resulted in death on some random and lonely night in the future. Still, more often than not, criminals fled, as if each hour they remained free and alive gave them power and bettered their odds of victory.
Moments later, the bells along Triune’s battlements gave another trilogy of jangling rings. Dari’s gaze returned to Stormbreaker, and her heart seemed to jump with each beat of clapper to sound bow.
At that moment, she would have traded her own breath for Stormbreaker’s Judged to be leaving with the rest. Aron, on the other hand, his lanky frame and tousled hair almost glowing in the day-bright sun, looked eager for combat to begin. So did little Raaf, hanging at the edge of his seat beside her.
Dari wanted to slap them both.
Each time she took a breath, she smelled dirt and sweat and fear and excitement. She smelled soaps and perfumes from nearby onlookers, and even a hint of the roasts Triune’s kitchens must be preparing for lunch.
The thought of a normal meal on Judgment Day seemed awry to Dari, and she couldn’t reconcile what her senses told her with what her mind knew was about to happen.
The gates opened.
Most of the criminals ran from the arena, while three sauntered out at their own pace. Dari watched their slow egress, and realized they must have some plan or plot. They must believe they had their battle won, or not care about the outcome. She had no other explanation for why they would waste a single precious second in getting clear of Triune.
The moment the last of the men walked through the arena’s big gates, the wooden barrier swung shut, sealing off the field of battle.
Dari’s breath deserted her once more, until her throat threatened to crush itself along with her chest.
Don’t let him be first.
Or last.
Gods, resolve this some other way and don’t make him fight at all.
Once more, she wove her fingers together and squeezed her own hands.
Not first. Not first.
She didn’t want to see this. She didn’t want to watch.
But there was Aron, little farther from Lord Altar than most apprentices could toss a rock. He was still peaceful and focused, still doing well concealing his legacy, but she kept herself ready to act, should his composure falter.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DARI
“Zane Morgan,” Lord Baldric read from his parchment. “Laird Reese. Coryn Kull. These are the Judged who have chosen combat. In the order that I spoke your name, do you have anything to say on your behalf?”
Dari stared at the second man, the tallest and most muscular of the bunch, with his thick black hair and scarred face, barely hearing Zane Morgan proclaim his innocence. Laird Reese said nothing. Coryn Kull only bowed toward a front row of spectators and said, “I ask your pardon, and hope my death brings you comfort.”
The peal of Stone’s bells almost made Dari cry out, though she knew by now to expect them.
Zane Morgan strode to the center of the arena as Lord Baldric walked to the bench where the apprentices waited and took up a position behind it.
Marilia Deadeye’s eldest apprentice rose, checked the soundness of her scabbards, then sat as his mistress glided out to meet her Judged. Her movements were more liquid than solid, and Dari remembered how graceful she was each morning, dancing the fael’feis in the Den courtyard. Stormbreaker’s sister would be proud of her former apprentice when she returned.
Dari felt the barest measure of pity for the man Marilia would face, Zane Morgan from Dyn Cobb, convicted of murdering a man in a tavern brawl. She gave him a moment’s attention, from his average height and build to his brown hair and beard that he kept long in typical Cobb fashion.
He didn’t really look like a killer or even a criminal, nothing at all like the glowering moving mountain Stormbreaker would have to fight. To Dari’s eye, Zane Morgan appeared to be carrying nothing but a single sword from the Stone armory, and a dagger strapped to the outside of his thigh. He might have the other two weapons he was allowed concealed somewhere on his person, but she couldn’t detect them.
His expression was grim as he faced Marilia Deadeye, who was easily a hand shorter than her opponent. Marilia’s countenance held no emotion at all, much like the blank looks Stormbreaker seemed to achieve so easily. After a quick mutual bow, the two combatants crossed swords in greeting, as was traditional in any civilized fight between two Fae.
Dari kept trying to breathe