Quickening #03 - Bridge of Souls by Fiona McIntosh

Author:Fiona McIntosh [McIntosh, Fiona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0060747609
Amazon: B001G8WR42
Publisher: Harper Voyager
Published: 2006-02-27T23:00:00+00:00

She was naked but no longer cared, ignoring the sounds of appreciation from men enjoying the sight of a lovely body. All that mattered right now was the person on the opposite side of the ring, also naked, also breathing hard, and no doubt hoping that her cold stare would be enough to intimidate her opponent into submission without a blow.

The fat man was stirring up the excited crowd, but Elspyth ignored him too. She knew where Ericson was sitting and briefly entertained the idea of flinging her knife, Koreldy-style, at his bulk. She had a vision of him flailing in shock as the blade hit him squarely in the throat. She sighed, knowing she could never throw true. The blade would probably make it only half the distance and then clatter pathetically on the ground, undoubtedly to wild applause, leaving her defenseless, to be slaughtered by Alda. A bell sounded and dragged her back to the insanity before her. She knew her knuckles were white as she clutched the single small blade that was her weapon.

She heard the fat man remind her that this fight was to the death, then his explanation that Alda was righting for her third win and her right to be given over to slavery. The men cheered, no doubt imagining profit from her sale as well as her win. Elspyth forced herself to withdraw completely into her mind. She recalled the long night journey to Deakyn with Wyl—he walked as Koreldy then—and how he had told her that a warrior preparing for battle must draw every ounce of his conscious self into a closed section of his mind that no one could penetrate. She had smiled a little indulgently at his description at the time; now she understood completely what he had meant.

The bell sounded again and Alda began moving, circling. This is it, Elspyth thought. Kill or be killed.

“To you, Lothryn, my love,” she murmured, remembering how he had given his own life in order to save others. She suddenly felt sure that Lothryn’s feelings at that moment of decision—the knowledge of certain death, the grief of losing his new son, the sorrow that their love had remained unspoken—were identical to her own. It was a tearing free of all ties, a casting loose of all fears in the pursuit of one thing: kill or be killed.

Alda lunged and Elspyth’s mind went blank.

Wyl stepped into a large chamber that was warmed by fires at either end. A few men milled around, holding goblets of wine. He recognized none of them, which meant there was no one who might object to Ylena’s mistreatment. His boots crunched on the floor and he realized he was walking over the remains of Aleda’s fine cranberry-colored glassware. Like the loyal family of the north, it was now shattered, forgotten.

And then he laid eyes on the man responsible for it all. Celimus, brimming with self-importance, sat at the head of Jeryb’s oak table, goblet in hand, making some toast, his cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and the general joviality.

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