The Silent Tempest (Book 2)

  “Did you make this deal, Byovar?” asked Tyrion, giving the Illeniel lore-warden a hard stare.

  “I did, but I was bound to silence,” said the She’Har without flinching. “As their trainer it was deemed to be too much of an advantage for you to be told in advance.”

  “And what about our opponents? Were they told?”

  “They have been preparing for this for several weeks now,” said Koralltis.

  Tyrion was furious. “My children could die. This isn’t fair.”

  “Other groves lose slaves in the arena every week,” said Koralltis. “How is this different?”

  “You’re stacking the odds against them,” insisted Tyrion. “It’s as though you want to kill them. Am I wrong?” Sudden thunder rumbled in the distance, although the sky had been clear all morning.

  “The other groves will no longer wager shuthsi if they feel there is no chance of winning,” said Byovar, his eyes calm.

  The wind picked up, and the sky seemed to darken slightly as clouds began to form near the horizon. Tyrion leaned closer, until he was almost nose to nose with Byovar. “Fine, if this is what you want, you’ll do something for me as well.”

  “What?” asked the Illeniel She’Har.

  “Double, no—triple the Illeniel bet. If my blood is on the line, I want it to be costly for the loser,” he said bitterly.

  “But if they lose…” protested Byovar.

  “Same difference, Byovar,” said Tyrion. “If they lose, then I want it to be all the more painful for the ones who put my children in this damnable situation.”

  “I don’t think you realize how much has already been wagered,” responded Byovar.

  “I don’t care,” he growled. “If it were up to me, they’d have to wager it all. My children mean more to me than these stupid games.”

  “The match is supposed to start in a few minutes,” interjected Koralltis. “There is no time to renegotiate the betting.”

  “Then make time,” ground out Tyrion. “Otherwise there will be no match today.”

  “We do not have the option to refuse at this point,” insisted Byovar.

  “You don’t have the option to go forward if you don’t meet my demand,” said Tyrion menacingly.

  Byovar stared at him in surprise, “Tyrion, what are you implying?”

  Dark clouds had covered the sun, and the air seemed heavy and foreboding despite the quickening winds. “I’m not implying anything, Byovar. I’m threatening.” A loud rumble echoed in the distance, underscoring his words.

  The lore-warden met his gaze evenly, but didn’t reply. Tyrion could almost see the She’Har’s mind working, calculating risks and doing the math regarding the Illeniel bets. Finally he turned to Koralltis, “Will you allow me the time to bring this proposal to the other groves?”

  Koralltis eyed the encroaching storm, “You have an hour.”

  Tyrion smiled, “I will go select my two participants.” He left the two of them and returned to where Kate and Layla were waiting.

  Kate’s coppery hair was being tossed by the heavy breeze. “Are we done for the day? The weather seems to be turning bad,” she said.

  He took a few minutes to explain the situation to them.

  “You risk punishment by arguing with them,” observed Layla.

  Kate nodded, “At least that explains the weather.”

  “I’m not doing that,” insisted Tyrion.

  “It happens every time you get upset,” noted Kate. “You either need to learn to control the weather better, or learn to control your temper.”

  “I haven’t lost my temper,” said Tyrion, even as he realized that the voice of the wind was playing strongly in the background of his mind. He made a conscious effort to block it out. “I forced Byovar to renegotiate the wager to give us a little time to prepare.”

  “There’s not much you can do in an hour,” said Layla.

  “We can choose our two and notify them,” he returned. “Give them a little while to think about how they will cooperate with each other.”

  “Brigid is the strongest,” observed the warden. “She is also the most confident among them.”

  “But she doesn’t work as well with the others,” he argued. “She isn’t likely to cooperate with a teammate.”

  That was a foreign concept for Layla. “You should choose the strongest and the most aggressive. Brigid is first in both regards.”

  Kate spoke up then, “I don’t know about their abilities, but Ryan is the best planner. He has a sharp mind.”

  “Then send him out with Brigid,” said Layla, “but I think both Sarah and David are stronger.”

  Tyrion agreed with Layla in that regard. In terms of absolute strength, all of his children were powerful, but Sarah and David were the closest to Brigid in raw aythar. Strength wasn’t the problem though, even if Layla couldn’t understand that. The two chosen had to be able to support one another.

  “What about Emma?” suggested Kate.

  He nodded, that had been the same direction his own instincts had been leaning. Emma was almost as strong as the two Layla had mentioned, but more importantly, she was naturally supportive. She had also proven herself to be decisive and determined even in her early battles. If anyone could work well with Ryan, it would be her. “Ryan and Emma it is then,” he pronounced.

  He went to Ryan’s holding cell first. The boy looked up at him with anticipation, “Time to go home?” Each of them had already fought once, so it was understandable that he expected his father’s next appearance to be when the arena matches were done.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Tyrion. “They want a special match today, but I’ve managed to force them to postpone it for an hour.”

  Ryan nodded in acceptance, appearing unconcerned. “What sort of match?”

  “Two on six,” answered Tyrion. “And the six have been preparing for this for weeks without our knowledge.”

  His son winced, “That’s bad odds. I’m guessing you want me to be one of our two?”

  He nodded at the young man.

  “Who’s my partner?” asked Ryan immediately.

  Tyrion had a sudden thought, “Who would you choose?”

  Ryan looked thoughtful, “Well I wouldn’t have expected you to pick me for starters. Is it Brigid?”

  “I asked who you would choose.”

  “Hmmm, I suppose Emma, or maybe Tad,” said his son at last. “Tad and I work well together, but he’s a bit more impulsive. Emma would probably be my first choice.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” said Tyrion.

  “Honestly, though, you should choose Ian,” commented Ryan.

  “Why?”

  “The odds are bad. If we’re going to lose, you’d miss him the least,” said Ryan with a grin.

  Tyrion laughed at the morbid humor. “Stop thinking like that. You’re facing six opponents who may be from a mix of different groves. They’ve been practicing for weeks together, and they may have a working knowledge of what you’re capable of. I want you to win. You’ve got maybe forty-five minutes to plan your strategy, and you won’t be able to talk to Emma until I retrieve you both at the beginning.”

  Ryan grimaced, “Any ideas?”

  Tyrion shrugged, “I’m an older version of Brigid. My solutions usually revolve around mass destruction or surprise. I chose you for a reason. You’re smarter than I am.”

  The boy’s brows lifted at that statement, “You don’t give yourself enough credit, old man.”

  “You don’t have time to waste flattering me,” said Tyrion, backing out of the holding cell. “I have to go inform your sister.”

  Emma took the news with pragmatic aplomb, “Ryan’s a good choice.”

  “Do you want to know why I chose you?” he asked her.

  She shook her head, “Wisdom.”

  Tyrion frowned.

  “It’s obvious you didn’t pick us for raw strength or talent. Brigid’s better, and some of the others are stronger than us,” said
Emma clinically. “Ryan’s the brightest, and I’m probably the only one with the wisdom and resolve to trust someone else to make decisions with my life.”

  Not for the first time, he marveled at her exceptional maturity. Emma had proven her inner strength more than once. “You make my point for me.”

  She nodded, and he turned to leave, but she spoke once more before he closed the door, “No matter what happens, Father, don’t blame yourself. You made the best choice for all of us.”

  Startled he glanced at her once more as the door closed. He stood there for a moment looking at the wooden cell door, and his vision blurred momentarily. She called me ‘Father’. He knew he would never deserve that appellation.

  The next forty minutes passed with dreadful slowness. Tyrion wasn’t accustomed to anxiety. He normally dealt with things directly and without hesitation. Even in his own days in the arena, he had learned not to worry over upcoming matches. His own life had come to mean little to him. This was different, however.

  “Stop it,” said Kate.

  “Stop what?”

  She glanced up at the sky, “That.”

  The weather had begun to clear up after he talked to Ryan and Emma, but it was clouding over again. Once again he was forced to close off the voice of the wind, it had snuck into his mind almost unconsciously.

  “Some men bite their nails,” observed Kate, “but not you. No, you have to be dramatic even when you worry.”

  “Sometimes the weather is just the weather,” he suggested to her.

  “Not when you’re around,” she said wryly.

  He sighed. He couldn’t really argue with her, since he knew she was right. Koralltis was walking toward them now.

  “It is time,” said the arena master.

  Tyrion nodded and went to collect his son and daughter. Once they stood together, there was no mistaking their resemblance to one another; both of them were lean and tall for their ages. Ryan’s sandy brown hair was similar to Emma’s mousy curls, and their eyes were almost the same chestnut shade. Emma took her brother’s hand as soon as he offered it to her, and they walked together toward the arena with an air of distraction.

  Layla wrinkled her face in disgust at the sight of them holding hands. “That’s just not right,” she commented.

  Tyrion laughed, for he knew what it meant. While they had all learned to speak mind to mind, physical contact made a deeper level of communication possible. With their hands clasped together, Ryan and Emma were able to share more than just words—sounds, shapes, and mental images would be passing between the two of them. That’s something their enemies would never think to do. Their aversion to physical contact makes that sort of intimacy impossible, he thought quietly.

  “Are you ready, Sister?” asked Ryan as they stepped onto the field still holding hands.

  Emma stopped a moment before stretching up on her toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek, “Always, Brother. I will protect you until the end. Win or lose, they won’t soon forget this day.” Together they marched toward their starting position.

  Tyrion’s eyes widened when he saw their opponents coming out from the other side of the field, four men and two women, all wearing brown leathers and bearing the wooden swords that marked them as wardens. “What the hell is this?!” he swore, looking toward Byovar.

  The lore-warden held up his hands, “Even I was unaware of this particular.”

  “Dammit!” cursed Tyrion. Wardens were normally exempt from arena combat, being long time veterans of many battles. He could also see that their aythar was stronger than that of the average She’Har slave, which wasn’t unusual given their experience and past successes. The wooden swords were also troublesome. Even at this distance, he could see that the weapons were unusual. A She’Har spellweave enwrapped each blade, giving them far greater cutting power. His children’s enchanted shields might be vulnerable if their strength ebbed.

  Any two of the wardens were enough to match either Emma or Ryan, and six—his children were overmatched.

  “Ryan was right,” muttered Tyrion. “I should have sent Ian.” But who would I have been willing to send out to die with him?

  “I can’t understand you when you mumble,” complained Kate.

  “I’m just worried,” he told her, and then he noticed a rough line in the dirt marking the place where Emma and Ryan had entered the field. It extended across the ground to where they now stood. His heart jumped as he realized what they meant to do. It might have worked, if those were normal slaves. If they didn’t have those swords. Now…?

  He sent his mind outward seeking to warn them, but the shield that protected the arena had already gone up, blocking any communication with the combatants. Shit! They’re going to get themselves killed.

  Kate gasped, “Daniel, you’re hurting me.”

  He realized he had been squeezing her hand too tightly, and he relaxed his grip with conscious effort. “Sorry.”

  “It’s bad isn’t it?” said Kate.

  Layla coughed, “Bad doesn’t begin to describe it. They’re fucked. Each one of those wardens is well known. That’s Braden the Butcher, Daggoth Demonfist, Laeri the Cold, Tibbon the Terrible, Shayla the Merciless, and Hesta,” she said, naming the wardens one by one.

  Tyrion knew the names if not the faces. He had faced none of them before, obviously, or they would have been dead already. They had earned their current status as wardens in the years after he had been retired from the arena.

  “Why doesn’t Hesta have a special title?” wondered Kate.

  Layla shrugged, “She has a bad temper and a habit of killing those who talk about her.”

  “How about Hesta the Irritable?” suggested Kate.

  The female warden laughed, “I wouldn’t say it within her hearing.”

  “Hesta the Mildly Annoyed then. Surely no one could take offence at that,” commented Kate.

  “Be quiet,” snapped Tyrion. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Sorry,” said Kate. “I’m just nervous.”

  The lights around the arena changed, and the chime sounded. The match had begun.

  Chapter 35

  The moment the match began, Ryan took to his feet, racing toward the six wardens. He had a tight shield around himself, and one of his arm blades was active. He kept that arm down and slightly behind him as he ran, cutting a thin line in the dirt as he ran. Emma remained behind, standing at their starting position, seemingly passive.

  It probably would have worked too, thought Tyrion, if it weren’t for those damn swords. He knew his son was making a fatal mistake. Ryan’s defense wouldn’t be enough to withstand all six wardens, not with the deadly weapons they carried. He and Emma obviously hoped to split the arena, using a reinforced shield to separate some of them from each other temporarily.

  As it stood now, however, Ryan was simply rushing into the lion’s teeth. Once he was dead, the others would simply surround Emma and wear her down. The match would be a short one.

  The six wardens spread out, forming a ‘v’ to welcome Ryan and funnel him between them, with three on either side. Their swords were out, and some of them were grinning already.

  Ryan was within mere feet of the first two when he exploded. Dirt and soil shot up and outward from beneath his feet, and in the confusion, a concealing mist filled the area. The two wardens closed on his position, ignoring the distractions as their blades swung wildly, trying to connect with their momentarily unseen opponent.

  It was an aythar laden mist, the sort that Tyrion had taught them to conceal themselves from magesight, but it didn’t last long. The two wardens farthest from him were summoning a wind to disperse the mist almost as soon as it had appeared.

  The ones attacking found nothing to connect with, however, for Ryan’s body was flying backward through the air, pulled as if on an invisible string. Emma had remained attached to him with a thin line of aythar, which she used now to jerk him back from the enemy’s deadly trap.

  The wardens were mome
ntarily surprised by his sudden retrieval. Tyrion had no doubt that since arena matches were normally one on one no one had ever seen one mage fling another about in such a manner, at least not for any purpose other than to harm them. Still, something didn’t seem right. He frowned as he tried to figure out what was bothering him.

  “That wasn’t a trap,” said Layla beside him. “He was the one that flung the soil up, not his opponents.”

  That doesn’t make sense, observed Tyrion. Unless he knew he couldn’t handle the wardens before he got to them.

  Ryan had landed next to his sister, and the two of them separated once more, this time running in opposite directions, one to either side, as though they planned to flank their opponents. They both had activated their shield enchantments now, and their armblades were out, making them each a serious threat, but if the wardens broke away to take them on, three to one on either side it wouldn’t be much of a fight.

  Something was wrong with Ryan, though. His shield enchantment didn’t feel right. It didn’t have the proper solidity. Tyrion’s magesight focused on him for a moment, and then he realized his children’s ruse.

  Some of the warden’s figured it out at the same time. “He’s an illusion!” shouted Hesta from her position on the far right.

  Emma released her spell, and Ryan’s illusory form vanished just as the ground shot skyward once more, this time directly in front of the two most central wardens, Daggoth and Laeri. Longtime veterans of the arena, they both understood the nature of the ambush immediately. The boy had used the distraction and the mist to conceal himself under the soil, while his sister had created the illusion to keep them from realizing the subterfuge. As the ground erupted they leapt backwards instinctively.

  What their reflexes failed to consider though, was that the ground hadn’t shot upward from the position where Ryan had disappeared. As they jumped back he rose from the earth behind them, armblades out and sweeping toward their backs. Laeri’s shield split, and his body fell away in two pieces, but Daggoth was luckier. The two of them had been too far apart, and Ryan’s right arm hadn’t had enough reach to kill him. Instead he lost his left arm, screaming in pain as he fell to the ground.