Page 25

CHAPTER

Twenty-Five

N OTHING COULD HAVE prepared Neema for the fight platform. Everything felt distorted—the deafening roar of the crowd, the rough feel of the rope, the bright Guardian banners.

“You’re going to be great,” Benna said.

“I’m going to throw up.”

“No worries, I have a bucket.” Nothing dented Benna.

In the opposite corner, Shal was chatting to a member of his contingent as if he’d bumped into them in the market. How was he so calm? Neema was in such a fugue state, she couldn’t remember crossing the square, or mounting the steps. She was just…

here, as if some giant, invisible bird had picked her up from the contender line and dropped her from a great height. Not a bird, she corrected herself. The emperor. The emperor had put her here. This was his doing.

She dragged her gaze up to the imperial balcony. Empty. No emperor, no retinue. Who could blame them? Highly trained Hound warrior vs highly terrified Raven scholar—hardly the match of the Festival.

“Contenders, your places,” Abbot Fort said. Hip flask in one hand, bell in the other.

Shal strode out and saluted the three galleries in turn, fist to heart. He was popular—Neema could feel the warmth of the crowd’s response, the positive energy surging his way.

The abbot said something to the crowd, and they laughed. Neema couldn’t hear him; she could hardly breathe. She was falling down a hole marked panic. This was happening. This was actually happening.

Shal shifted into a fighting stance. Neema mirrored him. She lifted her arms. They felt heavy, as if she were wading through deep water.

Shal gave her a discreet smile of reassurance. He’d promised he would try his best not to hurt her. A thank you for helping him win the Fox Trial.

The bell rang.

They circled each other.

He moved and she jerked backwards, too sharply. Anyone else would have pressed the advantage, but Shal hung back, letting her regain her balance.

Come on. You know the basics. Give him something to work with.

The fight began in earnest. Neema kept her guard up and Shal kept his promise, pulling his punches. But it was hard—she hadn’t realised how hard it was, just to maintain concentration. Each round lasted three minutes, which didn’t sound like a long time until you were up here, with a stitch in your side and sweat streaming into your eyes.

She rubbed her forehead—losing concentration for a second. Enough time for Shal to leap in and—well, whatever it was he did, it was fast and decisive and she was flat on her back, the air punched from her lungs. The sky swung above her, then settled.

Shal dropped down and hissed in her ear. “Don’t think, just move. Trust me.”

For the next minute she moved naturally, and Shal did his best to make it look like a genuine contest. Enough to convince the crowds, at least. Abbot Fort was less easily duped.

He rang the bell. “First round to the overly generous Hound contender,” he said, swigging from his flask.

Neema staggered to her corner. Three minutes. It had felt like three lifetimes.

“You were amazing!” Benna said, coming at her with a sponge.

Neema couldn’t speak—her lungs were on fire. She collapsed to the ground. Benna squeezed the sponge over her head. Cool, fresh water streamed down her face, rinsing away a sheet of sweat. “Again,” she panted. “Please.”

Benna had a second sponge already loaded.

Should have yelled stop , Neema thought, as the water revived her. Never mind the half point. She’d thought about it when she was lying flat on her back, but the word had stuck in her throat. Kindry’s dig about her shaming the Flock. And the crowd, willing her to fail. They didn’t realise she fed off that, the way another contender might feed on their support. Oh, you think I’m unworthy, do you? Well fuck you…

The stitch was still fading when the abbot called them back. Round two—the weapons round. Neema had selected the shield, and the leather cosh. She didn’t trust herself with anything sharp—she’d only end up injuring herself.

She fixed the shield to her left arm. It was shaped like a pair of folded raven’s wings, narrowing to a sharp point at the bottom. “Would you look at that?” the abbot said, admiringly. He rapped the centre with his knuckle and it rang out clear and true, like a bell.

This was our cue.

Oh, had you forgotten about us? We have been watching and waiting, we have been very patient.

Opening our wings, we glided down from the palace roof, flying low over the crowds and landing with a neat plack on a platform post.

“Eight!” Neema said, staring at us.

Stretching out our neck, we greeted her loudly. Kraa! Kraa!

The abbot gave the shield another tap. “Where did you get this? I’ve never seen its like. Extraordinary.”

Magnificent. The word was magnificent. We preened ourself.

Neema looked at the abbot, then looked at us. “Abbot Fort. Can you see a giant raven perched on that corner post?”

The abbot made a show of looking at the empty post. “Are you claiming insanity? There are other ways to stop the fight…”

Neema rubbed her face. The last remnants of the Dragonscale. Had to be. Either that, or the Second Guardian of the Eight was perched ten feet away, calling her name. Which was impossible, because the Second Guardian of the Eight did not exist. It was a myth, a metaphor, dreamed up by the ancients.

We tried one more time. Kraa! Kraa!

She ignored us. We have come to recognise this stage—it is called “denial.” She was not yet ready to accept our magnificence. If we pushed any harder, she would break.

She shook her head to clear it— no!— and saw that the post was empty. (It was not empty, we were right there. She had simply chosen not to see us any more. Denial.)

Shal moved into a hanging stance, preparing for the bell. He’d chosen a pair of short wooden sticks, non-lethal weapons more suitable for training. Another kindness. As the bell rang he waited for her to attack, encouraging her with his eyes. Come at me . Neema swung at him. With a sharp snap of his wrist, Shal rapped his stick across her knuckles. Neema yelped in pain as the crowd cheered. Bastards.

Shal smiled and knocked his sticks together, giving Neema time to recover. For the next minute he led her in a martial dance about the platform. Most of the time he hit her shield, but a few strikes got through. Eight, they stung — she would be covered in bruises at the end of this.

A mistake was inevitable. Neema was slowing down, the shield heavier with every lift. Shal was tired, too—he was working for both of them.

She saw the strike in her periphery, too late to defend herself. The stick came down over her knuckles again, harder this time. On reflex she spread her fingers, and the cosh fell from her hand. Raven protect me , Neema thought, carelessly.

The world juddered to a halt.

She felt a cool, thin breeze surround her. A wisp of cloud misted her skin. A floating sensation, as if she could lift into the air.

Lightness. Balance. Control.

The cosh was still falling to the floor. Shal drew back his arm, preparing for another strike. His movements were painfully slow—a quarter their usual speed. She could see the places he was exposed, she had time to plan her counterstrike.

Deflecting his striking hand, she raised her shield and slammed it against his chest.

Shal stumbled backwards, ungrounded. Surprised, for the first time he trained his Houndsight on her, hazel eyes glittering and intense. But Neema was already pressing her advantage, pushing him again with the shield. He fell against the ropes.

The base of the shield was very sharp. Sharp as a raven’s beak.

There was time, she had time. The shield was made to do this, to pierce through flesh, it was only natural.

She lifted her shield arm. Shal’s eyes widened in shock. For him, this was happening between heartbeats, bewilderingly fast. One moment winning, the next on the ropes, with a shield coming down, aimed at his throat.

What am I doing?

No, no, no…

At the last moment, Neema dashed the shield to the ground. It landed point first, so sharp it tore a hole in the canvas and sank into the wood beneath. Time snapped forward, to its normal pace.

We flew back up to the imperial balcony, pleased by our experiment. She was receptive, despite her denial. When the time came, she would be ready.

The bell rang out.

Neema scrambled back, tripping over herself, horrified by what she’d almost done. Eight. Eight. She could have killed him.

Abbot Fort took a casual swig from his hip flask. “Now that was interesting. Round two to the Raven contender.”

The Fox contingent needed a moment to fix the tear in the canvas. Neema stumbled to her corner in a daze, while the crowd tried to work out what they’d just seen. An accident, it was decided. A fluke.

“Two sponges coming at you,” Benna said.

Neema kept her head bowed between her knees as the water spilled down her neck and shoulders.

Benna crouched down, concerned. “Contender Kraa? Are you all right?”

Neema wiped the water from her face. She had to tell someone. She needed to explain… “I was drugged last night. Dragonscale oil. A really strong dose. Almost fatal.”

“Oh, no!” Benna clutched her sponges tight. “Contender Kraa! I’m so sorry.”

Neema shook her head. “It pushes you to do things… I can’t control myself, Benna. It’s still working through my system.” She watched Shal, moving angrily back and forth on the other side of the platform. “I nearly killed him.”

“You’re not a killer,” Benna said, emphatically. She wrapped a small, rough hand around Neema’s wrist. Her Life is Short hand. “And you did control yourself back there. I saw it, Contender Kraa. You stopped yourself—in the heat of the fight.”

Neema sighed, partially reassured. But still a thought broke its way through her defences. Yes . But I like Shal. I didn’t like Gaida.

When the bell rang out for round three, Shal punched Neema so hard in the stomach she stopped breathing. As she bent double, he kicked her to the ground and twisted her arm in its socket.

“ Stop!, ” she moaned, into the platform, leaving a smear of blood on the canvas. She’d caught her lip as she fell.

Shal waited another infernal second, then released her. Neema curled into a foetal position.

“The Raven contender stopped the fight,” the abbot called out to the galleries. “Victory to the Hound contender.”

By the time Neema got to her feet, Shal was already striding back to the contender line. She trailed after him, dabbing her lip with the back of her hand. Looking up, she saw the emperor emerge on his balcony, ready for the fight of the day. Tiger vs Bear. The galleries were now packed tight in anticipation of a close match.

Neema passed Ruko and Katsan on their way to the platform. Katsan said, without stopping, “Now we see your true colours.”

Ruko blocked her path, staring down at her. The fixed gaze of a cat, considering a bird through a windowpane. “I did not expect you to interest me. We will speak again,” he murmured, and let her go.

When she reached the line, she went straight over to Shal. “I am so sorry,” she said, hand on her heart. “Shal—”

“My fault for trusting you, Contender Kraa,” he said, not deigning to look at her. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

She slipped back into line between Cain and Tala, head down. As the bell rang for the first round, Cain whispered, “I hated you before it was fashionable.”

“Shit!” Tala hissed. Ruko had just back-handed Katsan, sending her reeling. The Bears’ champion of champions, swatted like a fly.

“Heat exhaustion,” Havoc said.

“Grief,” Tala countered.

“Both,” Cain and Neema said, at the same moment.

As the fight continued, Katsan was pushed into a permanent, harried defence. Blood streamed from a cut on her brow. Her tunic was soaked with sweat.

Ruko was not sweating at all. He breathed easily, moved easily. He was taking the fight seriously—even at this distance, Neema could see the determination, the focus he brought to every move. But he looked as though he could spend the next hour up there without tiring.

Because for Ruko—Neema realised, in a flash of understanding—this fight had not begun on the platform, but at the afternoon’s Trial. He must have realised the Foxes would rig things so he came away with nothing. That’s why he didn’t waste time arguing over the scores. He’d already factored in the loss, and made the tactical decision to conserve his energy for a fight he could win.

Tigers. Always ten steps ahead.

The fight had turned so bloody, Neema couldn’t watch. She stared at her feet, willing it to be over. At last the bell rang out and Katsan hurried to her corner to be patched up by her contingent.

The crowd turned to one another, taken aback by the Bear warrior’s weak performance. Neema was less surprised. Now she thought about it, the heat exhaustion and the grief were not separate things, they were connected. Katsan had lost her friend, and she wasn’t thinking straight.

Bears felt things deeply. In the austere fortress of Anat-garra, kinship took on a profound importance. The loss of a Brother or Sister could be devastating. Whoever killed Gaida had taken out not one contender, but two.

And Ruko was reaping the benefit.

Neema narrowed her eyes. His alibi was solid, but there were others who were heavily invested in his success.

“What?” Cain said, softly.

“The Tiger abbess,” she said, in his ear. “Does she have an alibi?”

A tight nod. Leave it with me.

The bell rang for the weapons round. And here at least Katsan had an edge—twenty years fighting real battles in the borderlands; her sword so familiar that it seemed a part of her.

She won the round, but she had given everything to it. Ruko had saved himself for the final bout—and again showed no mercy.

“Eight,” Tala murmured, as Katsan dodged a lethal upper cut. “I’d rather fight a real tiger.”

As the fight dragged on, the square fell into stunned silence. Ruko wasn’t simply better than Katsan, he was in an entirely different class. His power, his focus…

“Stop,” Katsan called out. “Stop.” The fight was over. Another half point taken away, edging her below zero.

“He’s going to win,” Tala said, in a hollow voice. Not just the fight, but the Festival. “That’s our next emperor. Eight protect us.”

“And remain Hidden,” Neema answered.

At the end of the line, entirely forgotten, the Visitor watched, and said nothing.