the two Defenders, the other girls’ bravery deserted them, and they stopped, waiting for R’shiel to catch up, before they approached the men. Tarja looked up as she neared him, his smile of recognition fading into a frown as he looked at her.
“Founders, R’shiel! You look awful.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Tarja.”
“Sorry, but you’re as thin as a hoe handle.”
R’shiel could feel an impatient tugging on her shawl, which she loftily ignored. “I’ve been getting headaches, that’s all.”
“She won’t eat, either,” Junee informed Tarja, forcing the introduction that she could feel her companions itching for.
“Tarja, Commandant Warner, this is my roommate Junee. And this is Kilene, Marta, and Wandear,” R’shiel said with a resigned shrug.
“Ladies,” Tarja said with a gracious bow. Garet looked over the young women with vast disinterest, nodded politely, then turned back to the Arena.
“Can we sit here with you?” Kilene asked boldly, ignoring Garet as being too old and not nearly handsome enough to warrant her attention.
“You’re more than welcome to sit here,” Tarja told her. “However, I will be down below with Georj. In fact, we were just on our way there, weren’t we, Commandant?”
Garet glanced at Tarja and then at the girls. “What? Oh! Of course! We’d better get a move on. Lovely meeting you all.” Garet strode off without waiting for him.
“I have to go, I’m afraid, although I’m glad you found me, R’shiel. Georj wants you to wish him luck.” He took her arm and before she could protest steered her away from the other girls toward the Arena. He opened the gate that led from the seating area to the sandy floor, then took her the short distance into the tunnel that led into the caverns that honeycombed the hill underground. R’shiel could hear male voices coming from somewhere to her left. As they entered the gloomy tunnel, Tarja stopped and spun her around to face him.
“You don’t look awful, R’shiel,” he said with concern, “you look like death. What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know, Tarja. I keep getting the worst headaches, and every time I smell meat I want to throw up.”
“Have you told Joyhinia?”
“She told me to see a physic,” R’shiel admitted, a little reluctantly.
“For once, I agree with her,” Tarja grumbled. “Why not go home, R’shiel? You don’t need to be here. Get some rest. Try to eat something.” Then he smiled at her, and R’shiel understood why half the Probates in the Citadel wanted to be her best friend. “I’m sure Georj can redeem the honor of the captains without you cheering for him.”
R’shiel frowned. “He will beat Loclon, won’t he?”
“He’d better!”
“Can I see him before I go?”
“Of course,” Tarja said, taking her arm. “I’m sure if he’s planning to die tonight, the last thing he’d rather see is you, in preference to our ugly faces.”
He led her into the cavernous rooms below the amphitheater, which had been built to house and train the fabled magical horses of the Harshini, who, like their owners, were long extinct and barely remembered, except for a few pitiful heathens who insisted on following the old ways.
The Sisterhood scoffed at rumors of magical horses, just as they denounced the idea that the Harshini were anything more than licentious tricksters. Their magic, according to the Sisterhood, was nothing more than clever parlor tricks, their horses simply the result of good breeding. She wondered, sometimes, how a race as morally bankrupt and as supposedly indolent as the Harshini had ever managed to build anything as impressive as the Citadel.
Georj was sitting on a three-legged stool in a large torchlit alcove, surrounded by several of his friends. They were all offering him advice, much of which, from the pained expression on his face, he considered useless. He looked up at R’shiel’s approach and leaped to his feet, pushing away his well-meaning advisers.
“R’shiel!” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Has the thought of my glorious victory finally overcome your aversion to bloodsport?”
“I thought this was a duel, not a bloodsport, Georj,” she scolded.
“Never fear, little sister,” Tarja assured her. “Georj will give young Loclon a lesson in swordplay and a small scar to remember him by, that’s all.”
R’shiel leaned forward and kissed Georj’s cheek lightly. “Be careful, Georj. And good luck.”
“He’ll need all the luck he can get, my Lady.”
R’shiel turned to find Loclon standing behind her, flanked by two other lieutenants. She had only ever seen him from a distance before and decided that the Novices and Probates who spoke dreamily of his looks were, for once, probably speaking the truth. He was young, not much past twenty, and wore plain leather trousers, knee-high boots, a sword, and a blue sash tied around his waist. Georj was dressed identically, although his sash was red. Loclon moved with easy grace, his lithe body oiled and well muscled in the torchlight. Georj was taller and heavier than the younger man, who reminded R’shiel of a leopard feigning indifference to its prey before it closed in for the kill.
Loclon stepped forward. “Is this your sister, Captain Tenragan?”
Tarja did not appear too pleased that he had forced an introduction. “R’shiel, this is Lieutenant Loclon.”
“Lieutenant,” R’shiel said, with a barely civil curtsy. Something about this handsome young man set her teeth on edge. There was an air about him that spoke of arrogance, of cruelty.
“My Lady,” Loclon replied. “I would be honored if you would wish me luck as well.”
“I was under the impression you didn’t need anything as mundane as luck, Lieutenant.”
Loclon flushed as Georj and his friends roared with laughter. The young man’s eyes blazed dangerously for a moment before he composed himself.
“Then you’d best wish all your luck on Captain Drake, my Lady. The old man will need it.” With that, he stalked off toward the Arena.
R’shiel turned to the “old man,” who was all of twenty-eight, her eyes full of concern. “Be careful, Georj.”
“Don’t worry about me, R’shiel,” he declared. “Worry for all your friends in the Dormitories who will cry themselves to sleep tonight when I scar that pretty face of his.”
Georj followed Loclon toward the Arena, his seconds in tow, full of laughter and back-slapping camaraderie.
R’shiel turned to Tarja. “Tarja, you can’t let him do this.”
He put an arm around her thin shoulders and hugged her gently. “I couldn’t stop it R’shiel, even if I wanted to. Don’t worry about Georj. Hard-earned battlefield experience will win out over parade-ground bravado.”
“You’re as bad as Georj. You aren’t taking this seriously enough.”
A muted roar from the stands reached them as the combatants entered the Arena.
“Go home, R’shiel,” Tarja told her gently.
Suddenly R’shiel was no longer tired. “No, I’m coming with you. I want to watch this.”
Tarja shook his head but did not argue the point. Together they walked back through the tunnel to the rectangle of light that was the entrance to the Arena.
The fight started slowly at first – a tentative clash of blades, each man testing his opponent. R’shiel could tell that Georj had the longer reach, but Loclon had speed and agility on his side. She stood in the entrance to the tunnel, watching the duel with Tarja, Georj’s companions, and the two lieutenants who had accompanied Loclon. The crowd fell silent as the first blows were struck, the air charged with anticipation.
Loclon circled the sandy arena slowly, in a half-crouch, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. He flicked his sword out now and then, with a speed that seemed to take Georj by surprise. The captain was no longer smiling, his expression set in a mask of concentration. Georj was an accomplished swordsman. One could not rise to the rank of captain in the Defenders and be anything less, but he spent more time in the saddle than the Arena
