Page 64

CHAPTER

Sixty-Four

S EVEN HOUNDS KILLED during the Seventh Trial, on the day of the Seventh Guardian. That was enough to send the faithful to the temple. Too many ill omens these past days. Light a candle, light another. Put down offerings of flowers and incense, food and money. Pray and hope, and beg the Eight to remain Hidden.

Everyone else went to the fight.

A tragedy, of course. Those poor guards. Here one moment, gone the next. Makes you think. Terrible, shocking. Must say though, awful to say, but we needed that storm. Eight. We’ve been dying in that heat. So much fresher, I know. What a relief. Look they’re selling ribbons, call them over. Do they have nuts? A cone of nuts, please. Oh why not, yes, the sugared ones.

“So, I’m guessing your strategy is to kill me,” Cain said, jangling on the spot.

Ruko wasn’t playing. His face was a shield.

They were in the contenders’ pavilion, waiting in line for the last time. Only one fight this afternoon. Katsan was on her way to meet the Bear—two points to Shal. Havoc had withdrawn, and was standing on the imperial balcony in his admiral’s uniform, gold brocade, row of medals. (“The prick,” Cain noted, to universal agreement.) Two points to Tala. The Visitor was dead. Two points to Neema—putting her in third position.

Which left only Ruko and Cain. In the stalls, people waved plaited ribbons on sticks—burnt orange for the Fox, forest green for the Tiger. Hedging their bets.

Look, Neema—there are some purple ones for us.

She had let Sol back in. After delivering his message about the watchtower, he had tottered feebly to the fire and collapsed. Flat on his back, feet clawing the air. Tiny peeps of distress. Everyone else had rushed away to help, so it was just the two of them. Dying, slowly. So cold, so alone. Nowhere warm and dry to perch. Fading, fading…

Neema told him to stop that, he was a terrible actor. She knew his feathers were water resistant because he’d told her they were, and even if they weren’t, he wasn’t a bird of flesh and bone and beak, he was… whatever he was. A metaphor, a symbol, an omen made tangible.

The greatest of all the Raven fragments, Sol had prompted her. He’d perked up now they were talking about him. I am quoting you, Neema.

“Do you want to come back?”

You want me back?

“I’d like you where I can see you.”

That had been enough for Sol. He was back in her chest in moments, perched on his favourite rib. (Sixth down on the right.) Now here they were together in the pavilion. Sol was excited, because if Ruko won the fight and Cain survived it there would be a tie, and anyone within five points of the lead would go forward to the Dragon Trial. Whoever won that would instantly win the Festival. Sol’s plan remained magnificent. Neema was within five points of Cain and Ruko. She would win the Dragon Trial and take the throne, and Sol would sit on her shoulder, VISIBLE and RESPLENDENT .

He tapped on Neema’s rib. What is wrong with Cain?

She had been wondering the same thing. He was jittery, even for him. Bouncing on the spot, clicking his fingers. In the square, the Hound palace marching band was entertaining the crowds. They had time to talk. She drew him back into the corner of the pavilion. “What’s wrong—”

“Cain.” Ish Fort appeared from nowhere, and grabbed his contender by the jaw. “What have you taken?”

Cain blinked rapidly. “Coffee, lots of coffee. Bowl of sugar cubes. Dr. Yetbalm’s pick-me-up powder. Several sachets. Very, very awake right now.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Neema knew why. He was keeping the Fox at bay. “You might have overdone it, Cain.”

Fort wheeled on her. “Mind your own business,” he snapped, and pulled Cain away.

Neema returned to the line. “Please don’t kill him,” she said to Ruko. She knew it was pointless, but how could she stand there and say nothing? “You saved Tala’s life, you can spare his. Please, Ruko.”

Nothing, from the Tiger contender.

As the marching band left the square, Cain settled back at her side. He smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Neema.” He leaned in, murmured in her ear. “I’m always glad you’re here.”

They looked at each other. All that coffee and powder in his system. Surely the Fox was fast asleep.

“Oh, are we going to kiss now?” Cain said, amused. “On the contender line? Call the sketch artists—”

She kissed him.

Sol held very still, eyes closed, and pretended it wasn’t happening.

They broke apart.

“Don’t die,” she said.

“Excellent advice. Thank you.” Cain tapped his forehead, to show it had gone in. And then he set off after Ruko.

Cain and Ruko had both won all their previous fights. On paper, it should have been a close match. On the platform—it wasn’t.

The instant the bell rang Ruko sprang forward and knocked Cain to the ground. The ferocity of the attack caught everyone off guard. He wanted this fight over. He wanted this man dead.

Not a man. An obstacle that must be removed. A piece of debris on his path.

Somehow, through sheer luck, Cain made it through to the bell. He staggered to his corner in a daze, bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth, one eye swollen shut. His contingent, hiding their horror, patched him up as best they could and handed him his sword. His depth of perception was gone, he struggled to take it from them.

“Anyone have an eyepatch? Might as well look dashing in my final moments.”

“Stop joking Cain, you’re not dead yet,” Abbot Fort told him. “Focus.”

In Ruko’s corner, Abbess Glorren said, “If you can’t disarm him, give him the round. Don’t risk his blade.”

Ruko nodded. Katsan—the most seasoned warrior of them all—had lost her arm in a chance accident. He would not suffer her fate.

And so Cain survived the weapons round—just. “Surprise! I’m back,” he slurred, to his contingent. He was weaving on the spot, barely conscious. Blood streamed down his face and neck. They gave him water, and an eyepatch they’d stolen from somewhere, and a sip of whisky when he asked.

“Look at him,” he said, meaning Ruko. “Not a scratch. Not a dent. Rude, don’t you think?”

His contingent agreed that it was, but most of them were fighting back the tears. They knew what was coming. Death the Dragon, circling.

“Three more minutes,” Fort said, “that’s all. Three minutes.” He squeezed Cain’s shoulder. Good luck. Or goodbye. Hard to tell from a squeeze.

The bell rang for the third round.

Ruko bore down on him. Cain had trained with one eye covered, just as he had trained with one arm behind his back. But he had never encountered an opponent like Ruko. His strength, his technique, his will. Cain dodged, and danced, but he was slowing down with every step. Sweat and blood poured down his face. Every breath was a fight.

The kick came from nowhere, slamming like a brick into the side of his head. He fell to the canvas, stunned. Before he could move, Ruko had wrapped an arm around his throat, and begun to squeeze.

Cain fought back, every trick he knew—but Ruko was too strong. He couldn’t break free.

He couldn’t breathe.

Ruko shifted, and tightened the lock.

So this is how it feels , Cain thought. Not so bad; not so terrible. He looked up at the sky, freshened by the storm. Blue, such a beautiful blue. Distantly, he could hear Neema calling his name. She wouldn’t reach him in time. But he was glad she was coming for him.

Precious memories spilled out, tumbling over each other. His life laid out like a tapestry, bright and messy. And at the heart of it, his friend. Their first meeting in the store cupboard, sitting knee to knee. That first kiss. The narrow bed. The opening ceremony, pretending to hate her and so overwhelmed with love, damn her , just look at her. Just look, and never stop looking.

His vision faded. No air, no fight.

I would have liked longer. But it was enough. I was enough.

A Fox should die with a joke on his lips. But Cain couldn’t speak. So he laughed, instead. Laughed at himself and the world, and Ruko crushing the life from him just to win something as worthless, and boring, as power. It was funny. It was hilarious. Cain laughed, and then he was gone.

Ruko felt Cain’s body fall limp against his chest.

I’ve won . The throne is mine. The thought stunned him. He waited for the swell of triumph. Pride, satisfaction. Something. Anything. “I feel nothing,” he whispered. “There’s nothing.”

“Let me help you with that,” a voice said.

A sharp, stabbing pain in his forearm. Cain. Cain was biting his arm. He’d been playing dead. Eight! Never trust a Fox. He tried to pull away, but Cain had latched on to him like a wild animal. The pain was so intense it took all his training not to scream, or lash out blindly. Blood streamed down his arm. Was that a weapon in his teeth? Razor blades?

Vabras rang the bell. Rang it again.

Cain did not let go. The Fox contingent ran on to the platform, Ish Fort in his ear. “Cain. Cain! Get off him. For Eight’s sake, what’s wrong with you? Let him go.”

Finally, the message got through. Ruko was released. He stared in shock at his mangled arm. Everyone stared in shock at Ruko’s mangled arm. Even Vabras.

Cain was gone, and the Fox was awake. Wide awake, with Ruko’s blood on its lips, smeared on its chin. It licked itself clean, enjoying the taste, then stopped. People were screaming in horror. The Fox considered killing them, the prey impulse was strong, but something held it back. Cain. That was curious. Even now, Cain was holding it back.

Vabras was speaking to the crowds. “Victory to the Tiger contender. We have a tie. In accordance with the Rules of the Festival, the three eligible contenders shall now go forward to the Dragon Trial.”

The Fox cuffed Vabras around the face. “No. Wrong. Victory to me. I am emperor now. I am Fox emperor.”

Ish Fort got between them, apologising profusely.

Vabras pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the blood from his lip. “If he has taken drugs, he’s disqualified.”

“Head injury,” Fort said, trying to drag the Fox away. “Cain. Let’s get you to a doctor.”

The Fox smiled at Vabras and placed its paw—its hand! How novel!—on the High Commander’s chest. “You will regret this, little Hound person, I shall have my revenge, there is no place you shall be safe, assuming I can be bothered, I may forget all about it, grudges are so tedious aren’t they, goodbye.”

“ Are you on drugs?” Fort muttered, as he led what he thought was Cain from the platform.

The Fox was disappointed in its abbot. “Do you not know me, Ishmahir? Is it the eyepatch?” The Fox lifted it up. Cain’s eye was completely mended, and bright yellow. Both eyes. Both eyes were an eerie yellow, and the pupils…

Fort reeled back, appalled. “Cain. What the fuck have you taken?”

Over Fort’s shoulder, the Fox saw Neema approaching and levered the eyepatch back in place. “Trouble,” it said, sniffing the air. “Chaos. Carnage.” Three of its favourite things, what fun.

“Where is he?” Neema called out. “What have you done with him?”

The Fox grinned an unsettling grin. “Excuse me, my dear abbot. A private matter.”

“Is he alive?” Neema asked the Fox, in a very patient voice, for the third time. Sol said it was extremely important to remain calm, and not push too hard. Demanding answers of the Fox was a dangerous business. It does not like to be pinned, Neema.

They were sitting in the stalls, Neema one row above, a few seats to the left. The show was over, and now the Ox teams had arrived to dismantle everything. Festival Square would become the parade ground once more. Flags were being lowered, the last stragglers evicted from their seats.

The Fox had stolen a tray of snacks, and was devouring it. It had started face down, until something had reminded it to use its paws. Hands! It was still wearing the eyepatch, it seemed to like it. Neema had persuaded it to turn its visible eye green. A disguise! The Fox had liked that too. “Cain is alive,” it said, talking with its mouth full. The Fox did not inhabit dead people, that would be revolting, but it wasn’t about to tell Neema that, or the little fragment lodged in her chest, for that matter. Options must be kept open.

Neema breathed out. “Where is he?”

“I cached him,” the Fox said, without looking up from its tray. It was a disgustingly messy eater, but Sol said they were safer when it was distracted, and sated.

“What do you mean, you cached him?”

Neema, be careful. This was the First Guardian. Not a fragment, not an aspect. All of them, tangled up together. Every fox that was, every fox that is, and every fox that will be. It was every fox curled up in its den, nose under its tail. It was every fox cornered by hounds. It was every fox defending its territory to the death. Everything, all of them. All at the same time.

The Fox didn’t reply, it had already answered one question and was not about to make a habit of it. Also, it had no idea where Cain was. The Fox had many dens, many holes, many secret places. An infinite number. When it needed Cain again (if it needed Cain again), it would remember. Or not. And wasn’t that uncertainty delicious?

It licked the bowls clean and tossed them over its shoulder, smashing them. One survived intact. The Fox picked it up. “How clever of you,” it said, to the bowl. “I do admire a survivor. You and I shall be great friends, I shall cherish you for ever.”

Neema was struggling to hold her temper. “First Guardian. Please listen. If Ruko wins the throne, he will provoke a Return. The end of our world and the end of yours. We need Cain back for the Dragon Trial. You have to let him out.”

Have to? The Fox did not like that, not at all. It tried to flatten its ears and found it could not. They were on either side of its head, what were they doing there? Stupid, rigid side ears. Enraged, it smashed the bowl, then stared, heartbroken, at the shattered remnants. It rounded on Neema, eye yellow again. A growl rattled in its throat, not even remotely human. Your fault.

Neema apologise. Quickly.

She didn’t need the prompt. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, great one—”

The Fox growled again. Yellow eye. Sharp, sharp teeth. It was going to rip out her throat. Leap over the chairs and tear the life out of her. She shrank back in her seat, terrified.

The Fox stood up and wandered off. Humming.

Neema watched it go, heart thudding. “Oh, my life,” she said. “Oh, my life.”

She stayed there in her seat, mind blank with residual terror, until an Ox team came and dismantled her row.