As he unfastened the King’s Trust and set it on the field table before him, Aliver explained to a messenger that he was accepting the challenge. They would fight with daggers. No other weapons. No armor. It would be only the two of them, and whatever happened Maeander and/or his men would be allowed to safely depart when it was over. Such were the specifics Aliver swore to.
Outside again a few minutes later, the sun seemed to have bleached the world. It was too bright. Dariel stood squinting as he watched the space for the contest marked out. It would be a small oval, hemmed in by a wall of bodies, all of them unarmed, sworn not to aid or hinder the two. He stood watching as Aliver and Maeander walked the space, stripped down to the few articles they would fight in. They received instructions and had their weapons examined, washed clean of poisons, checked for secret devices.
Mena came up behind Dariel, grasped him by the shoulder, and whispered. “Didn’t Aliver slay the antok? Hasn’t he communed with the Santoth? Before that he hunted a laryx. Perhaps sorcery has been at work in his life all along. Have faith in him, Dariel.”
And then it was time. Aliver stood before the other man shirtless, wearing just the knee-length skirt of a Talayan runner, his knife like a sliver of ice in his hand. Maeander wore a thalba so thin the contours of his muscular chest and abdomen showed through. His knife was shorter than Aliver’s, with a slight curve to the tip, a dark tint to the blade. Aliver said something. Maeander looked puzzled a moment and then seemed to understand and respond.
Dariel did not hear the exchange. He watched what followed from a strange, muted place, not aware of his body at all, hearing nothing and taking in only what the harsh glare of the sun highlighted. He watched the two men circle each other. They measured each other’s strengths and weaknesses with cursory thrusts and parries. He saw Maeander’s thin lips smiling and joking, keeping up a steady stream of commentary that Dariel could not hear a word of. He watched Maeander dive into an attack, so fast he was like a hooded snake. Aliver flew up from the strike, a leap that took him over Maeander’s head, slashing as he did. Maeander, still snakelike, leaned backward. He flattened himself to the ground, his shoulders touching the dirt even as his legs moved him under Aliver and away.
At any other time that series of moves would have dumbfounded Dariel, but the two did not so much as pause to acknowledge what had passed between. They circled more, jabbed more. Their knives clashed. As they pulled apart, Aliver cut the skin of one of Maeander’s knuckles. The tempo increased. The two men became blurs of motion, slipping around each other, attacking and retreating, spinning so quickly it was hard to keep track of who was who. Somebody drew blood from the other’s shoulder. One of them fell and had to scramble sideways on all fours. Dariel thought it was Aliver, but the next moment Aliver was in the air above the cloud of dust, spinning around like a deadly acrobat, his blade at the tip of his orbit, slicing the air.
Watching him, Dariel felt the first inklings of hope. Aliver was blessed. How else could he dance ahead of every assault Maeander made, faster than him, more perfect in execution, deadly artistry in motion, pressing his own attacks with flourishes that made Dariel imagine the Form that this would one day become. Yes, that’s what this was! He was watching a Form being created… Mena was right; sorcery had to be at work here. And Aliver was right; he would win this in his father’s name. He would conclude the duel begun years before.
And then Dariel saw it happen. For a few seconds all his mind registered were the physical details, the scene itself in vivid colors, one second passing into the next without understanding the significance of what he saw. Aliver, having ducked beneath Maeander’s punching dagger thrust, pulled on his chest and shoulder muscles to create the slicing arc that would tear through Maeander’s abdomen, just as he had disemboweled the antok. This, at least, was what should have happened. What did happen was different.
Maeander jumped, a quick concussion of power shot from his thighs, through his balled calf muscles, and down to his toes. He floated up into the air. Aliver straightened as his blade skimmed across Maeander’s abdomen, so close Dariel believed the point split the fabric of his thalba. Aliver lifted as the other man did, wanting this motion to end the contest, wanting it so badly that he focused his everything on carving into flesh. What he forgot was the knife still in his opponent’s outstretched hand, behind his head as Maeander’s arm came to rest on his shoulder. He was still focused on his attack as Maeander drew the point of the blade into the back of his neck.
The shock of realization showed then, but it was too late. Maeander carved a crescent from the back of Aliver’s neck, around the side of it, through the artery there, and all the way beneath his chin. He caught Aliver’s spinning form almost gently, lowering the bloody mess of him down to the ground. A second later he spun upright and away, Aliver’s knife in his hand, upraised, triumphant, oblivious to the nature of frantic tumult he had just created. It was as if Maeander had orchestrated the entire thing.
Dariel dashed in with the swarm of people rushing toward Aliver. He had to shove and yank others out of the way, yelling, although he could not hear anything, not even himself. He got his arms under his brother, felt the warm wetness of him, the dreadful limpness of his weight. Fearful lest he cause some further injury, he tried to be gentle, to soothe, to reassure. He spoke close to Aliver’s temple. He hated the way his head flopped about. He cursed himself for being so clumsy. He thought perhaps he should lower him down so that he did not make anything worse, but then he realized Mena was across from him, holding Aliver just as he was, her face as white as death, contorted with grief. With grief, not with fear. Not with worry or anxiousness…with grief.
Looking down again, Dariel saw what was right there before him. He understood the enormity of what had just happened. He would never again be able to look at another man’s neck without seeing the injury that had killed Aliver Akaran. It was too much. Too much. Whatever emotion was in him was full beyond his capacity to contain.
He stood. His eyes shot out in the direction Maeander’s group had departed in. It took him a moment, but he spotted them, a small cluster progressing through the throng that cleared the way for them reluctantly. He felt thousands of eyes beating on him. He knew what they were waiting for, and he wanted what they wanted. He felt the emotion they did, and with their gazes fixed on him he became the center of it. An uncontainable rage, a pure abhorrence that poured from his eyes as if a star were exploding inside his head. He wanted to commit a crime of honor. Wanted to right here and now, before thousands of witnesses. He knew he would be ashamed of it eventually and that he would have to reckon, not with the act itself but with knowing ever after that Aliver would not have approved. But there was no stopping it. When he opened his mouth he did the worst possible thing. He asked for a thousand accomplices. Eyes still fixed on the receding backs of the Meins, he bit down on the virtues that his brother would have demanded of him. He whispered, “Kill him.”
When nobody responded, he raised his voice and shouted the command as loudly as he could. This time, they-and he himself-heard his voice clearly.
CHAPTER
Hanish used transport vessels from his personal fleet and others lent to him by Meinish nobles eager to take part in carrying the Tunishnevre the final waterborne leg to Acacia. They made the journey from the Mainland without incident. On arriving, they took over the docks. They swarmed the area, occupying every mooring, driving away the fishermen and merchants, bullying the populace back into the lower town. They would have cleared the place no matter what, but the work was made easier because the port was not as busy as it normally was. League ships, in particular, were conspicuously absent. Hanish noted this and considered having it explained before he proceeded any farther, but the area appeared to be secure. Also, his Punisari were armed to the teeth and ready to repel any treachery. He ordered his ships to begin disgorging their cargo.