Forging Divinity (23 page)

Nearby, Lydia could see several other private boxes. The Queen Regent herself was absent, but her son, the Crown Prince Byron, stood in his own private box, flanked by a half-dozen armed members of the Queensguard. At sixteen, he was easily old enough to rule as king now, but his face still glowed with the exuberance of youth. His flowing purple cloak, trimmed with silver, only added to that image, enshrouding the majority of his slender form like a blanket.

What game are you playing here, young prince?

She had only met the prince twice, and on each occasion, he had asked her intelligent – if uneducated – questions.
“Why is it that some people are born with magic, and others are not?”
he had inquired in one instance, but Sethridge had cut her off before she had a chance to reply. Sethridge’s response – that it was the “same reason some people were born as princes” – had been hardly adequate, but she had not been of sufficient ranking to argue with him at the time.

Byron’s position in the kingdom was an awkward one, and Lydia felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Orlyn was steadily developing into a theocracy, and his own mother was revered as a goddess – but he was not considered a god. Lydia suspected that was why he had not yet been crowned as king – it would represent a shift in power that would be disadvantageous to the local gods.

The mysterious figures that had been discovered near the prince’s room in the palace just prior to his scheduled coronation could have easily been hired by Edon or even the queen regent. An assassination attempt was an excellent excuse for delaying the prince’s ascension, and the fact that Myros had been the one to catch the “assassins” made it even more likely that the local gods had arranged the situation for political reasons.

Other nearby boxes were occupied by the high nobility, another group that saw their power waning in the face of the rising power of the Edonate religion. Lydia noted many of their eyes were on Edon, rather than the arena below.

“So, what’d he pick?” Veruden asked.

“Greatsword,” Lydia replied, a twinge of distaste in her voice.

Veruden chuckled. “Seems like his type. Wonder how long he’ll last down there.”

“I wouldn’t count him out just yet,” Lydia said, surprising herself.

“Really?” Veruden quirked a brow. “I thought we were setting him up to fail.”

“Sometimes it’s not possible to set up the circumstances of a fight to guarantee one outcome or another,” Lydia pointed out.

Veruden nodded. “I hear that. Still, I wouldn’t give him very good odds. Oh, look, here he comes.”

Taelien strode out into the arena to the sound of ten thousand cheers, his huge, unadorned greatsword leaning against his right shoulder. He still wore simple, unadorned brown clothing without a hint of armor.

He was limping, but just a bit. It might not have been noticeable if Lydia didn’t know what to look for. She winced at the sight.

Veruden clapped along with the crowd, laughing at the same time, but Lydia felt her heart tighten in her chest.
Don’t get dead, Taelien.

He seemed to hear her thoughts, looking up from the arena floor in her general direction. She doubted he could see her from the floor below, but he waved – both to her, and to the rest of the crowd, which only caused another surge of cheers.

Lydia adjusted her pouch, slipping it onto her lap, ready to remove the second of the mirrors that Jonan had given her if necessary. She didn’t want to use it if she could avoid it – Veruden would undoubtedly notice she was practicing some sort of sorcery, and she wasn’t sure she could explain this one away.

She had discussed a number of different contingency plans with Jonan, but she hoped that they wouldn’t have to attempt any of them. Every plan had its own risks. The most likely involved Jonan attempting to make Taelien invisible so that he could escape, but Lydia suspected that Edon would have ways of countering invisibility. If he was actually Donovan Tailor, he had been practicing knowledge sorcery before Lydia was born.

The door opened on the other side of the arena, and a figure in heavy plate armor stepped out, carrying a shield and blade, just as she had predicted. The crowd cheered as the knight raised his sword to Edon in salute, and the crowd continued to cheer as another figure followed the first into the arena.

Another armored figure, this one in chain mail, carrying a shield and a mace.

And a third, with armored in plate, and carrying a shield and a hand axe.

And a fourth, helmless, carrying a pair of short steel swords, already drawn. He was young, but his unkempt brown hair and untrimmed stubble gave him a rugged look, and the crowd gave another surge of cheers as they recognized him at the same time that Lydia did.

Landen of the Twin Edges, champion duelist. And,
Lydia understood as the three other figures fanned out to surround Taelien,
three other members of the Queensguard.

Gods,
Lydia stood up in her chair.
They’re going to make him fight four-to-one.

The doors to the opposite end of the arena remained open, however, and a fifth figure stepped in to face Taelien directly. With silvery armor etched with golden runes and carrying a spear formed from an unmarred piece of steel metal, there was no mistaking Taelien’s final challenger.

Myros, the god of battle, had entered the ring.

The crowd went silent.

He’s not supposed to be here yet,
Lydia considered,
but there he is. Sytira, forgive me for my arrogance. I should never have let Taelien stay in the city.

“Challenger,” Edon’s voice resounded across the area, sounding as clear to Lydia as if he stood directly at her side.

Sound sorcery
, Lydia processed absently, her mind too focused on the oncoming battle to worry about Edon’s method of projecting his voice.

“You have proven your bravery to answer my call to the arena. You no doubt seek to prove the legitimacy of your gods. We will now test if your might matches your will. You now face several of the greatest warriors of this kingdom. Myros, the god of battle himself, will be the judge of your prowess. If you can survive to the satisfaction of Myros and myself, I will grant you freedom, the rights of an ambassador, and any boon within my power!”

Gods, he’s not even trying to make this look fair. He’s trying to sell the idea that the reward is worth the risk.

The crowd shouted encouragements, and Taelien made a slashing gesture with his hand. The crowd seemed to understand, going quiet after a moment of murmuring.

Taelien turned to Edon to shout a reply. “And if I defeat them all?”

Lydia looked down at Taelien, eyes widening.
Don’t. That’s...suicidal.

The crowd’s reaction to this was a mixture of clapping and laughter, and after a moment, Edon waved and silenced them again.
“If you can defeat all of your opponents,” Edon said, “I will offer you the chance at a place in my own court.”

Taelien gave Edon a formal bow at the waist, and then turned toward Myros. “Well, then. What are we waiting for?”

“The rules are simple,” a voice came from Myros’ armor, strangely distorted, and seeming to echo from the walls of the arena.

More sound sorcery
, Lydia thought.
That could pose a problem – they could make Taelien hear phantom sounds, throwing off his combat reflexes.

“Dominion of Knowledge, illuminate your sources,” Lydia mumbled, scanning the crowd. Veruden glowed brightly to her right, and Taelien and Myros shimmered like stars in daylight. As she scanned the arena, she quickly found Sethridge and Morella glowing in another private box nearby.

And, and as she gazed up to the dais where Edon stood, she realized that he was not glowing at all.

No aura of sorcery?
Lydia pondered.
Is he shielded somehow? That’s going to make it harder to notice if he tries to interfere with the match.
She shook her head, looking back down toward Myros.

“You may begin by engaging whoever you choose. Every two minutes, a new opponent will join the fight. If you can defeat an opponent in less than two minutes, that gives you a chance to rest. If you can survive for ten minutes, you will be deemed successful and given your boon,” Myros concluded, planting the Heartlance in the arena floor.

One opponent immediately, one more every two minutes – that means up to five opponents. Even if he survives fighting the others, he’s going to have to fight Myros. Maybe if he keeps his distance, he can shave down the amount of time Myros can engage him before the match ends. Assuming they even let the match end.

And Myros has the Heartlance, Orlyn’s sacred artifact. They say any wound it inflicts will bleed forever, giving strength to the wielder.

Lydia raised a hand to her chest, not in pain, but in a fist. A salute.

Two minutes of battle against a god. You’d better be what I hope you are, Taelien.

“Sounds great!” Taelien shouted back, his powerful voice nearly inaudible due to the sheer size of the arena.

“Begin!” Edon shouted from above.

Taelien charged straight at Myros.

Oh, no.

Taelien’s greatsword sang through the air, the Heartlance lifting to meet it at the last moment. A flurry of rapid slashes sent sparks flying from Taelien’s rusted steel as it impacted again and again against Myros’ weapon, every strike deflected with the smallest modicum of effort possible.

Lydia leaned over the edge of her box, transfixed by the display. Taelien lashed out from a dozen angles, each strike leading fluidly into the next, only to meet the unrelenting wall of steel each time.

Finally, after a few heartbeats of Taelien’s assault, Myros struck back. A simple horizontal swing of the spear slammed into Taelien’s weapon, carrying him backward with enough force to take him off his feet, sending him sailing backward twenty feet in the span of a breath. Myros followed instantly, dashing across the arena floor in a blur, spear poised for a killing strike as Taelien landed and began to slide across the stone.

The moment Taelien landed, he was swinging again, deflecting the Heartlance and stepping in closer, his blade touching the air where Myros’ helm had been an instant before.

The Heartlance’s bottom flew upward, forcing Taelien to side-step to avoid being smashed, and he brought his blade diagonally across toward Myros’ gauntleted hand. The god of battle stepped back, avoiding the strike, and then planted the spear back into the stone, pausing.

“Unexpected,” the voice said, a whisper that carried across the whole of the arena.

Taelien’s reply was too quiet to hear, but it was followed by a flash of his blade toward Myros’ right arm.

Myros stepped back, withdrawing the spear, and raised the weapon in something that looked like it might have been a salute.

“Second warrior, engage,” Edon shouted.

That couldn’t have been two minutes, Lydia considered, watching as the man with the sword and shield circled around behind Taelien to attack.

Taelien, seemingly oblivious, pressed his attack at Myros. A splinter of iron broke free from his blade as it struck the tip of the Heartlance, and Taelien stepped back, barely dodging a thrust aimed at his chest.

As the second warrior approached, Taelien spun and smashed his greatsword directly into the man’s shield, causing an ear-ringing vibration and taking a visible chunk out of the wood. Grinning, Taelien danced backward, the Heartlance’s point catching him across the right shoulder as he retreated.

Taelien stumbled back a few more steps, his left hand reaching across to press against the wound.

Lydia winced.
It’s all over. A wound from the Heartlance will continue to bleed, no matter how much pressure he puts on it.

With a shout, Taelien’s hand glowed red, and even from a distance, Lydia could see a hint of smoke rise from Taelien’s arm.

And then he was back on the attack.

Flame sorcery,
Lydia realized.
He just burned his own wound shut. By the gods, how is he standing?

Taelien’s sudden resurgence caught the Queensguard defenseless, and Taelien smashed the steel sword right out of the man’s hands. A moment later, Taelien was in close, slamming a fist into the man’s face, and past him, shoving the plate-armored warrior to the floor.

The Queensguard went down, and Myros gave a nod, spinning the Heartlance and diving forward for another attack.

This time, Taelien winced visibly as the Heartlance connected with his blade, but he gave no ground. Myros grabbed the spear in both hands and forced it directly against Taelien’s iron blade, pushing him downward toward the ground.

“Third warrior enters,” Edon proclaimed.

And, in the moment of distraction, Taelien swept Myros’ leg.

The warrior-god toppled to the ground, rune-etched plate flashing, and swung the Heartlance directly at Taelien’s feet. Taelien jumped over the strike, then turned and raced toward the newly-incoming warrior, laying a horizontal slash into the Queensguard’s shield.

Lydia glanced at Veruden, noticing for the first time that he was at the edge of the booth, leaning over it along with her. He seemed just as transfixed by the fight as she was – which gave her a window to act. Never taking her eyes of the fight, Lydia sat back in her chair, swiftly removing the mirror, quill, and parchment.