The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Chapter 17

Davian struggled forward through the throng, jostled constantly by the mass of people around him, trying to follow Taeris as closely as possible as he snaked through the crowd.

The late afternoon sun beat down on Thrindar’s main street, which was choked with travellers trying to gain entrance to the Great Stadium in the town centre. Dust kicked up by hundreds of feet drifted everywhere, combining with the sweat on people’s faces to make them look more like coal miners than city folk. Merchants on the side of the road yelled hoarsely at anyone foolish enough to glance their way, well aware that this would be the largest crowd they would likely see for many years. The entire scene was dirty, hot and chaotic. Davian didn’t like it at all.

“How long now?” he muttered to Taeris, wiping beads of moisture from his brow and scowling as another stranger shouldered past.

“I said fifteen minutes, and that was ten minutes ago. How long do you think?” replied Taeris, irritation creeping into his tone. Like Davian, he was visibly not enjoying battling through the sweaty crush.

Davian gave a short nod in response, glancing across at his other companions. Wirr wasn’t paying attention, looking more excited than anything else, staring at every new sight with genuine fascination. Caeden, on the other hand, ploughed forward with the grim determination and characteristic silence he’d shown for most of their journey.

“How are you holding up?” Davian asked Caeden in a low voice as they were pushed together by the press of bodies.

Caeden gave him a nervous smile. “I’ll be glad to get indoors.”

Davian nodded in understanding. Word of Caeden’s escape had arrived in Thrindar well before them, and already there were plenty of posters with his likeness nailed up around the city.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said, trying to sound reassuring despite the churning of his own stomach. Taeris had already made sure to alter Caeden’s appearance as much as possible - cut his hair short, made him wear several layers of clothes to give him a more portly appearance – but all it took was one person to see through the changes.

Still, they’d made it this far without incident. It had taken them almost a week to reach Desriel’s capital. Travelling had been a tense affair, if uneventful; the constant threat of being discovered by Gil’shar soldiers had only been surpassed by the fear of another sha’teth finding them. Still, there had been no sign of pursuit and they had made good time, arriving several days before Taeris expected the royal entourage to leave.

Davian pushed on behind the others. After a couple of minutes he shifted his gaze upward from the crowd, catching his first glimpse of Thrindar’s Great Stadium as it began to loom ahead. At least fifty feet high and made of solid stone, the tops of the walls were draped with colourful banners, each one emblazoned with a different symbol.

“The insignias of some of those competing,” said Wirr, following Davian’s gaze.

“There must be a hundred banners up there,” murmured Davian, wiping sweat from his brow. “Are all the fighters lords and such?”

Wirr shook his head, face glowing as he took in the atmosphere; despite his oft-mentioned reservations about Taeris’ plan, he seemed more excited than worried. “Not all, but most. Noblemen learn swordplay younger than most, and then have more time to practice as they grow up. It tends to be an advantage.”

“No doubt being able to afford entry is an advantage, too.” Davian turned sideways to avoid being run down by a fat woman and the two bawling young children she was dragging behind her.

Wirr laughed. “No-one can afford entry by themselves,” he assured Davian. “The costs are….” He gestured, shaking his head to indicate that he had no words to describe their enormity. “Some very few get invitations. Everyone else has backers – sponsors who share the entry cost, and reap a percentage of any winnings.”

Davian raised an eyebrow. “And the winnings are enough to share around, with everyone profiting?”

Wirr gave an emphatic nod. “With gold to spare.”

Davian looked up at the banners again as they became slowly larger. “I wonder who they are,” he said absently. He vaguely recognised a couple of the designs, but couldn’t identify any of them.

“There’s only a few Andarran. Plenty of Desrielites and Narutians. A couple from Nesk. Even a few from the Eastern Empire, I suspect.”

Davian shot his friend a sidelong glance, partly amused and partly curious. Wirr was enjoying himself more than he had since they had decided to come here. “You really recognise all these banners?”

Wirr shrugged. “Most of them. Jarras’ politically-minded lessons were fairly thorough.”

Davian grinned as he thought of the Elder. “Jarras would have a heart attack if he knew where we were.”

Wirr smirked. “Most of the Elders would, I imagine.”

The throng thinned a little as they stepped into the shadow of the arena; soldiers and attendants lined the entrance, studiously funnelling people into the appropriate sections of the stadium. Taeris hung back, studying the crowd as the other three gathered around him.

“What are you looking for?” asked Wirr.

“We have no chance of getting into the stadium itself. Not so that we could speak to the Andarran delegation, anyway,” said Taeris, softly enough that no passers-by could overhear. “But there must be Gifted coming and going. If I can make contact with one of them, we might be able to gain an audience.”

Caeden frowned. “And if you are refused?”

Taeris shrugged. “We will deal with that problem should it arise.”

Davian fanned his face, the heat of the day by now quite intense. “How will you recognise them? Even with their cloaks, they’ll be hard to spot in this crowd.”

Taeris gave him a slight smile. “You’ll see.”

They loitered for a while, occasionally moving around and browsing through shops and stalls to avoid looking suspicious. It wasn’t difficult to remain anonymous; the crowds were so thick that they probably could have stood still the entire day without anyone noticing.

Eventually Taeris tensed, nudging Davian. “There,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

A man in a red cloak was emerging from one of the stadium entrances, shadowed closely by a guard holding a Trap prominently in front of him. The crowd parted wherever the cloaked man went; several people spat on the ground as he passed. The noise of the crowd, which had been a roar only moments ago, quietened to a low rumble as people stopped their conversations to watch.

“You want to pass a note to him?” Wirr said softly, his tone incredulous. He glanced at Taeris, then back at the red-cloaked man again, who was still very obviously isolated and had every eye trained on him. “You may as well ask the man with the Trap to pass it on for you.”

Taeris gave a thoughtful nod, scratching his beard. “I didn‘t think it would be this bad,” he admitted.

They watched as the Gifted man, looking more amused than intimidated by the attention, purchased something from a very displeased-looking vendor. Davian shifted to get a better view, and was so intent on the red-cloaked man that he walked straight into someone before he realised they were there, causing them to stumble to the ground.

He looked down in horror, reddening, and quickly bent to help his victim to her feet. She was about his age, pretty, with long black hair and green eyes that sparkled as they looked up at him with amusement. Her hands were soft and smooth as he pulled her up, stammering his apologies.

A shift in the crowd distracted him for a moment. The Gifted was meandering back into the stadium, still pursued by the vigilant-looking guard; as soon as he had disappeared the crowd resumed their conversations, and the scene returned to normal as if nothing had happened.

Davian glanced around to see if the girl was uninjured, but she was already gone.

Wirr was watching him with an amused smile.

“Say nothing,” Davian warned. “It was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” said Wirr. "Girls that look like that are easy to miss. Practically invisible, really."

Davian glared at his friend. He’d usually play along, but this time Wirr’s jibe only reminded him of Asha, back at Caladel and probably wondering why they had abandoned her. As always, the accompanying stab of guilt – and fear that she would not forgive him, if he ever saw her again – put him in a bad mood.

Wirr sighed, still smiling, but wisely deciding to let the matter go. He turned to Taeris, who had been ignoring the exchange and was still staring thoughtfully towards the stadium. “So it looks like we should find another way across the border."

Taeris shook his head. “No. There’s another chance. A little more direct than I’d like, but it should work.”

Without adding anything further, he gestured for them to follow and then set off down the road.

They wound their way through a series of narrow streets until they came to a stop outside a large building. Its façade was ornate, with finely carved designs inscribed onto every available surface; unlike the houses and stores around it, its architecture gave it gentle curves. It wasn’t circular, but the entire structure had the impression of having no corners, and as a result was somewhat dizzying to the eye. After a few moments of consideration, Davian decided he didn’t like it.

“Where are we?” he asked Taeris.

“The Temple of Marut Jha Talkanar, God of Balance.” It was Caeden, his expression fascinated as he stared up at the structure.

Taeris gave the young man a sidelong glance, then nodded confirmation to Davian.

Wirr gave Taeris a disbelieving look. “You’re hoping to get help from here?” He looked around to make sure no-one was close enough to overhear. “Isn’t it a little dangerous? What with the sacredness of Essence, and those who use it being abominations, and all that?”

Taeris started up the stairs. “Just say nothing, do as I tell you, and we will be fine.” He vanished inside without waiting to see if his companions were following.

The other three exchanged glances. “We’ve trusted him this far,” noted Caeden.

Davian nodded, and Wirr gave a reluctant shrug of agreement.

They entered the temple cautiously. Once the doors had closed behind them, the bustling sounds from outside vanished and they were left with only a peaceful hush. Somewhere a fountain burbled, and somehow a fresh breeze from one of the high windows was cunningly directed downward by the odd shape of the walls, sighing in the enclosed space. Skylights meant the large room was well-lit, but scented candles burned in the corners too. Aside from the three of them, the room was unoccupied.

Just as Davian had finished taking stock of their surroundings, a side door swung open and Taeris strode through, followed by what appeared to be a very drunk priest. The man staggered over one of the steps, then tripped completely, sliding along the polished marble floor with an odd grace. Taeris snorted, then hurried over to help him up and check he was uninjured.

“I present to you the high priest of Talkanar, God of Balance,” whispered Wirr to the others.

Davian stifled a giggle which would have echoed quite embarrassingly around the open room, and even Caeden, usually more reserved, hid a smile.

Eventually the priest managed to make his way over to where they stood without falling, though that was mainly due to the assistance of Taeris. Taeris propped him up as they came to a halt, making sure he wasn’t going to collapse again before letting him go.

“Boys, this is Nihim Sethi, someone we can trust. Nihim - this is Wirr, Davian and Caeden.”

The man called Nihim looked at them through bleary eyes. “Pleased to meet you,” he slurred.

Taeris grimaced. “Don’t blame him. It’s the month of debauchery,” he explained with a roll of the eyes. “Of all the choices, getting drunk is about the most moral thing you can do and still look pious.”

“Seems like it should be more popular,” said Wirr, gesturing to the empty space around them.

Nihim snorted. “Popular? No. In fact, these days we only survive through the decree of the Gil’shar.” He shook his head groggily. “This month may be all well and good, but there’s a month of abstinence, too. A month of gluttony and one of starvation. A month of pleasure and a month of pain.”

“So you’d be devout half the year,” said Wirr with a grin.

Nihim winced. “I take it you’re not from around here. Don’t let anyone else hear you talking like that,” he slurred. “Here, you choose one of the nine gods, and that’s your path. Set in stone, no changing, no slacking off. If you don’t follow the precepts, and then get caught….” He made a slicing motion with his finger across his throat.

“They kill you?” said Davian in astonishment.

“We like to think of it as aggressive evangelism,” replied Nihim glibly.

“There’s a reason the Gifted are so hated here, Davian,” Taeris interrupted. “Being devout isn’t just a choice in Desriel. It’s a way of life, indoctrinated and law.” He hesitated. “So you can see what a risk Nihim is taking for us.”

Nihim stared at a spot on the ground. “Taeris. I’m in no state to help you and your friends right now, but give me an hour. We have tonics in the back for… clear-headedness.” It was obvious he was struggling to concentrate. “The others shouldn’t be back for days; I’m basically in charge for the moment. No-one wants to be stuck in the temple during Jil’imor. You shouldn’t be disturbed if you stay in there.” He gestured to the smaller room from which he had just emerged.

Taeris gripped him by the arm. “Thank-you, Nihim,” he said sincerely.

The four of them filed into the side room, Davian glancing behind him to see Nihim stumbling off to another section of the temple. There were comfortable-looking chairs and couches lining the wall of this room, but none of the finery that was on display in the main chamber. It seemed to be a common room for the priests, rather than for public use.

They talked quietly amongst themselves. Davian was full of questions about the Song of Swords; to his surprise Wirr seemed better equipped to answer more of them than Taeris. The last two winners of the Song were fighting in this tournament, apparently, though Selbin Hran – the victor from fourteen years ago – was almost forty now.

Caeden seemed fascinated by the entire concept, but as always, he kept his thoughts mostly to himself. Davian observed him surreptitiously for a while, as he’d tried to do a few times this past week. He liked Caeden, but he knew he had to be careful about his instincts. It was his credulous nature that had landed them in this mess in the first place. He couldn’t just give Caeden the benefit of the doubt - he had to wait until they were safely in Ilin Illan, and their companion’s role in all of this had finally been explained, before trusting him.

Eventually the door to the main chamber opened again, and a much more composed-looking Nihim stepped through. His long black hair was now bound, and the redness around his eyes had all but vanished. He was also tall, Davian realised with a start; he must have been slouching considerably before. He moved with a sure step and confident air that seemed much more befitting a priest.

“I apologise for the wait,” he said to them in a strong, clear voice. “Even with the medicines at my disposal, this time of year can be a trial.”

“Not your fault,” said Taeris amiably. “Do I need to do the introductions again?”

Nihim chuckled. “No, no. Davian, Caeden, Wirr.” He pointed to them each in turn. Then he sighed, giving them a considering look. “So, Taeris, you’ve gathered a small group of friends. I never picked you as the type to enjoy company.” His tone was casual, but there was definitely a question behind it.

Taeris gave him a slight smile. “You’re right about that, but sometimes we don’t have a choice in the matter.” Wirr rolled his eyes at Davian, who grinned.

Nihim just nodded. “I hear there was some trouble down south. Bad stuff, Gifted involved and everything. A man caught helping someone mixed up in that would probably not end up on the good side of the Gil’shar.”

“True. But then, a favour that large would clear a lot of debts, too,” said Taeris.

Nihim smiled at that. “I wouldn’t go that far, but it will be a start.” He clapped Taeris on the back. “So beyond giving you a roof over your heads, what can I do for you?”

“I need to get a message to the king,” said Taeris. “Before he leaves Thrindar.”

“Ah.” Nihim nodded. “Of course. Safe passage across the border. A good thought, I’ll give you that.” He shrugged apologetically. “One problem. The king isn’t here.”

Taeris’ smile slipped. “What?”

“There’s still a delegation,” Nihim rushed to assure him, “ but it’s led by the princess.”

Taeris frowned. “Karaliene is being given duties of state? She’s just a girl!”

“She’s eighteen, Taeris,” said Nihim with a grin. “She’s old enough to have suitors trailing after her like a pack of wolves.”

Taeris shook his head. “Eighteen,” he muttered to himself. “Time has flown. Still, I would not have thought King Andras comfortable enough to send her to Desriel. Not in these times.”

Nihim shrugged. “From what I hear, one of the tournament favourites is a close friend of hers. She wanted to come.”

“Regardless.” Taeris turned back to Nihim. “Karaliene may not understand the message, but she will surely have an entourage of Gifted who are old enough. If you can give them this - ” he pressed something into Nihim’s palm – “ and arrange passage for us into the stadium to meet them, that will be more than enough.”

Nihim inspected the small metal token in his palm. It was a simple design, like a coin, but steel and with three triangles punched from the middle. “What is it?”

“A symbol from the Unseen War - a request for sanctuary. Any Gifted who lived in Andarra through those times will know what it means.” He pointed to the triangular holes. “One triangle meant the person asking was in no danger. Two meant they were in some danger, but not immediate.” He shrugged. “Three meant that if sanctuary wasn’t granted, the Gifted was most likely going to be captured and killed.”

Nihim nodded. “I think you are probably right to use the three triangles, then,” he mused.

“As it is, it’s the only one I have left.”

Nihim inspected it for a few more seconds, then gave a sharp nod, slipping the token into his pocket. “Very well.” He glanced at the boys, then back to Taeris. “I would have a word in private, first, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Taeris inclined his head, looking unsurprised by the request. He turned to the boys. “Wait here,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

He followed Nihim out the door. Davian, Wirr and Caeden exchanged curious glances, but none made any move to follow.

“So who do you think he is?” asked Wirr as soon as the door had closed.

Davian shrugged. “He knows we’re Gifted, and isn’t trying to kill us. That’s good enough for me.” Caeden nodded his agreement.

Wirr was having none of it. “He’s a Desrielite priest – or posing as one, anyway. Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He leaned forward. “My guess is that he’s one of Tol Athian’s spies. An informer.”

Caeden gazed at the closed door. “Dangerous job if he is.”

“Moreso, now we know he’s a friend to the Gifted," observed Wirr. "Even if he’s not a spy, this is a significant risk he’s taking. He must owe Taeris for something big, to not have turned us away.”

“Maybe that’s what they’re talking about,” said Davian.

Wirr cast a longing look towards the door, and for a second Davian thought he meant to follow the two men. Then he sighed. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously nothing they want us to overhear.”

After that, there was only the occasional wisp of conversation as they waited; mostly Davian and Wirr talked, though occasionally Caeden would contribute a word or two as well. The young man rarely spoke more than that at one time - he’d sometimes ask about things he’d either forgotten or never known about, but mostly he just listened, apparently fascinated by what others were saying.

For all that, when Caeden did talk he had a friendly, if shy manner, and was unfailingly polite. Not for the first time, Davian found himself convinced that - if nothing else - the Gil’shar’s charges against him had to be false.

A half-hour had passed by the time Taeris returned.

“Nihim is taking the message to the Great Stadium,” the scarred man said in answer to the boys’ questioning looks. “If he is successful, we should be escorted there within a couple of hours.”

Davian nodded, allowing himself a glimmer of hope at the news. He flashed a tight smile at Wirr, but his friend was staring concernedly into space and didn’t respond, looking more upset than relieved at the news.

“Everything all right?” asked Davian, giving his friend a gentle nudge with his elbow.

Wirr blinked, then shook his head as if to clear it. “As right as it can be, given the circumstances,” he said with a shrug. He still looked uncomfortable, though.

“Wishing you hadn’t come with me?” asked Davian.

“Fates, yes,” said Wirr with a grin. “But you wouldn’t have made it a day without me, so maybe it was worth it.”

Davian gave a half-smile, half-grimace back; the words were said in jest, but a pang of guilt stabbed at him anyway. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” he said softly, so only his friend could hear.

Wirr shook his head. “You’ve been apologising all week, Dav. You don’t need to any more,” he said, his tone firm. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. And anyway – if what Taeris tells us is even close to true, some good may yet come of all this. If we can get Caeden to the Tol, find out whether there really is something dangerous going on with the Boundary, it will all have been worth it.”

Davian paused, then inclined his head. “Thanks.”

He leaned back, looking around. Caeden was sitting quietly; his eyes were closed but Davian suspected he was still awake. Taeris had sat himself down at a desk and was thumbing through some papers he’d discovered.

“How do you know Nihim?” Davian asked Taeris. “He didn’t seem too concerned about having four of the Gifted in his temple.”

Taeris paused from what he was doing. “He’s an old friend. Someone we can trust.” He gave Davian a hard look. “More than that, is not my place to say.” There was an air of finality to the statement, a tone that brooked no argument. Davian accepted it with a reluctant nod.

Some time later, the door opened and Nihim stepped through, trailed by two uneasy-looking Desrielite soldiers. For a panicked moment Davian thought they had been betrayed, but Taeris rose smoothly from his seat, calm as he gestured for them all to do the same. Trying to look composed, Davian stood.

“Children of Marut Jha,” said Nihim grandly. “These soldiers have been ordered to take you directly to the Great Stadium for your audience with Princess Karaliene Andras.” He paused, and though his expression was serious, Davian thought he saw laughter in the priest’s eyes. “If they do not carry out this duty swiftly and faithfully, you will let me know.”

Taeris bowed. “For the glory of the Last God.”

“For His glory alone,” responded Nihim.

They followed the soldiers from the temple, with no further goodbyes uttered to or from Nihim. Soon they were back within sight of the Great Stadium, the massive walls towering above them. The crowds outside had thinned somewhat; the gates had been shut, and Davian thought he could see more than one disappointed face amongst the crowd. The stadium must be at capacity.

For a moment he wondered if they would be allowed entry, but as soon as the soldiers at the entrance saw them, they were opening the steel gates a crack and ushering them through.

The stone passageway in the underbelly of the stadium was pleasantly cool compared to outside. Davian barely had time to marvel at the intricate stone friezes set into the walls before they were ascending a set of winding stairs; at the top, a pair of burly guards waved them through into another long passageway, with a narrow window cut out of the side overlooking the arena itself.

Davian couldn’t help but gape a little as they walked along. Thousands upon thousands of people were packed into the stands; it was a writhing sea of colour like he had never seen before, could not have imagined. There was the low rumble of countless excited voices in the air, and the atmosphere itself seemed alive, buzzing with anticipation.

Finally their escorts reached another set of guarded doors, these ones closed. There was a quick discussion between the two pairs of soldiers, and then they were being guided into a side room, isolated from the crowd and completely empty. A small window gave them a view of the arena, but only when standing right up to it.

“You will wait here until after the final bout,” said one of the soldiers. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. He evidently didn’t want this delay getting back to Nihim.

Taeris frowned, looking displeased, but he obviously decided it was not worth risking closer examination by forcing the issue. “Very well.” There was a pause, and then Taeris added, “You may leave us.”

The soldiers, clearly relieved there had been no reprisals for the delay, fled gladly.

Wirr glanced at the window. “While we’re here….”

Davian was already moving. “Agreed.”

Taeris and Caeden soon joined them, and the four stood in a line along the elongated, paneless window, leaning forward against the ledge it provided. In the centre of the arena were two men. One stood relaxed, almost casual as he sauntered around in small circles, swinging his blade through the air to test its weight and balance. He was slim, lithe, and looked much the same age as Davian.

His opposition was a giant of a man. Muscle rippled along his arms with every movement, and the sword in his hand looked more like a rapier than the broadsword it actually was. His face was crisscrossed with scars; it was difficult to tell, but he looked older, possibly in his early forties. He stood stock-still, staring at the other man as if watching his prey.

“They’re not wearing armour,” Davian noted in surprise. Both men wore simple pants and loose-fitting shirts which were open at the front; there was no protection to speak of. Their swords glinted in the afternoon light.

“The edges of the swords are blunted,” explained Wirr.

“Surely that’s still dangerous?” asked Davian.

“It is a swordfight,” noted Wirr.

“It’s very rare anyone gets killed,” interjected Taeris. “Broken bones are usually the worst of it.”

There was silence as they watched for a few more seconds. The crowd outside had hushed as something was being announced, though the voice was too muffled from their position to understand.

Wirr squinted at two large banners draped from a far balcony, evidently representing the two finalists. “I think one is an Andarran. I recognise the sigil… Shainwiere. I think.”

“Which one?” asked Davian.

Wirr studied the two men in the arena. “The younger,” he said eventually. “Lord Shainwiere would be too old to be here, and I doubt he’d have the skill anyway. It must be his son.”

A trumpet sounded, signalling the beginning of the fight. The crowd roared as the combatants began circling each other warily, feinting occasionally with their feet but otherwise simply sizing up their opponent.

“Our man’s a bit smaller than the other one, then,” observed Davian dryly.

Wirr shrugged. “Strength is important, but it’s usually the quicker, smarter man that wins.”

The two men were still circling, but suddenly Shainwiere flew into action. He launched himself forward in a blur of movement; his sword flashed again and again as the other man blocked blow after blow, moving quickly backwards as the younger man threatened to come in under his guard. When the swords touched there were sparks of light; Davian could almost see the large man’s eyes go wide as he desperately tried to follow the arc of Shainwiere’s blade. Some of the crowd leapt to their feet, and a rousing cheer echoed thunderously around the stadium.

Shainwiere had broken off the attack; Davian could tell even from this distance that both men were breathing heavily. The larger man did not wait long before responding, though. He came forward in a rush, swinging his enormous sword as if it were light as a feather.

It was Shainwiere’s turn to move backward, though when he retreated he did so smoothly, cat-like, as if it had been his intention to do so all along. Despite the blaze of sparks, he seemed to be blocking his opponent’s blows almost lazily at times, though Davian had no doubt that it must have been taking every ounce of his strength and concentration to do so.

Without warning Shainwiere stopped retreating and dove forward, evidently picking up on some flaw in the other man’s footwork. Even from this distance Davian could see the surprise in the big man’s eyes as Shainwiere’s sword slashed across both his legs; Shainwiere rolled and came to his feet behind the massive man, watching as he slumped to his knees, mouth open in a bellow of pain that was lost beneath the roar of the crowd.

For a second Davian thought the fight was over, but the big man forced himself to his feet and began circling again, his smooth motion showing no sign of his injury.

Swords clashed again and again; minutes passed as the two combatants fought. With each engagement the crowd seemed to roar louder, with more fervour, and before long Davian realised that the cheers were heavily favouring the larger man.

“They don’t want an Andarran to win,” murmured Taeris to no-one in particular, as if reading his thoughts. “The Song’s not supposed to be about politics, but there’s a lot of bad blood between the two countries right now. It would be a slap in the face to Desriel if Shainwiere got the victory here.”

As he spoke, there seemed to be a slight shift in the battle. The muscular man pressed forward at a furious pace; rather than breaking off as he had done previously, he kept up the offensive, his sword a blur as Shainwiere backed away desperately. Just as it seemed he could attack no more, the man gave one last, heavy blow, the force of it knocking Shainwiere’s sword from his grip and sending it sailing out of reach. The younger man’s shoulders sagged, but he clenched his fist and held it over his heart, a sign of both surrender and respect. The crowd screamed its approval, and then it was over.

Davian looked at Wirr with a disappointed expression, but his friend seemed relieved, as did Taeris. Caeden just looked thoughtful.

“Good,” Taeris muttered to himself, turning away from the window. “Time to get out of this place.”

If he had been expecting an immediate audience, though, he was to be disappointed. It was at least another hour, well after the presentation to the winner had been completed, before the door to the hallway outside finally opened again.

Taeris groaned under his breath as a tall, thin man in a red cloak swept into the room. “He’s from Tol Shen. This may be more difficult than I first thought,” he muttered to Davian.

The Elder stopped when he saw Taeris, staring hard into his scarred face for several seconds. Then he gave a sneering laugh. “Taeris Sarr,” he said with a smile that held a complete lack of warmth. “I almost didn’t recognise you. So you’re still alive. I always thought we got rid of you a little too easily.” He examined Taeris disdainfully. "What happened to your face?"

Taeris stiffened, but ignored the insult. "Administration were… not kind, before I escaped," he said quietly. “We’ve had our differences, Dras, but I hope we can look past them today. I need your aid. We have nowhere else to turn.”

Davian watched Taeris silently. None of them had asked their companion how he had come by his myriad scars, but Davian had wondered - and now he knew. Another on the list of sacrifices Taeris had made for him.

Dras sighed. “I’ve already distracted a Gil’shar escort and Karaliene’s two Administrators just to come and see you. I’m not sure what more I want to do for a criminal like yourself.”

Taeris kept his face smooth. “These boys need safe passage out of Desriel.”

Dras stared at Taeris for a moment, then roared with laughter. “Is that all?” he chuckled. He turned from Taeris, shaking his head in disbelief as he inspected Davian, Wirr and Caeden. It was only a cursory glance, but then his smile faded and he looked at them again, this time through narrowed eyes.

“You are keeping worse company than usual, Taeris,” he said, all traces of amusement gone from his tone. He pointed to Caeden. “His disguise may have fooled the savages thus far, but I wouldn’t trust to it doing so for much longer. Those likenesses around the place are surprisingly accurate.”

“He was falsely accused, Dras,” said Taeris. “You know what the Gil’shar are like.”

“Even if I believed you and was inclined to help, did you really think the princess would allow this man to travel with her? Did you think she would vouch for him at the border?” Dras shook his head, not taking his eyes from Caeden, who had shrunk back under the thin man’s gaze. “Even you are smarter than that, Taeris. Why would she take the risk? If the Gil’shar found out, it would likely start a war.”

“Who’s starting a war?” a female voice came from the doorway.

As one, everyone in the room turned. The young woman who had spoken swept into the room, followed closely by several others; from the way everyone moved, Davian had no doubt that this was the princess.

He felt himself gaping a little at her entrance. She was magnificent. Her long flaxen hair was delicately arranged so that not a strand was out of place. Her elegant deep blue dress was simple but stylishly cut, and sparkling jewels glittered on her ears and at her neck. She was pretty, with green eyes and high, delicate cheekbones. But beyond all that, she had an air of authority, an indefinable presence that made him stand up a little straighter. To Davian’s left even Caeden, normally all but unreadable, wore a captivated expression as he looked at her.

Behind her trailed two men and a woman who immediately faded into the background; bodyguards, unless Davian missed his guess. After them came a couple of older attendants, then a younger man and woman, who looked around as if uncertain as to whether they should even be present.

With a start, Davian realised that the young man was the fighter they had seen out in the stadium. He had changed clothes and bore no signs of the bout he had lost, though his demeanour seemed odd. He stood in the corner of the room, and if Davian had not just seen him put up such a brave fight in front of thousands of people, he would have said he looked sulky.

Taeris stepped forward, ignoring Dras and bowing to the woman. “Your Royal Highness,” he said formally. “I hope that no-one will be starting anything. My companions and I are in grave danger, and….” He trailed off, realising the princess was no longer paying attention to him.

Davian turned, following her gaze.

At the back of the room, Wirr was cringing under the princess’ increasingly outraged glare. Taeris and Dras both looked from Karaliene, to Wirr, and then back again in complete confusion.

“You,” Princess Karaliene said imperiously, pointing directly at Wirr. “Walk with me.”

Wirr grimaced, shuffling forward, avoiding everyone’s stares. As Karaliene’s entourage began to follow her from the room, she turned, shaking her head at them. “You will stay here and attend to these men until I return,” she said firmly.

“Princess!” The cry of protest came from Dras. “I must insist that someone accompany you. This boy is travelling in the company of a murderer. Two murderers! There is no telling what danger he might pose!”

“Are you refusing to follow my express command, and thus the command of my father, Representative Lothlar?” snapped Karaliene. It had the exasperated sound of someone who had had this conversation before.

Dras hesitated, then subsided, confusion still plastered on his face. “No. No of course not, Your Highness,” he said, giving her an obsequious bow.

Karaliene responded with a curt nod, then spun on her heel and left, Wirr trailing behind. The door shut, and everyone in the room was left gaping at each other in open astonishment.

Taeris turned to Davian. “That,” he said with a mixture of puzzlement and concern, “ was unexpected.”

Finally recovering his wits, Dras rounded on Taeris, fire in his eyes. “Sarr,” he spat venomously, “ what game are you playing at here?”

Taeris couldn’t keep the bafflement from his features. “For perhaps the first time, Dras, I am as ignorant as you.” He shot a questioning glance at Davian, who shook his head. He was as stunned as everyone else at the turn of events.

Having little other recourse, they settled down to wait for Wirr and the princess to return.

Wirr followed Karaliene, silently cursing his bad luck. He’d known this moment would come eventually, but he’d wanted it to be on his terms, not like this.

They reached another small room, not too far from the one they had just left, but empty. They entered, and Karaliene closed the door behind them with a cold anger that made Wirr even more certain of the trouble he had caused. He braced himself.

Karaliene turned to him, arms crossed, assessing him with those calculating green eyes he remembered from so many years ago.

“Hello, cousin,” she said darkly.