She had an advantage—or two. While Yikmo’s “spies” had reported everything that Regin had been doing in the Arena for the past week, her own training had been hidden within the claustrophobic confines of the Dome. Yikmo had shown her every strategy that a weaker magician could use against a stronger one. He had drilled her in all the methods that he knew Garrel and Balkan had taught Regin, plus a few more.
Of her own guardian, she had seen little. But his influence was everywhere. The protests against novices involving themselves in formal battles had ended within a day. Balkan obviously disapproved of Sonea using the Dome, but had not forbidden it. And when Sonea first entered the Dome, Yikmo had told her that the High Lord had strengthened the spherical structure to ensure that she would not accidentally damage it.
It hadn’t occurred to her until the following evening that the magic he had used might have been gained through black magic. She had lain awake, her conscience uneasy at the possibility that the magic that aided her petty squabble with another novice might have come from some stranger’s death.
But she could not refuse Akkarin’s help, not without raising suspicion. Even if she pretended she did not want it out of pride, he had nominated himself as her protector during the battle. His magic would form the inner shield that would save her if her own failed. The thought made her more than a little uneasy. If it weren’t for Rothen and Lorlen, she would have been worried that he might use the battle as an opportunity to be rid of her.
At a knock on her door, she spun around, heart suddenly racing again. It must be time at last, she thought. Relief was quickly replaced with a rush of terror. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she approached the door. Opening it, she felt her heartbeat quicken once more as she faced Akkarin, but, seeing another man behind him, her fear was replaced with surprise as she recognized Dannyl.
“High Lord,” she said, bowing. “Ambassador Dannyl.”
“Lord Yikmo has arrived,” Akkarin told her.
Taking another deep breath, Sonea hurried down the stairs. She found Lord Yikmo pacing back and forth in Akkarin’s guestroom. His head snapped up as she entered the room.
“Sonea! You’re ready. Good. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” She smiled, conscious of the magicians still descending the stairs. “How can I not be after all you have taught me?”
He smiled crookedly. “Your confidence in me is...” He paused, sobering as Akkarin and Dannyl stepped into the room. “Good morning, High Lord, Ambassador Dannyl.”
“I gathered you were here for my novice,” the High Lord said. “So I sent her down.”
“Indeed I am,” Yikmo replied. He looked at Sonea. “We’d best not keep Regin waiting.”
The main door swung open, and Akkarin gestured toward it. Feeling the magicians’ eyes on her, Sonea crossed the room and stepped out into the sunlight.
As she started down the path to the University, Yikmo fell into step on her right, and Akkarin on her left. Footsteps from behind told her that Dannyl was following. She resisted an urge to look back, wondering what business he had with Akkarin. Something important, or he would not have returned from Elyne.
Her companions were silent as they walked toward the University. Sonea glanced at Yikmo once, but he only smiled in reply. She didn’t look at Akkarin, but was acutely aware of his presence. Never before had she felt like the High Lord’s favorite. It made her too conscious of the Guild’s expectations. If she lost...
Think of something else, she told herself. As they neared the University, she turned her mind to remembering Yikmo’s lessons.
“Regin will try to make you waste your power. The best way to do that is through deception and trickery.”
Trickery was certainly part of Regin’s fighting style. He had surprised her many times during the First Year Warrior Skills classes with false strikes.
“Much of what you have learned will be irrelevant. You will not need to use projection in the Arena: there is nothing in there to move. Stunstrike is allowed, but considered ill-mannered. Mindstrike is forbidden, naturally, though it would only be useful as a distraction.”
Regin had never used mindstrike against her, since they hadn’t yet learned how to do it.
“Don’t gesture! You give away your intentions. A good Warrior does not move during a battle, not even the muscles in his face.”
Yikmo always referred to “the Warrior” as “he,” which she found amusing at first, then irritating. When she had complained he had laughed. “Lady Vinara would approve,” he had said. “But Balkan would tell you, ‘When more Warriors are women than men, I will mend my ways.’ ”
Sonea smiled at the memory, and so was smiling when she walked past the University into the view of the crowd of magicians waiting outside the Arena.
“Is everyone here?” she gasped.
“Probably,” Yikmo said lightly. “Regin chose a Freeday to face you, so that there would be a large crowd to witness his defeat.”
Sonea felt the blood drain from her face. Novices and magicians stood watching her. Even non-magicians—wives, husbands, children and servants—had come along for the spectacle. There were hundreds of people watching her. Heads turned to watch as she, flanked by her teacher and guardian, entered the crowd. The Higher Magicians stood in a line. Yikmo guided her toward them, and as he stopped she bowed. Formal greetings were exchanged, but she was too distracted to pay much attention until her name was spoken.
“Well, Sonea. Your adversary awaits your pleasure,” Lord Balkan said, gesturing.
Following his motion, she saw Regin and Lord Garrel standing by a hedge clipped into an archway. The path that ran through it led directly to the Arena.
“Good luck, Sonea,” Lorlen said, smiling.
“Thank you, Administrator.” Her voice sounded small, and she felt a flash of annoyance at herself. She was the challenger. She ought to be striding into this battle with eager confidence.
As she started toward the Arena, Yikmo placed a hand on her arm. “Keep your wits about you, and you’ll do fine,” he murmured. He stepped away, and waved her on.
With only Akkarin beside her now, she approached the archway. As she met Regin’s eyes his face twisted into a sneer, bringing back a memory of the first time she had seen him, before the Acceptance Ceremony. She stared back defiantly.
Sensing the gaze of Lord Garrel, she turned her attention to him. The magician was staring at her with unconcealed dislike and anger. Surprised, she wondered why he was so angry. Did he resent the extra time he’d had to spend preparing his novice for this fight? Had it offended him that she’d had the audacity to challenge his nephew? Or did he resent her for putting him in a position of opposition with the High Lord?
Do I care? No. If he’d had any foresight, he would have stopped Regin from harassing her after she had become the High Lord’s favorite. The thought that this challenge might have caused him inconvenience brought a smile to her face once more. Turning away, she stepped through the arch and strode toward the Arena.
With Akkarin at her side, she descended into the Arena portal. Emerging, she walked to the center of the sandy floor and stopped. Garrel, Regin and Balkan had followed her in. Outside the circle of spires, the crowd of magicians and novices was spreading around the structure, some sitting down on the tiered stairs.
She glanced at Regin. He was looking out at the crowd, his expression unusually sober. She let her eyes skim the watchers, then stopped as she saw Rothen standing among them, Dorrien at his side. Dorrien grinned and waved. Rothen managed a thin smile.