“Make your bet, newbie,” the guard said. The girl with the purse had appeared beside her and they were both watching Sibba expectantly.
“Oh, no,” Sibba objected. “I’m not—”
The guard grabbed Sibba’s wrist, and before Sibba could break free, had unclasped one of her silver armbands and handed it to the collector. “Her money’s on the second one,” the guard said. The collector was unfazed. She nodded and dropped the armband into her satchel. The guard clamped a heavy hand on Sibba’s shoulder and pushed her toward the wooden barricade. Sibba weighed her options—make a scene by trying to leave, or wait out this one fight. The more time she spent here, the more of a chance there was that Evenon would betray her to Chief Isgerd. But if she were arrested, it wouldn’t make a difference anyway.
? ? ?
Watching a fight was perhaps worse than being in one. Was this how it had felt for Estrid to watch Sibba in the trial circle? But that had been over in minutes; this seemed to drag on forever. These men were performers, playing to the crowd, driving up bets. It was like a dance, a give and take, parry and block and dance away. The collector’s face gave nothing away. As long as it brought in more money, she didn't seem to mind that the fight was dragging on. Sibba only wanted it to be over. With every strike of the swords, her breath caught. The man with the black eyes was more skilled, but the other was a crowd favorite. Would one of them have to die? Sibba didn't know the rules.
Two girls beside Sibba were fighting over which was the more handsome of the two. “Neither of them compare to the foreigner in three.” The words drifted carelessly to Sibba's ears, not meant for her and therefore taking a moment to form before registering.
The foreigner. Evenon?
“I can't believe he's not dead yet. What do you find so appealing about him, anyway?”
“Those eyes, the tattoos, the muscles. Besides, he's Isgerd's favorite.”
“That doesn't mean he has to be yours.”
The fight continued below her, but she wasn't seeing it anymore. The foreigner in three? Had Isgerd thrown Evenon into a pit? If so, she was a woman after Sibba's own heart. But how would he already be gaining favor? He couldn't have been there much longer than she had.
Around her, a cheer rose up from the crowd but she was already fighting her way backward, the spectators pouring into her vacated spot. On the outskirts, the guard stepped into her path. Sibba’s right hand came to rest on top of her ax, an involuntary gesture that the guard either didn’t see or ignored.
“Don't you want to wait and see who wins? You have money on this one.”
Sibba shook her head and cleared her throat, trying to calm down. “I heard about three,” she said. “I wanted to see—”
“Him?” The guard smiled smugly, one side of her mouth lifting higher than the other. “Of course you do.”
“Where is three?”
She pointed to the other side of the courtyard. “Follow the biggest crowd.”
That's what she did, no longer caring about drawing attention to herself, not worried about whose toes she stepped on or who she made angry. She had to get there and see it for herself. If it was Evenon, she wouldn't wait and let some other man kill him. She would jump in there herself. He wouldn't get away again.
The noise around the third pit was tremendous. It was all Sibba could do not to turn and flee as the bodies pressed closer. Smells and sounds overwhelmed her but she steeled herself and pressed forward. She reached the barrier amid protests from the other women, but she ignored them. Her eyes scanned the pit. There, a man with a longsword and shield, and there, on the far side, another man, this one holding the hilt of a broken sword and no shield, his arms in shackles bolted to the dirt wall.
Sibba's blood rushed into her ears, the rest of the world falling away as her vision narrowed to focus on that one figure. There was Chief Isgerd's favorite—a boy who had once been handsome but was now gaunt and fierce, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Lips that had once smiled at her and teased her. He was broken and he was bloody, but he was alive. He was alive and he was fighting to stay that way. Five years had passed but she would know him anywhere. He was a part of her.
It wasn't Evenon at all.
It was Jary.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sibba
“Jary!” she yelled. “Jary!” Again and again, until her throat was hoarse. But he didn't hear her. The spectators nearest her were watching her, some of them even moving away, but she didn't care. Her brother was down there, fighting for his life.
Why had she not thought this far ahead? Why hadn't she planned for this possibility? She had thought to be some great hero, able to march into Ydurgat and sweep him away in the dark of night. He should have been locked in a cell somewhere, not here. Not subjected to this. But she had known Isgerd's reputation, and she should have known the woman would stop at nothing to torture Chief Thorvald's son and heir. To try to ruin her rival, just as her father had said.
His opponent, bigger and older than Jary, lunged. It was hardly a fair fight, not like the others had been. How long had he been doing this? How many men had he killed while chained to a wall? How was he even still alive?
“Jary!” This time her voice carried over the silence of a crowd waiting for the blow to land. Fear had made her stupid. She should have kept her mouth shut like everyone else. But she hadn't, and Jary's eyes lifted to the audience, though his gaze went to somewhere across from her, to a pair of women she hadn't noticed before. They sat on high-backed wooden chairs beneath a white tent in front of the giant sutvithr tree, both of them raven-haired and slender, though one had a face wrinkled by time. They were watching Jary with stony faces, and Jary, for some reason, had thought one of them had called his name.
And he paid the price. The other man brought his sword down, and though Jary came back to himself in time to move, it wasn't fast enough and the sword swiped down his face. Sibba brought her hands to her mouth as Jary fell to his knees, his hands covering his eyes.
Sibba leaped without thinking, without considering how far the jump was or what kind of trouble she would find herself in when she landed. Her feet hit the dirt and she dropped into a crouch, catching herself on her hands before propelling herself forward. The crowd, which seemed to have gasped collectively when she'd thrown herself into the pit, now broke into riotous shouts. Some were telling her to get out, others were telling the boys to kill her. But she ignored them all.