Free Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) by A.C. Smyth

readiness to fight, and circled each other warily, bare feet seeking for purchase on the ashy ground. Wrestlers rarely spoke once the fight was called; indeed, most considered it bad sportsmanship. Talking to your opponent could be considered trying to throw him off guard or interrupt his concentration. But as they locked eyes, then arms, each watching for the chance to catch the other a fraction off balance, Pietrig murmured, “I didn’t ask for the exchange. You have to believe me.”
    Sylas stared at him. Was this why he had called him out? To try to convince him that he had not betrayed him? He would never believe that of Pietrig, and for all Zynoa’s apparent anger, he didn’t think she believed it either.
    He let his glance flicker down to Pietrig’s feet—saw the other man’s gaze follow his for the fraction of a heartbeat it took Sylas to grab Pietrig by the shoulders and try to force him down. But Pietrig was heavier and had wrestled plenty over the last few months. He managed to stand his ground and hook a foot around the back of Sylas’s legs to throw him off balance. These two had traded these opening moves so many times they knew them like the steps of a dance. All that remained was for one to put a foot wrong, make a misstep, and the other would take advantage.
    They spun, crashing to the ground. Sylas could taste ash on his lips, feel it grinding into his skin. They jostled for position, first one on top, then the other, limbs entwined more intimately than lovers. The sheen of sweat coated bodies and dampened hair, and skin slid on skin as it became more difficult for either man to get a grip.
    Pietrig pinned Sylas, hands grasping both his arms, body pressing against Sylas’s chest. As Sylas strained and heaved to shift him, Pietrig bent and hissed in his ear. “They plan rebellion. The linandra teams hide stones from the Irenthi. You must tell the Aerie. They will know what to do.”
    Sylas ground his teeth, arching his back to throw Pietrig off. Surely this was a ploy to distract him? Chesammos were peaceful. The idea of rebellion was so alien to them that Pietrig had used the Irenthi word, lacking the ability in their own language to convey what he meant. But Yestro had been murdered. That was inescapable truth.
    Squirming out from under, Sylas threw his weight to one side, rolling over to reverse their positions. The hum of the onlookers’ voices rose to a low buzz at this development. He had his hands on Pietrig’s neck. If he could only hold it, a choke on the windpipe was an effective way to achieve a submission. But Pietrig wrapped one leg around Sylas’s back, bringing his other foot up into Sylas’s midriff, kicking at his stomach, trying to push him off.
    Forced to release Pietrig’s throat, where a red weal rose on the skin, Sylas rolled and Pietrig once again scrabbled to get free. The two men faced each other on hands and knees, panting for breath.
    “Stay in the Aerie if you can,” Pietrig gasped. “They mean to use your mother too.”
    His mother would be no use to rebels. She had that string of linandra, but the beads were small and misshapen, hardly more than chips—the sort the linandra diggers would leave at the pit, knowing them worthless. Why a singer had even bothered to bore holes in them he couldn’t understand.
    They engaged again, evenly matched. They were dirt-caked now, the dust and ash from the ground clinging to their bodies. Sylas rubbed his eyes, then wished he had not. They stung with sweat and dirt and he was momentarily blinded.
    Pietrig pounced.
    Catlike he swept Sylas over, landing him on his back with a thump that knocked the wind out of him. Sylas felt his arm twisted unnaturally up and over his head. Before he could retaliate, Pietrig had his legs twisted around Sylas’s shoulder, his foot forcing Sylas’s head to one side. His other leg wrapped around Sylas’s arm, and Pietrig pulled on his foot to draw the limb up farther. He leaned over Sylas’s