Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [132]
The coldness inside Caelan was painful now, burning and intense. He stepped back, shaking his head, putting as much distance between him and his father as possible. Yet it was as though he had not moved at all. Beva was still just as close as he had been before, but Caelan had the sense of a gate shutting between them.
What did it mean?
Wasn’t the ultimate severance death?
He thought it must be, if he needed a spirit guide across a bridge into another life.
Shivering, Caelan drew back only to bump into a wall of clear ice. Turning, he pressed himself against its cold smoothness, feeling its surface melt slightly beneath the warmth of his breath. He could see through it, a distorted picture of the arena with him circling and fighting the tireless Amarouk, still bleeding but valiant, refusing to surrender or go down. Amarouk had somehow regained his feet, although he was limping and slow. Yet the black man’s arms were like steel.
“Stay with me and learn,” Beva said. “Stay with me and become what you were meant to be.”
Still watching the battle, Caelan realized what Amarouk intended to do. Ignoring Beva’s summons, Caelan hurled himself at the wall of ice, desperate to return to himself. He had to warn himself, had to—
With a snap, Caelan blinked and staggered back, finding himself back in the merciless heat of the arena. The sand was burning his feet. His shoulders screamed with exhaustion, and his arms were trembling. Amarouk sank down on one knee as though finally weakened by his wounds.
The crowd surged up, waving fists and screaming, the noise so loud it was incomprehensible.
Caelan saw Amarouk’s free hand scoop up a fistful of sand and fling it at his face even as Amarouk’s sword arm drew back.
The sand hit Caelan’s face, but he closed his eyes and twisted his body to one side so that the flat of Amarouk’s sword slid harmlessly past his belly. Caelan lifted his own sword with an effort that wrung a grunt from him and brought it down.
Amarouk’s head went spinning across the sand, spraying blood as it tumbled. His headless body continued to kneel there for a second longer; then it toppled over slowly and crashed at Caelan’s feet.
Only then did Caelan realize he had won. Gradually he became conscious of his sweat-burned eyes, the desperate sawing in his lungs, his pounding heart, and the deep burn of fatigue in his muscles.
He staggered back, and somehow managed not to drop his sword.
The crowd was cheering, “Victor! Victor!”
They did not know his name.
Caelan dragged his forearm across his face, then faced the emperor’s box and found enough strength to lift the heavy sword in wavering salute.
Someday, perhaps by tomorrow, the crowd would know his name. He had achieved the first step toward winning his freedom. One victory, despite his doubts, despite his strange talents that he did not fully understand, despite the haunting of his father.
He swallowed, conscious of burning thirst, and let the sword fall from nerveless fingers.
The guards came running out, hustling him out of the ring back into the darkness of the ramp. They did not praise him. Instead they looked shocked, as though they had lost wagers because of his upset.
At the bottom, Orlo was waiting for him with a strange look on his face. He said nothing, however, and turned Caelan away from the tub of water to hustle him on.
“Hurry!” he said. “Step lively.”
Caelan’s legs were weak and trembly now that it was over. He found himself still struggling to believe it had actually happened.
“Don’t let your head swell from this,” Orlo said, stopping him next to a wide ramp that led up into the stands themselves. Guards stood everywhere, arena men mixed with soldiers in crimson uniforms. “Mind your manners and try not to act like the barbarian you are.”
Caelan frowned, feeling bewildered. “I don’t understand. What do you—”
“Your owner wants to give you the victory crown personally,” Orlo said in a mixture of exasperation and pride. “Understand now?”
“Oh.”
“Bow. Don’t look the emperor in the eye. Don’t speak unless you