The crowd roared the sentiment. Thousands upon thousands of stomping feet shook the stonework beneath Stefan’s feet.
Still smiling, Nerian sat. The spectators’ celebration continued as the metal gates on either side of the arena slid up and two dartans entered. Carried by a Forging, an announcer’s voice rose over the racket to proclaim the upcoming fight. The look on the King’s face conjured memories of a time when the man reveled in leading Seti for the good of its people. Stefan wondered if that man still existed beneath the armor.
“So,” Nerian said. “Fatherhood appears to have been good to you. You enjoy your children and those gardens of yours so much you have yet to come visit me.”
Stefan lounged back in his chair and allowed his limbs to relax. The King was letting him know he had someone within his house. Any sign of emotion now served no purpose. Stefan briefly considered which guard or servant might be the spy, but speculation was a pointless exercise. Even if he did discover the one responsible, Nerian would find another. “Yes. It’s been wonderful. Better than I ever imagined.” He studied the empty throne next to Nerian. The man had never taken a wife as far as Stefan knew. “Maybe it’s time you find a queen and have an heir.”
“Why?” Nerian shrugged. “I rather enjoy my rule. Considering that I have no intention of relinquishing the crown or dying anytime soon, I do not have a need for one. You are the closest thing I will ever have to a son.”
Despite the King’s nonchalance, Stefan caught the quick glimmer of sadness in his eyes. As with most of the Alzari on the High Council, Nerian lived an extended life. Stefan had traced the King’s ancestors once and how long he’d ruled. The annals went back at least five hundred years before they became too disjointed to tell who held the throne before Nerian. One of the biggest issues with all Matii was that they often had only one chance to give birth. Most took advantage of the opportunity to pass down their power and extend their lineage. Others preferred to allow their line to die off rather than have their children experience the walk at the edge of sanity that burdened them all. Nerian’s last words confirmed he’d made such a choice long ago.
“If you only knew what it is like …” the King’s voice softened. “A gift but so much more a curse.” He looked out to the crowds, but his expression was as if he saw nothing. “You have heard the voices once, I’m sure, when you first touched Mater-the way they whisper, goad you, make promises, seep into your core-all Matii have. But to live with them every day, every waking moment, invading your dreams, your nightmares … Such a burden becomes unbearable. Such a life might make a man want to kill himself, yet the same things that drive you mad also prevent you from taking such a course.” A solitary tear dripped down Nerian’s cheek. “Why would I want to bring a child into that?” With his thumb, he flicked the wetness away. “You are a braver man than me, by far. You have brought two.”
Mouth open, Stefan broke eye contact with the King. This was the first time Nerian revealed such sentiments to him. The man he saw now was more the person he remembered if a bit more emotional. He thought back to when he first returned to Benez, and felt as if two completely different people inhabited the King’s body. Absently, Stefan glanced down into the arena where the two dartans were tearing into each other to the crowd’s delight. When he met the King’s emerald eyes again, an icy coolness had replaced the melancholy.
“Does this mean you will let me live in peace to raise them?” Without blinking, Stefan held the King’s gaze.
“You and I both know that is not possible.” No hint of emotion resided in Nerian’s tone. “For me to succeed, the men need you. They believe in you. The people believe in you. Stefan the Undefeated and his Unvanquished are names that strike fear into many an enemy’s heart.”
“If I refuse, will you force Thania and the children into service?” Stefan tensed.
A frown clouded Nerian’s features. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“The last time we spoke, you-”
“Not once did I make such a threat nor would I.”
“So Galiana is lying?”
Nerian arched an eyebrow.
“She said you’re willing to allow me a year with my family before I make a decision.”
“I am.”
“So it’s true. Coupled with what you implied that day-”
“Do not try to read me,” Nerian’s face became a blank slate, “or read anything into my words. If I wanted to say I would force your family to serve in the coming wars because they are powerful Matii, I would have.”
Stefan thought back to that day and what Galiana said. He’d judged everything from Nerian’s mood and what he thought the King meant. What if I was wrong?
“This is not to say that they,” Nerian tilted his head to the side and back, indicating where the High Council sat, “have not broached me on the subject. I told them you will make the right decision for our people, as you always have.”
Sudden rage boiled within Stefan. Fists clenched, he gazed toward the High Council. These men and women, most of whom he did not know, dared ask such a thing? His gaze met Cerny’s. The Knight General gave him a smile and a nod. Stefan scowled. In response, Cerny shrugged. To resist the urge to charge up the stairs and separate Cerny’s head from his shoulders, Stefan shifted his attention to the King. “Was it his doing?”
“Cerny? Who knows? He is as crafty as any in terms of political maneuvering and he has eyes in the unlikeliest of places. Anyway, enough talk about that for now. Our food is here.”
Still seething, Stefan made to say more, but he stopped himself. He needed time to think. Not to mention the King’s dismissal meant any further discussion would either go ignored or spark the King’s ire.
Five servants brought the food to the table. Heaped on silver platters were an array of fruits, cheeses, breads, and meats. Stefan spied corn and various ground provisions covered in a creamy sauces. Two more servants arrived with several flagons. The mix of scents varied from peppery, to hints of mint, to outright sweetness. Despite his temperament and the concerns clouding his mind, Stefan’s mouth watered and his stomach’s rumbles reminded him of his hunger.
After they placed the feast on the table, the servants hurried away. The King stood, took a plate, and set about piling on food. With a smile on his face, Stefan followed his lead. Soon they were both eating and drinking wine while taking in the sights within the arena.
The first fights between the dartans ended. Slaves with spears and whips led away the surviving beasts. Several others dragged the prone and torn forms of the dead dartans onto drays and rolled them out through the arena’s gates. A buzz of anticipation thrummed through the patrons. Horns blared. The announcer called out the next event.
A game of Senjin.
“Your favorite sport in honor of you,” Nerian called amid the people’s applause. He held up a ball a foot long and half as wide made from layered leather. “Wait until you get a taste of the twist.”
Two flags, set opposite each other across the arena’s width, marked the middle of the playing field. Red paint on the walls divided the two halves into thirds. At the far end of each side, white sand covered the ground in an area roughly twenty feet across and ten feet wide. If lines were drawn across each section, they would divide the playing field into eight parts, four per side-scoring zone, rear, mid and forward.
The players filed out the gates. From the east, they were dressed in gold. For these men, the crowd cheered. When the ones from the west entered wearing white, the spectators jeered and threw food. The ebony skin of the men in white stood out. Squinting, Stefan made out the slits on the sides of their necks.