Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (20 page)

As they had attempted to leave the castle, they had encountered Shinu, and had been forced to reveal their plans. Shinu had taken one look at their outfits, had shaken his head, and had then barred their way through the door. After some discussion, the Blood Father had taken the outer clothes, and then returned them in a considerably dirtier, more raggedy state. Kavrazel had to acknowledge the wisdom behind the destruction. Pristine garments would have marked them out as they walked amongst the common people. Clothes that looked like - frankly they looked like Shinu had tied them to Korost's hooves and had ridden them around the moat - would blend in much more easily. Shinu had even provided a scarf to wrap around Lyssia's head. The threadbare scrap that was almost transparent, but revealed only her eyes, and was incredibly effective at hiding her identity. Still, Kavrazel was drawn to keep staring at her. There was something about those jewel-coloured orbs, the only hint of her personality visible to him, that made him want to throw Lyssia over his shoulder and carry her back to the castle.

Even though the season was mild, he and Girogis wore heavy cloaks that concealed their stature as much as their weaponry. Girogis had managed to procure some sort of twisted staff. He was making an extremely good pretence of leaning on it with every step, as if one of his legs was ailing, but Kavrazel knew it would be as deadly as any blade in Girogis' deft hands.

Shinu had also employed some ashes from the hearth about their faces, and had pronounced them as grubby and fit for illicit wanderings as royalty could be.

They walked through the marketplace, so lively and vital with mundane activity. Kavrazel was comfortable amongst his people, and happy to be amongst them on any day, but this was a level of anonymity that he had not experienced in a long time; it was eye-opening. He noted that that the dissenters were now wholly absent. He hoped that the coming games would permanently erode their foundations.

Before, when he had wandered unexpectedly through crowds, common folk had paused what they were doing, tugged their forelocks or made whatever gesture they deemed to be appropriate, and then had waited until he was out of sight to continue their daily lives. It was invigorating to pass amongst them and watch them live each moment, unaware of his presence. Kavrazel hadn't realised how ingrained the feeling had become of always being the focus of attention. He was not jealous that he did not have it now, he was like a child with a shiny new toy, he wanted to explore more of it.

Girogis was doing an incredible job of mimicking a large, but feeble, sibling to the group. Indeed, the trio looked much like a girl making an excursion, escorted by her two brothers; they were both keeping too close a watch to her for their imaginary relationship to be anything other than familial. For his part, Kavrazel had no intention of allowing Lyssia to be stolen from him again, and he knew that Girogis would consider it a point of unrecoverable dishonour if he lost his charges. The only troublesome part about playing the overly protective older brother was that it was so very hard to keep his eyes from sliding towards the gentle sway of Lyssia's hips as she moved. Even though she was almost swaddled by more material than she had ever worn before, the tantalising swing of her natural gait was hypnotic. Kavrazel found himself having some very un-brotherly thoughts.

Since he was making a determined effort not to keep his eyes fixed on her arse, he felt, rather than saw, a change in Lyssia's posture. On glancing back from the stall that he had been perusing, he saw that Girogis had laid one palm in the small of her back and was motioning at another stand of wares. Kavrazel followed them, half a step behind. They had all found they did not have a great need for words to communicate; there was a bond that allowed them to discern if one wished to pause, or change direction.

The stall contained the wares of a blade smith. The work ranged from fine and intricate to brutally plain and utilitarian. As Girogis made conversation, Kavrazel took note, here was a talent to keep in mind. He easily picked out several items that he would have purchased, if he hadn't been playing the poor peasant. Girogis' motives for approaching the stall became apparent when he picked up one of the smaller blades, one from a range that was evidently intended for sacrificial purposes. It was very like Kavrazel's own knife: deceptively delicate, polished to a high shine, and intricate in the way of something that had been forged with precision and attention to detail, rather than ornate decoration. The blade was longer and thinner than his, and there was an element of more elegant, feminine scroll work around the guard; it was the perfect sister to his blade. It could not have been in truth, as his knife had been passed down through the generations of his family, but this piece was so closely related as to raise the hairs on the back of Kavrazel's neck.

He was still studying its form when he realised that Girogis was purchasing it for Lyssia.

"Brother...?"

Girogis interrupted the sentence that Kavrazel hadn't thought through.

"It's a fine blade, almost pretty enough for our sister. She needs a new one, one of her own."

Kavrazel caught the subtext. Lyssia did not make the blood toast - she was the blood toast - so she would not need the knife for that purpose. Girogis was quietly insisting that he thought Lyssia should be armed. Particularly after Tethva's vulgar display, which proved that she was not yet safe on Vuthroan soil, Kavrazel was not inclined to disagree. He would have argued that Girogis need not spend the money, but by the time he had figured out how to word the admonishment, the transaction was complete.

"Don't fret," Girogis mumbled as they turned away from the stall, "Shinu gave me a purse of your coin before we left." His guard nodded his head towards his blood slave, who was fixing the blade to the belt of her dress. "He said you should find a gift for her."

"And you decided it should be a weapon?"

Girogis was smiling in the mocking way that he had which could cause immense offense, if one did not know the affection behind it. "You would have bought jewels, silks and fur. Shinu trusted me to find something useful for her."

"How useful will it be if she stabs me with it?"

"Then it's for you to give her no reason to use it against you."

"It sounds so simple when you say it."

Lyssia was glancing behind now, wondering what all the furtive muttering was about.

"It is. You're the one making it complicated." Girogis gave him that knowing smirk again, then hastened his falsely hitched gate to catch up with Lyssia.

Kavrazel watched him sling his arm around Lyssia's shoulders, as if for support, and tried not to be too jealous.

Chapter Nineteen

The amphitheatre in which the games were taking place was situated some distance away from the capital, towards the western coast of the country. It was a direction that Lyssia had not often travelled in, and so she had never seen it before. The structure was built using the same glassy black rock that had been used to construct the castle at Vulc. That in itself spoke of the importance, and the longevity, of the arena. Apparently, it had withstood the elements for generations with hardly any damage. The walls were formed of layers of arches, the columns of which were carved with icons for the celebration and appeasement for Taan. The intricacies were a little worn by the elements, but overall the arena was still impressive. Concentric tiers of stone constituted the seating for the masses. The floor of the area was as black as the walls, but in a different way; it was dull, hard packed grit. From the highest tier of seating, it looked like the yawning maw of bottomless pit. The first row of spectators were kept at a safe distance from the action, and at a better vantage point, by a wall that was roughly the height of three men. It was of a scale beyond anything that Lyssia had seen yet in Vuthrom, save the castle of Vulc itself.

Kavrazel had taken her on a guided tour of the coliseum whilst it had been filled only with people preparing for the events. He had wanted her to be comfortable, and to know her way around. She would not be without friends, but both he and Girogis planned to compete, and would not be by her side. She was grateful for the consideration.

Her seat was on the first row, perched almost immediately atop the wall, she felt like she might fall in the arena at any moment. She had never had a fear of heights before, but her nerve was being sorely tested on this day. The place was packed with citizens, to the point that it was hard to draw breath. There was some demarcation between the royal seating and the rabble, which meant that she was not part of the crush, but the crescendo of noise had its own oppressive weight and made it almost impossible to hear anything. Multha, who was seated to her right, had taken it upon himself to be her oracle. Many of the games were fairly self-explanatory, the stronger person or team would be the winner, but there were some finer points of strategy and finesse that she was glad to have knowledge of.

The first half of the day had been given over to sword fighting, mostly exhibitions of skill and choreography rather than actual contest. The displays were impressive, but the crowd was anxious and irritable; it wanted winners and losers, it wanted drama, it wanted blood. Lyssia's skin itched with the feeling of being hemmed in by such a barely controllable mob.

The second half of the day was the beginning of the jousting contest. The king and his bodyguard had been adamant about taking part. From their attitudes, Lyssia had guessed that it wasn't so much that they thought they were worthy competitors who could beat all comers, or that they wanted to dominate the field by reputation alone; rather, they wanted to compete against each other. They were impish boys at heart, and that notion always brought a fond smile to her face. It didn't matter who proceeded the farthest in the competition, they would be insufferable for many moons.

Multha, as head of the armies, was acting as patron of the games for the duration of the king's stint in the competition. The warriors, arrayed in a vaguely even line before the royal box, trying to control their excited horses, were fantastical. The armour that they all wore was similar, it followed the Vuthroan style, but they wore sashes and tunics to mark their identities. Their horses were draped in matching robes, the colours and patterns of which proclaimed allegiances or genealogy. It was a rainbow of terrible strength... apart from the king. The monarch, in his black armour, astride his black stallion, bore no garnish or flowing robes. He looked like the spectre of Death come to the feast.

Korost was enjoying the event more than any horse had a right to. Lyssia could tell that the stallion was doing his best to behave and heed his master's commands, but it was a nigh on impossible expectation given the atmosphere. Korost was clad in thick, studded leather furnishings, which were much more numerous and ornate than the his usual tack, but which gave him a stately and fearsome air. In all the time she had known the king's favoured mount, he had been patient and steady. Now he stamped and sidled as if he had never been broken. Kavrazel seemed to need all his wits just to keep his horse in place.

There were several female competitors, but Lyssia had only been able to identify them after Multha had pointed them out. All wore helmets as part of their armour. The king's helmet, which she had not seen previously, covered his eyes and nose, but left the lower half of his face naked. It rose from his forehead in much the same style as the spines that rose from his shoulders. If she hadn't known the man beneath the metal, she would have been frightened. The lances looked to be wicked weapons. They were thin, but twice the length of a horse, with a guard to cover the fist of the warrior who held it. Although Multha had assured her that they were somewhat blunted for the purposes of the competition, it was obvious that such weapons, wielded at speed, could not fail to cause harm. The competitors had donned breastplates as part of their outfits. The metal sheets would not simply preserve the ribcage of the wearer, but the dents that they would inevitably accumulate would provide evidence of accurately landed strikes. Lyssia was less enamoured with that idea, especially when she imagined Kavrazel, or Girogis, dismounting and assessing the damage.

Those that would compete in the games were waiting to present themselves to Multha, to acknowledge the symbolic head of the country. For Lyssia, as companionable as Multha was, it was strange not to have Kavrazel by her side. Otal was seated on her left flank. Both men were ostensibly her escorts. Tethva reclined several places down the row, evidently providing the link to Taan's graces, but unwilling to sit within touching distance of the royal blood slave.

Lyssia allowed her fingers to trace over the smooth metal of the knife at her hip. The gift was a thing of beauty - she loved its clean and simple lines - but the bald fact that she was entrusted with a weapon again meant more than she could say. She had not asked Kavrazel outright, but to her own mind she felt a little less like a slave, and more like some sort of compatriot. She still wore her collar, and had not asked for it to be removed, but it was so light and delicate that she hardly thought of it anyway, unless she chanced to catch her reflection.

Shinu had brought her another new dress for this day, another alternative to her usual insubstantial robes. She would have welcomed her usual clothes, due to the warmth of the day, but her new dress was much more comfortable, given the crowds pressing around her. The dress of dense, black silk barely hung from her shoulders, leaving her neck and collar bones completely exposed. It was tailored to her curves, to a point just below her hip bones, whereupon it flared out in drapes and folds down to the floor. There were sleeves, and they were long enough for the cuffs to brush the hem of the dress, but they were slashed from the wrist almost to the shoulder. They only covered her arms when the limbs were by her sides; if she lifted her hands at all, her arms were exposed. The effect was that she felt far more exposed than she truly was. There was decorative embroidery in gold thread about the cuffs, the hem, and the décolletage of the dress, tiny stitched depictions of flames and daggers. She considered it to be a thing of beauty, and hoped that she would have the opportunity to wear it again.

A series of horns sounded, a harsh blast of toneless music. The level of the crowd quietened a little, and as if at that invisible sign, a second retort was blown, more melodic this time, a simple cascade of notes, an introduction rather than an alert. It was too much to expect a mass of this size to be patient and silent, but the people did their best. The majority directed their attention to waiting competitors.

Still more turned towards the arena floor when the king guided his mount forward a few paces, until he was immediately below Lyssia. He removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Korost, as if sensible to the magnificence of the occasion, chose to stand as still as a statue. The horse gave a good pretence of having never misbehaved ever in his life before.

The king called out so that all might hear, "Blessings to Taan the almighty. May his power endure. May his will be right. May his enemies tremble before him. May his friends know the warmth of his blessings. May his fire burn forever. We give thanks for his valour and protection during the most recent time of threat to our country. May he look upon our gifts of blood and bravery, and know the depth of our love for him."

Lyssia knew what was expected of her; the next step was hers to take. She stood and leaned over as far as she dared. She extended her arm, her exposed wrist facing upwards, caressed by sunlight and a light wind. Since Kavrazel was juggling his lance and Korost's reins, Lyssia slipped her own blade free of its sheath, and made the required cut into her own skin. A collective gasp rippled around the crowd, which was now all watchful silence. Kavrazel stood in his stirrups and leaned over Korost's head until he could run his tongue along the bleeding seam of the wound that Lyssia had made. While his mouth worked at her wrist, he looked up. His eyes captured and held hers. The ice blue should have been cold, but for her, as he lapped at her blood, it was all fire. Lyssia knew that there an answer kindling in her own stare.

"Blessings to Taan," they both murmured in unison when Kavrazel lifted his lips from her skin.

There was nothing different about the act itself, and yet Lyssia felt as though they were performing something far too intimate for such public consumption. Her other hand still held her slim blade, but she brushed her knuckles against her dress, needing to feel the material, needing the reassurance that she was not standing naked for all to see. Kavrazel let go of her hand. She felt the loss of his touch keenly, so much so that she would have shivered, but she stifled the response, lest anyone should assume that she shuddered in revulsion - they would not have been more wrong.

The crowd deemed their enactment of the toast the most fantastic spectacle that they had witnessed yet that day, and whopped and cheered and stamped to a deafening level. Their brief ceremony had been witnessed by thousands, but the grin that Kavrazel gave Lyssia was for her and her alone. A sensation of warmth bloomed through her as she retook her seat, and increased as Multha stepped forward to formally announce the start of the games, because Kavrazel's eyes did not leave hers, even for a moment.

What followed was tumult of metal clashing against metal, the thunder of hooves, the whinny and shriek of excited and nervous animals, and the thud and grunt of riders hitting the unforgiving ground. Each time someone landed a blow, or fell - especially when someone fell - the crowd erupted. Lyssia's ears were ringing, but it was hard not to be carried along on the surging tide of their enthusiasm and devotion. She was soon cheering right along with them.

Stations had been erected around the edge of the arena. The competitors could tether their mounts, discard their armour, and relax as they watched the next round. The arrangement fuelled the carnival atmosphere. The people in the stands shouted down to the jousters, and for the most part, they shouted back, or taunted each other. There was plenty of joking and good-natured defamation. Overall, there was an air of camaraderie amongst them all, although there were evidently some serious rivalries at play. The situation made for great theatre and the crowd consumed it all like potent wine.

The squires - young boys that the competitors had chosen to assist them with their armour, weapons, horses, and all other things that were nigh on impossible when one was wearing one's own bodyweight in metal and leather - managed to be a mix of proud, nervous, and excited. They hummed with activity, desperate to prove themselves. Lyssia watched the boys, all on the cusp of manhood, with a fond smile, and didn't even realise that her hand was resting protectively on her flat stomach, until she caught Otal's amused smirk. She dropped her hand, but wrapped her itching fingers around the drapery of her skirt.

The horses were as capricious as the squires. When waiting their turn, they continued to misbehave unapologetically. Once they were called into duty, when booted heels kicked into their flanks to urge them to their places, they became the picture of obedience. When in action, thundering fearlessly down the lists, they seemed to be beasts of legend. They galloped without flinching, their tails and manes streaming behind them, and seemed to be enjoying the day more than their riders.

The warriors would salute the crowd with their lances as they took their places. A spectator could gauge the popularity of a competitor by the level of the roar that greeted the jerk of his lance, but the whim of the mob was a fickle thing. One who garnered the loudest greeting at the start might garner the loudest roar when he fell.

The competition progressed by rounds and knockout. The initial pairings had been completely random; names, scrawled on parchment, had been drawn from a helmet. From that point on, the winners went forward, the losers retired, but not all with good grace. Each time that Kavrazel and Girogis had been called, Lyssia's heart had jumped into her throat. Although, for Girogis, it had soon settled again. For Kavrazel, not that she doubted his prowess in any way, it had remained beating against her tongue until he safely cantered back to his squire.