To nobody’s surprise, the amphitheater is full. The murmur of the crowd, echoing off marble pillars and tall glazed windows, is easily audible, even down the passage and through the door of the antechamber. Funny how quickly Andrathi high society becomes no better than a bunch of drunken sailors—crowding into a fight ring the moment they smell blood in the air. Of course, pit fighting is illegal. But give the combatants runes instead of brass knuckles, and all of a sudden it’s a contest of intellect to be decided in the halls of one of the city’s most revered edifices of scientific discourse.
“Are you ready?” Merce is standing in the shadows of the doorway. His voice is steady, but the wrinkles in his dress robes just below the waist bely the calm facade he’s adopted. I know that he’s been scrunching and uncurling his hands at his sides, a telltale sign of what Keldry affectionately calls his “Merce expects the worst” demeanor.
Squaring my shoulders, I turn away from the rain-streaked window and the patterns of glyphs I had been mentally writing onto it. “I was ready to knock Bevin on his arse right there in the street–he’s the one who insisted on making a show of this.”
Merce chuckles, some of his good humor restored by my confidence. But as he steps forward into the dancing light of the hearth, I can see worry still etched on his face. It was a lot easier to ignore the stakes staring out over the rainswept roofs of the city, and rather than meet the anxious gaze of my closest friend I find myself staring into the fire.
Merce closes the door softly, then crosses to the room’s sole furnishings—a desk and a chair—to examine the book I’ve left open there. Simple breathing exercises, meant to help Windmages open their senses and attune with the air around them. He sighs, then sits, sinking heavily into the cushioned embrace of the armchair. Merce was hoping to find me studying powerful runes or ancient secrets, not meditation skills for neophytes that I use to keep calm. Somewhere nearby, in a study just like this one, Bevin is preparing to face me with far more powerful magic.
“You don’t know what it’s like out there,” Merce says quietly. “The entire Leongeld family is out there, along with half the bankers and businessmen in Andras. Most of the archivists are here as well, along with Serinn and his sycophants. Arcanist Elmrod and a couple prominent printers are the only people who I could find who aren’t openly supporting Bevin.” He trails off for a moment, unable to find the will to continue. “They… They didn’t come to see two young mages demonstrate their courage and skill. They came here to watch you die.”
Of course they did.
The official rules of a duel between mages prohibit any willful attempt to injure or maim an opponent. But malicious intent can be difficult to prove where unstable forces of elemental energy are involved and witnesses leap to defend the culprit. The truth is that people can and do die in duels, and only rarely are their killers held accountable. Last I checked the records, it had been almost four years since a duelist was convicted, and not even for murder–only ‘fatal culpability’ in the death of their opponent.
“I guess I’ll just have to disappoint them,” I respond, staring into the embers. Even by the fire, it doesn’t feel warm.
“I hope so. You might not have been at Magehold as long as him, but you’re a damned good Windmage. Still…” Merce lets out a heavy sigh, and I don’t need to hear his next words to know what they will be. “Bevin’s had private tutelage since the day he could read, from the best runeweaving teachers money can buy, and all of it preparing him to do exactly this—defend his family’s honor.”
Or make an example of a troublesome dissident, depending on which side of the river you grew up on. Not a fair fight, any way you read the runes. “You can still resign,” Merce says finally, dejectedly. “You aren’t the challenger, it’s within your rights to—”
“And you think the pursehearts out there care?” Turning away from the fire to face him, I can see this time it is he who avoids my gaze. My voice is harsher than I would like, but the anger that began to brew the moment I first walked through these gilded halls, the disbelieving fury that the highest houses of Andras were no different than its darkest alleys, has finally boiled over. “No, the only thing they’ll love more than Bevin murdering me in cold blood is me folding in disgrace. They’ll never let anyone forget the time a filthy street urchin masquerading in mages’ robes was put in her place when she let her foul peasant tongue get the better of her, how she was too much of a coward to defend herself.”
“I’m sorry.” Merce’s remorse is clear from the tilt of his head, and I know beneath the table his hands are clenched. “You’re in an impossible situation, and you have every right to be angry. I don’t want you to put yourself in danger, but I know why you have to.”
I can already feel my anger fading, a weight on my chest lifted away once I gave voice to it, but I still take a moment to simply breathe before I respond.
Breathe. Feel the air. Focus.
“I’m sorry too, Merce. You’ve watched my back more times than I can remember, and you don’t deserve my anger.”
There’s a moment where we both stand in silence, before I open my arms and we embrace, letting our stress bleed away at the comforting touch of a friend. In its place grows determination, and when we step back my doubt has become iron resolve. Every step of the road to this gilded hall of lies has been an unfair fight, and yet I’ve made it this far. I have no intention of letting Bevin Leongeld get in my way.
“Alright,” Merce says, his hands steady and relaxed as he lifts the book from the table. “We need a plan.” This is a different creature from the nervous, worried friend. This is Merce the planner, the brilliant chess player, the mage. This time when he looks at the page, I can tell he’s not just seeing a neophyte’s breathing exercises–he’s seeing a strategy.
“The most important thing in any duel,” Merce begins, “is not skill or power. It’s timing. To win the fight, time it right.”
Merce knows where Keldry is sitting before he sees her face, before he even catches sight of the knitted scarf and battered trapper’s hat she always wears over her robes. Of all the seats in the amphitheater, only one has a tough, surly looking scribe standing guard near it.
“Again?” he sighs, settling his lanky frame into the hard wooden bench.
Keldry looks up, proud defiance written all over her face. Rather like her calligraphy, Merce realizes—bold and belligerent. “One of Sarin’s younger flunkies thought it would be funny to warn me against throwing my family’s good name in with criminals.”
“So you threw your fist in with his nose?”
Her brows draw together. “Not the nose—too messy. Solar plexus, knocked his wind out” She laughs in a self-effacing sort of way, then jerks her head towards the end of the aisle. “That’s when I picked up dabberfist.”
Merce smiles faintly, an expression that’s been absent from his face too often lately. “While I admire both your restraint and your precision, I do wonder if it’s a wise move to be making more enemies here.” Without meaning to, his gaze drifts over the crowd to the greying hair of Oracthus Serinn—one of the three Archmagisters of Magehold—seated in the front row. Chancellor Harett leans over to speak to him, one hand toying with a tassel on her robes. She’s the speaker of the Citizens’ Assembly, the voice of the common folk of Andras. And beside her, the broad shouldered, military presence of General Tyrell Leongeld. Bevin’s father. Merce knew what his father would say.
Everybody wants something, Mercedran. Sometimes, you need to give them a taste of it, to remind them why they need you.
But his father also had toasted General Leongeld’s victories in the war, had said he was a good man.
“I don’t know.” Merce shakes his head, overwhelmed with doubt. Nothing—not his father, not his tutors, not his studies at Magehold—has prepared him for this moment. Now everything revolves around a single axis of hope: his plan. What if he’s wrong?
“Cere isn’t here to make friends,” Keldry reminds him. Her voice is impassioned, steady, warm–a blazing hearth conjured without magic. “They hate her—not because of what she did but because she’s a reminder of their lies, their failures, the side of this city they want nothing more than to forget. When Ceredith steps out there, she isn’t just fighting for her honor. Every cobbler and farmer, every wounded veteran and desperate family who were promised a better life are fighting with her for their right to stand on that floor just like Bevin.”
Her hand is on his shoulder now, and Merce can’t help but feel a little more surety at her touch. “I know you like to plan out every move, but not everything is a game of chess. When you feel like it’s all on the line, when you’re walking that knife’s edge, you can’t hesitate.” Keldry gestures emphatically, shining with the spirit of a brilliant Firemage. “Strike while the iron is hot, and you can shape the future.”
Merce nods, more to himself than to anyone else. She’s right. And yet still, he worries.
“Thanks to you,” Keldry says, “Cere is going to win. And when she does, everything will change.”
“Are you ready, Journeymage Ceredith?”
I’m standing alone before the door, its heavy ring clasped in the hand of the scribe who will, at my word, open it and bring me face to face with the waiting crowd and my opponent.
Breathe. Feel the air. Focus.
I have a plan. I can win. I will win.
“Yes.”
The hinges creak, light floods the passage, and then I am striding out into the amphitheater. Beneath this domed ceiling, some of the greatest scientific minds of the age have spoken. Between these marble pillars, scholars and students have sat and learned to master the arcane and the mundane. But now the lecterns and inkpots are gone, and the onlookers await not enlightenment, but death.
They do not cheer as I take my place. This is no underground fight ring, after all. Instead, only silence and stares greet me. My gaze falls on the figure across from me—of middling height, strong build, and with the golden-brown sash of an Earthmage. His stare is as cold and unyielding as stone, and I have to suppress a shudder. Bevin has always been a bully, but now there is no veneer of civility to mask his hatred of me. I can expect no mercy from him.
“Bevin Leongeld.” The officiant’s words still the last murmurs as he calls the proceedings to order. “You have come here to answer your grievance with Ceredith Kaedmar in the fashion traditional of a mage of courage and spirit. Is this true?”
Bevin does not hesitate. “Yes, arbiter.”
“And Ceredith Kaedmar, you have elected to defend you and your—” he pauses just long enough, then continues, “—your family’s honor in the fashion traditional of a mage of courage and spirit?”
Silently, I nod to him, ignoring his petty barb. I will show them who and what I am.
Breathe.
“The contest will proceed thusly…” The officiant begins to speak again, but I block out the vibrations of his slightly nasal voice, focusing on the even rhythm of my lungs.
Feel the air.
“…to settle this grievance absolutely and indisputably…”
The smells of candlewax and perfume fill my nose with each breath. Slowly, my awareness expands beyond my body, into the space around me. It’s easier to perform this exercise with my eyes closed, but Bevin would definitely suspect something. So instead I stare at his throat, watching the tempo of his breath, feeling through the air between us the wind of each exhale.
“…till one mage or the other does not rise for ten seconds, or yields of their own will…”
Focus.
Bevin and I are breathing in perfect sync now. He inhales steadily, with no hint of trepidation, knowing what will come next.
“…and thus the contest will be decided. Are you ready?” The officiant looks down, meeting each of our gazes in turn. A hush of anticipation has fallen over the cavernous chamber. Satisfied, he nods.
“Begin!”
Neither of us moves.
Focus…
The silence stretches on. Bevin begins to circle left. I mirror his move instinctually, never looking away from him. I can feel the eyes of the onlookers transfixing me, feel every breath but one held in anticipation. Every breath but Bevin’s steady pulse–
To win the fight, time it right.
Bevin’s breathing, silent and invisible, quickens just a sliver as he draws in air to incant, and as I feel the change, feel the moment I anticipated hanging in time for the barest of moments, I strike. My tongue does not hesitate, the syllables do not stumble. This is my chance.
CRACK!
The flash of blue-white that accompanies my runeweaving reaches Bevin’s retinas only just before the thin bolt of lightning lances right into his breast only just before his heart is caught unawares and startles only just before his spine arcs and contorts only just before the sound of thunder fills the room only just before the onlookers rise as one in confusion and surprise only just before his unbreathing body hits the smooth tile floor.
Later, once an ashen-faced Merce has pulled my hood up and escorted me out through the chaos and into the rainswept night, he will want to know why. “Why, Cere?” he will ask, as though the answer will change anything. “Why did you kill him?” He wants to understand, but he doesn’t, not yet. Merce is a good friend, but he does not know what it means to die and be forgotten.
Later, once Bevin’s father has rushed to him, once the physician has shaken his head sadly and the crowd has returned to their parlors and gilded suites, Bevin will be called a victim. When I return to Magehold to find my few belongings gone, when I knock on Merce’s door at midnight, looking for somewhere to sleep, and find his father instead because the guard came for him yesterday, and when they arrive the next morning with General Leongeld at their head, I will be called a murderer.
Later, at my trial, there will be countless testimonies from weeping brothers and sisters and cousins of how Bevin was a gentle soul and a bright mind, cruelly stolen from his family and the world. He was a victim, they will say again and again, a victim of a criminal with a fake name and no family from nowhere.
But on my side of the river, victim is just another name for the murderer who was a second too late.