James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian gave a short nod in response, glancing across at his other companions. Wirr wasn’t paying attention, looking more excited than anything else, staring at every new sight with genuine fascination. Caeden, on the other hand, ploughed forward with the grim determination and characteristic silence he’d shown for most of their journey.

“How are you holding up?” Davian asked Caeden in a low voice as they were pushed together by the press of bodies.

Caeden gave him a nervous smile. “I’ll be glad to get indoors.”

Davian nodded in understanding. Word of Caeden’s escape had arrived in Thrindar well before them, and already there were plenty of posters with his likeness nailed up around the city.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said, trying to sound reassuring despite the churning of his own stomach. Taeris had already made sure to alter Caeden’s appearance as much as possible - cut his hair short, made him wear several layers of clothes to give him a more portly appearance – but all it took was one person to see through the changes.

Still, they’d made it this far without incident. It had taken them almost a week to reach Desriel’s capital. Travelling had been a tense affair, if uneventful; the constant threat of being discovered by Gil’shar soldiers had only been surpassed by the fear of another sha’teth finding them. Still, there had been no sign of pursuit and they had made good time, arriving several days before Taeris expected the royal entourage to leave.

Davian pushed on behind the others. After a couple of minutes he shifted his gaze upward from the crowd, catching his first glimpse of Thrindar’s Great Stadium as it began to loom ahead. At least fifty feet high and made of solid stone, the tops of the walls were draped with colourful banners, each one emblazoned with a different symbol.

“The insignias of some of those competing,” said Wirr, following Davian’s gaze.

“There must be a hundred banners up there,” murmured Davian, wiping sweat from his brow. “Are all the fighters lords and such?”

Wirr shook his head, face glowing as he took in the atmosphere; despite his oft-mentioned reservations about Taeris’ plan, he seemed more excited than worried. “Not all, but most. Noblemen learn swordplay younger than most, and then have more time to practice as they grow up. It tends to be an advantage.”

“No doubt being able to afford entry is an advantage, too.” Davian turned sideways to avoid being run down by a fat woman and the two bawling young children she was dragging behind her.

Wirr laughed. “ No-one can afford entry by themselves,” he assured Davian. “The costs are….” He gestured, shaking his head to indicate that he had no words to describe their enormity. “Some very few get invitations. Everyone else has backers – sponsors who share the entry cost, and reap a percentage of any winnings.”

Davian raised an eyebrow. “And the winnings are enough to share around, with everyone profiting?”

Wirr gave an emphatic nod. “With gold to spare.”

Davian looked up at the banners again as they became slowly larger. “I wonder who they are,” he said absently. He vaguely recognised a couple of the designs, but couldn’t identify any of them.

“There’s only a few Andarran. Plenty of Desrielites and Narutians. A couple from Nesk. Even a few from the Eastern Empire, I suspect.”

Davian shot his friend a sidelong glance, partly amused and partly curious. Wirr was enjoying himself more than he had since they had decided to come here. “You really recognise all these banners?”

Wirr shrugged. “Most of them. Jarras’ politically-minded lessons were fairly thorough.”

Davian grinned as he thought of the Elder. “Jarras would have a heart attack if he knew where we were.”

Wirr smirked. “Most of the Elders would, I imagine.”

The throng thinned a little as they stepped into the shadow of the arena; soldiers and attendants lined the entrance, studiously funnelling people into the appropriate sections of the stadium. Taeris hung back, studying the crowd as the other three gathered around him.

“What are you looking for?” asked Wirr.

“We have no chance of getting into the stadium itself. Not so that we could speak to the Andarran delegation, anyway,” said Taeris, softly enough that no passers-by could overhear. “But there must be Gifted coming and going. If I can make contact with one of them, we might be able to gain an audience.”

Caeden frowned. “And if you are refused?”

Taeris shrugged. “We will deal with that problem should it arise.”

Davian fanned his face, the heat of the day by now quite intense. “How will you recognise them? Even with their cloaks, they’ll be hard to spot in this crowd.”

Taeris gave him a slight smile. “You’ll see.”

They loitered for a while, occasionally moving around and browsing through shops and stalls to avoid looking suspicious. It wasn’t difficult to remain anonymous; the crowds were so thick that they probably could have stood still the entire day without anyone noticing.

Eventually Taeris tensed, nudging Davian. “There,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

A man in a red cloak was emerging from one of the stadium entrances, shadowed closely by a guard holding a Trap prominently in front of him. The crowd parted wherever the cloaked man went; several people spat on the ground as he passed. The noise of the crowd, which had been a roar only moments ago, quietened to a low rumble as people stopped their conversations to watch.

“You want to pass a note to him ?” Wirr said softly, his tone incredulous. He glanced at Taeris, then back at the red-cloaked man again, who was still very obviously isolated and had every eye trained on him. “You may as well ask the man with the Trap to pass it on for you.”

Taeris gave a thoughtful nod, scratching his beard. “I didn‘t think it would be this bad,” he admitted.

They watched as the Gifted man, looking more amused than intimidated by the attention, purchased something from a very displeased-looking vendor. Davian shifted to get a better view, and was so intent on the red-cloaked man that he walked straight into someone before he realised they were there, causing them to stumble to the ground.

He looked down in horror, reddening, and quickly bent to help his victim to her feet. She was about his age, pretty, with long black hair and green eyes that sparkled as they looked up at him with amusement. Her hands were soft and smooth as he pulled her up, stammering his apologies.

A shift in the crowd distracted him for a moment. The Gifted was meandering back into the stadium, still pursued by the vigilant-looking guard; as soon as he had disappeared the crowd resumed their conversations, and the scene returned to normal as if nothing had happened.

Davian glanced around to see if the girl was uninjured, but she was already gone.

Wirr was watching him with an amused smile.

“Say nothing,” Davian warned. “It was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” said Wirr. "Girls that look like that are easy to miss. Practically invisible, really."

Davian glared at his friend. He’d usually play along, but this time Wirr’s jibe only reminded him of Asha, back at Caladel and probably wondering why they had abandoned her. As always, the accompanying stab of guilt – and fear that she would not forgive him, if he ever saw her again – put him in a bad mood.

Wirr sighed, still smiling, but wisely deciding to let the matter go. He turned to Taeris, who had been ignoring the exchange and was still staring thoughtfully towards the stadium. “So it looks like we should find another way across the border."

Taeris shook his head. “No. There’s another chance. A little more direct than I’d like, but it should work.”