Braids laughed. "She's not a talker. She's a fighter. I can't take bets on talk."
"Let me in to see her, or I'll tear down these gates," Kamahl growled.
"You'd die trying," Braids responded. Her black eyes seemed tidal pools, filled with beasts. At a whim, she could call them forth. "You've been allowed this far, Kamahl, but no farther. You're being watched by everyone. Press your luck, and you'll be dead. You can't speak with her."
"Then I will fight her," Kamahl replied. "If she is a fighter, let her fight me. You cannot keep her from me in the pits.". Braids gave a frightening smile. "So clever. I'm glad I didn't have to spell it out for you. We've billed the bout as 'Sibling Rivalry' and scheduled it for the last slot today. Be in the prep pen by midnight, and you'll get to face Phage. You should know that she prefers to fight to the death."
Kamahl turned, heading back up the corridor. "I prefer to fight to the life. Tell Phage I will meet her there."
Kamahl strode through the gates of the prep pen. He entered the sandy arena and looked up at the stands, curving overhead like the inside of an egg. Spectators packed every tier and balcony, and they cheered the return of the barbarian champion. Kamahl was a living legend, a victor who gave a good show. The folk had endured countless lesser matches in anticipation of this grudge match, this blood feud. The ovation pounded him like a downpour. He made his way through the shouts to stand in the center of the pit.
Kamahl carried only his century staff and willow whip as weapons. He wore only his travel armor, with tattered wolf skin from shoulder to waist and light plate from waist to knees. His truest defense would be the place of stillness in his soul. His truest weapon would be questions for his sister: What has happened to you? Who has done this? Will you come away with me?
The crowd noise became a veritable gale.
Jeska's gate had swung open. She emerged-a coagulation of darkness. Black silk covered her from knuckles to toes. A crimson lightning bolt sketched across her belly. On some level, Kamahl knew he ought to recognize that emblem, but he did recognize her-spiked black hair standing above a pallid face.
It was Jeska.
The pit shook with the screams of the crowd. Through the deafening roar, Jeska walked, as poised as a cat.
Kamahl watched her with outward eyes. Inwardly he sought his core of calm. It had saved him from jackals in the desert and had allowed him to heal the mule. It would empower him to save his sister. He breathed from that inward place, and the breath of the perfect forest spread through him.
The start bell tolled.
The woman in black made no move. She neither lifted her hands to cast spells nor crouched in a ready stance.
Kamahl mirrored her quiet posture. He only stood, clutching the century staff. A few derisive hoots twisted down from above, but otherwise all was still.
"It is I, Kamahl. Your brother."
She hurled herself at him, hands lashing.
Without shifting his stance, Kamahl raised the staff. Grasping it in both fists, he sent the verdant power of the forest into the wood. The staff moved with the lissome grace of a dragonfly, there one moment and gone the next. Too fast to see, one end caught and bashed Jeska's first strike. The other whirled inward to strike her in the gut and shove her back.
Jeska took a great bound away. Never before had an opponent been able to avoid her attack, let alone throw her off. She landed lightly on her feet and circled like a leopard.
The two ends of the staff moldered, blackened to rot by the mere touch of her skin. Kamahl eyed the corruption. The staff's aura told him of the corruption that lay deep within her, a well of despair.
While she circled, Kamahl pivoted calmly, keeping her before him. He took another breath of the perfect air. "Jeska. Don't you know me?"
Mention of her name made her snarl. Phage vaulted across the arena, throwing sand in her wake. Where she crossed an old blotch of blood, black footprints remained. Phage leaped toward him, hands and feet foremost.
Kamahl swung the staff. It seemed as light as a reed, as quick as light. It struck her side and thrust her away.
Jeska came down in a roll. She crossed half the arena before jumping to her feet.
Jeers resonated through the pit. This wasn't blood sport. Only one combatant sought to kill. This was a boy setting his hand on his little sister's forehead while she swung at him.
Even Braids was angry, howling on the sidelines. Dark figures streamed from the dementia summoner's eyes. They crossed the sands and sank into her champion.
Kamahl ignored all the noise. While he fought his sister in this hell, his feet were grounded in paradise. "I don't want to harm you," he said soothingly. "I came to bring you back. Come with me, Sister."
She charged him. Black enchantments trailed her as she went. Her legs were fast on the sand, snapping like the blades of shears.
Kamahl drew upon the inner quiet and planted the butt of his staff.
Jeska bounded toward him.
He flung his feet into the air. Instead of hitting him, she hit the staff. Any other polearm would have snapped under the impact and rotted away a moment later, but the power of the wilderness filled the century stalk. It hurled Jeska back on her hands and haunches.
Kamahl came down beside her, staff yet in hand and robes unruffled. He extended a hand to his sister.
She panted on the ground nearby. No longer was she circling, no longer prowling. Her dark eyes fixed on him. Perhaps she would listen at last
"What happened to you? Why do you fight this way? Who did this to you?"
Each question seemed a blow to her belly, but her eyes never left her brother's. She rose slowly. Sand fell from the silks. She absently brushed the red thunderbolt on her stomach. Her muscles were calm, her pallid face impassive.
"Just answer me," he said.
Jeska took a step toward him, well within his guard.
It didn't matter. The forest had given him sufficient strength and speed to deflect any blow.
Very deliberately, Jeska took her forefinger and sketched it across the lightning bolt on her midriff. Raising her hand, she extended it toward Kamahl's stomach. With the gentlest touch, she drew her fingertip in a jag across his flesh.
A slim black line followed her touch. It clove through his skin and spread out foul tendrils. The wound opened and oozed. It ate inward with indescribable pain.
Jeska stepped back, her face still dispassionate.
Kamahl could not stand. He doubled over around the gangrenous wound. It would have killed any other man. Kamahl survived only by marshaling the woodland power within him. Still, he could only stop the advance of the corruption. He could not heal the wound.
As he fell to his knees, Kamahl understood. The jagged red line on her suit represented the unhealing wound on her belly. He had cut her there, and now she had cut him. She had answered all his questions: What happened to you? Why do you fight this way? Who did this to you?
You! You! You!
He had done this to her. He had driven her to this.
Her shadow lengthened across the sand. She approached to finish him off.
Kamahl was never sure whether it was mercy or torment that the death bell tolled for him. The match was done.
The crowd responded with cheers and jeers in equal measure, disappointed with the bland show.
Kamahl could not even look up at her. She was right. He had done this to her. He lay on his face as her shadow retreated across the bloody sand.
"I will return for you, Jeska," he vowed quietly. "I will return to save you."
CHAPTER FIVE: HER TOUCH
Phage sat in her cell, her home.
The violence of the day was gone. Only this sweet stillness remained. Her muscles ached from the bout with Kamahl, but her skin remained ever ready to corrupt. She was at her most virulent now, bare but for the black silk robe given her by the Cabal patriarch.