Chapter 24 #2
“How could I possibly?” Maeve says flatly. “Fenn, tell him the idea. We’re obviously taking up too much of his precious time.”
Fenn crosses his arms, and eyes Theren for a moment.
“We think you should enter the Tournament next year,” he says.
“I can think of less painful ways to die,” Theren says. “The Tournament is all swordplay. I’m mediocre with a sword at best.”
Maeve says, “You won’t die. We know you’re not good enough to win it as you are now, but we’ll help you get good enough.”
“Leaving aside the obvious question of ‘how the fuck could the two of you help me with that,’ ” Theren says, “why would I care about winning the Tournament? She’s not going to free me. The only way any of us are getting out of Valla is in a pile of ash, like Furik and Lisia.”
Elegy feels a stab of pain right in the middle of her sternum.
“Ah,” Theren says, touching his chest. “Still that raw for you, Fenn?”
Elegy touches her chest, too. That must be what it feels like when he reads people. She isn’t sure what she expected—-maybe more sensing, and less feeling. It’s like he’s sharing a body with Fenn, the same way she’s sharing a body with him now.
“Fuck you,” Fenn snaps, and something in him sparks, and he moves as if to grab Theren by the shirt, only he isn’t wearing one. Fenn seems to remember—-Elegy assumes, anyway—-that he just watched Theren beat a man bloody.
“Go on,” Theren says quietly, and it’s not clear to Elegy whether he’s goading Fenn or inviting Maeve to continue speaking.
“It’s not about freedom,” Maeve says, ignoring them both. “It’s about what else happens when you win the Tournament: you stand in front of Rava Vidar without her febra armor on.”
“And then what?” Theren says. “You want me to kill her with my bare hands?”
“Obviously not. Let us worry about getting you a weapon at the right moment,” Maeve says. “As for our qualifications, we may not be good fighters, but we can still help you train, research opponents, strategize . . . and you can ask Orda to help you with technique.”
“Orda isn’t going to agree to that. His responsibility to us ended after he stopped being our teacher.”
“He’ll agree if you promise him his freedom,” Maeve says. “You already said it—-Rava’s not going to free any of us. That doesn’t mean you don’t still get to ask her for something when you win. So ask for Orda’s freedom, instead.”
Theren looks at Maeve like he’s sorting through her. Elegy can feel it, too, how he feels first the weight of her sadness and then, pushing it aside, the hard edge of her determination. It’s like listening for each instrument in a symphony, one by one.
“Even if I somehow succeed, this will kill us all,” Theren says. “You realize that, right? None of us will walk out of that arena alive, if I kill Rava.”
“Don’t really care,” Fenn says. “As long as Rava doesn’t walk out, either.” He raises an eyebrow at Theren. “But if you’re starting to feel cozy here—-”
“Shut up,” Theren says. “I’ll do it.”
The practice sword connects with Theren’s rib cage, and he heaves so hard Elegy thinks he’s going to vomit. He holds up a hand, yielding.
“I’m starting to think,” he says, between breaths, “that the two of you only agreed to this so you could beat the shit out of me.”
He sits on the wood floor, and looks up at Fenn and another man standing over him with practice weapons still in hand. The other man is taller than Fenn, but lankier, his gray--brown hair cropped close to his scalp. His skin is paler than Theren’s, and his eyes are sleepy and thoughtful.
Orda, she assumes. Their former teacher. She wasn’t expecting him to be older.
“You can’t rely on your Fever ability to get you through the Tournament,” Orda says firmly. “What you can do is remarkable, but swords are faster than hand--to--hand, and—-”
“Teacher,” Theren says, “I know.”
“He’s not in charge of us anymore,” Fenn says, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. His hair is long enough now to wear it in a knot. “You can call him by his name.”
“I’m not surprised that one of the things you have failed to absorb about Talusar culture is the importance of addressing people with respect,” Theren says, but he’s smiling a little.
Fenn rolls his eyes, and steps away to drink water from a glass bottle in the corner. It’s a gentler reaction than he would have had in the previous memory, Elegy thinks. Things must have softened between them in the interim.
Orda offers Theren his hand, and helps him to his feet. Before releasing him, Orda says, “Sometimes I think you’ve just forgotten my name and it’s been too long for you to ask.”
“You caught me,” Theren says. “Orga, is it?”
Orda grins, and then his eyes shift to the clock over Theren’s head. “Shit, I have to go. Don’t forget to stretch and for God’s sake, sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“For both of us,” Theren says, and he looks at Fenn. There’s an edge to his expression, something like fear. Orda nods, his mouth a grim line. He puts his sword away, claps Fenn on the shoulder, and leaves the small practice room.
It’s a bare place, with worn wood floors and only febra glass burning copper here and there, powered by the Fever coursing through its inhabitants. The lights dim a little after Orda leaves. Theren puts his own weapon away, and steps backward into the middle of the room, beckoning to Fenn.
“Come on,” he says.
“Fighting me alone isn’t going to do you any good,” Fenn says. “We both know you can beat me.”
“It’s not for me,” Theren says. “Your opponent tomorrow is a tough one. I’ve fought him before, let me help you.”
Fenn sighs, but he puts down his sword and follows Theren. His hands go up automatically to protect his face. Theren’s hands are open, palms facing Fenn.
“All right,” Theren says. “Hit me, if you can.”
He’s smirking. She’s never seen him this way—-confident, almost arrogant, delighted by his own skill.
“Smug bastard,” Fenn says, in English now that Orda is gone and it’s just the two of them. But he steps and punches, hard. Not fast enough, because Theren’s hand closes around his wrist, pushes down, and twists, so Fenn is doubled over beneath him before Elegy even registers the movement.
Fenn spits, “Let go of me.”
“Power is not going to help you,” Theren says, right next to Fenn’s ear. “He’s stronger than you. You have to be fast.”
He releases Fenn and steps back.
“He’s that much worse than any other opponent?” Fenn says.
“No. He’s good, but not better than you are,” Theren replies. “It’s just . . .”
Fenn straightens a little. He has an odd look on his face. “You’re worried about me.”
“I’m always worried about you,” Theren says hotly. “You and Maeve both.”
“But . . . you hate me.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never actually hated you,” Theren says. “Now try to hit me, and be quicker about it.”
He puts up his hands. Fenn puts his up, too, but before he moves again, he says, “I’ve never actually hated you, either.”
Theren smiles. Fenn punches.
“What are we doing here?” Fenn whispers, leaning close to Elegy’s—-no, Theren’s—-ear.
They’re in a crowded room with stone walls that she recognizes as belonging to the Crucible, only this isn’t a fighting arena.
The febra lights in the walls glitter like stars, and provide enough light to see a crowd of people dancing.
In the corner, a group of musicians pluck and drum and sing.
“Maeve needs it,” Theren whispers back, and he nods to her. She’s picking three full glasses off a low table with both hands. She dodges someone’s elbow on her way back to them.
When Maeve gets closer, Elegy can see that she’s bruised and moving stiffly, like she’s injured. A fight must not have gone her way. Or maybe it did, and this is just the aftermath.
“I have no idea what this stuff is, but we’re drinking it,” Maeve says, and she offers the glasses to each of them in turn.
As her fingers brush Theren’s, Elegy can feel the frayed edges of her, as if she’s on the verge of screaming.
“It’s vado,” Theren says. “It’s made of sap and . . . something else, I don’t remember. You’ve had it before.”
He drinks it, and Elegy tastes it, sweet and green as a fresh--broken branch and so strong it burns her throat. Maeve makes a face as she swallows hers, but Fenn sips his, looking contemplative.
“You’re like an encyclopedia of all things Talusar,” Maeve says to Theren. “Do you know their dances, too?”
“No, but I know ours,” he says, and he takes her glass and sets it down on a high table nearby. He offers his hand to Maeve, and they slip into the crowd.
It’s a faster song now, and Theren moves capably through the steps of a dance Elegy only barely recognizes. Maeve stumbles along, laughing, though the expression looks painful, straining the cuts in her face.
“Thanks for this,” she says. “I know you should be resting up for tomorrow.”
“There are all kinds of ways to rest,” Theren replies, but Elegy can feel how heavy he is—-with fatigue, and maybe also with dread.
“Bet you can’t get Fenn to dance.”
Theren grins, and releases her hand. He walks up to Fenn, plucks the half--full glass of vado from his hand, and swallows it himself. Fenn glares at him, but Theren just slides the glass onto a nearby table and grabs Fenn’s hand, tugging him toward Maeve.
“I am not dancing with you,” Fenn says, but he follows anyway.
“Afraid I’ll make you look bad?”
“Afraid I’ll reveal my total lack of rhythm.”
Theren just puts his hand on Fenn’s side and steps closer. Fenn blinks up at him, like he’s startled. Elegy doesn’t need Theren’s gift to tell her what that look means. It’s all over Fenn’s face.
“Relax,” Theren says, laughing.
Fenn, still looking dazed, mirrors Theren’s steps with his own, though he seems stiff and uncoordinated by comparison.
“See? Not a total embarrassment.”
Fenn glares at him. Just as he’s opening his mouth to give a sharp reply, his face goes blank. Distant.
“Fenn.” Theren snaps his fingers in front of Fenn’s face. “Fenn!”