Auguries of Dawn

Parting ways with Devlin Alvik upon the street outside the castle, Reagan Maves’ thoughts were now alternating between a desire to kill the royal jester, or wanting to thank the very stars that he’d found her when he did.

  More than two years it had taken her to come this close, two years to find a way to see herself within King DeSiva’s very castle grounds, armed with a knife and a burning desire to finally see out the revenge owed her. Being Dhan’Marian, however, she really had no choice but to see Master Alvik’s inadvertent thwarting of her plans as Fate’s interruption, Destiny's way of letting her know that this was not yet the right time, that she would either be unsuccessful or perhaps killed herself if she carried on in her attempt to murder the king this night. But on the other hand, the jester may have just foiled the only true chance she’d have to see out her aim, and this possibility left her furious.

  She’d arrived in Aralexia more than a year ago. Beforehand, she’d spent several seasons in Inuria, the home city of Revenge, after pledging this as her Secondary. She had learned much there, both from the clergypersons of her Patron, Rizea, as well as from the many others born to Revenge who’d come to congregate in their home city. Of course, she had never revealed to any there her true mark, but most seemed to presume the figure held some level of importance simply due to the risk she’d taken by doubling her fortune. But despite her target remaining unidentified, she’d received nothing but encouragement from those many like-minded souls.

  Leaving Inuria and heading straight for Aralexia, she’d lain low the first couple seasons after her arrival here in Justice’s home city. Scrutinizing from afar the workings of the king and his council, she’d quickly come to the conclusion that Devlin Alvik would be her likeliest way in. Not only was the royal jester known for being personable, but the responsibilities of his title often had him intermingling with the local populace in ways no other upon the council did. The games of the King’s Challenge had presented to her a perfect opportunity.

  Befriending one of the five persons Master Alvik hired, year after year, to act as his assistants during the course of the games, Reagan had proceeded to poison the women. This treatment would not kill her, but instead keep her incapacitated with fever and vomiting for some time, regretfully leading her to conclude that she could not do her part for the jester this year. It had then been but an easy thing to plant the idea so that the victim herself was soon advocating for Reagan to take her place, a suggestion which was accepted without fanfare.

  Having gained a position that would give her a legitimate excuse to get near the king, she now had only to see out her tasks, raise no suspicions, and await her opportunity—an opportunity she thought she’d gained this very day, after volunteering to bring the completed list of games’ participants to Master Alvik here upon the castle grounds. She’d been trying to devise a way to get past the knights and into the castle when the jester had come upon her, bearing a request that would now see her wasting her entire evening.

  Attempting to harness her fury, Reagan lifted the scroll he’d returned to her and began to unfurl it with little curiosity as she threaded her way through the streets. Since she’d not been one of the assistants to actually compile the list, she wasn’t familiar with all the names on it. The five of them had manned the enlistment booth in teams, and she’d personally seen few men of interest, mostly just knights and Justice officers seeking nothing more than money or prestige.

  Because the running of the games had been known to grow rather frenzied, Master Alvik insisted that all his workers be housed in one convenient location for the duration, easily found and summoned should he require them at a moment’s notice. All five therefore currently had rooms in one of the most opulent inns in the city, financed by the royal jester himself. Reagan was just closing in upon this destination when she began running her eye down the list of more than sixty names, hoping to somehow spot those who would make her task of this night relatively easy. Following Master Alvik’s instructions, she disregarded all those listed as knights and Justice officers and swept her gaze down to the those marked as “foreigners”, which meant any participants not native Dhan’Marians. Their races were listed beside their names, and Reagan scowled at seeing six of the twelve were in fact from Jennen, the country she’d been taken to and held in for more than ten years.

  Rydin Kale – Jennite.

  Her feet suddenly halted as her eyes grew wide, paused upon that name she had extremely good reason to know.

  Her liberator. Her rescuer. The man who’d appeared seemingly from nowhere and saved her life by taking that of her loathed captor, Hurl Bestry.

  Reagan had actually spent much time these past two years thinking about Rydin Kale, and lamenting the fact that she’d not learned more of him when she’d had the chance. But it appeared as though Destiny and Chaos were seeing to the matter, perhaps now giving her the opportunity to make good on the Life-Bond she owed him for saving her life. Strangely, she felt no fear for him, seeing his name there upon the list of the King’s Challenge participants, with her mind instead instantly working out ways around the rule that prohibited her, as one of Master Alvik’s assistants, to indulge in any gambling upon the combatants. Of course, all gambling was illegal anyway, so there would be ways around this ban, so long as she was careful—a minor inconvenience, since she now had every intention of placing a very heavy bet in Rydin’s favor.

  Smiling to herself, Reagan decided Rydin would definitely find himself on her own list of men to seek out this night, although she already knew enough about him to report on what Master Alvik was looking for from these assignments; the level of threat each presented. She would rate Rydin at high and leave it at that. If it was the jester’s intention to somehow manipulate the outcome, as she now suspected, it was really none of her concern; but she would refrain from giving any more details regarding her rescuer. Let them all see his capabilities for themselves once he took the field.

  Still standing before the doors of the inn, she moved to start re-rolling the scroll when a second name, clear at the bottom of the list, also caught her eye. Stunned, she dropped the scroll, scrambled to retrieve it, and then nearly ripped it in two in her haste to locate that name again. Staring, Reagan felt her body go numb with shock.

  Baiel Maves – Warlord.

  He was alive! Her brother, whom she’d now been separated for twelve years, and who she’d found not a trace of since returning to Dhanen’Mar, alive!

  And a warlord, she quickly reminded herself, staring at that word beside his name. Somehow, he must have found his way to Lutarre Keep, and been taken in by the men there. Suddenly overcome by a wave of immense pride, she continued to struggle with the idea of connecting the six-year old boy she’d known to the full-grown warlord he had evidently become.

  She had to find him, now, tonight! Master Alvik’s orders be damned—she’d waited far too long for word of her brother’s fate, and now to learn that he was here, in this very city—she had to go, had to speak with him!

  Reagan hastily re-rolled the scroll and pushed her way through the doors of the inn even as her mind continued firing dozens of thoughts at her. Most prominent among them, unfortunately, was the one reminding her that shirking any of her official duties, no matter what the excuse, might appear suspicious. Could be it would also anger the jester, causing him to terminate her services, which in turn would likely lose her the only possible chance she had of getting near enough to the king to deliver a death blow.

  She had no choice—Baiel would have to wait.

  With the serene expression she always strove to wear in public firmly in place, Reagan quickly summoned her four co-assistants into her private room on the third floor of the inn and explained Master Alvik’s instructions. From their reactions, Reagan gleaned this was the first year the royal jester had given such a demand, which made her extremely curious. She determined he was probably looking for a way to see Prince Luken from the Challenge alive.

  The othe
rs appeared to be coming to the same conclusion, but no one dared say anything even remotely to this effect. Reagan followed their lead and instead set about manipulating the division of the thirty-two names before them so that she would receive Rydin Kale as one of her objectives. This was accomplished quickly and without incident. The meeting broke up a short while later, and Reagan again left the inn, carrying a list consisting of five names in addition to Rydin’s.

  Thankfully, a record of where each man was staying in the city had been fashioned, information gathered upon sign-up. The reason for this was simple; because these sixty-four men would be facing each other in fights quite possibly to the death over the course of the next week, it was highly recommended that each find lodgings under a different roof than any of their adversaries. The city of Aralexia was large, and provided a more than adequate number of inns, both luxurious and modest, so this recommendation was generally followed.

  In the interest of expediency, however, Reagan had volunteered for the two men listed as “unknowns” who had evidently ignored this advice and taken up in the same dwelling, a small inn just a few blocks over. Both were recorded as being born to War, a fact that again only reminded her of her brother. Once she was done with these two, there would be only Rydin, two other “foreigners”, and one more “unknown” to check up on before being free to send her report on to Master Alvik at the castle and begin trying to seek out Baiel.

  A part of her was still reeling with euphoria over the news of him being alive and well, even though she was applying all her willpower to ignore the feeling for the time being. She had simply been imagining and plotting the king’s death for too long to let anything risk it now—even if that meant delaying the reunion with her brother a few hours more.

  It was nearing Fourteenth-hour when she reached the inn she was seeking, fully dark outside now but not so late most wouldn’t still be awake. She settled into the common room with a tall glass of spiced cider and spent the next several minutes simply taking in the scene.

  The room was fairly crowded, with a general air of excitement evident in the souls within. This was to be expected on the night preceding the start of the games. Listening to the chatter around her, however, it quickly became clear that none here were aware two combatants were staying in this very dwelling. Instead, most talk centered on speculations over the men who’d entered, which of them would make it past the first round, and how much should be bet upon their favorites. She heard more than one reference made in regard to “the warlord” and how it would be nothing short of stupid to bet on any but him to take the final prize. Reagan was glad to hear this, as it boded well for her brother’s safety throughout the Challenge—a worry that now had her more than a little preoccupied.

  She was surreptitiously taking in Birth medallions while listening to the talk around her, finding a wide variety showcased here; there were Justice and Harvest, Commerce and Love, Arts, Death, and many Travelers. And all seemed to be getting along well, with prejudices put aside as they held to a common excitement over the looming thrill of the games.

  Seeing no War Birth medallions, Reagan expanded her searching gaze and settled it upon two men seated over in the corner of the room, near to the guttering hearth. They appeared to be speaking quietly amongst themselves, largely ignoring the noise and chatter going on all about them. Following her instincts, she stood from her seat and moved casually in their direction, managing to snag an unoccupied stool at a nearby table. Casting them a quick glance as she positioned herself, she was pleased to see her instincts had been correct—for both were showing War-born medallions.

  Balancing her cider on a crowded tabletop just within arm’s reach, she dug into her satchel, removed parchment, ink, and quill, and began making notes. They included the fact that both these men seemed of an age, and shared a similar physique.

  After a few minutes of hearing nothing but inaudible murmurs from their conversation, Reagan chanced shuffling her stool slightly closer. They appeared not to notice, and she began to catch the majority of their words.

  Boring, she thought after several more minutes.

  The two, whose names she knew to be Nathon Wythe and Taleb Okin although she had no idea which was which, appeared to be discussing a woman named Oliveah and the fact that she was apparently so angry at the both of them—for reasons not mentioned—that she’d denied speaking to them earlier that day. Reagan had no idea who this Oliveah person was, but she gave her silent congratulations for having the ability to string these two along—both fine examples of the male species, if she did say so herself.

  The conversation remained largely uneventful until one of them—Reagan still wasn’t certain who was Nathon and who Taleb—actually made the suggestion of possibly withdrawing from the games. The other clearly thought little of the idea, and a short but heated debate followed. The result left neither of them planning to take so bold a step—a wise decision, as trying to squirm one's way out of the competition once signed up wasn’t exactly an easy task, and known to prove no less deadly than the combat itself.

  Reagan continued eavesdropping for the next half-hour or so, until the two men decided they’d best go upstairs and get some rest should they be called on to fight the next day. By this time, Reagan knew both were newly-liberated slaves, set free only days ago by one Lord Ean Oslund, that both were in love with this Oliveah person they spoke of, and that neither appeared particularly worried they might be killed during combat sometime in the next week. She had also, by now, determined Taleb to be the green-eyed man, and Nathon the blue-eyed, and, rather surprisingly, knew them both to be very interested in the possible whereabouts of one Flynn Fajen, a man everyone in the country knew to be the commander of Dhanen’Mar’s Thieves’ network. She had no idea what this might be about, but added it to her report, and summed up by classing both Nathon and Taleb as a middling threat—a conclusion made solely on their blatant confidence and War Birth medallions; for if not for those factors, these two former slaves would have ranked no higher than low.

  She left the modest inn once they’d vanished up the stairs, checking her list to see which mark was closest to where she now stood. Ten minutes later, she was seated in another common room of another inn, listening to a hugely-muscled man from Balsh, a country across the sea, loudly proclaim to all who were listening how he was going to thrash all men selected to face him.

  The man’s name was Gliddion Xaz, and he did indeed possess an imposing presence. Born to Death, he was big, he was strong, and he carried enough scars to convince anyone that he’d seen his fair share of violence throughout his life. Reagan silently wished him a painful death when he specifically stated how he would enjoy tearing the Dhan’Marian warlord’s spine from his back.

  She rated him as a high threat and moved on, before the temptation to poison him grew too strong.

  The next man on her list was a native of the country Navosa, which lay just across Dhanen’Mar’s eastern border. His name was Kem Maeda, and she discovered him in a most unusual location. Behind his inn, one much more affluent than the others she’d visited this night, was a large stone fountain, complete with fish and colored lights. The Navosi was alone, and swimming in this fountain, completely naked but for his Justice Birth Medallion.

  Only because she was so dedicated to her task—and wanted to finish it as quickly as possible—did Reagan gather the required gumption to approach the man and make an attempt at conversation. She was relieved to quickly discover that Kem Maeda seemed a decent enough fellow, despite his present public nudity. Because his country, Navosa, was largely comprised of desert, he’d apparently taken the sight of so much excess water, what was currently in the fountain, as a sign of good fortune which he was hoping would bring him luck in the tournament. She further learned he was the last-born prince of Navosa’s reigning king, and that he was here unbeknownst to his father and entire family.

  Reagan had ended the conversation by calmly wishing him mu
ch luck, but had then relayed her alarm over the situation in her notes to Master Alvik. Best he looked to manipulating Prince Kem Maeda’s safety throughout the games as well as Prince Luken’s—otherwise there was a very good chance that a war would inadvertently be started here. Because of this, she ranked Kem as a high risk, with explicit notes on why she’d done so.

  There now remained only two men left upon her list, and she already knew enough about one of them to make an adequate report to Master Alvik. Curiosity, however, got the better of her, and so she started toward the place that was said to lodge the Jennite Rydin Kale.

  He was staying in one of the seedier inns in the city, down by the waterfront. Actually, it quite likely was the seediest. Now having been in Aralexia more than a year, Reagan was aware of the establishment, although she’d never before gotten this close; known for its brawling and illegal gambling over games of rolling bones, she, like most locals, had always given the place a wide berth.

  Shrugging, she approached it now and entered through its front door, which was hanging somewhat askew upon its hinges. She then stood in the doorway, hands on her hips while looking about the dim interior.

  Directly ahead was a rickety staircase leading to the rooms above. To her right was the common room, which evidently doubled as a tavern as it had a plain wooden plank—non-sanded and unvarnished, by the looks of it—serving as the countertop of the bar. There was a thick smell of stale ale and unwashed human bodies. Only a few lanterns gave a soft glow to fight the darkness, this likely done on purpose in an effort to keep the patrons from clearly seeing the hovel they were currently dwelling in, she thought.

  Reagan continued to stand in the doorway, surveying the scene. There were about fifteen men littering the chairs and stools, plus a few more on the floor, and most were now looking in her direction. She quickly surmised it was not a common occurrence for a woman to deliberately set foot within these walls.

  “I’m looking for Rydin Kale,” she announced, not seeing his among the faces blearily gazing her way.

  The hulking man behind the bar snorted at her. “I don’t think he’ll be of much use to you, but if you can get him upstairs and into his room, I’d be much obliged,” he said, taking a step back and gesturing to a man apparently passed out with his head upon the bar.

  Reagan frowned. She knew it was not uncommon for women in the city to throw themselves at any man entered in the competition, and clearly the barkeep was thinking she’d come looking for Rydin for just that reason. Not caring enough to correct him, she began striding across the dirt floor toward the one she sought. “He doesn’t appear to be causing you much trouble,” she commented, now close enough to hear Rydin’s faint snores.

  “He’s been drinking and trying to pick fights all day,” the barkeep told her. “No one will touch him, seeing as he’s entered in the games and all, so he’s mostly just been making a nuisance of himself and driving away all my customers.”

  Reagan’s only response to this was a dismissive wave, which was received with a grumble by the barkeep as he turned away. Leaning her arm next to Rydin’s head, which was face-down, she grabbed a fistful of his hair with her other hand and pulled back.

  He was reaching for his sword before his eyes even fully opened, and Reagan immediately released her hold and jumped back, startled.

  He blinked at her profusely, seemed to focus, and then relaxed the hold on his weapon, apparently finding her appearance completely nonthreatening.

  “What?” he snapped at her, still blinking.

  Relatively certain that she was no longer in danger of being stabbed or gored, she settled onto the stool next to him and aimed at him a disapprovingly look.

  “Do you think it wise to be drinking like this the night before the games are to begin?” she asked.

  He rubbed his eyes, shrugging. “The first round will take several days. It’s fairly unlikely I’ll get called on tomorrow.”

  “Unlikely but not impossible,” she returned, wanting to smack him. “Should fortune be in your favor, you may want to consider staying sober for the remainder of the week.”

  He shrugged again, and then leaned forward slightly to squint at her. “Have we met?”

  She grinned faintly. “I told you Destiny and Chaos would see to our paths crossing again. Although even I was surprised to find you enlisted in the games here in Dhanen’Mar.”

  He stared at her for another minute, paying special attention to her hair, before dropping his eyes to her medallions. Her Birth was, of course, displayed fully, but her Secondary, like his own, was turned inward.

  “Reagan Maves,” he said, nodding slightly, still staring at her. “It is good to see you well, although I’m guessing you didn’t take my advice and steer clear of Inuria.”

  She didn’t reply, seeing any response to that as unnecessary.

  “Did you ever find your brother?” he slurred, reaching for the half-empty tankard that had been sitting next to his head atop the bar.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ve just learned that he is also entered in the games.”

  Rydin seemed to find this interesting as he gulped the remainder of his ale. “Who is he? I’ll be certain to go easy on him should we be called on to face each other.”

  Reagan stared back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Identifying him shouldn’t be difficult—he is the lone warlord entered, after all.”

  He glanced at her, grinning faintly, while setting his empty tankard back onto the counter. “You Dhan’Marians certainly carry a high opinion of your warlords, don’t you? This should be interesting.”

  Reagan slid from her stool. “All right, I’m getting you upstairs and into bed before you cause me to lose my temper. Now—move.”

  He continued to appear amused even as he obligingly pushed himself up from his stool. “If you insist,” he said.

  She took hold of his arm and all but dragged him up the stairs, which creaked alarmingly beneath their feet. His steps were somewhat steadier than she’d been expecting, but there remained little doubt that he was still grossly intoxicated. He would indeed be in rough shape if he happened to be one of the men called on to fight the next day.

  He managed to locate his room and Reagan all but shoved him onto the floor pallet that was apparently serving as his bed. “Sleep it off,” she told him. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

  He rolled himself onto his back, his eyes a gleam in the darkness as he looked up at her. “You’re not staying?”

  Had he been even mildly sober, or she not so anxious to find Baiel, she might have been tempted. But it simply wasn’t the night for such considerations.

  “Perhaps another time,” she told him, turning back to the door. “I wish you luck should you see combat tomorrow.”

  He made a reply, but it was groggy and already muffled with sleep. She closed the door behind her and made her way back down the perilous stairwell, nodding simply to the barkeep when he called out his thanks to her.

  She included nothing of Rydin’s drunkenness in her report to Master Alvik, simply relating that he had the muscles of an ox and the confidence of a king. As already decided, she rated him a high threat, and then turned to the final name on her list. Eugan Reif.

  Unfortunately, this Dhan’Marian was already behind closed doors and abed when she arrived at his inn, forcing her to find more creative ways of gathering the needed intelligence. Thankfully, however, many of the other inhabitants of the inn were nowhere near ready to retire for the night, and most were more than eager to discuss the Challenge combatant staying here in their very own inn. Reagan mingled with the common-room crowd, learning a few mildly interesting tidbits, and actually sharing a glass of cider with Eugan Reif’s very own cousin, a young man named Sabian. He appeared quite willing to chatter on about his cousin, ultimately giving her more than enough details to make her report.

  Eugan Reif, she relayed onto her parchment, was the s
on of one Lord Guerin Reif, of Tyrell, the home city of the Arts. He was born to Death, backed by Justice, and, from all told, seemed a kindly fellow who had entered the games for the simple reason of attempting to bring some prestige to his family line. Apparently the Reifs were commonly afflicted with being born to the Patron of Death, and much of the rest of Dhanen’Mar’s highborn society shunned them for it. Reagan didn’t understand the desire of wanting to risk your life just to win the approval of such snobs, but her job was to report, not judge, so she simply jotted down the facts and left it at that. In conclusion, she was tempted to rate Eugan as a low threat, but the truth of his Death Birth medallion caused her to bump him up to middling. Underestimating anyone’s Birth Patron in a forum such as the King’s Challenge would simply be foolish.

  With her task now complete, and at just past Ninth-hour, Reagan headed back toward the castle. Despite the lateness of the hour the streets retained a fair amount of traffic, brought on by the anticipation of the following day’s festivities, but a heavy presence of Justice officers kept the peace effectively. She had no trouble reaching her destination quickly, and announced herself to the two knights at the castle gates. They took her report, made neatly upon one long scroll, and assured her it would be taken to royal jester immediately. She thanked them and turned back into the city, finally free to seek out her brother.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t certain where to even begin looking. Since Baiel hadn’t been on her list of objectives, she had not been provided the location of where in Aralexia he was lodged, and it would have appeared too suspicious had she asked—although, once his name was announced, no doubt many would realize it was no different than her own. Her only worry over this was that their pasts would somehow be discovered, her intentions here deduced, although she realized this was a remote threat. Still, she would try to remain diligent. Allowing anything to foil her plans at this juncture would be inexcusable.

  But as to the matter of finding a way to locate her brother, she wasn’t completely without options. In fact, with so much of the city still buzzing with imminent excitement, it did not appear odd when she began questioning random passersby as to the quarters of the warlord.

  All seemed to assume her purpose was no different than the presumption made by the barkeep back at Rydin’s dwelling place. Content to leave them with this theory so long as it brought her to her brother, she finally got a lead just before Second-hour, from a young golden-haired woman of about her own age who wore a Thieves Birth medallion.

  She looked annoyed when Reagan paused her on the street to question her, but she answered readily enough, although impatiently.

  “He’s staying at The Dancing Damsel, same as me,” she replied, looking as though she had either no care or no time to consider why Reagan was asking this of her.

  Reagan moved aside so as to no longer impede the young woman, and then shouted her thanks to her retreating back when she moved on without another word.

  The Dancing Damsel was a fairly well-regarded inn sitting near to the arena where the games would begin, now in only a matter of hours. Realizing that it was, in fact, now the middle of the night, she briefly considered leaving this for the morning, but didn’t want to take the risk of not having the chance to see her brother before he might need to fight. She therefore decided just to keep on, her feet now running through the near-deserted streets.

  The common room of The Dancing Damsel was close to empty, with only two men sitting across from each other in chairs by the fireplace. With a quick start of surprise, she saw one had the brown skin of a Cejan, and realized him for Flynn Fajen, the man who had somehow gained a decidedly murderous interest from Taleb Okin and Nathon Wythe. Seeing him there, Reagan briefly debated giving him a warning of this, but reconsidered when she realized doing so might interfere with the secrecy of her task—and because the very last person who needed a hint about Master Alvik possibly manipulating the outcome of the games was the man who’d be overseeing all the gambling done upon them.

  She passed by Fajen and his yellow-haired, pale companion wordlessly and started up the stairs. She was now trying to determine exactly how she was going to locate her brother’s room without pounding on every door, a practice that would probably see her dragged out into the street and stoned.

  Indecisive, she paused upon the landing at the top of the stairs. Perhaps she really would have no choice but to wait for daylight.

  Her eye then caught upon a shadowy figure near to the end of the corridor, standing silent and unmoving in the shadows. Curious, she began stepping forward, squinting in the dim light thrown from but a single sconce upon the wall.

  “Hello?” she called out to the figure, drawing near.

  The man shifted in her direction, his face still hidden in shadow, and gave an audible sigh.

  “Hello?” she tried again, annoyed at his lack of response. She stopped before him, now able to see him more clearly. He looked to be about ten years her senior, and wore an expression of exasperation. He was also adorned in a long red cloak and War Birth medallion.

  “You are a warlord!” she realized, still taking him in. “Please—you must tell me which room keeps Baiel Maves.”

  The warlord sighed again. “Miss, please; you must understand that the man needs his rest, lest he be called on to fight tomorrow. I must ask you to seek your entertainment elsewhere.”

  Reagan rapidly concluded that she was not the first woman to attempt gaining entry into her brother’s room this night.

  “You misunderstand,” she told the warlord now. “I am his sister.”

  He said nothing for a moment, and then was peering down at her with narrowed eyes. “You’d best be telling the truth about that. Baiel has been seeking an answer to his sister’s fate for many years.”

  Reagan was instantly both surprised and pleased—apparently her brother had spoken of her to his fellow warlords, and not given her up for dead as he otherwise might have after so many years.

  “Tell me your name,” the warlord was saying now, still regarding her somewhat suspiciously.

  Reagan tossed her flame-colored hair, a glory she’d shared with Baiel when they were children, and brought a hand to her Birth medallion. “My name is Reagan Maves, and I was born to Revenge. Now, may I pass?”

  From his expression, it seemed likely Baiel had not informed his fellow warlords of her Birth Patron, but clearly this one recognized her name. Wearing a sudden grin, he stepped aside and said, “With my blessing. It gives me great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Reagan Maves.”

  Reagan didn’t reply, stepping past him and putting her hand to the door. She entered the room quietly, but took only a step inside before pausing.

  Baiel was not asleep as she’d been expecting, but rather wide awake and sitting in a cushioned chair turned toward the window. Hearing the door click shut behind her, he turned to throw a glance over his shoulder.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” he frowned, taking her in.

  Reagan, in turn, could feel the wide, elated smile that had now plastered itself across her own face. Unable to speak, she simply stared as her brother got to his feet and started over to her.

  He was tall, at least six paces or more, and strong as any imagined warlord would be. Their features, mainly their noses and mouths, were similar, as was the color of their hair and bright blue eyes. He was before her now, paused and suddenly giving her a similar scrutiny.

  “Brother,” she finally managed, feeling tears begin to leak from her eyes.

  His look of puzzlement grew to one of instant wonder. “Reagan? Is it truly you?”

  Reagan was not an emotional woman, but she was crying openly as she flung herself into his arms. “All these years, I feared you were dead,” she mumbled, clinging to him. It was an indescribable feeling, to now know she was not alone, that at least one member of her family still existed in this world.

  Finally pulling away, he haste
ned to fetch her a handkerchief to help dry her tears and urged her to take the chair where he’d been sitting. After pouring them each a glass of wine, he sank down onto the bed across from her.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said, staring at her, “when you were taken.”

  She had known he would ask this, and had been debating the entire evening the answer she would give. Looking at him now, though, she was left with only a single conclusion; she could not tell him the truth of it, not this day, and likely not ever. The fact that she carried the knowledge was enough—she did not want Baiel to have to carry it too.

  And so she spun a story, one that seemed reasonably awful but nowhere near as horrifying as the truth, of being taken to Jennen as a slave, where she was forced to work in an orchard and received only the occasional beating. After her decade-long slave term ended, she went on to explain, she’d returned to Dhanen’Mar, hoping to find some trace of him.

  His tale, in turn, was much as she’d figured; dumped into Dhanen’Mar’s slave market, he’d escaped his master and made his way to Lutarre Keep, where he was accepted without question for being War-born, and then trained in the art of combat all the years since. She was both relieved and grateful that he appeared to have escaped any similar horrors to what she’d lived through—of the two Maves children, he had no doubt proven the luckier.

  Asking him what had prompted his participation in the games, she then learned of her brother’s rather low opinion of the spectacle of the King’s Challenge, and that it was on the Patron of War’s very wishes that he was here. Baiel now seemed convinced he’d been sent to Aralexia for the express purpose of at last finding her, and while he would see out his commitment to the games, they seemed a very minor concern to him.

  Several times, she caught him glancing at her Secondary medallion, his curiosity evident but not spoken. Even a king could not demand someone show their Choice medallion—a matter left entirely to the discretion of its wearer. And she had no intention of ever revealing to her brother the risk she’d taken. So when the topic finally came around, as she knew it would, to what had brought her here to Aralexia, another decision she’d been wrestling with all evening was instantly made.

  Of course, she lied.

  Chapter 27