The Dusklight Oath by Marcela Carbo

Author:Marcela Carbo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Marcela Carbo

Nothrin revered the Beytol Arena because it was one of the few accessible buildings from before the Fall of Saylassa. An ancient place, eerie and musty, the burden of time hung over it. When Isilayne had still been the only academy, boys from the schools and drill yards had met at the Beytol to determine who should go on to the trials.

A squat tower of kith, Beytol sat on an island in the west chasm at the edge of the Temple district. Bridges sprung from its sides, joining it to the West Road and the Temple Road. Though it bordered Isilalan and Isiltrin, all the academies made use of it for special tournaments to decide academy champions. Observers packed the walkway that spiraled up Beytol’s inner wall. The only other viewing area was the first ring, with its stone steps. Despite the cramped space, the sorcery of the place suppressed all sound except for that made on the kith gravel of the fighting pit.

His team had won four bouts there so far—all of them minor events, scheduled between academy contests and meant to amuse the crowd. Now, for the fifth time, they waited in the staging area, a tunnel on the south side of the field, preparing to fight one last time. By the end of this season, everyone in Vaidolin would know his worth.

“Barbarians again?” Mir asked, tugging at scraps of armor piled up against a wall.

“It’s the only fight the judge would give me.”

The judge had been quite adamant about his team playing the part of the barbarians at the intermission bout. The fight reenacted a battle fought by Liron Starcaller, Savra’s lieutenant, against a horde of barbarians called Kuxul, who had then occupied the lands southeast of Vaidolin.

“I’ve got five silver bits saved,” Mir said. “A bribe might help. Wouldn’t mind playing the part of Liron once this season. Been working extra at the mill.”

Nothrin nodded. He should have been there, or practicing in the atrium, but he’d been bent over the tablet, retching and heaving, dying a little with each attempt to breach the litany that protected it from unwanted intrusion.

“I still owe you two,” he said.

Mir waved off the suggestion and grinned. “We’ll get lots more work the last weeks before winter.”

Victory ribbons wound around Mir’s waist neatly. He was happier now, not to mention how his mother beamed even more with each ribbon earned. The next win would ease him still more, and then they could really push for harder fights.

“Though you could do with an extra meal,” Mir said. “You’re looking thin. Dark shadows on your face.”

“I make for a poor barbarian, then?” Nothrin asked with a chuckle.

Mir didn’t laugh.

Their teammates arrived—decently equipped sons of Dorgist houses, all secret pupils of Grevyl’s circle of diviners. Nothrin had confided his plan to Grevyl, who seemed to know so much about Vaidolin’s history. He’d been the one to suggest the Beytol tournaments. It was the perfect idea to match Nothrin’s plan, hatched in the dark tunnel before the sacred effigies.

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