected gift for battle. Put a sword in
his hand and he became a different man, quick and complete. He was efficient,
tireless, ruthless. And all the while he was triumphing in the ring, glorying
in the acclaim, it seemed the spilled blood of all his many defeated opponents
kept seeping into his very bones, into his heart, into his conscience.
Take him from the
arena, take him from the cheers, take the sword from his hand, and he was a man
uneasy with his own conscience, never settled one way or the other. His own
pride in his fighting ability shamed him, yet why should he hate his skills?
When the gods gave a man a certain talent, was he not to use it? Still, what
trick of fate was it to grant him exceptional ability in killing others? He
could find no peace, although he had formed a shell between himself and his own
trampled morals. Only at night, when the nightmares came, did that shell break.
He told himself
that to fight to protect one’s home, or loved ones, or life, was a different
matter. To fight and kill simply to provide entertainment was a stain against
mankind. His soul felt black and heavy with it. Yet he belonged to Tirhin, and
Tirhin commanded him to serve in the arena. For Tirhin, a man he admired above
all others, a man he longed to emulate, he was willing to do anything.
The prince was
strong, courageous, and intelligent. Despite his high station, he found time to
listen to the people who came to him for help. He was generous to the poor,
kind to his slaves, fair to his soldiers. He had served his father loyally and
patiently, at least up till now. In all respects, he was someone to admire. Had
Caelan been free, he would have sought to be in this man’s employ, and he would
have longed to be Tirhin’s friend.
Now, however,
Caelan found himself witnessing a side of this man he had never seen before. A
resentful, angry man, barely keeping his emotions in check. Tirhin had lost
confidence in Caelan for no explainable reason, unless ... unless it was
because the prince had lost confidence in someone else, his father perhaps, or
even himself.
Whatever the
reason, it hurt. Hurt terribly to know that Caelan had sacrificed his
conscience for someone who now showed how little he cared.
Like a vine
scorched by fire, Caelan’s trust and admiration curled up inside him. He
swallowed, and found himself adrift in bitter disillusionment. Yes, stupidly he
had continued to hope that if he kept serving Tirhin faithfully and well, that
if he kept winning championships, one day the prince would free him as a
reward. Now he saw he had been a blind fool, a fool filled with dreams and
fantasies as insubstantial as the air.
“So,” Caelan now
said in a flat, toneless voice. “You believe I cannot defeat this Madrun.”
Apology, or
perhaps consternation, appeared in Tirhin’s face. He said, “I have fought them
in the border skirmishes. They are relentless. They fear nothing. It’s
terrifying to stand on a plain at dawn and have them come swarming out from the
mist in a yelling horde.
“Yes, Caelan, you
are strong and relentless. As for fear, you don’t know what it is. But champion
or not, I cannot afford a gamble of any kind. Too much depends on this victory.”
“Such as?”
“You’ve been told
enough,” Tirhin said impatiently. “You wouldn’t understand the intricacies of
our political intrigues.”
Caelan’s jaw
clenched hard. He drew in two deep breaths, fighting to keep his temper. “The
priest said I must win the people’s favor today. Are they not shouting for me
now? Am I not already popular? The people know I belong to you. I came here as
the favorite. The betting odds are—”