Shadow War - Deborah Chester [6]
Like a vine scorched by fire, Caelan’s trust and admiration curled up inside him. He swallowed, and found himself adrift in bitter disillusionment. Yes, stupidly he had continued to hope that if he kept serving Tirhin faithfully and well, that if he kept winning championships, one day the prince would free him as a reward. Now he saw he had been a blind fool, a fool filled with dreams and fantasies as insubstantial as the air.
“So,” Caelan now said in a flat, toneless voice. “You believe I cannot defeat this Madrun.”
Apology, or perhaps consternation, appeared in Tirhin’s face. He said, “I have fought them in the border skirmishes. They are relentless. They fear nothing. It’s terrifying to stand on a plain at dawn and have them come swarming out from the mist in a yelling horde.
“Yes, Caelan, you are strong and relentless. As for fear, you don’t know what it is. But champion or not, I cannot afford a gamble of any kind. Too much depends on this victory.”
“Such as?”
“You’ve been told enough,” Tirhin said impatiently. “You wouldn’t understand the intricacies of our political intrigues.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched hard. He drew in two deep breaths, fighting to keep his temper. “The priest said I must win the people’s favor today. Are they not shouting for me now? Am I not already popular? The people know I belong to you. I came here as the favorite. The betting odds are—”
“There must be more. You must do more. I cannot explain it. This coronation business ... the insult to me. It is the final straw in—” Breaking off, Tirhin pointed imperiously at the pouch. “Take it. Take the strength it will give you.”
Caelan stared at him, not moving. Then finally he walked over to the small table and picked up the pouch. It wasn’t necessary to loosen the strings to smell its contents. Revulsion shuddered through him. The very thought of swallowing an infusion made from this choked him.
There was something in it that would give him more than strength. He could feel the taint crawling through the leather into his fingers, searching for him, reaching for him. And a part of him welcomed its horribleness, reached back eagerly, longing to be set free.
Caelan opened his fingers and dropped the pouch onto the table. Little shivers ran through him. He felt wretched, as though he had been vomiting from stomach grippe. Forcing himself under control, he turned to his master.
“There is another way to make sure I fight beyond all I have ever done before,” he said, his voice tight and hollow. “A cleaner way, sir. An honorable way.”
Tirhin flinched at that accusation. His face darkened, but he kept his temper. “Take care,” he said softly.
Caelan knew the danger he courted, but he would not back down now. Too much was at stake. “May I speak?” he asked.
Tirhin’s eyes flashed. “Damn you, yes!”
A flicker of triumph went through Caelan then. Whatever Tirhin was plotting, he needed Caelan, and that gave Caelan the advantage.
“I will fight this Madrun in a way that will bring the people to their feet,” he said in a low, determined voice. “I will fight in a way you have never seen before. I will give you everything that potion would have dragged from me. But it will be by my will.”
Tirhin frowned as though impatient with such narrow distinctions.
“I will defeat the Madrun.”
“You cannot promise that! No matter how good you are, or have been, you cannot give me complete assurance.”
Caelan looked him right in the eye. “I do. I give you my word.”
“You can’t, you fool. The word of a slave? Bah!”
Tirhin swung away, but Caelan blocked his path.
“No,” he said, his gaze meeting Tirhin’s intently, “not the word of a slave. I give you the word of a champion. You will have your victory, but you will pay my price for it.”
Tirhin frowned. “You dare bargain with me? You?” he said, his voice rising. “You are my property. You fight because I command it. You serve because you are mine!”
Caelan’s own temper flared. “If you believe that, then you are a simpleton, sir. Truly I know different.”
Shock spread across