10 August 1062 P.E.
Gladiator Row, Darnan
Brand slowly became aware of the sunlight streaming in through the curtains of his window as his brain shrugged off the fog of sleep. He rolled over away from the light, pulling the thin sheet with him.
Then the events of the previous night came back to him in a rush. The meeting with the kashmari lords; Fafnir; the party; Mirane.
Mirane.
That was undoubtedly the stupidest thing he’d ever done, he admitted to himself. Also the most amazing. And the best part? We got away with it. He smiled and closed his eyes, remembering Mirane’s soft warmth, the brush of her lips on his skin.
Brand chuckled and stood, shrugging off the usual aches and pains of age. He’d have to stay away from her from now on, of course, if he wanted to keep his head. But he could worry about that later.
The day of the fight was finally here. The gladiator pulled open his wardrobe and selected his clothes: a dark red linen shirt that would shrug off the heat of the arena sands and hide any blood, a pair of tough canvas trousers, and a pair of well-worn tough old boots that came up nearly to his knees. He’d put on his armor later, just before the match began.
He then drew himself a bath. As he washed, his thoughts drifted back to Mirane. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman in…well, had he ever? He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“Focus, Brand,” he growled to himself. “You’ve got a fight to win today.”
He splashed water on his face to clear his head, then hauled himself out of the tub.
As he pulled a towel over himself and dried off, Brand glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall.
“Scorch it all!”
He threw on his clothes and dashed downstairs.
Mrs. James was waiting for him in the kitchen with her usual pre-fight breakfast: piles of cut-up melons, a mountain of eggs, stacks of flatcakes, and a heap of leftover sliced runnerbeast.
“Quite the handsome devil you are this morning, Mr. Brand,” she said. “I like the rugged, mussed look. Suits you today.”
Brand grinned ruefully and scratched at the hairs on his chin. He hadn’t had time to trim his beard. He stopped eating for a moment to examine his gray hairs in the reflection of a large copper pot.
“I should have married years ago before I started collecting all these gray hairs, scars, and wrinkles.”
Mrs. James refilled his juice glass. “You could have. You still could. I see gaggles of silly young women falling over themselves trying to get your attention every time I step foot in that arena.”
“William was lucky to find such a wonderful and discrete woman in you. I could never find another like you.”
Mrs. James blushed. “You’re too kind, Mr. Brand. I still think you should try, though. It makes my old heart ache to think that I may not live long enough to see your little ones rushing about the place.”
That comment struck Brand to the core, mixing regret and embarrassment with the adrenaline and excitement of the coming fight. He’d never told Mrs. James that he had no real intention of marrying and thus no plans of children. Brand could be revealed as a pharmakon at any moment. He and anyone close to him would immediately be put to death. It was bad enough that Mrs. James insisted on sticking around; Brand couldn’t ask another woman to do the same.
But all the same, in the secret corners of his heart, he’d always wanted his own family. Perhaps it was the curse of being an orphan. Or perhaps it was the constant strain of living a lie and having only one old woman to confide in.
It’s not going to happen, he chided himself. So don’t even think about it.
He shoved the thought out of his mind and replaced it with the image of Mirane, which brought a smile to his face. That memory of last night is going to have to last you a long time, old fool, he thought with no small amount of regret.
“You seem particularly cheerful this morning,” she remarked as Brand dove into the food. “Last night went well, I take it?”
“Mhmm.” Brand couldn’t quite keep the smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hurriedly tried to cover it by stuffing eggs into his mouth.
Mrs. James’s eyebrows tried to merge with her hairline.
“Oh,” was all she said.
“You’ll be there at the arena?” he said quickly. He took a swig of juice.
“Of course. I always am. I’ve never missed one of your fights. Shouldn’t you slow down? At least chew so you don’t choke and die before you even get to the match.”
“No time. I have to stop by the Lounge before the fight, but I’ll meet you afterward for a victory dinner, alright?” He stood to leave.
“Good luck. Oh! Wait half a second, will you?”
She hurried over to a drawer and pulled out a square of blue fabric embroidered around the edges with rosemary and goldenrod flowers.
“Hold out your arm,” she commanded. Brand complied, and she tied the armband around his thick bicep.
He kissed her on the cheek. “You are the best mother anyone could ever ask for.”
Mrs. James beamed.
Brand shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth and sprinted up the stairs to his office to snatch his gauntlet out of his desk. Then he flew out the door.
* * *
Fafnir took the steps up the side of the colossal arena pyramid three at a time, leaving the rest of the kashmari scrambling up the steep steps behind him. It was such a petty, ridiculous show, but it reminded them of their place in his society. He gritted his teeth. That seemed to be all he did these days.
It felt good to stretch his long legs, though his joints ached more than he liked. He was running out of time. As each day passed, he grew more and more uncomfortable, restless, and irritable. The walls of this prison, an irritation for years, were now unbearable. He needed a way out, and he needed it now.
At the top of the pyramid’s stone stairs, sumptuous couches awaited, flanked by green marble pillars and tables awaiting piles of delicacies that would be brought out. All was shaded by a heavy stone pavilion.
Unimpressed by the finery, the giant turned away to look down on the arena. It was a long rectangular field of compacted gravel and sand bordered on each side by a sloping stone wall. The four corners were left open as entrances to the field. Behind the sloping walls of the long sides of the field stood tall stone benches shaded by colorful canvas cloths. On the short ends of the field were two enormous pyramids, one of which Fafnir now stood atop. Each pyramid was twice as tall as the stone spectator benches and crowned with a stone pavilion.
“Lord Fafnir!” a breathless kashmari voice said behind him. “My lord! What do you think of the arrangements? I had the two pyramids added onto the arena specifically for this fight since it is the first time you will be attending.”
Fafnir twisted to look at Kushchai, whose grey-blue face had purpled with exertion. The others were still a good way down the pyramid.
“Is all this for the few humans you’ll let watch the fight?” Fafnir rumbled, gesturing at a silk divan.
Kushchai faltered. He looked around at the lavish appointments and stuttered, “No, my lord. They were for the city lords. The benches below are for the humans.”
Fafnir snorted. “I suppose you didn’t intend to actually watch the fights that you have been so adamantly championing?”
The city lord didn’t respond.
Fafnir sighed almost imperceptibly. His kashmari had grown so soft, so consumed by their distractions. And why shouldn’t they? They hadn’t tasted blood in a thousand years.
Fafnir pointed a finger the size of Kushchai’s hand at the center of the benches flanking the gravel field.
“Take all of this down there,” he commanded. “If I’d wanted a sky view, I’d fly.”
With that, Fafnir left a dismayed Kushchai amid the trappings. The high lord took the steps down four at a time, passing the rest of the disheartened kashmari in a rush of hot air.
* * *
First Blood Lounge, Restaurant District, Darnan
“We thought you’d forgotten!” a fellow gladiator exclaimed, pounding a flushed Brand on the back. “I told Mac you’d gotten too famous for your old pals!”
Brand laughed. “I’d never miss a chance to see you sloshed, Gwythyr.”
Gwythyr grinned. “Excellent. Drinks on Brand!”
A cheer exploded from all the gladiators bunched up at the bar. The bartender pulled out fistfuls of glasses, filled them with an old, dark ale, and started passing them around.
“To Brand!” Gwythyr yelled.
“To Brand!” the gladiators chorused.
“Not for you, old man!” The gladiators laughed as Gwythyr snatched a glass from Brand’s hands. “I’ve got decent money riding on you to win!”
As a pharmakon, the alcohol wouldn’t have affected Brand; but the other gladiators didn’t know that.
Brand made a show of wagging a finger at his friend. “You’re paying for my victory drinks tonight, then!”
The crowd oohed and someone yelled, “Poor Gwythyr. He’ll be broke by morning.”
The rest of the crowd broke into laughter again.
“Ol’ Brand could drink a kashmari under the table!” a young gladiator scoffed.
“Yeah, kid, we know. That’s the joke.”
Brand passed out another round and motioned for everyone to be quiet. He picked up an empty mug and held it aloft.
“I’d like to propose a toast! To my dear friend and mentor, Simon.” The crowd parted to show an older man seated at a nearby table, his skin thin and spotted, his head bald. The eyes behind the glasses were as keen and perceptive as ever, though. “I could not have been here without you.”
Brand raised his empty glass to the old man.
“To Simon!”
The old man stood shakily, leaning heavily on his walking cane, but Brand set down his mug and hurried over to the old man.
“You don’t have to get up, old man,” Brand said, gently pushing Simon back into his seat and taking the chair opposite him.
“Call me an old man again, and there won’t be anything left of you to fight, young whippersnapper.”
Brand laughed. When William had died and left Brand and Mrs. James lost and destitute, Simon had been the one to pull Brand out of the gutter and put a spear in his hands.
“Simon, you’ve always imparted some words of wisdom right before every fight I’ve had. What do you have for me today?”
“What more can I say? You’ve taken my advice and done well for yourself already,” the old man said, rubbing the white stubble on his chin. “I suppose I could tell you one more cautionary tale, one from our ancestors long ago.”
Brand leaned forward so he could hear the ancient gladiator better over the singing that had broken out at the bar.
“Long ago, there was an inventor who had a son. They desired to escape from the island where they were imprisoned. The inventor made wings for them both out of feathers and wax. On the day they were to escape, he advised his son to not fly too low so that he wouldn’t smash into the rocks below, and not too high because the sun would melt the wax that held his wings together.
“The inventor and his son took off, flying away from the island. But as they flew, the son disregarded his father’s counsel and flew higher and higher. He flew so high that his wings melted, and he plunged to his death.”
Simon grabbed one of Brand’s massive hands with his own frail fingers. “You’ve escaped the poverty of most humans and are flying high, boy. If you win this fight today, you’ll be flying higher than any other human around. Watch yourself. See to it that you don’t fly too high and melt your wings.”
The old man looked pointedly over at a table filled with kashmari, but Brand’s thoughts had turned to the memory of Mirane’s naked form stretched out on the couch beside him, her soft snores mixing with the sounds of the partying kashmari filtering up through the floor.
A pit began to gnaw at Brand’s stomach. Beneath the table, he pulled out a blood-red pill and hid it in his fist. He took a long swallow from a glass of gin, slipped the pill from his palm to his mouth, and swallowed it before anyone had noticed. He tried to calm himself.
Don’t be stupid. No one saw us. No one knows. I’m safe. I haven’t fallen out of the sky.
“Wise words as always,” Brand said sincerely. “Thank you.”
Simon clutched the big gladiator’s hand fiercely. “You’re a good man, Brand. One of the best. Stay that way.”
Brand managed to detach himself physically from the old gladiator, but the man’s words clung to his mind like tar. Old Simon was right. Last night had been incredibly dangerous. Brand couldn’t let himself be seduced again, he resolved. He’d gotten away with it once; he might not be so lucky next time.
Brand returned to the others, and as he lingered with his fellow gladiators, the drug began to take effect. He smiled and joked with them, and let the drug cool his nerves. An hour later, he’d forgotten all about Simon’s story.
“Time for the main event, boys!” Gwythyr roared, his cheeks red. “Go on, Big Man! Off to the arena with you!”
The drunken gladiators cheered. Gwythyr shoved Brand out the door and into a mechanohorse carriage.
