The Fallen Singer

In the morning, a knock came against Arn's door. He opened it to find Mahan on the other side. "I didn't have your coin ready last night," he explained, extending his hand to let three golden crowns fall into Arn's. "Rather, Gaius didn't. I think he expected you to lose."

Same as everyone else, and it had been close. While Arn had escaped with only a minor wound, he had been evenly matched; a small mistake, and it could have gone the other way. He turned into his room and placed the coin on the shelf with his clothes, waiting for the weapons master to leave so he might hide them in his belt.

"You should be careful. Don't leave gold out like that. It'll tempt those weak of will," Mahan chastised him.

Trying not to let frustration show, Arn remained with his back turned.

"Did you have to kill him? Cassian, the champion."

Yes. Setting aside how much it had fed Arn's magic, the gladiator would have known Arn possessed the gift; no other explanation for his victory. He had to die.

"You can answer me. I know your signs."

Arn had forgotten about that. Shoulders sinking, he turned around to face Mahan. 'I don't pretend to fight. If I'm in the arena, it's win or die,' he gestured.

"Is that your secret? Because when you train, you're no better than Sigismund or some of the others. But when it counts, you fight like no other I've seen."

Nor anyone he ever would see, but Arn kept his thoughts to himself. Whatever explanation the weapons master came up with would be the one he found it easiest to believe.

"It's not revenge, is it? Are you hoping to butcher your way through every Aquilan, one battle in the arena at a time?"

That was not Arn's intention – just a fortunate accident that his path home required so much Aquilan blood.

"I've been in your situation, Arn. I came here as a prisoner too. My home lies a thousand miles from here," Mahan explained, and for once, the Tyrian felt interested in his words; he had wondered at that.

'Where is your home?'

"Khiva. It lies far to the east from here."

Arn had heard of it, but never been that far southeast. And having received a reply, his interest was gone. 'The day awaits us both.'

"Yes, it does. To breakfast with you."

*

With three golden crowns stitched to the inside of his belt, next to his needle, Arn sparred throughout the day. He could feel the change in the ludus where the other gladiators were concerned; how they treated him or just looked at him. No more jibes at his Tyrian origin or that he was a mute. No scornful smiles when he took a blow or failed in his attack. Whether impressed or fearful, they treated him with respect. It made little difference to Arn, but if he had to choose, he preferred this.

In the evening, he brought an oil lamp with him back to his cell. He had less need of it than most; his sight was superior to others, and his sense of earth acted as a further pair of eyes as needed. But he wanted to be sure leeching the champion's energy had worked, given how drastic it had felt. Alone in his room, Arn placed one finger inside the small flame that burned in the lamp.

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He felt the heat, and he would not consider the sensation entirely harmless; but as he removed his finger, he saw no burns on the skin. For three months he had journeyed through midwinter to the land where the sun did not rise, proving himself worthy of a second blessing from the seiðr-wives; his body and spirit were inured to the elements of any kind. Not something he would need in the arena, but he might at other times, given his activities.

His mind turning towards those, Arn decided tonight was the right time. Almost a month had passed since he last took advantage of a moonless night; the sky was dark with barely a sliver of light struggling to get through the clouds.

He could have asked for leave, but doing so too often raised suspicion from an already suspicious weapons master, and he preferred to use that for going to The Broken Mast; should anyone spot him, it was simple to argue why a gladiator might use their time outside the ludus visiting a tavern with harlots. But tonight, Arn had business with Helgi, the loremaster, and he preferred nobody else knew or saw. Too easy for someone to guess what a purveyor of magic might do for a gladiator.

*

With his runes providing strength and stealth, Arn had no trouble sneaking out of the ludus after nightfall. He made his way to the Tyrian quarter by the docks; seeing the street empty, he crossed and entered the hut.

"Gods, it's you." The loremaster woke from his sleep. "I thought I locked that." He glanced at the door.

He had, but locks were made of metal, belonging to the element of earth; a quick touch and burst of magic was enough to convince them to open. Another benefit of Arn's increased powers. He held up his tablet. I need my next rune. He drew the sign for swiftness afterwards, in case the old man had forgotten which to make next.

Helgi yawned and looked closely at it in the dark. "Fine. I'll get it done. As long as Magnus agrees to it, of course."

Arn nodded; he would visit them on his next outing. First, he had another matter to discuss. With his magic being restored at a steady pace, he needed to look to his other plans, including being able to leave the city. He wrote on the tablet, I need a way to get rid of this, and pointed to the Archean armband that still clung to him.

"Right. That old chestnut. Look, I have little experience with Archean magic, and it's unpredictable to mix with our own."

Try.

"Sure. Maybe a rune of unbinding or suppression…" Helgi fell quiet, looking up in the dark at his visitor. "Speaking of this, I had a visitor. You shouldn't come around here again. Best we meet at The Broken Mast or something if we must."

Arn frowned and motioned for him to elaborate.

"A mage came looking for you. He described your appearance. He tried to use magic to make me talk, so he's no Aquilan trickster." Helgi wetted his lips. "He's Archean, and if I were to guess from his questions, he's a spellbreaker."

Arn deepened his frown. He could not recall hearing about them before.

Helgi sighed. "You don't understand, do you? Spellbreakers are their – enforcers. Mages trained to fight other mages. They're exceedingly dangerous, master skáld, and more than a match for you in your current state. Maybe the Bladesinger would have stood a chance, but not the remnant of him standing before me now."

Arn clenched his jaw at hearing his epithet revealed so casually. How?

"Ah, calm yourself, brother. Nobody else knows, and I haven't told. I'm already keeping secrets from a spellbreaker."

Arn jammed his finger against the single word on his tablet. How?

Another sigh from the old man. "Some months ago, three or four, the town criers bragged of your capture and that you'd be thrown to the lions. Of course, I don’t think most Aquilans had ever heard of you before, but they were happy to believe some great enemy of the Empire had been taken captive."

Now Arn's fists became clenched as well. Against his will, his mind conjured the memories of mistreatment and scorn suffered during his captivity, along with the dreadful day of being savaged by the beasts in the arena.

"Do you know why they did this? What did you do to suffer their ire?"

Although it felt like a weakness, Arn wanted to answer, to air his grievances, knowing perhaps no other person in Aquila would understand. I spoke against them at the solstice thing.

Helgi looked from his tablet to his face. "About the southern mark?"

Arn nodded. Suddenly, he felt tired, and he fell into a seat.

"Well, brother, I've no qualms with what you're doing. But you've caused enough stir for a spellbreaker to be on your trail." The loremaster caught his gaze. "Be careful."

Arn pointed to his tablets and the words describing his need to be rid of the armband.

"Alright, I get it. I'll look into it. But don't come here again, in case the spellbreaker comes back. I'll leave a message with the barkeep at The Broken Mast if there's anything."

Arn bowed his head and got up. Drawing upon his rune of subtlety, he let the shadows envelop him and left.