He had to be one of the naitani who had fled the temple. Automatically, Kallista looked around for the shaved heads and voluminous white robes of the Samerics. One or two. No more. They seemed cowed by the justiciars’ peace-keeping champions scattered thickly through the crowds. The clerics had no legal power, only persuasion, and it looked as if the justiciars had no intention of allowing them to use it today.
Nur strode to the front of the platform, right up to the wrought-iron railing at the edge, to look out over the champions on the sands below. After a long moment, he looked back at the justiciars. “Magic has been worked this morning—"
“Forfeit!” Chani jumped to her feet. “I claim forfeit. Varyl has broken the rules and lost—” The rest of her rant was smothered by the noise of the crowd.
Nur Truthsayer slashed his staff through the air and the sound subsided abruptly. “The magic clings to more than the Varyl champions. Three of Habadra's have been touched by
the same magic,
” he added before Chani could cry foul again.
He turned his back on Chani, pointing his staff at Kallista. “Varyl Kallista, did you work this magic?"
Kallista stood and bowed deepest respect to the young truthsayer. “Nur im-Nathain, I did."
“
Truth
.” He was good, powerful, to be able to read truth at this distance. “What sort of magic did you work?"
How to describe it? She didn't quite know. “It is—I—"
“You see?” Chani shouted. “She seeks to lie already."
“
Silence
.” Nur slashed his staff at Chani and she fell back a step from the sheer force of his will. He thumped the heel of his staff on the floor beneath him. “You will not speak without permission of this court. You will not disrupt this proceeding. Another word from you when the staff is not yours and I will have Varyl Nathain weave it shut. Do you understand me?"
Kallista could not see the Habadra's expression clearly across the space between them, but she saw Chani bow. Then the Head of Habadra raised her hand asking permission.
“The Varyl does not seek to lie,” the truthsayer said.
Chani raised her hand higher and with a sigh, Nur pointed the staff at her.
“How do we know
you
tell the truth?” Chani's voice carried across the arena. “How do we know you are actually nathain?"
Nur's smile was crooked as he looked out at the spectators. “Ask them.” He waved his hand at the audience. “I have worked among them four weeks now. Am I nathain?"
The crowd burse into a roar of approval, of “Nathain! Nathain! Nathain!"
He had to wave his staff several times to stop the noise. “I am truthsayer. I cannot speak anything but truth.” His crooked smile returned. “And damned inconvenient it can be."
“Then tell me this truth,” Chani said. “Which side do you favor in this trial?"
“The child's,” Nur said without hesitation. “And there is no doubt that Sky im-Varyl—"
“Habadra-ti!” Chani howled, then shut up as Nur jerked the staff to point skyward.
“—Sky
im-Varyl
will have a better life as a son in the household of the Varyl Reinine,
but
—” He gestured with his staff, cutting Chani off before she got started. “
But,
I am
truthsayer
. I am nathain. I will speak the truth without bias or favor to anyone, whether the Head of the richest line in Daryath, the Ruler of half this continent, or a beggar on the street.
I am nathain
."
“Enough.” The speaker for the justiciars cut off any more argument. “We brought in this truthsayer at your request, Habadra. Let us get on with it."
Nur took a deep breath and turned to point his staff at Kallista. “Nathain, what was the magic you worked?"
“Perhaps the best description of it is a blessing.” She'd taken the time spent in argument to work out her answer. “Good will. Benefit bestowed on—wherever it falls. Which is likely why it clings to some of the Habadra champions."
“Truth.” Nur frowned. “Why not to all of them?"
“Blessings can be ignored. Rejected.” Kallista paused. “I can do it again, if you like. For everyone. You can watch me."
“I want none of her poison,” Chani burst out, ignoring the scowl sent her way by the justiciars.
“It is
blessing
. For good sense and wisdom and vision to see true. Magic, straight from the hand of the One."
“Truth.” Nur's voice held more than a touch of wonder. He turned to look a question at the three presiding justiciars.
“I'll take it!” One of the purple-kilted champions stepped forward. “I felt it last time—like the best wine ever made, without the morning after. An angel's kiss. I'll take more."
The white-haired justiciar looked up at Nur and nodded. He looked at Kallista, anticipation in his eyes.
She bowed to him, bowed to the justiciars, and turned to bow to the crowd. Then she called magic, called the great billowing waves of it pouring from her seven godmarked. Torchay's head fell back where he stood on the arena sands, his expression almost rapturous as she called. She struggled to shape it, hauling against the massive weight to shape what she wanted. Good sense, wisdom, true sight.
“I see it.” Nur's whisper barely reached her. “I see her calling the magic. It's beautiful."
Finally, Kallista had it balanced, perfectly formed for the purpose she intended. She bent her knees slightly, the physical action echoing the greater unseen action as she centered herself beneath the mass of magic, and thrust up hard, sending it up and out, moving majestically in all directions at once.
A thousand throats gasped, a thousand bodies stood as the pearlescent mist burst over the arena. A few screamed, but most lifted their faces to watch as it wafted outward, then drifted down over them. Even the champions, those who had rejected it before, turned their faces up to receive this Godstruck magic.
Profound silence fell, punctuated by the occasional soft rustle as someone's knees gave way and they plopped onto their seat. A quiet sigh echoed across the stadium.
Finally, Nur cleared his throat. He pointed his staff at the Habadra champion who'd spoken before. “Was that the same magic you experienced before?"
“More.” His voice scraped over gravel. “Better."
“Look at Chani,” Night whispered from where he stood just behind Kallista. “Does she look well to you?"
She didn't. The Habadra had gone pale, seemed struggling to breathe. Kallista frowned. “Gweric—"
But he hadn't come, had picked up a bad cough from somewhere. Fox was in the arena, and if she spun out any magic to look herself, Nur would see it and wonder what she was doing. Kallista could not look inside the Habadra for demons now.
“If we are satisfied?” At the justiciars’ nod, Nur Truthsayer retreated to the back of the platform where he took a seat on the bench beside Sky.
The justiciar's speaker stood. “Retrieve your weapons, champions. The trial begins."
Kallista stood to peer over the stone parapet of her box at the doors set in the wall below. Obed was already armed and out, the other two on his heels. They trotted together out to center arena, their hair spilling black, red and gold over their shoulders from their unbraided queues, a taunt to their opponents. They could tie their hair back loosely rather than binding it into the champion's difficult-to-grasp clubbed queue because their opponents wouldn't get close enough to grab it.
Obed had never thought to find himself here again, standing on arena sand, waiting for the justiciar's signal to begin. He had been very good at it, but he had regretted the killing. He did not think he would regret it today, if they forced him into it. And today, for the first time in his life, he did not stand here alone.
Justiciar Maathin—he remembered her well, despite the pure white her hair had gone—waved her hand. The lion flag on its pole came sliding down and Obed turned with his iliasti to face their opponents. The purple-clad were charging, obviously intending to overwhelm them with mass and numbers.
Obed stepped aside, away from Torchay, to let the big one rumble between them. Torchay slashed as the man passed while he parried another attack with his left-hand sword. Obed fought off his own opponents, folding back against his iliasti until they stood shoulder to shoulder, back to back to back.
“Status?” Torchay rasped.
“I'm bleeding,” Fox said. “A scratch. Nothing."
“Hm. So am I.” Obed discovered the graze along his upper arm, scarcely deep enough to bleed. “You?"
Seven of the Habadras attacked again. Torchay had caught the big runner across the back of his leg deep enough to take him out of the match. All seven attacking together got in each other's way. One of them tripped, fell but scrambled back quickly enough to escape injury. Obed saw him past the flashing steel he parried, the man's long halberd waiting to dart in from a distance and—Obed caught it on his blade, shunted it aside as Torchay dealt with the attack coming in under the halberd at Obed's stomach. Fox stopped an attack on Torchay, and Obed had to leap to knock aside a sword sliding toward Fox's side.
Finally, the Habadras fell back, bleeding from as many places as the three godmarked. But there were seven Habadra champions to spread the cuts across. The lion flag went up as arena judges consulted.
“Status?” Torchay leaned back and they all took a moment to relax, leaning into each other for support.
“Fine. What's
yours?
” Obed demanded.
“Bleeding, like the rest of us.
Fine
."
Obed didn't like the snap in the man's voice, but forgot it when Fox shook his head as if dazed. “Fox, trouble?"
“I don't—” Fox rubbed his eyes, leaving streaks of blood across them like a mask. “There's—shapes. I—"
“They're taking another off,” Torchay said. “Six to go."
“Only two to one now.” Obed glanced up at the box where Kallista sat, saw her rise and wrap her green healer's robe around her as she hurried away, her bodyguards behind her. The injured man must be hurt worse than he'd thought.
“Flag's gone down,” he said. “They're coming."
“I can see that,” Torchay growled. “I'm not blind."
“I am,” Fox said. “And ...
I
can see it."
“What?” But Obed had no time for questions. The purples were on them.
He'd fought against Habadra champions too many times to count—their families quarreled often—but he didn't know these. They fought without honor, using every low tactic they knew. Obed fought back the same way. Honor didn't matter today. Winning did.
He saved Torchay's life a dozen times, Fox's almost as many, and they saved his life twice that. Sweat rolled into a hundred cuts, making his skin sting all over.
Damned purples
. Why wouldn't they just
die?
Fox shouted and he stumbled, falling awkwardly onto his backside and dropping his sword. Obed and Torchay held the purples off, taking on more of the shallow cuts while Fox groped for his blade like—like a blind man.
“
Here
.” Torchay got his foot under the blade, shoving Obed aside, and flipped the long sword to Fox who caught it as if nothing was wrong.
Fox stood with all his usual fluid grace, fighting as if he'd never stumbled. One of the Habadras staggered back, blood welling through the fingers he clutched over his belly and Obed laughed aloud. Another down.
As he watched from the corner of his eye for the flag to go up, Obed felt Fox lurch into his shoulder, almost as if he'd flinched. But Fox never flinched. Obed spun and slashed across the chest of the man pulling his sword out of Fox.
“Oh saints and bloody murder,” Torchay rasped, “it's Fox they've gutted."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Torchay attacked, holding off the four remaining Habadras on his own as Obed lowered Fox carefully to the sand.
Obed looked toward the flagpole. Why didn't they raise the damned flag? Couldn't they see the three men bleeding into the sand? This wasn't a death match, for the One's sake.
There
. Finally. It was up.
The Habadras pulled back from their half-hearted attack—they'd likely been waiting for the flag too. Medics ran out into the arena to collect the injured.
Fox grimaced as they lifted him, set him on a stretcher, then he smiled. “Kallista's already working. I can feel it."
Good
. Obed swiped his forearm across his face, wiping on more than he wiped off. It burned, stinging his eyes and lips. Blood didn't burn like that, did it?
Obed grabbed a cloth from one of the medics and wiped his face, then tossed it to Torchay who ignored it. Rude bastard.
“Nice of them to give us these rest breaks.” Torchay brushed at the sand caught in the hair on his barrel chest.
“It's not a death match.” Obed struggled to even his breathing. “They have to at least pretend to keep us alive."
“Kallista'll make sure. And keep your great oversized feet out of my way. You nearly tripped me.” He wasn't joking.
“Wish I had,” Obed muttered, quiet enough Torchay would have to listen close to hear him.
“Is that what you want? Because I'll give it to you—soon as we finish these bastards off, I'll take you on. I'll be glad to finish you too."
“Keep dreaming. You couldn't finish me if you had four swords to fight with and a week to do it. You'd be flat on your back, crying like a baby, begging mercy."
“I don't need four swords. One is plenty—” Torchay broke off. “Flag's gone down."
Obed turned, laid his back against the other man's and waited for the purples’ attack.
In the infirmary, just behind a barred gate opening on the arena, Kallista met Fox as he was carried in, leaving the others to the medics. Fox was hurt the worst and he was hers.
“What happened?” She laid her hand over his wound, walking blindly beside his stretcher as the bearers carried him to one of the tables, using her magic to see what was torn. “Never mind. Don't tell me yet. Not till I'm done."
He smiled his crooked, foxy smile and closed his eyes, alarming her for an instant. But she felt the beat of his heart in her magic, the whisper of his breath under her skin. He was healing. The magic was healing him.