Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [127]
Bulot swung, lunging hard. Caelan stumbled back, momentarily forgetting his training. He defended himself clumsily, and felt a razor-sharp sting of pain slash his arm.
Looking down, he saw a cut already dripping blood. It wasn’t deep, but it hurt. The sight of his own blood soaking into the sand was mesmerizing.
But Bulot was already charging again. Regaining his concentration, Caelan forced himself to spring aside. Again, he was driven back under Bulot’s expert charge, getting no chance to set himself or find his rhythm. Bulot’s eyes were flat with menace and deadly purpose. Yet as he met their gaze, Caelan felt a shiver pass through him.
Although he was not actually touching the man, Caelan experienced a jolt of sevaisin. The joining was quick, momentary, and yet suddenly Caelan understood what Bulot was thinking, the pattern of his strategy, and his whole plan of attack.
Caelan shifted aside a split second before Bulot struck. Surprise flashed across Bulot’s face. Again, Caelan anticipated him, but this time Caelan did so with a feint of his own, and only Bulot’s own quickness saved him from being spitted on the end of Caelan’s sword.
The blade began to hum as though the metal was warming, coming alive. At first Caelan thought he was imagining things. It was a trick of acoustics, something in the roar of the crowd, but this time when he raised his sword in a quick parry and the two blades crashed together, Caelan’s sword sang shrilly.
The sound was for his ears alone, and it vibrated through the length of him. He was deep in sevaisin, joined with the weapon in a way he had never experienced before. Not only did he know what Bulot intended, but now his sword was telling him secrets of its previous victories in the hands of others. How to pause, how to move, how to parry and thrust, the correct angle of the swing—back and forth—in deadly rhythm.
Now he understood the footwork and the arm action, how the two worked in deadly concert. For the first time it all made sense. He had found the language of fighting, and nothing Bulot tried fooled him. Caelan’s own body, his muscles and heart and blood all sang with the sword, harmonizing effortlessly.
Bulot began to tire. His attacks grew more desperate, his risks bigger. Again he barely managed to fling himself back from Caelan’s sword, but this lime he stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet.
Caelan sprang, seeing the opportunity, and sank his sword deep into Bulot’s side. The impact shocked him; then death agony washed over him in a tide that sent him staggering back. He left the sword in Bulot’s side, his own hand tingling with a fire he could not flex out.
In his madness, he had forgotten to sever the joining. Bulot’s death seemed to extinguish him as well. The sky went dark. His vision left him. He could hear nothing. There was only a brutal pain in his heart, as though the organ had stopped.
Then somehow he found a breath, then another. His heart started thudding again, and his sight returned. A second later he heard the crowd screaming and chanting, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”
The door to his ring was open, and a guard was gesturing furiously. Caelan stared at him stupidly a long while before he finally understood.
Slowly he returned to Bulot and drew out the sword. Blood gushed with it, leaving a dark stain in the sand. Bulot’s eyes stared sightlessly at the heavens. Feeling sick, Caelan raised his bloody sword high in the victor’s salute.
Across the arena, he saw the emperor’s box this time. Unmistakable, with its flying banners of the imperial two- headed eagle, the box was filled with people in expensive dress. Servants moved about constantly, bringing fresh drinks on trays while others held up sunshades against the relentless light. Still others fanned and kept flies shooed away. Caelan squinted, but he could not make out the emperor’s features. The man leaned over and said something behind his hand to his companion, a younger, dark-haired man in blue.
The prince was holding a tube to his eye and staring in Caelan’s direction.