David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

But tired as he was, Ceredon proved even slower.

His head lowered with a simple shrugging of the shoulders, and Aully almost leapt over the railing. Time slowed, as the blade screamed toward Ceredon’s thin metal helm.

And then Joseph’s blade lifted as if possessed of a mind of its own, sailing over the elf’s head.

Ceredon looked surprised, but he reacted quickly. He slashed his saber in a single tight arc, catching the human under the chin with the flat of the blade. Joseph’s head snapped back, a thin stream of blood shooting from his mouth. He stumbled on weak knees, then collapsed onto his rear.

“I yield, I yield,” Joseph stammered, tossing his saber to the dirt.

His surrender resulted in a sudden surge of cheers. Aullienna watched Ceredon stand on unsteady legs and raise a half-hearted salute to the crowd. The elf glanced behind him at the still bleeding Joseph Crestwell and then threw his saber down.

“Why is he leaving?” asked Kindren as Ceredon limped out of the arena. “He won.”

“Only because the human let him,” Aully said. “And he knows it.”

“What? No he didn’t. Ceredon ducked the attack.”

Aully shook her head. “That’s what it was supposed to look like. Sir Crestwell lifted the blade on purpose. I’ve seen my cousin do the same thing countless times when we played swords back home.”

“But…why would he do that? Why would he allow himself to get hurt?”

“Don’t know,” she said with a shrug.

As if to answer the question, Joseph Crestwell struggled to his feet and approached the side of their platform, blood still dripping from his chin. Aully saw that Neyvar Ruven had made his way down the stairs, and she shushed Kindren with a finger to her lips so that they could listen. They peered through the slat beneath the balustrade, watching as the elf and man shook hands.

“Thank you for that, Joseph,” the Neyvar said. “I’m sure my son will remember never to disregard his lessons…or underestimate an opponent.”

“A lesson learned in victory is the best lesson of all, especially for one so young. How old is the boy now?”

“Just turned ninety-five last season.”

Joseph offered a laugh. “He looks much younger.”

“A century isn’t even a third of the way through our lives. Elves of his age are no longer children, and many feel that they are beyond further learning. Which as you have seen, given the way he fought today, is an attitude he can ill afford.”

“For how lightly he has taken his studies,” Joseph said, rubbing his chin, “he still packs a wallop. Gods forbid he ever apply himself. Then he will be truly mighty. Now if it would please you, Neyvar, I need ice for my chin and brandy for the pain. I fear your son may have cracked my jaw.”

“I’ll have a servant bring what you need to your room. Take rest, for we have much to discuss tomorrow.”

With that, the two men strode away from the platform and out of Aully’s vision. She sat up, and smoothed out the front of her chemise. Kindren echoed her movement, resting his back against the side panel of the balustrade and giving Aully a queer look.

“What was that all about?” he asked, and the way he asked it, full of wonder and confusion, made him seem younger than his sixteen years.

“Don’t know. Maybe that’s just how the Neyvar teaches his children lessons?”

Looking up at his own parents, who were watching the finals in the arena, Kindren said, “I’m glad my parents aren’t like that.”

“Me too,” said Aully.

They retook their seats and watched the rest of the night’s contests. By the time the last bout ended, the sky was dark and twinkling with stars. Palace Thyne lit up as if flames burned within its green crystal walls, illuminating the arena. The crowds began to file away, and an exhausted Aully stretched her arms high above her head and yawned.

“Long night,” said her betrothed.

“Sure was.”

His lips brushed her cheek, soft and tentative. Aully closed her eyes and let the sensation wash away the day. The competitions, the clang of steel, the human throwing his match-all became afterthoughts.

She turned to Kindren and gazed into his eyes; lit up by the glare of the palace, they looked like the surface of the ocean. She felt her face go hot and noticed that Kindren’s cheeks were red already. She placed her fingers on one of those cheeks, soaking in its warmth.

“I like you,” he said, his hand closing over hers.

“I like you too.”

“Thank Celestia, right? I thought I was going to hate you.”

Aullienna couldn’t help but laugh.

“Me too,” she said.

“But we don’t. And you’re going to stick around for a while, right?”

“Tonight? But my mother’s calling me for bed.”

His grin was infectious. “No, silly, not tonight. Tomorrow and the day after.”

Aully felt her nerves threaten to jangle, but she shoved the feeling down.

“I’ll be spending a lot of time here,” she said. “My parents are leaving in two months, but I don’t think I’m joining them. I think Dezerea is my home now.”

“It is,” said Kindren. “For now and forever. Does that scare you?”

“A little.”

“Don’t let it. I’ll be here. And there are some wonderful things in this city I can show you.”

“Like the crypts?”

“Like the crypts,” he said.

With that, Aully stepped on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on Kindren’s lips. She ran away from him afterward, giggling, the sound of her mother calling her to her quarters ringing in her ears.

The grass was soft against Bardiya Gorgoros’s rear end as he sat cross-legged beneath the shade of a cypress tree. His eyes faced north, locked on the slender Gods’ Road and the small cloud of dust that had formed in the distance. The Gods’ Road stretched the entirety of Ashhur’s Paradise, running diagonally down from the northwestern township of Drake until it crossed the Corinth River, cut through the grasslands of Ker, and reached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon Delta. From there it continued east, maintained by Karak’s people instead of Ashhur’s. The road was rarely traveled, and Bardiya knew this because he sat in that same spot beneath the soul tree almost every day, surrounded by mile upon mile of high plains grasses, to say his afternoon prayers to Ashhur. Only when an envoy from Mordeina or Safeway came calling was there any traffic at all. It was not that the two factions of Ashhur’s children did not get along or that they considered themselves separate. In truth, the lack of travel and cohabitation stemmed from one simple fact: almost everyone in Paradise lived perfect lives, and no one had no real desire to go anywhere other than where he or she had been raised.

Bardiya leaned back against the trunk of the soul tree, and his head struck a branch. He muttered and rubbed the spot. Glancing behind him, he looked at the many notches carved into the tree, the highest groove added only a month ago. Bardiya sighed.

He’d grown again.

Over his eighty-seven years of life, Bardiya had never stopped growing. Each year had meant another inch or two of height, ever since the day he was pulled from his mother’s womb, the first human child born in all of Dezrel. He now stood almost ten feet tall, towering over everyone. A few of the Kerrians thought his constant growth was a defect, but to the populace at large, the reasons for his gigantism were obvious: it was a sign of his undying belief in the teachings of his deity. Many whispered that Bardiya was Ashhur’s most devout follower, an assumption that Bardiya himself doubted. He could never explain to them the deep ache he felt in his bones from such constant growth. At times, he just wished the pain would end.