Chapter Thirty-One The Eza
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE EZA
B LOOD DRAINED FROM Lythlet’s face as the spectators exploded into a volley of deafening excitement.
Gone were Shunvi’s ever-elegant silk robes, gone were Ilden’s clumsily clasped cloaks—they stood before her dressed in matching leather boots, black cotton breeches, reinforced jerkins, and white shirts with the sleeves rolled up.
Her eyes met theirs, and they looked back with bitter expressions.
They’re here unwillingly , she realized.
Master Dothilos must have finally made good on his old threat to them.
Harm if they did not pick up their spears again, the destruction of Shunvi’s teahouses by the Eza’s servants, the seizing of any of their loved ones, kidnapping them and holding them hostage in the arena—there were a multitude of ways the match-master could have forced the Poet and Ruffian back into the arena once again.
In the end, Master Dothilos was a shrewd merchant of amusement, and he could not have architected a more thrilling event for the masses.
“Spectators, witness today!” his baritone tore through the arena.
“The greatest match we’ve ever had, a day of legends!
Witness as Ilden Highvind and Shunvi Tanna, the only two winners of all twelve matches in many a year, are pitted against our budding champions.
For what greater beast could one face but their fellow man?
Whether by death or incapacitation, last conquessor standing claims the gold.
Shall the wise and the experienced show why they won the last time, and the Poet and the Ruffian triumph?
Or shall the Rose and the Golden Thorn strike them down and steal the gold for themselves? Witness today! Hoo-rah! ”
Lythlet breathed deeply, thinking. Death was not demanded that day. She could force the two to forfeit, and Desil and her would remain the victors. It could be a game of show, no more.
But would that appease Desil?
“Desil,” she started quietly, staring at his chin, unable to meet his eyes, “this need not be fatal. We must only drive them into forfeiting. Neither Shunvi nor Ilden will fight us to the death, they wouldn’t.
It will be a quick fight—you are stronger than them put together.
We could simply look for ways to disarm them—”
But then she met his eyes, and she silenced.
There was a quiet, anguished, desperate plea in his eyes. He would not go through with this, not again, not ever. Something had cracked in him in the brawling square, and it terrified him to fight another person again.
Lythlet knew she had been speaking a fool’s hope. Even though they did not have to kill the Poet and the Ruffian, it would be na?ve to think this could be a bloodless match.
The ever-bloodthirsty spectators would demand more than that.
The ever-machinating Master Dothilos would demand more than that.
This was a match Master Dothilos had orchestrated to be as devastating as possible for at least one of them. He knew Desil had left his brawling days behind to commit himself to the way of Tazkar, vowing to never raise a hand against another man again.
“Lythlet.” Desil’s apology was unspoken, but it scratched through the distance between them, edging closer and closer toward her like a snake.
She knew what he was asking permission for.
Turmoil rose within her like a dawning sun, scorching her insides.
To surrender now of all days would be the end of things, of all the effort she’d poured into the Golden Thorn for the past year.
A bag of gold was waiting for them on a pedestal just a distance away, and within it was more than coins: she’d somehow tucked into that lumpy white reticule all her dreams, her hopes, and her future.
“Do as you will,” she said as calmly as she could, fighting the urge to cry. She could not say much more than that, giving him one last look before turning away.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
The horn was blown, igniting even more shrieks from the spectators.
“Begin, conquessors!” Master Dothilos commanded.
At once, Shunvi sprang for her, jeweled spear twirling by his side.
She recognized his sleight of hand—he had taught it to her, so she knew how to parry it.
Her own spear met his with a resounding clang, and his strike glanced off easily.
He came again from another angle, and she knocked his blade away with the haft of her spear.
He’s not putting any weight behind his strikes , she realized. Shunvi was entirely ready to throw the fight for them, to stage a bloody fight that would end in victory for her.
Off to her side, Ilden was circling Desil, whose blade remained pointed to the ground.
“Raise your sword, Demothi,” he hissed, spear tip out.
Please change your mind , she begged Desil in that split second. They’re going to let us win—they’ll forgive anything we do to them. We could bruise them and make them bleed, and they’d understand .
But she had already given Desil her permission. She watched grimly as Desil snatched the small white shard around his neck, breaking the string. He flung the baltascar pendant onto the ground and slammed the heel of his boot against it.
“Forfeit!” he roared into the deafening stands. Green smoke poured from the broken glass, and there he stood, wreathed in it.
At last, a wind of silence swept through the spectators, knocked back from their cheers.
Shunvi froze, his attack staggered midair. Ilden simply stared in horror.
All eyes fell upon Lythlet, waiting for her response.
Avarice pressed heavily on her chest. She could force Desil’s hand—she could withhold her forfeit as she had done in the goblin-shark match and force him into fighting alongside her.
Desil remained turned away, his eyes drawn to the stunned crowd. A few stray boos were unleashed, but rapidly hushed up by others, wanting to hear her response.
They hate him , she realized. As much as they had loved him, their affection had just as quickly unraveled.
They hated him for his forfeit in the river match but had forgiven him since.
They would not forgive him a second time.
They would despise her, too, if she threw in her lot with him, if she denied them the fight they’d come for.
Even bearish spectators would hate them—they would be forfeiting before the ten-minute mark.
Her eyes swept through the spectators, coming to rest on the match-master, waiting by his pedestal with a calm smile. His arm, slender as a birch, arced elegantly into the air, and snap! he called his crossbowmen to hold Desil in contempt.
Master Dothilos had to have known Desil would never fight this match. He would have known bringing out Shunvi and Ilden would eke only another forfeit out of him. And for what reason?
To make me choose between Desil and the jackpot .
To test me and my conviction to win, the momentum of my greed—to see what lines I am willing to cross.
He sees Desil as beneath me in the hierarchy of potential, so he wants me to show that I’m ready to force him to betray his vow to Tazkar and recant his forfeit for all that gold.
It would be a quiet decision to make. A small one. She could press on, and the threat of the crossbowmen would have Desil pick up his sword once more. Perhaps Desil would forgive her one day. He knew deeply how much she needed this, how much this final victory would weigh in her soul.
But the scorching burn of that dream-star nestled deep within her paled into a winter’s mist as she looked once more at Desil. He kept his gaze to the ground, wavering in shame under the burden of the spectators’ judgment.
I won’t do this to him, not again.
She snatched at her baltascar pendant and flung it on the ground.
The sole of her boot rose and fell, crushing it into shards, and she held her breath as crimson smoke poured out all around her. The fumes funneled up into the air, following the trail its green brethren had left behind.
Smoke swallowed the sky above her in a menacing streak of red: blood that would be unspilled that morning.
She mouthed forfeit , feeling faint. The word left her without sound, shattering her and all her hopes even in its silence. Then she stood straight, tightened her hand on her spear, and looked up at Master Dothilos.
“Forfeit,” she shouted, voice echoing throughout the area. Her future slipped as a rug beneath her feet. Desil wrapped his fingers around her wrist, and she found fortitude in that.
“Forfeit,” she cried again, louder, braver.
At their joint agreement, the crossbowmen lowered their weapons—no unconsecrated vows of fellowship were being violated, no contempt could they hold Desil in.
All at once, the breathless audience erupted into a frenzy, flying out of their seats. Vulgarities spilled from their throats, their fury at their bids going to waste turning incendiary.
But all Lythlet allowed herself to hear was Desil whispering, “Thank you.”
Lythlet nodded briskly, not meeting his eyes. She did not want him to see her on the verge of tears. She kept herself as still as stone as the audience jeered at them. Master Dothilos looked flustered, calling one of his attendants over.
He never expected me to forfeit, she realized with surprise. He was certain I’d force Desil into fighting with me .
None of the spectators had expected her to forfeit either, enraged all the more at her having the gall to do so.
Something hard smashed against her cheek, tearing her skin. She yelped, stumbling backward in shock. A silver pendant watch landed in the sand, its clasp stained with her fresh blood.
She stared back at the crowd, wondering which spectator had flung it at her. It was too wild to make out the culprit, the dense forest of infuriated patrons growing thicker by the second.
Desil wrapped his arms around her protectively. “Let’s go,” he whispered into her ear, “before things get worse.”
They stepped backward, but a voice made them still at once.