Citadel wanted to be her best friend. “I’m sure Georj can redeem the honour of the captains without you cheering for him.”
R’shiel frowned. “He will beat Loclon, won’t he?”
“He’d better!”
“Can I see him, before I go?”
“Of course,” Tarja said, taking her arm. “I’m sure if he’s planning to die tonight, the last thing he’d rather see is you, in preference to our ugly faces.”
He led her into the cavernous rooms below the amphitheatre, which had been built to house and train the fabled magical horses of the Harshini, who, like their owners, were long extinct and barely remembered, except for a few pitiful heathens who insisted on following the old ways.
The Sisterhood scoffed at rumours of magical horses, just as they denounced the idea that the Harshini were anything more than licentious tricksters. Their magic, according to the Sisterhood, was nothing more than clever parlour tricks, their horses simply the result of good breeding. She wondered, sometimes, how a race as morally bankrupt and as supposedly indolent as theHarshini had ever managed to build anything as impressive as the Citadel.
Georj was sitting on a three-legged stool in a large torchlit alcove, surrounded by several of his friends. They were all offering him advice, much of which, from the pained expression on his face, he considered useless. He looked up at R’shiel’s approach, and leapt to his feet, pushing away his well-meaning advisers.
“R’shiel!” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Has the thought of my glorious victory finally overcome your aversion to bloodsport?”
“I thought this was a duel, not a bloodsport, Georj,” she scolded.
“Never fear, little sister,” Tarja assured her. “Georj will give young Loclon a lesson in swordplay and a small scar to remember him by, that’s all.”
R’shiel leaned forward and kissed Georj’s cheek lightly. “Be careful, Georj. And good luck.”
“He’ll need all the luck he can get, my Lady.”
R’shiel turned to find Loclon standing behind her, flanked by two other lieutenants. She had only ever seen him from a distance before and decided that the Novices and Probates who spoke dreamily of his looks were, for once, probably speaking the truth. He was young, not much past twenty, and wore plain leather trousers, knee-high boots, a sword and a blue sash tied around his waist. Georj was dressed identically, although his sash was red. Loclon moved with easy grace, his lithe body oiled and well muscled in the torchlight. Georj was taller and heavier than the younger man, who reminded R’shiel of a leopard feigning indifference to its prey before it closed in for the kill.
Loclon stepped forward. “Is this your sister, Captain Tenragan?”
Tarja did not appear too pleased that he had forced an introduction. “R’shiel, this is Lieutenant Loclon.”
“Lieutenant,” R’shiel said, with a barely civil curtsy. Something about this handsome young man set her teeth on edge. There was an air about him that spoke of arrogance, of cruelty.
“My Lady,” Loclon replied. “I would be honoured if you would wish me luck as well.”
“I was under the impression you didn’t need anything as mundane as luck, Lieutenant.”
Loclon flushed as Georj and his friends roared with laughter. The young man’s eyes blazed dangerously for a moment before he composed himself.
“Then you’d best wish all your luck on Captain Drake, my Lady. The old man will need it.” With that, he stalked off towards the Arena.
R’shiel turned to the “old man” who was all of twenty-eight, her eyes full of concern. “Be careful, Georj.”
“Don’t worry about me, R’shiel,” he declared. “Worry for all your friends in the Dormitories who will cry themselves to sleep tonight when I scar that pretty face of his.”
Georj followed Loclon toward the Arena, his seconds in tow, full of laughter and back-slapping camaraderie.
R’shiel turned to Tarja. “Tarja,
R’shiel frowned. “He will beat Loclon, won’t he?”
“He’d better!”
“Can I see him, before I go?”
“Of course,” Tarja said, taking her arm. “I’m sure if he’s planning to die tonight, the last thing he’d rather see is you, in preference to our ugly faces.”
He led her into the cavernous rooms below the amphitheatre, which had been built to house and train the fabled magical horses of the Harshini, who, like their owners, were long extinct and barely remembered, except for a few pitiful heathens who insisted on following the old ways.
The Sisterhood scoffed at rumours of magical horses, just as they denounced the idea that the Harshini were anything more than licentious tricksters. Their magic, according to the Sisterhood, was nothing more than clever parlour tricks, their horses simply the result of good breeding. She wondered, sometimes, how a race as morally bankrupt and as supposedly indolent as theHarshini had ever managed to build anything as impressive as the Citadel.
Georj was sitting on a three-legged stool in a large torchlit alcove, surrounded by several of his friends. They were all offering him advice, much of which, from the pained expression on his face, he considered useless. He looked up at R’shiel’s approach, and leapt to his feet, pushing away his well-meaning advisers.
“R’shiel!” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Has the thought of my glorious victory finally overcome your aversion to bloodsport?”
“I thought this was a duel, not a bloodsport, Georj,” she scolded.
“Never fear, little sister,” Tarja assured her. “Georj will give young Loclon a lesson in swordplay and a small scar to remember him by, that’s all.”
R’shiel leaned forward and kissed Georj’s cheek lightly. “Be careful, Georj. And good luck.”
“He’ll need all the luck he can get, my Lady.”
R’shiel turned to find Loclon standing behind her, flanked by two other lieutenants. She had only ever seen him from a distance before and decided that the Novices and Probates who spoke dreamily of his looks were, for once, probably speaking the truth. He was young, not much past twenty, and wore plain leather trousers, knee-high boots, a sword and a blue sash tied around his waist. Georj was dressed identically, although his sash was red. Loclon moved with easy grace, his lithe body oiled and well muscled in the torchlight. Georj was taller and heavier than the younger man, who reminded R’shiel of a leopard feigning indifference to its prey before it closed in for the kill.
Loclon stepped forward. “Is this your sister, Captain Tenragan?”
Tarja did not appear too pleased that he had forced an introduction. “R’shiel, this is Lieutenant Loclon.”
“Lieutenant,” R’shiel said, with a barely civil curtsy. Something about this handsome young man set her teeth on edge. There was an air about him that spoke of arrogance, of cruelty.
“My Lady,” Loclon replied. “I would be honoured if you would wish me luck as well.”
“I was under the impression you didn’t need anything as mundane as luck, Lieutenant.”
Loclon flushed as Georj and his friends roared with laughter. The young man’s eyes blazed dangerously for a moment before he composed himself.
“Then you’d best wish all your luck on Captain Drake, my Lady. The old man will need it.” With that, he stalked off towards the Arena.
R’shiel turned to the “old man” who was all of twenty-eight, her eyes full of concern. “Be careful, Georj.”
“Don’t worry about me, R’shiel,” he declared. “Worry for all your friends in the Dormitories who will cry themselves to sleep tonight when I scar that pretty face of his.”
Georj followed Loclon toward the Arena, his seconds in tow, full of laughter and back-slapping camaraderie.
R’shiel turned to Tarja. “Tarja,
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