Jarith pulled a Two of Coins and Kihrin drew Godslayer. Everyone was frowning now.
Thurvishar began flicking cards from the deck in front of the players at the table. “One for you, and one for you, and you, and you and you, and Kihrin—” He paused. “Kihrin’s card wins.” He began again. “You, and you, and you, and you, and you and Kihrin—has high card. One more time…” He dealt the cards again. “And Kihrin’s hand wins.” Thurvishar turned his stare to the adolescent. “You’re cheating.”
Jarith stood up. “Let’s not get carried away here. I’ll admit he’s lucky, but that doesn’t mean he’s cheating.”
Kihrin was sputtering. “You shuffled and turned over the cards! How could I possibly have cheated?”
The cards whirled up in a spiral from the table, sailing into Thurvishar’s outstretched hand. He pushed them toward Jarith. “There are ways to cheat luck. There are ways to warp the odds. Maybe House D’Mon’s little blond whippet has found his witch gift and can unwittingly turn the odds to his favor? But I know this: even a lucky streak has its losses.”
“So, what do you propose?” Jarith asked, trying to be a peacemaker.
“I propose he gives the money back he’s taken and leaves,” Thurvishar said.
Kihrin shook his head. “I will do no such thing. Thurvishar, you have my word. I didn’t cheat.”
Thurvishar shrugged, scowling, rubbing a thumb along his temple as if fighting off a headache. “And what is the word of a whore’s son worth, anyway?”*
Silence.
Jarith looked around the room at a sea of shocked and blinking faces, although a few were already beginning to smirk. They were happy to see the new and too lucky scion of House D’Mon picked to pieces by D’Lorus’s prodigal son.
Jarith shook his head. “The usual terms, I assume?”
Thurvishar stared at Jarith. “Excuse me?”
“My apologies. Please allow me to explain my position more clearly.” Jarith slapped Thurvishar’s face. “You just called my cousin a whore’s son, and he’s too young to duel you.”
Thurvishar seemed taken completely by surprise. He could only stare, lifting a hand to his cheek.
Kihrin reached for Jarith’s arm. “What are you doing? You don’t need to do this. I’ve been called a lot worse.”
Jarith frowned. “Honor is at stake. I’m sorry. One day you’ll understand.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Darzin’s voice called out from the entrance. Jarith wasn’t too surprised to see him, but he was a bit taken aback by how quickly he’d arrived. It was possible that someone had gone for Kihrin’s father as soon as Thurvishar began making allegations about the boy’s luck.
“Well,” Thurvishar said, sounding bemused. “It seems I’ve just been challenged to a duel by the High General’s son.”?
* * *
The next day, Galen stood next to Kihrin on the cobblestone path surrounding the Arena, with their father, Darzin, their mother (or stepmother) Alshena, and a shocking number of immediate family. This included Uncle Bavrin, Great-Aunt Tishar, and their grandfather, the High Lord Therin. Even Lady Miya, who normally never left the Blue Palace, stood at the High Lord’s side.
“I didn’t think we’d be back here so soon,” Galen confided.
Of course, the reason they were back at the Culling Fields was made painfully clear by who else was present: High General Qoran Milligreest, his son Jarith, Thurvishar D’Lorus, High Lord Cedric D’Lorus, and a host of spectators. Everyone wanted to be here to see this duel.
Kihrin didn’t look so pleased. “This should never have happened.”
“For once,” Darzin D’Mon said, “we’re in agreement.” He gave Kihrin an unfriendly look, then said to Galen, “Remember this: the honor of the House should be defended by the House, not by some outsider, even if he is a distant relation. No matter how this ends, we won’t come out of it looking as we ought.” He looked like he might box Kihrin around the ears, but the motion was brought under heel as he remembered the watching crowds.
“Who’s that?” Kihrin asked. He pointed to a small man dressed in plain tan misha and kef, unusual by his lack of decoration. His head was shaved save for a lock above his right temple, braided in a long rope that hung down past his shoulders.
“That’s Caerowan,” Darzin explained. “He’s a Voice of the Council, here to officiate and witness the duel.”
“Isn’t there any way to stop this?” Kihrin complained.
“No,” Darzin said.
Galen watched his brother inhale in frustration before he let the matter drop, at least for the moment. Galen tugged on Kihrin’s sleeve. “I’m sure Jarith will be fine. He must be a very good swordsman, right? Whereas, I’d be surprised if the D’Lorus Lord Heir has ever spent much time practicing with a blade.”
Their father snorted and the two young men looked back at him. “As much as I find myself torn on whom I’d like to survive this little duel, I’m afraid the advantage is in favor of Thurvishar D’Lorus. Don’t forget that sword craft is less than nothing against a skilled wizard.”
Kihrin frowned. “But they’re fighting a duel. They won’t be using magic.”
Darzin chewed on a thumb as he watched the two men take up position in front of the Voice and begin the traditional description of disputes, slights, and remedies. He snorted again. “There is no law inside the Arena. No rules. No consequences. They can promise anything they want outside the Arena. It means less than nothing once they pass through its gates.”
Galen saw Kihrin startle and stand straighter, watching the impending duel with ill-concealed concern. He wondered how Kihrin had become so close to the Milligreest scion when in theory he had only met the older man the other night. Jarith seemed nice enough though, and he was a cousin. Galen was well aware that if Darzin had his way, Galen would find himself married to Jarith’s younger sister.
Most of the customers at the Culling Fields turned out of doors to watch the spectacle, with bar wenches shuttling from tavern to field to serve drinks and take orders, while the rich sat at small outside tables and chatted. The inside of the Arena looked like a park, albeit a park with grass that looked odd with small copses of twisted and warped trees. There were buildings too, ruins of ancient structures with black yawn ing mouths for doors and windows. These were said to be enchanted to kill whoever entered them. The grass was an illusion of sorts, an idyllic deception that concealed skulls and bones: the bodies of generations of dead wizards, warriors, and sorcerers, their weapons, and their secrets. One could still pick out faded remains, a skull here, a thigh bone there, a rusted ancient sword sticking up from the grass like a warning to all who would try their hand inside the Arena’s boundaries.