Page 82 of Court of Talons
“By most.” She nods. “Not by all.” She slides her glance to me again. “You have great anger within you, Merritt of the Tenth. It surrounds you in a corona of fierce light. Protects you, even. I cannot pierce it as easily as I would like.”
All the saliva dries in my mouth. “You’re a sensitive.”
Even in the backward mountains of the east, I’ve heard of people like her. Not mystics, exactly. Not priests or priestesses of the Light either. But they are highly intuitive, keenly discerning, their skills almost—not quite, but almost—magical. No wonder Rihad has allowed Miriam on the council. Not because he’s so advanced, but because he cannot allow himself to miss out on her insights. And he’s already proven he’s no stranger to magical incantations and premonitions.
What other secrets is he hiding?
More to the point, how is it that Miriam hasn’t already outed me as a woman? Surely, she can intuit that most basic of truths, unless…
I frown. Unless her sight is blinded by the warrior’s band she can sense on my arm? Is she truly so entrenched in the doctrine of the Protectorate that she cannot imagine a woman connected to a Divh? And is that why Fortiss, too, hasn’t seen my truth—when he, more than anyone, should?
If so, this warrior band has been blessed a thousand times by the Light. I will bow to wherever it leads me.
But Miriam recalls my focus. “Such anger as yours leaves a residue wherever you go—not for long, and your anger is so bright that it flares and is quickly gone, like a shadow in the heat of the sun. But it rests long enough for those who know how to look.”
Caution pricks at the hairs upon my nape as she regards me more fully. “You were in the caverns of the First House, weren’t you?” she asks, her words sounding like a death knell. “You saw what lies trapped within our very walls. And you must have asked yourself why. But ‘why’ isn’t the right question.”
I stare at her, my mouth set, my face a winter’s sky. How does she know these things—and what else does she know? I’ve no idea, but I won’t give her the honor of ensnaring me further in her web.
At least now I know why she hasn’t betrayed me, though. She has her own agenda here, her own goal. One that leaves no room for a consideration so banal as my gender, not when the warrior’s band around my bicep fairly radiates with its own sentient energy.
She leans forward and taps my arm where the band cuts into my flesh. “The right question is ‘who’ and then ‘how.’ Who had a Divh and then didn’t…and who should have been chosen byone, and was not? And, more importantly, how was such a deed done?”
The cheering ends, and now Miriam does retreat, leaving me to stare ahead at Rihad—and at Fortiss. The truth I had already suspected now laid bare to me, the cruel deception I had shuddered to imagine brought to light…and brought to light by Rihad’s own councilor. Why?
But as Miriam herself said, why isn’t the question here. But who…and then how.
Fortiss is the son of Toma, once the greatest warrior in the land. Toma’s awesomely fleet and powerful Divh, Szonja—the Divh of a generation, the Divh of a hundred bardic tales—should have died with him or been passed on to his son.
Instead, a creature who is a shadow of that former Divh lies chained in the bowels of the First House, held fast by the Lord Protector, while Rihad wears two bands.
He holds that Divh, without question, through abilities that are not of the Light. Rihad has trapped the most glorious Divh in a century, binding her up in ever-tightening coils of darkness.
He has trapped her, and he has trapped us all.
Chapter 34
The first day’s battles are cruel, but brief.
Each of the great warrior battles takes place at the top of the hour and lasts no more than a few minutes of actual fighting—some far less—from the moment the Divhs appear until they’re banished from the tournament field, in triumph or defeat. Then the crowds shift and eddy as spectators abandon their seats for food and drink, and new ones flow in to take their spaces.
But when the Divhs fight, no one moves—not in the stands, nor in the grounds beyond, I suspect. I’ve now seen Divhs both great and small upon the battlefield, and victory doesn’t always go to the mightiest in form. More often it is the sharpest of strategy that prevails—or, as Nazar’s words echo in my mind—those whose instinct is strong enough to border on strategy. Fast wins except when slow and measured takes the upper hand. Big wins except where nimble and cutting works better. The warriors atop the wooden towers seem driven to a frenzy by the time each battle is finished, sweat darkening their tournament clothes, blood seeping from wounds gartered by their tight garments.
Divhs are summoned, they fight, and then they are dispatched back to their cool, quiet plane, while we remain surrounded in chaos. People throng the central platform where the warriors wait, calling out names and waving flags, sending up great cheers when a new set of combatants is called to fight. Money changes hands at every turn, whether warriors are battling or not—wagers appearing to be made on the way a man stands and turns, if he smiles or growls, even on the length of his stride.
I’ve seen two warriors of the Southern Realms carried out on stretchers, their faces a mask of pain. This is the first tournament of any merit for most of them, the whispers surge. Perhaps the line on the houses of yellow, sand, and umber was too quickly made? Flags gather and scatter like flocks of birds, and by the day’s end, I see no more of the dark-green-hued banners. The battle doesn’t come to me this day, however. I have to wait.
But now I perch on my tiptoes along with every other person in the stadium, be they warrior, squire, or freeman. Because Fortiss has taken his position on one of the wooden towers, here to fight as a warrior knight, though he has yet to receive his own band or his Divh.
Instead, Fortiss’s rightful band still circles the left arm of Rihad. The more I think of that outrage, the less I can stomach it. Fortiss would have been banded to his Divh long ago were it not for Rihad and his twisted games.
Fortiss’s opponent is a warrior from the Fifth House, a grizzled veteran twice Fortiss’s age. The older man shows no fear as he curls his right hand to his heart and lifts his left arm high, but I feel fear for him.
The Fifth House warrior’s Divh appears first. It’s large—easily one of the largest of the day, and I slant my glance toward the Lord Protector. Not surprisingly, Rihad is leaningforward from his perch upon the stone ledge, his smile wide with anticipation. He peers eagerly at the monstrous Divh and nods. It is a worthy foe.
Worthy is right. This Divh is apelike, its large, thick arms hanging down heavily to the ground, ending in barrel-shaped fists that knuckle under as the creature uses its arms as a second pair of legs. Its haunches are equally powerful, and those end in viciously clawed paws that scrape at the ground, gaining purchase in the hard-packed dirt. Its head seems unreasonably small for its body—except for the tusks which sprout from either side of its tightly drawn mouth. Its beady eyes—all eight of them—sweep the stands and the grounds before him, waiting for its combatant to appear.
Fortiss curls his right hand to his heart and raises his left arm.