Shadow War - Deborah Chester [8]
And now all that he had done wasn’t enough for his master. If he did not prevail today against the worst opponent he had ever faced, Tirhin would have him killed.
Caelan’s jaw tightened, and he gathered all his determination. He had to succeed. No other option lay before him.
“Now remember,” Orlo said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re in better condition and better trained. You’re fit and well prepared. You know the arena; you’re used to the crowd. Most of all, you’re champion. He is nothing but a foul enemy of the empire. The crowd will be with you every step. And use every dirty trick you know.”
Caelan gave him a long look, but said nothing. He felt distracted and tense, off-balance in some way.
The door opened and a guard looked in. “Didn’t you hear the summons? Produce your man, Orlo. The crowd is ready to tear down the stands.”
“About bloody time,” Orlo retorted. He turned his back to the guard and handed Caelan a sword.
Caelan took the weapon and immediately tucked it out of sight beneath his cloak. Orlo was breaking the law to give him this privilege. Already the weight and heft of the wire-wrapped hilt felt good and right in Caelan’s hand. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the strength of the steel enter him.
His doubts and inner torment faded. He merged as one entity with the weapon, as though it became a natural extension of his hand. Years of fighting lay inside the blade, which had remained as true as the day it was forged.
“Come,” Orlo said.
The guards swung the door completely open, and Caelan strode out.
“You trainers,” one of the guards muttered as Caelan and Orlo passed. “Always stretching things out in hopes of keying up the crowd. We’ll have a riot on our hands if you don’t hurry.”
Orlo snorted but did not reply. This delay had been the emperor’s fault, or perhaps Tirhin’s, no one else’s.
Out in the passageway, chaos reigned as usual. A few weary fighters were being dipped in the water vat to clean off the worst of grime, sweat, and blood. Somewhere in the infirmary, a man was screaming over the rasping sound of a bone saw. Armed guards watched everywhere, alert and tense today because of the emperor’s presence. Boys ran here and there, carrying bundles of clothing, bandages, and oil jars. Trainers stood in small groups, huddled in conferences that paused as Caelan strode by.
He looked neither right nor left, but he was aware of their eyes, narrowed with speculation and assessment as they watched him pass. Orlo flanked him, glowering fiercely in evident pride.
Ahead of them ran the call: “Make way for the champion! Make way!”
A path was cleared. Conversations halted in mid-sentence as people stared. It was considered bad luck to speak to a fighter on his way into the arena, for at this moment Caelan’s life was held in the hands of the gods. But although no one whispered a word, he could feel waves of emotions beating at him. Envy, admiration, hope, frustration, dislike. A tangle of feelings he forced himself to resist.
Severance was one means of keeping himself steady. But experience in the arena had taught him to control himself without that severity of detachment. A man could grow dependent on it. Better to save it until he needed it in combat. Besides, he needed sevaisin, the joining, in order to evaluate his opponent in the first moment of confrontation.
So he had grown progressively calmer, colder, unemotional in public, training himself to remain focused and empty of all save his own assigned tasks. His mental toughness had given him an aura of grim purpose, which spoke its own kind of authority to people. They respected him, whether slave or free, and they moved aside as he passed by, only to surge after him in a mob eager to watch the coming contest.
Up the worn stone steps. Past the shadowy