The wind was having fun with that fire, Isen noted, though they’d dug the pit deeper than usual. One of Stephen’s men hovered near it with a bucket and a blanket. Fire was traditional at a Challenge, and tradition carried great weight for Stephen.
Isen’s driver pulled up at the end of the row of vehicles nearest the gathered men. He glanced at his watch and nodded. Two hairs past ten o’clock. Excellent.
He did enjoy making an entrance.
Jason got out on the far side of the car. The driver got out on her side … the driver being Nettie. Isen heard the exclamations from those waiting and grinned and opened his own door.
The noise cut off. Eight startled faces stared at him—five Etorri, including Stephen; Myron from Kyffin; and the two Ybirra clansmen who’d driven in to support their Lu Nuncio and bear witness. Plus a ninth, furious face. Javier was not pleased to see him.
“You seem surprised,” he murmured, moving forward. “Myron, how is Billy?”
“Well enough, though he’ll—”
“What trick is this?” Javier demanded. “Why are you here? And that woman. Who is she?”
Isen paused, eyebrows lifted gently. “I believe Nokolai has been Challenged. Did you think I would allow my heir—who was injured today, as you must know—to fight in his condition?”
Javier scowled. “He didn’t plead injury as a reason to delay.”
Isen said nothing, but he allowed rebuke to enter his gaze.
Myron snorted. “As if he could. You’d have screamed to high heaven that he was up to something. It’s Rule’s ribs were hurt, I think?” he asked Isen.
Isen nodded. “They’ll mend, but not in time for the Challenge. You said Billy is doing all right?”
“Didn’t even need surgery, though he’ll wear a collar for a while. Thanks for sending Nettie.” He smiled at her. “How interesting to see you again so soon.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Isen said. “I believe Javier asked about her.” He gestured for Nettie to step forward. “This is my granddaughter, Nettie Two Horses.”
Stephen of Etorri spoke for the first time. “It’s irregular to bring a woman to a Challenge.”
“Irregular, perhaps, but no one stipulated that we only bring male clan. Nettie is Nokolai. She’s also a doctor, healer, and shaman.” Isen beamed at them. “I expect to need her services, and hope that Javier will, also. I’ve no desire to kill you for being an idiot, boy.”
“I’ve no desire to kill you, either, old man. Feel free to cry loss and submit.”
Isen chuckled. “That’s telling me. Well.” He pulled off his shirt and handed it to Jason. The wind chose that moment to kick up its heels, stinging his bare chest with sand. “I assume the circle’s been drawn?”
“It has,” Stephen said. “As mediator, I ask if there is any way your clans can reconcile this difference without Challenge.”
“Nokolai owes a blood debt for their betrayal.” Javier’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “Ybirra means to claim it.”
Isen’s good humor fell away. He looked at Javier and allowed his mantle to rise. “Rule has explained what happened. You will not listen, blinded by anger and grief and the unwillingness to know yourself wrong. In your blindness and arrogance, you aid our ancient enemy. Our Lady’s enemy.” He paused, letting his voice drop to a growl. “When we step into that circle, know that you will have to kill me to win. I will not submit. Nokolai will not abase itself, submit to a lie, to satisfy your refusal to deal in reality instead of rage.”
For a moment, doubt flickered in Javier’s eyes. Uncertainty. Isen smiled grimly. “I will bleed you, boy, but I’ll only kill you if you give me no choice. I don’t want Manuel to lose a son. I don’t want our people to lose a fighter—for believe me, the time is coming when we will need every fighter. Come. Our Lady needs us, all of us. You can still withdraw your Challenge.”
That was a step too far. Javier’s head jerked back, as if Isen had struck him. “I do not withdraw.”
Bloody young idiot, thinking withdrawal meant cowardice. And a bloody old fool he was for mishandling the boy. Ah, well. He looked at Stephen. “Ybirra will not withdraw. Nokolai will not submit. It looks as if we had better get started, doesn’t it?”
FORTY-FOUR
RULE came to with the same suddenness he’d passed out. He lay utterly still, allowing no muscle to tighten, using his other senses to gather information before opening his eyes.
Piss. That smell was so strong it took a second to sort out the rest, but Benedict was close. José, too, was near. And Sammy, Paul, Lucas … was that Brian? Yes, though his scent was so smeared with the stink of illness it was almost unrecognizable. He heard a heartbeat … no, two heartbeats, both of them unnaturally languid, but strong and steady.
He was lying on a hard, rough surface. The air was chilly and calm. His ribs ached, but nothing else hurt. Benedict was on his left, also lying down. José was on his right. Either they were still unconscious or they were faking it well. Better than he was, for he was sure his own heartbeat had speeded up.
“Rule? You awake?”
Brian’s voice. Rule opened his eyes. “So it seems.”
He was in a cage. No, only one wall was barred; the others were rock. Someone had made use of a handy cubbyhole in the rock to form a cell. The stone of the ceiling glowed—mage light, but fixed to a surface instead of floating free.
That ceiling was much too close. Only two feet from Rule’s head when he sat up. Too low to stand.
Panic twitched at him, a puppeteer demanding that he move, run. He breathed in slowly, deliberately, and looked around.
The stink of urine came from a bucket at the back of the cell, not far from where Brian sat, leaning against the stony wall The sanitary facilities, it seemed. Their cell was about twelve by eight, just enough room for their captors to lay everyone out neatly and naked … no, not everyone. Only the lupi. And not entirely naked. Rule touched his ribs. They’d left his elastic bandage on. How thoughtful.
On the other side of those bars … “Someone’s redecorated,” he murmured. He couldn’t see the whole place. His cell was at one end of the long, narrow cavern … a cavern he recognized, though the altar, the chanting Azá, and the electric lights strung on cables were missing.
In their place were mage lights and elves.
One, two, three, four of them … they had to be elves. One stood quite close, about fifteen feet from the bars, watching them with a drawn sword in one hand. His hair was blue. The others … Rule moved closer to the bars, crouched to avoid the low ceiling, to get a better look.
Their hair was long, too—white hair on one; the soft, taupey gray of a dove on another; yellow on the third. Not blond. Pale yellow, like freshly churned butter. They wore sleeveless tunics and trousers in bright colors. The tunics were belted at the waist; from this angle Rule could see that at least two of them had sheathed knives hanging from those belts. Thin and lovely, graceful and androgynous, those three were absorbed in what they were doing. Whatever that was.
One sat, eyes closed, lips moving. Another crouched ten feet from the first, patting the ground rhythmically, as if it were a drum. The third moved one step, stopped. Moved one step. Stopped. The three formed a rough triangle around … “Is that a gate?”
Rule had never actually seen one. He’d been zapped to the hell realm by other means, returned while unconscious, and hadn’t visited the one official gate on Earth in D.C. But he’d heard them described as a shimmer in the air, like heat waves. That’s what he saw over the spot that had once held the Azá’s altar.