Outside, wind flung strands of matted hair into Bramin's face as if to mock him. Despair rose to self-pity, then flared to righteous anger. His journey through the familiar streets of his childhood seemed as one through a tunnel. The dirt roads blurred to the dark obscurity of disinterest. Peasants stared or scuttled from his path, unnoticed. A horse cart driver hurled epithets at the dark sorcerer who paced the cobbles at the center of the alley. But at a flick of Bramin's hand, the driver stemmed his tide of oaths and swerved to a roadside ditch. They fear me. For the first time since he had left to kill the giant, Bramin smiled with cruel satisfaction. My life aura has dwindled to nearly nothing, yet those who once scorned me now shy from a gesture. Still, for Halfrija's love, he would weather the gibes of peasants gladly.
The setting sun lanced red light through the guttering remnant of Bramin's aura. Utterly alone in his fury despite the dispersing throng of Forste -Mar's citizenry, he plodded to his mother's home. He opened the simple plank door, stepped across its threshold, and slammed it closed behind him. Despite his effort, the portal slid shut with an impotent click which betrayed his weakness. Rage flared anew.
Despite the death of Bramin's stepfather several months earlier, the cottage had changed little since his childhood. The sod-chinked walls enclosed a simply-furnished room separated from his mother's bedchamber by a patched, blue curtain. Silme sat before a blazing hearth fire, a tomcat nestled in the folds of her robe, while a brother and sister begged stories of distant lands and Dragonrank training. As Bramin entered, his mother rose from a chipped wooden bench, her youngest child cradled to her breast. "Bramin?"
Bramin gave no explanation. He spared neither glance nor words for the mother and half siblings who followed his march to the loft ladder with questioning stares. Anger lent the sorcerer strength. He caught the lowest rungs in callused palms and climbed to his sleeping quarters with a deliberate-ness designed to override fatigue-inspired clumsiness. Once in the loft, he pitched onto a pallet, oblivious to the bells and balls left by the child who occupied this bed since Bramin's departure to pursue the skills of Dragonrank. Tears burned his eyes. Repeatedly, his fist pounded the pillow, scattering straw among the toys.
Behind Bramin, the ladder groaned. Silme's sweet voice wound through the loft. "Brother, are you well?"
Bramin whirled like a cornered beast. Inappropriately, his malice channeled against the half sister who had comforted him in youth, the one woman he knew would not condemn him. "Nothing's changed, Silme! The citizens of Forste -Mar still hate me. Halfrija spurns my love." He struck the pallet again.
"Stop!" Silme's voice grew uncharacteristically harsh. "Before you embed your soul in self-pity and accuse me of lying, tell me what happened in Ashemir's court."
Bramin sucked air through pursed lips, then exhaled in a long sigh. He recounted the scenario in the king's presence, his overwhelming exhaustion, Ashemir's eager determination, and Halfrija's cruelty. As he concluded the tale, he surrendered to the cold grip of hopelessness. His words emerged in a thin whine. "While vestiges of dignity remain, I must leave Forste -Mar and never return. I cannot bear the sight of Halfrija's beauty, knowing her love will never belong to me."
Silme lowered herself to the pallet beside her half brother. She squeezed his knee reassuringly. "Don't talk that way, Bramin. Your loves are intense. Your hatreds fester. In youth, you would damn all children for a single taunt and despise every man of Forste -Mar for a glare. Now, Bramin, would you condemn yourself to exile to avoid a challenge?"
"A challenge!" Bramin shook free from Silme's grip. "Halfrija degraded me by calling upon a privilege rejected for centuries. Even Queen Ag- nete, who wrote the law, never invoked it for herself or her daughters."
Silme's reply came soft as a cat's purr. "But Halfrija knew you could fulfill it."
"What?"
Silme framed a smile of triumph. "Halfrija doesn't hate you. For the last decade you have trained in a distant land eleven months of the year. Yet Halfrija never married in your absence."
Bramin scowled, unconvinced.
Silme rose from the pallet and knelt before
Bramin. She caught his hands. "Here a woman is judged by the worth of her man. She must make certain her husband can protect her from bandits and raiders."
Silme's blue-tinged aura dwarfed Bramin's, so dimmed was it with exhaustion. The jade rank sorcerer grunted. "You know I can."
Silme concurred. "I know. But magic seems more alien to Halfrija than the sharp, dark features and red-hued eyes she has learned to accept. She understands swordplay."
Bramin wavered.
Silme pressed. "Who is the best warrior in this town?"
"Me?"
Silme stood. "We both know none of Ashemir's knights can defeat you. Halfrija knows it, too."
As anger dispersed, fatigue crowded Bramin. Though Silme's explanation seemed implausible, his desire for the princess allowed him to believe. "Then why:?"
Silme interrupted. "Because she's insecure. She needs to justify your appearance by displaying your talents in public. Do you find Halfrija's hand more valuable than the life of a soldier?"
Realization drove Bramin's voice to a whisper. "Far more." He sprawled across the pallet, drained of all emotion except the early, fine stirrings of hope. As Silme crept back to the ladder, sleep overtook him. Yet, despite his half sister's reassurances, the memory of Halfrija's fleeting sneer haunted Bramin's dreams.
Rest restored the vitality drained by Bramin's battle with the giant. As he dressed in a simple tunic and breeks, many thoughts plagued him. As skilled with a sword as with magic, Bramin knew from his one month a year at home that no warrior of Forste -Mar could best him. Unless some strange and highly capable swordsman had joined them in the past year, he could not be defeated.
Bramin fastened his sword belt and drew the blade from its leather hip scabbard. He smiled as the radiance of his restored life aura bounced blue highlights from the steel. He felt strong, mentally and physically. Striding from his mother's cottage, he let the door swing shut behind him and trotted through the streets to the cleared patch of castle grounds. Guards passed cautiously about him, attentive to their duties. With magically enhanced hearing, Bramin invaded their conversations, but the sentries seemed as curious about the princess' champion as he himself.
Bramin executed an elegant series of sword feints. The hilt felt comfortable in his grip, metal wrapped with rough leather which would not slip from his sweat-slicked palm. He stopped, not wishing to tire himself before the match. His love for Princess Halfrija had begun as a childhood crush. He sent flowers and trinkets. Though she acknowledged none of them and regarded him with the same scorn as the other citizens of Forste -Mar, her reluctance only strengthened his passion. During his vacations from the School of Dragonrank, he wooed her. Soon, his love became an all-encompassing desire.
The sun shouldered over the horizon. Citizens drifted toward the southern side of the castle grounds where the arena towered over the quarters of guards and servants. Finely-dressed courtiers strode in regal pairs. Peasants in worn homespun crowded toward the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the combatants. Armored guards tried to maintain some order in the milling chaos with little success.
From habit, Bramin checked his own excitement. As he walked toward the arena, he took his staff in hand. It would help him through the throng, for men rightly shied from its touch. He used it like a walking stick, though none would question his youth or vigor; even those too foolish to fear the power of his magic could not fail to notice the unearthly aura of evil inherited from his father.
The citizens of Forste -Mar shrank from the slim, dark wizard who strode purposefully to the door of the stadium. Despite the demoralizing inevitability of combat, Bramin gleaned some amusement from their awe. Years ago, these same men and women would have spit on him.