Barrier of Rivals: Forbidden, except by the elder shaman. Blocks the spells of others for short periods of time. Can cause temporary blindness or double vision. Punishment for unauthorized usage is banishment.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
Mooriah held her breath as Ember sliced into his palm. His whole body was rigid, muscles carved from stone, but he managed it. A tiny trickle of blood trailed the route of the thin blade. His eyes were pressed closed so he didn’t see it.
“Now the incantation,” she breathed, afraid too much sound would startle him.
He intoned the words of the first Fortitude Seal, the one to bind him against death by blade. His voice was strong, though it cracked a few times before picking up again. And then the deed was done.
He opened one eye and looked at her. She nodded encouragingly. She’d already closed his wound so by the time he opened his other eye there was no trace of blood left.
“I did it?” His voice was hushed.
It was the weakest ward she’d ever seen, but the fact that he’d actually accomplished it made her heart burst. She grinned and leaned over to wrap her arms around him. “You did it!”
He hooted and tightened his embrace rocking her back and forth until they fell back on the seating mats, his deep laugh filling the space and warming her. He’d taken the brunt of the fall; she lay sprawled on top of him looking down into his pale eyes.
“I’m really warded?” he asked.
She grinned up at him. “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie; he was protected a little. But she didn’t want to dim his joy.
He rolled them over until he was on top and smiled the brightest smile she’d ever seen on him. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You worked hard. I know it’s still really difficult, but you can build on this.”
He sobered somewhat. “Is it enough for today?”
“It will have to be.”
The match began in under an hour, so there was no time for more. The ward was weak, however, Mooriah would be in the audience watching him carefully. While he may not be protected from the worst Rumble had to give, she would make sure that whatever happened, he would survive. While Ember had spent the past few days practicing basic children’s spells, Mooriah had been studying the forbidden workings for mending flesh and bones. The ones that could restore him if his own wards did not protect him.
But she did not tell him. He would need confidence to face his brother, not doubts. “You have everything you need to defeat him. Never doubt that you will win and usher our clan into an era of lasting peace and unity.”
He blinked, visibly moved by her statement. “You truly believe that?”
“Of course.”
“You are amazing, Mooriah.”
Given their position, she thought he might kiss her again. Her breath caught and her gaze dropped to his lips.
“If I was not already nearly late for the match…” The look he gave her made her want to clench her thighs together. He was already between them. All he needed was to—
“But there isn’t time for what I want to do.”
“Then you’d best get off me,” she said with a laugh.
He groaned and rolled away, leaving her cold without his weight on top of her. She swallowed and sat up, then took his outstretched hand and rose.
“We’ll have to hurry,” she said.
They raced through the pathways and down several levels to the arena. Since each clan celebrated the First Frost Festival on their own, the crowd that had gathered around the brawling circle was smaller than at Ember’s last match—but still represented just about all able-bodied Night Snow members, plus the unclanned who desired to attend.
A troupe of dancers was performing the Winter Totter, a graceful interpretation of the season. It was one of Mooriah’s favorites to watch every year, perhaps if she became clan she could join the dancers one day. But today, nerves about Ember’s performance kept her distracted.
They stood at the entrance to the arena, hidden in the shadows. He was so close his breath tickled her ear. “A kiss for luck?” he whispered.
She smiled, her nerves dissolved for the moment. She looked around—everyone was already inside the arena watching the dancers. No one to see their stolen kiss.
She’d intended only a peck on the cheek, but he turned his head at the last minute and their lips met. It would be so easy to shut out the rest of the world, the beating of the drums, the plucking of strings, the pounding of feet against the ground. But she knew they had to keep it short and pulled away before she fell under. Even still, she was left breathless, blinking up into his slow smile.
“Now there is no way I can lose. After the match, I need to talk to you about something.”
And with that mysterious statement, he was off, jogging into the arena to prepare. Leaving her wide-eyed with a heart that had already missed several beats.
She turned around, intending to enter through another passageway and find a seat. No one was paying attention to her, but for prudence’s sake it shouldn’t look like they arrived at the same time. But her plans were dashed when she discovered Glister standing behind her.
A scowl marred the woman’s beauty. Rage fizzed from her like steam. Her icy gaze shifted from Mooriah to the crowd beyond, where Ember had gone.
“You harlot,” she spat through gritted teeth. Then she grabbed Mooriah’s arm and, with her free hand, stabbed her with something small and sharp, muttering the words of a spell that made Mooriah’s bones feel like they were melting. She could not resist as Glister dragged her off and away from the arena.
“You think a dalliance with him will get you anywhere?” Glister seethed. “The next chieftain will be mine. I will be Lady of the Clan.”
Mooriah’s mouth would not even work to protest, her tongue was heavy inside her mouth. The music from the dancers pealed and the drumbeats thrummed underfoot—they had not traveled far—when Glister stopped in an alcove cut into the stone. With her foot, she nudged at something embedded in the ground. The covering for an old maintainer’s hatch. The clay lid was thick and round and protected the hatches that the maintainers used to service the plumbing lines and renew the firerocks.
Mooriah had never before been inside the warren of passageways used by the diminutive men and women who served the clan in that way. But now, Glister shifted the covering aside with her foot and then shoved Mooriah into the darkened pit.
She felt no pain when she landed, her body was still boneless and unresponsive to her commands. The shaft was as about three times her height and must have outlets, but she couldn’t control her body yet to investigate. She’d landed on her back and looked up at Glister replacing the cover and leaving her in darkness before disappearing.
A few minutes later, the paralyzing spell wore off and Mooriah climbed to her feet.
“Glister! Glister! Help!”
The music from the dancers still overwhelmed all other sounds. Soon the crowd would be roaring, all keyed up for the brawl. No one could hear her. And she would not be there to protect Ember.
She slammed her hand against the rock wall and screamed in frustration. But there was no one to hear her cries.
Ember wiped the sweat from his brow, never once turning from his brother’s glare. Taking his eyes off his opponent would be folly. Especially when that opponent was as ruthless as Rumble.
The two were well matched in height and weight, but Rumble had one advantage—sheer meanness. He also had access to a well of ferocious fury that Ember had never been able to tap into, and it made him brutal.
The last days spent practicing blood magery instead of training did Ember no favors either, though he’d been disciplined with his exercises for two decades—a few days here or there should make little difference.
Still, the blow Rumble had just landed on Ember’s jaw made his teeth rattle. He prodded one with his tongue to see if it was loose and tasted blood. He swallowed it down, imagining his stomach lined with stone. He heard Mooriah’s calming words in his mind, which helped him seal away his disgust.
He longed to find her location in the crowd but was almost glad he hadn’t yet—he’d want to watch her, and that was a distraction he could not afford.
The chime signaling the end of the first round sounded, and he retreated to the sidelines to swish his mouth with water. He took the time then to search for her, surprised when he couldn’t spot her immediately. His gaze had always been drawn to her like a magnet, and because of her coloring and hair, she usually stood out.
Movement across the circle drew his attention from the audience. Glister was there whispering in Rumble’s ear. Ember had had the feeling that she was attempting to ingratiate herself with both brothers, hedging her bets to ensure that she found favor with whomever would be the next chieftain.
Still, whatever she told him made Rumble’s gaze zero in on Ember and harden. A chill went through him.
The match had already been brutal, but he got the sense his brother had been holding back. This was confirmed when Rumble spoke briefly to an assistant, who then retrieved a dagger.
In fights to the short death, the second round was when the stakes were raised. Weapons were not allowed in round one because longer matches kept the crowd more entertained. But now the blades would be drawn.
Ember sucked in a deep breath and searched for Mooriah again. Somehow, he’d expected her to be in the front row. But being unclanned, she’d probably been pushed to the back by someone eager for a better view.
As long as he won, he could ensure that she never had to face such indignities again. He palmed his own dagger, his resolve hardening as the gong sounded.
Back in the circle, they fought hard, both drawing from their long experience. Ember had been battling his brother all his life and knew his tricks. He managed to nick Rumble’s shoulder, which made the man growl and retreat.
“I hear you’ve been spending time with the little sorceress,” Rumble said as they circled one another, crouching low. “Wonder where she is now?”
Ember faked right but Rumble anticipated and was there to meet him, lashing out with the blade, but Ember was too quick and avoided the strike.
“After I win, I’ll make sure she’s never initiated,” Rumble continued. “She’ll be wandering the peaks with the nomads, reduced to eating guano before she’s ever a member of Night Snow.”
Ember grit his teeth, refusing to take the bait and lose focus. “You won’t touch her because you’ll never be chief. And she will be clan. She will be my wife.”
Rumble snorted. “Wife? She’s not good enough to even be our servant. When I’m chief there will be none of these unclanned parasites hanging around. They’ll all be kicked out, left to fend for themselves in the darklands or on the Outside.”
Ember shook his head and took advantage Rumble’s unguarded side. In a calculated move, he slashed out and retreated, but Rumble caught his leg and flipped him. As he fell, he reached out and embedded his blade in his brother’s side, just under the ribs.
His bones rattled as he hit the ground, hard, and Rumble howled in pain.
Blinking up at the ceiling high overhead, Ember’s jaw dropped. He’d landed a killing blow. He had won.
Rumble was on his knees, holding the knife sticking out of him. Ember sat up, beginning to rise, when Rumble attacked and struck his own blade into Ember’s belly. The move was illegal, the match was already over, but worse, the burning in his abdomen made it feel like the blade was made of pure fire.
He sputtered looking down at the blood pouring from him. It bubbled and frothed unnaturally.
Poison. He stared wide-eyed at his brother.
Ember’s ward against blades would do nothing against one with a poisoned tip.
He fell back to the ground in disbelief and stared at the ceiling until the darkness welcomed him.