She got to her feet. “Arram, look—isn’t that your friend Musenda? It looks like he has a single fight! He’s moving up!” She picked up her skirts and ran down to the rail. The lords and ladies there made room for her without looking away from the men and women who had marched onto the sands.
Arram stood, feeling sick. An arena guard pointed a spear with a bright red flag at the tip at a gladiator in the front of the small group on the sands. It was indeed Musenda. He would fight—and perhaps die—in full view of his sister-in-law and the children.
The Grand Crier, who announced all the events through a horn from the imperial stand at the emperor’s feet, shouted, “Of the first single match, from the bold warriors of the third rank—”
He was interrupted by a trumpet blast. The gate at the gladiators’ end of the arena opened, and a leather-armored man rode out on a beautifully steel-armored horse. He galloped up to the imperial pavilion.
“That’s Valor.” Yadeen had come to stand next to Arram. “The great killer—or should I say champion?—of the games.”
“Valor does not wait!” the big man shouted up to the crier. “Valor chooses his foes! Valor does not sit like a girl who waits for a lover! Valor will battle now!”
The crier looked up at the imperial dais. There was a long, terrible pause: Arram couldn’t see the emperor or Stiloit.
“?‘Does not wait,’ my rock hammer,” Yadeen remarked scornfully, causing Arram to choke on the water he was drinking. “He chooses a younger, less experienced gladiator from the third rank. He’ll draw out the fight, make it look good, and then afterward, he will say he took some small injury that prevents his taking on anyone else. His hopeful opponents of the first and second ranks are the ones who must wait.” He looked at Arram, who was trembling. “The third-ranker—Musenda Ogunsanwo. That’s your friend, isn’t it?”
Arram nodded. The Grand Crier bellowed, “Valor has his wish! He will fight Musenda Ogunsanwo of the third rank!”
Yadeen placed a gentle hand on Arram’s shoulder. “Pray. If there are any particular gods with whom you have a bond, now would be a good time to call on them.”
That was Enzi, but Arram didn’t think the crocodile god could have any influence on the games. He was about to silently address Mithros, until he remembered Preet. If the god was not here today, it would be disastrous to bring his attention to the sunbird fledgling napping on his shoulder.
He pleaded with Hekaja to keep his friend uninjured or mendably injured—gods asked horrible prices of those who prayed for the impossible. After he watched Valor dismount and trade his costly armor for the plain greaves and breastplate of a third-rank gladiator, Arram looked up.
He could have sworn the statue of the Graveyard Hag had been staring directly across the arena, at her sister goddess Hekaja. Now she was looking down at the imperial pavilion. No, she was turning her head to look directly at him.
She winked.
A noise of alarm struggled to escape his throat. He closed his eyes, hoping he dreamed. When he opened them again, the statue was in its normal position.
Arram tried to relax and reached for the glass he had placed on his table. Instead his hand landed on something far smaller, with angles. He picked it up and looked at it. It was a clear crystal dice cube with numbers picked out in tiny spots of garnet. He prayed it was garnet and not his first morbid guess, that it was blood.
Yadeen was speaking to him. “If you wish to turn around, I can sit here so no one in the imperial seats will be able to see you.”
Arram smiled weakly at his teacher. “I owe it to Musenda to watch.” He clutched the Hag’s die in his hand. Preet hopped to his shoulder and hummed softly in his ear.
The fighters moved to the center of the arena, and the Grand Crier bellowed, “In the name of Mithros and the emperor, do battle!”
The distance made it easier for a short time. The two men looked like miniatures, not human beings. Valor was shorter than Musenda, but he was built like a bull, with arms, chest, and legs thicker even than his foes. They used small, round shields and short swords, meant—Arram assumed—to bring them closer and draw blood quickly.
Twice Musenda caught Valor’s shield edge on the guard of his blade. He used the brief catch to knock Valor’s sword from his hand and bash Valor’s face before the older man threw himself backward, freeing his shield, grabbing his weapon, and rolling to his feet at a slight distance from Musenda. The third time Musenda tried the shield catch, Valor threw arena dust he had seized when he fell into the younger gladiator’s face. Blinded, Musenda raised his arms to clear his vision; Valor stabbed him in a long shallow cut along the ribs. Arram turned his head away, his lips trembling, then made himself look. His friend was out there. If he could give Musenda some of his power, he would. He wished he could give him some of his will.
On the fight went. Valor knocked Musenda’s shield out of his grip and yards away. After an attempt or two to retrieve it, Musenda didn’t try again. He lunged and dodged, moving fast and keeping Valor moving. It began to cost the champion after a time; even Arram could see it. Still, he made Musenda pay, a cut here and a cut there. Arram wished it would end and prayed it would not.
Musenda tumbled and fell on his back. Arram leaped to his feet, clutching his Gift to him tighter than he ever had in his life, fighting to keep it under control when all of him wanted to pick Valor up and dump him out of the arena. Preet hung on to his ear with her beak, but the pain did not register. Yadeen’s grip on his arm helped a little as Valor charged Musenda, both hands gripping his sword’s hilt, the weapon raised above his head, ready to stab down. It was done; Arram knew it was done.
At the very last moment Valor was almost on top of Musenda when the younger gladiator twisted, slashing backhand down and across Valor’s bulging, powerful thigh. The champion shrieked in agony and went down, face-first. He rolled onto his back, still screaming, as Musenda took the sword from his grip and stood.
The crowd went mad. They had gone from shrieking their adoration of the champion to demanding that Musenda kill him.
Musenda shook his head and held the sword so that it pointed downward.
Trembling, Arram looked at Yadeen. “Does that mean something?” he croaked. He must have been shouting for his friend if his voice was so hoarse.
Yadeen was on his feet, too. “It means he wants to let Valor live.”
Arram looked at Musenda’s many cuts. “Could you do that?”
The mage shrugged. “It’s different out there, on the sands.”
The emperor stepped down to the platform next to the Grand Crier, and the crowd went silent. He beckoned Stiloit forward and held his hand out to his second heir.
“He gives the prince the honor of the choice,” Yadeen explained to Arram.