ground, senseless. With a Taoli battle cry, he drew a dagger from his belt and held it with two hands above Pheragas’s breast.
“
The crowd’s cries of encouragement and glee suddenly ended. All eyes turned toward the imperial box, where the gleaming figure had stepped forward to stand at the gilded balustrade. Beldinas raised his hands, gazing down upon the battlefield. The sawdust was dark with blood and sweat. The single word he’d shouted had resounded back and forth across the Arena.
“Spare him,” the Kingpriest went on. “Do not strike the final blow, brave warrior. There is no need, for you are the victor of this contest!”
Even those who wore the blue of Pheragas’s faction shouted jubilantly: a novice in the Arena had risen above all others to claim the highest honor a gladiator could achieve! Golden roses showered down onto the sands. Rockbreaker appeared, but could not make himself heard above the thunderous applause. A beautiful young woman with an iron collar came out to place a wreath of laurel-leaves on the Barbarian’s head. He caught her before she could withdraw and kissed her hard on the mouth, raising new cries from the onlookers. She resisted a moment then swooned-all of it as rehearsed as the fighting.
Cathan watched as the Lightbringer walked by, Quarath at his side. He found, as they passed, that he could not bring himself to meet Beldinas’s gaze.
Sword met sword, and Tithian shoved with all his might, sending Sir Bron stumbling back. The younger knight grunted, nearly lost his footing, then recovered, keeping his shield up the whole time. He came back with a hard flurry, battering away so that Tithian’s arms burned from the parrying and blocking until the two men finally parted, their feet covered with mud.
It had started raining a little after nightfall, but neither seemed to notice or care. They were sparring alone, in the courtyard of the Hammerhall, with no crowd to watch them. It was a better fight than any the Grand Marshal had watched today.
Another death in the Arena, the third in the past two years. Quarath and Lord Onygion’s feud was getting out of hand, but what could he do to stop it? Speak to the Emissary? To the Kingpriest? Neither would do anything. Rockbreaker would laugh in his face, but only if his mouth was too dry to spit. And the people would mock him-the last thing the head of the Divine Hammer needed.
Here came Bron again, high left, then low to the right, then low right again … each blow simple, economical, not the great sweeping swings of the gladiators. Tithian caught each stroke in succession, with shield and sword, and shield again, turning them aside, then hooking the pommel of his sword around and clouting the younger knight in the ear.
Bron caught most of the blow with his helmet, but he reeled just the same. Groaning, he slumped halfway to his knees. Tithian went at him again, this time with blunted blade, and caught the lad in the stomach with its full outward edge. Bron doubled over, whimpering, then dropped to the ground and stayed there, retching up his supper. Rain plastered his dark hair to his face.
“Watch your hilt-work up close,” Tithian said. “A good swordsman uses every part of his weapon, not just the blade-and expects his opponent to do the same.”
Bron grunted, started to rise, then thought better of it and stayed on his knees, gasping. Tithian watched him. He’d be a great fighter someday, if he could overcome his sloppiness. If not… well, the knighthood was full of passable warriors. There were few great ones anymore.
The thud of hooves in the mud drew his eye away, toward the gatehouse. A rider came through, protected against the rain by a gray, hooded cloak. He stopped for a moment to speak with the gate ward, who nodded and stepped aside. Then he rode on toward Tithian. The Grand Marshal eyed him, marking the anonymity of the man’s garb, and felt a sinking feeling. There was only one who would approach him at this hour with such nondescript garments. He watched as the man reined in, then swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a squire who came running through the muck to serve him.
“I thought you might come tonight,” Tithian said to the hooded man. “I guessed as much, when I turned around and saw there were no MarSevrins to be found.”
“You think the whole family is in on this?” asked the rider in return.
Tithian angled his head, water running off his helm. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
The man
“So,” Tithian said. “It’s really happening?”
“It’s happening,” the rider replied. “The day after the morrow, at the Vaults. They mean to take him, and the Crown.”
The Grand Marshal nearly spat, a sudden ferocity coming over him. “And Cathan?”
“The Twice-Born is a part of this conspiracy,” said the voice within the hood, “as much as I am.”
“More so, I think,” Tithian replied. “He isn’t playing both sides of the game, for one thing.”
The cloaked figure stayed very still for a long moment, then held out a scroll case made of carved ivory. “At the Vaults,” he said.
Tithian took the scroll, waving the man away. With a creak of leather, the gray figure climbed back onto his horse, wheeled it about, and left again, out through the gates. As he did, Tithian opened the case and slid out the scroll within-vellum, sealed with the crimson wax of the First Son. He bowed his head.
The man had first come to him in Chidell, the morning after Cathan’s strange disappearance. He’d told him everything: about the secret roads beneath Istar’s cities, the insurgents hidden away, Lord Revando’s involvement, and Lady Wentha’s surprising participation. The conspirators had been planning to depose Beldinas for weeks now, but Tithian had been slow to discover all he needed to know. He read the scroll, noting all the names, the vast network of support. His mind started to turn, planning out how he must counter this treachery.
Cathan, he thought, you of all people.
When he finished reading, he crumpled the message, walked to the nearest torch, and set it ablaze. As he watched it burn, he sensed Bron coming up on him. He glanced toward the younger knight.
“My lord,” Bron said. “What was that about?”
Cathan let go of the burning parchment. The last of it turned black, falling to the ground like a dead bird. He stared at it, then pivoted on one heel and started toward the knights’ barracks.
“You’ll see, Bron,” he said more harshly than he intended. “Soon enough, you’ll see.”
Chapter 18
The MarSevrins supped together in the courtyard of Wentha’s manor, the night before the Kingpriest was due to leave for the Vaults. The food was sumptuous-shrimp and squid and rice spiced with saffron in the Pesaran style-but they ate little and barely tasted what they did. The servants smiled when they cleared away the leavings, for the leftovers were more than enough to make a good evening meal for themselves. Wentha dismissed them after they brought wine and water. The four conspirators sat quietly, staring into their goblets.
“You know,” said Rath, “this could well be the last time we ever sit together, all of us.”
“Rath!” Wentha exclaimed reprovingly.
“You shouldn’t speak that way,” Tancred insisted. “We’ve planned this out well. Idar’s sent his best men to help us. Nothing will go wrong.”
Cathan chuckled, grimly. “Those are cursed words. Men have spoken them all through history, and history is filled with failure.” He sighed. “Something always goes wrong, Tancred. We must hope it’s nothing big.”
Tancred looked about to argue, but instead glanced up at the stars shining down on the Lordcity. Cathan followed his gaze, picking out
“I do wish you weren’t
