The Rebellion (51 page)

“What on earth did he say to you?” I asked.

Miryum reddened. “I will not say.”

Jakoby walked slowly, adapting her long stride courteously to our pace.

“What is a ravek?” I asked her.

Her teeth flashed in the darkness of her face. “It is an endearment between those who are heartfasted. It means ‘you who have my heart beneath your foot.’ The man your friend struck offered to make her his ravek. That is a formal proposal of bonding in Sador.”

In spite of everything, I smiled. Obviously, Miryum had caught some of his meaning but hadn’t known how to take a compliment.

Jakoby stopped before a large tent.

She lifted the tent flap, and the muted sounds of laughter and the clink of plates and knives spilled out into the dusk. She gestured for us to enter.

Inside, a fire burned in a ground hearth lined in stone. Three trestle tables were set around it in a U-shape and piled high with all manner of food and drink. Seated at the tables were both familiar and unfamiliar faces.

At the central table on a raised dais was a wizened Sadorian man with skin the shade of old bronze and hair as white and tight-coiled as the fleece of wild mountain goats. He wore a cloak of what appeared to be animal pelts sewn together about his skinny shoulders, as Jakoby did.

It was not difficult to guess that this was Bram.

I ran my eyes swiftly around the rest of those seated.

Plump Brocade was at one end, seated beside Tardis’s yellow-haired emissary, Gwynedd. Brocade was wearing a jewel-encrusted vest stretched tight across his wide belly. A little farther along sat a tall, fair, proud-looking woman. She wore no jewelry, and her hair hung white and unbraided and perfectly straight about her shoulders like a snowy veil. She sat with Brydda and Dardelan.

Also next to Brydda was a stooped man who smiled faintly in greeting when our eyes met. I guessed this was Yavok, who had taken over for him in Aborium. Brydda had called him trustworthy.

On the other side of Bram, among a great number of strangers, were white-haired Cassell and Elii. It seemed Brydda’s recruiting journey had borne fruit. But I had no doubt they were here first for a war council, rather than to see whether we were fit allies.

Last of all was Malik.

When our eyes met, his lips curved into a sneering smile that made me instantly conscious of my sweaty, dust-smeared face and clothes.

“It is the Misfit and its master,” he told the dark-eyed man on his right, just loudly enough for us to hear.

I felt Rushton tense with anger beside me.

“As you see, this master is but a stripling himself,” Malik went on scornfully, not bothering to pretend to be speaking in
an aside. Rushton’s silence had made him bold, for he took it as weakness.

Jakoby said nothing, and I sensed she was waiting to see how Rushton would deal with this.

The Master of Obernewtyn merely settled a long, impassive stare on the rebel, whose smirk faltered, then faded altogether.

“What are you looking at, boy?” he growled.

“I am not sure,” Rushton said. “It might be a man, but then it might be a kind of performing ape. It is hard to tell in the firelight.”

Malik stared at him incredulously. Then he rose with a curse, pulling out a knife.

“Enough,” Jakoby said imperiously. “The Battlegames do not commence until the morrow, and it is unseemly to sour our feasting with such behavior before then. All things in their right time.”

Malik resumed his seat, though he was pale with fury, and Jakoby ushered us up to Bram. I was surprised to see one of the hooded Temple guardians in the seat beside him. The hood gave no sign of its wearer’s sex, but I thought it must be a wizened old creature, for it was very small. No doubt the overguardian Jakoby had mentioned.

“Bram, this is Elspeth Gordie of whom I have spoken,” Jakoby said. “And Rushton Seraphim, who styles himself the leader of these Misfit gypsies.”

“Seraphim,” Bram echoed. “An old name, I think.”

Rushton bowed. “I do not know if your name is old or not. I have heard only a little about the Sadorian people, but it has made me curious to know more, and I am pleased at this chance to speak with you.”

Bram chuckled fruitily. “Yet I think this is not an occasion
for speeches. I hope you do not think to win the Battlegames with words alone.”

“We are prepared to meet whatever challenge is offered,” Rushton responded smoothly.

“Good.” Bram’s dark eyes shimmered in the firelight. “I have heard from those among my people who watched for your arrival that your force contains warriors who are even younger than you. And though you may count yourself a man, you are too young to be seasoned properly to battle. Have you hope of winning against such men as Malik, whose prowess is legendary?”

“I would not have come otherwise.”

The old man cackled. “No? But sometimes battles must be faced whether or not there is a hope of winning them. This is a truth known to men and women of honor.”

“No battle is lost until it is lost. Men and women of courage know this.”

Bram nodded in appreciation. “True enough! You speak well, lad. I regret that you are not yet a sworn ally and therefore have no place at this table. Yet, if your people acquit themselves well and survive the testing tomorrow, we might yet sup together and have this speech you desire.”

“Survive?” Rushton echoed carefully. “Surely there is no question of not surviving since this is only a contest.”

The overguardian stirred.

“These are the Battlegames, lad, where matters large and small may be decided without massive bloodshed,” said Bram. “It is war in miniature. If death was not possible, there would be no true testing. Of course, death is not the aim, nor is injury inevitable.”

There was a silence, broken by Malik’s cutting laughter.
“Look. The boy is nearly unmanned with fear at the thought that death might wait for him.”

“The morrow will bring what it brings,” Rushton said softly. He turned his eyes back to Bram. “If it is permitted, I would like to know something more of the Battlegames.”

Bram’s smile died, and for a moment, he looked like a weary old man. “Are you in such a hurry for war, lad? You were more handsome when you spoke of talking and learning.” He sighed weightily. “Malik asked the same question, and I told him what I now tell you. The Battlegames designed by my people are many, but the earth goddess will decide which of these may be played.” He drew himself up and summoned a formal and ceremonious air. “Once, among the tribes who were much sundered during the time that followed what you Landfolk call the holocaust, there were wars occasioning great bloodshed among our people, and harm was done to the earth. Then came one among us who heard the voice of the earth goddess. She commanded us to build the Earthtemple, that others might come there and learn to hear the voice of the land as well. And so it came to pass. Through her disciples, the earth goddess forbade war forever. But still there were disputes, great and small, which needed mediation. Hence were the Battlegames devised, both to decide issues and to expiate the violent urges that are the plague of humanity.

“Each of the games is designed to test some specific quality in a competitor—courage or wit or charm or honesty or fitness. In your case, the games will test fitness for battle. But the earth goddess alone knows which of the many games will be selected, for they will be chosen at random using a tool we call
dice
. Some games are short and others long, so there is no
way of telling how many will take place at a single contest. The games commence at sunrise and end at sunset, for these are moments of power.”

“Are all ten of a team to play each game?” Rushton asked. I guessed he was thinking of Dameon.

Bram shook his head. “Not necessarily. The number of participants for each game will again be randomly selected by a further throw of the dice, but it is up to the two leaders to choose who will fill the places. For each Battlegame completed, there will be a spoken assessment, and then when the day ends, the winner shall be named.”

Bram reached for a piece of bread. This appeared to mark the end of the discussion. All along the trestles, men and women reached for goblets or turned to whisper to one another.

“There is just one thing more,” Rushton said.

“And that is?” Bram inquired through a mouthful of bread.

“I want you to understand that we intend to use all of our powers in these Battlegames, but outside this contest, we would never use those abilities on allies.”

Bram chewed and swallowed. “You should return to your camp now. Eat well and rest. You will be brought to the field of battle before dawn.”

Jakoby escorted us outside. “If you can, forget about the Battlegames tonight. Worrying and wondering about what will come will not avail you. Rest well.”

She turned and went back into the tent, leaving Rushton and me alone in the dark.

39

“W
E’D BETTER GET
back,” Rushton said. “The others will be waiting to hear what happened.”

I shivered, though it was not cold, and followed him back across the spit.

“I am … sorry,” I said at last, with stiff formality. “I did not know there would be danger. Jakoby didn’t tell me that when she offered the Battlegames.”

“You think she meant to deceive you?” He did not look at me when he spoke.

I shook my head. “I do not think it would have occurred to her that it would matter there was danger.”

“Then there is no blame to be laid.”

Rushton’s voice was remote, and I knew he was still angry with me. I had never felt further from him. I had the urge to say something that would restore even the old uneasy comradeship between us, but his silence daunted me.

We walked without speaking the rest of the way back to the camp.

Angina saw us approach as he stirred the cooking fire, and he alerted the others with a cry. In moments, they were clustered around us. In swift, unemotive words, Rushton told them what had happened.

“The Battlegames are more than a contest, then,” Miryum
said dourly, but without fear. “Is it possible that one or more of us may die?”

“Possible,” Rushton said calmly. “But certainly not inevitable. We will know more when we know which games are to be played.”

“I do not like the sound of this Malik,” Hannay said.

“He is a hard, strong man,” Rushton said. “A bitter man and a tough fighter by all accounts. I do not relish the thought of being his opponent, but if we fare well tomorrow, that strength will be at our side when we fight the Council. Wars make for strange bedfellows. We need the rebels, and it seems this is the only way to win them.”

“I wonder if such a victory as this will truly win us anything worth having,” Dameon said as Kella handed him a mug of mulled fement.

“It will win us the aid we need against the Council,” Rushton snapped. “We cannot afford the indulgence of philosophizing about what constitutes victory. Save that for when the fighting is over.”

He took a long deep breath, then shook his head. “I am sorry. I did not mean to snap, my friend. I am … tired.” He sat down on the ground, facing the fire, and invited us all to do the same. “Let us not talk about the morrow anymore. It will come all too soon. We will nourish our bodies with food and rest, and our souls with a song.”

Miky’s face lit up and she went to get her gita. Freya brought us plates of stew, then settled herself beside Rushton. Watching the smile that she gave him, I found I had no appetite.

I longed to comfort Rushton, but what could I truly offer him? Even if he had loved me still, I could not say that I would never leave him, because I would. I could not speak of
undying love, because I was not certain this bitter, painful emotion his embrace with Freya had roused in me was love.

A great sadness filled me as I stared into the red heart of the flames and listened to the lovely, haunting song the Empath guilden had made from the Oldtime story of the sleeping princess wakened by a kiss. As it rippled out into the night, I could not help but think again of Dragon, locked in her secret, internal battle with her past, trapped in a fortress of her own mind’s making.