Grace hadn't paid much mind to the gossip and speculation around the preliminaries, but once word reached her of a late entrant with long, fair hair fighting barehanded, she was forced to take notice.
She hadn't spoken with Cedric since their reunion. At least now, she knew that he'd been preoccupied with more important matters.
"Come, Finn," she said one early morning, standing up from the fragmented remains of last night's fire. She dusted crumbs of hard tack from her hands. Soon, they'd be forced to subsist solely on what they could catch in the river and the surrounding lands, though that was still preferable to seeking refuge in the nearby towns. They were already overrun by the displaced, and Grace, Finn, and his father had not a single mark left to their names. "This is the final day of preliminaries, possibly our last chance to see him."
Finn did not rise. Ever since they'd worked out the truth of Cedric's identity, he'd been far warier than Grace at the prospect of meeting him again.
"You go on," he mumbled, poking aimlessly at the dead coals.
"Don't turn yellow on me, now. He's still the same person. Well, not exactly, but…"
His unchanged sullenness quickly pricked at her temper. She marched forward and pulled at his arm until he also stood. "All right, all right," he conceded, yanking away from her grip. "By all means, let's pop on over and see what the Heir of Darkness is up to."
*
They aimed for the arena surrounded by the largest crowd of spectators. Numerous bets had been laid against either the new contender--who'd rapidly ascended the preliminaries without a single delaying loss--or one of the remaining seasoned warriors as they jockeyed fiercely for the last of the twelve commoner openings in the tournament.
"Two gleamers on the newcomer," someone muttered to his friend nearby.
"You're on. Lad doesn't stand a chance."
"He's up eight matches, no defeats."
"D'you see the size of the other one? Not to mention his sword!"
A snort. "Three gleamers, then?"
Grace patiently wove a path through the crowd until she finally found an unobstructed view. Finn followed close behind, as she knew he would; his awakened curiosity had outpaced any initial reluctance.
"That's Cedric?" he sputtered upon his first proper look.
"Of course, why?"
Finn frowned. "I remember him smaller."
Cedric's hair was tied in its usual ponytail, though a few strands at the front had come loose. He was unarmored, aside from the long strips of cloth wrapped tightly around his hands and forearms, and clad in the same travelling clothes as when Grace had last seen him.
His opponent was the largest Aborasian she'd ever seen, with a neck the size of her torso and arms that could snap most men in two. His thick, dark hair was gathered in ropey coils at the base of his skull. He wielded a curved, gold-hilted sword as long as he was tall.
Cedric moved with his usual assurance, but it was clear as day that he was completely untrained in combat, and unarmed to boot. Grace's heart leapt with instinctual dread, and the knowledge of Cedric's promising record so far did little to soothe it.
"He can't win this," Finn said in hushed tones beside her. "He was only lucky before…"
"May I have your name?" Cedric called to the Aborasian.
"Sayid," his opponent replied in deep, calm tones.
He nodded. "I'm honored to face you, Sayid. My name is Cedric."
Sayid inclined his massive head. "May the Mother choose well."
The Aborasian charged and swung, and Cedric dodged. Against every subsequent attack from the former, the latter sidestepped, ducked, or leapt away as if performing a choreographed dance.
"They're quicker and stronger, aren't they?" Grace whispered among a crowd that'd become rapturously silent in the face of this delicate, deadly interplay. "The Blessed Ones?"
"So we're told," Finn muttered back. "But if you're saying Cedric can overpower him…"
Sayid had begun to grimace from exertion. He lowered his sword and straightened from his stance. "You intend to wear me down."
Cedric's answering smile was unapologetic. "I work with what I have, Sayid."
"I've heard two things about you, young one: you always request a name, and you refuse to attempt a killing blow. I now know the second to be true as well." He grinned, and it sent a chill down Grace's spine.
Having shed all regard for defense, Sayid renewed his attacks. They were now faster, less disciplined, and harder to predict. Cedric kept pace, barely.
Then Sayid dove forward in a reckless, explosive burst and finally connected with his mark. The crowd gasped as one, including Grace and Finn, as Cedric was borne to the ground under the Aborasian's considerable weight. He landed on his back with an audible oof.
Sayid kneeled over Cedric, left hand pinning the latter's shoulder into the well-trampled grass, and raised the blade in his right.
"Will you invoke the Mother's mercy?"
Cedric's eyes were wide as he gazed up at his looming opponent, but he shook his head.
"So be it."
Grace's fingernails dug painfully into her palms, and she fought the sudden urge to cry out. Surrender, you bloody foolish little--
Sayid brought the blade down in a slicing motion intended for Cedric's throat. Cedric's right arm shot up and caught his wrist, blocking its deadly path.
The large man bore down with all his weight and strength, but he gained not an inch. Only a mild grimace flashed across Cedric's face despite the stupendous force he was holding at bay.
Cedric abruptly twisted to the right and unseated Sayid with a hard push of his captured wrist. The Aborasian toppled heavily on his side, and before he could recover his senses or even rise to a sitting position, Cedric had locked him in a chokehold.
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Sayid floundered, his head trapped in an iron vice against Cedric's chest. His meaty hands pawed uselessly; Cedric dodged their flailing attempts at his eyes and simply gritted through their glancing strikes on the rest of his body.
Only after the Aborasian's struggles had gradually and painstakingly diminished to drunken, aimless flaps did Cedric release him.
"M-Mother's mercy," he coughed and gasped like a drowning man. He struggled to his feet as quickly as he was able.
"Well fought, Sayid," Cedric said, rising as well. He extended his hand.
Warily, Sayid accepted it. The spectators broke free of their enraptured trance and began to cheer and whoop. Some wore sour expressions, others gleeful, as coins changed hands across the crowd.
Sayid said something that Grace couldn't hear above the ruckus, though it caused Cedric's smile to falter. The Aborasian then departed the arena while Cedric headed for someone standing at the front of the rapidly-dispersing onlookers. Grace recognized him as Adrian, and he was accompanied by a tall, older woman she didn't know.
"That makes nine," Finn said, somewhat dazed by what they'd witnessed. "One more fight won, and the last opening in the tournament is his."
A maelstrom of questions whirled in Grace's mind. She took Finn's hand and pulled him along.
*
Cedric ached everywhere, and the pain would only worsen after a night's rest on the hard ground. Sayid had wounded him more viciously than any previous competitor in the preliminaries, yet Cedric's next and final opponent, whose record of nine wins would again match Cedric's, would likely be even more formidable.
He let none of this pain or apprehension show. Adrian was already worried enough, and Cedric could do without a further helping of Candra's potent contempt for his overall intelligence and judgement.
"Are you all right?" Adrian said, taking his hands. A permanent furrow had plagued his brow ever since Cedric's admission to the preliminaries three days ago.
He nodded and attempted a reassuring grin.
"The sand-nose nearly beat you," Candra said flatly. "You've utterly nullified your considerable physical advantage with this absurd refusal to kill."
"Sayid didn't beat me," Cedric argued. "And I'm here to prevent Ayo from massacring everyone in the kingdom, my competitors included. I'm here to save them, not kill them."
"You're being a child," she spat. "These are merely the preliminaries. In the tournament, you'll face strutting peacocks who've trained every year of their well-fed lives for the sole aim of renown and glory. Should you gain the upper hand, you'd never force a yield. Most would rather die than bear the shame of admitting defeat to a commoner. Either you'll man up and do what's necessary, or get cut to ribbons. There is no third outcome."
Grace's voice reached him as he opened his mouth to retort.
"Cedric!" she called as she approached them, and waved in greeting. Holding her other hand was a nervous-looking Finn, who'd also become gaunter since the trio's days in Methodosia.
"Morning," he said, a little stiffly. "Candra, this is Grace and Finn, my friends from Methodosia."
Candra nodded briskly in lieu of a warmer greeting. "Well met. As you've seen for yourself, Grace, your foolish friend has chosen possible death and dismemberment over the path you helpfully offered."
It then occurred to Cedric that qualifying for the tournament would at least get him away from Candra for a while.
Grace's clear hazel eyes turned accusingly to him, and he tried to not look overly petulant. "Aye, when I heard what he'd gotten into instead, I was greatly troubled." She paused. "Though apparently I needn't have been. Nine matches without a loss!"
Finn hadn't uttered a word, and his gaze was fixed stubbornly on his shoes.
"Let's all find somewhere to sit," Cedric offered after an uncertain pause. "I've an hour's reprieve before my final match."
They settled not far from the arenas, where the buzz of hundreds of voices still infused the air. When Adrian and Finn began to chat amongst themselves, and Candra had retreated from the conversation to brood in silence, Grace turned to Cedric.
"What happened with Lady Salus? Did she turn you down?"
"Aye, she judged me too old," Cedric lied, surprising even himself. The thought of horrifying her with the truth, including what was to become of the children Lady Salus had already taken in, was nearly intolerable.
"Then, with this new approach… what if your opponent refuses to yield?"
"They will," he said, more assuredly than he felt.
"Not when word has already spread about this constraint you've imposed on yourself. Your opponents won't fear death by your hand at all."
Cedric began to pull at the grass. "I know. But still, I must try." He felt his throat tighten. "I don't want to kill anyone." Not as the price for my refusal of Lady Salus.
"Every fighter in the tournament will have chosen to enter," Grace said. "They accept what's at stake. If it's not you in the twelfth commoner placement, it's someone else."
"But it'd still be my hands shedding blood, my hands sending another's soul into the void." He looked at Grace's thoroughly worried face, and regretted causing her unnecessary distress despite his intentions otherwise. "I'm… sorry about how we left things," he said.
She blinked. "We parted on fine terms. It's understandable why you couldn't visit these past few days."
"No, I meant… back in Methodosia."
Her brow loosened in realization, and her sudden laugh was light and sweet. "Oh, that? The day you gave Henry a well-deserved walloping?"
"I shouldn't have treated you so. You were right, after all. About Henry and his father."
She reached forward to gently brush a lock of hair from his face and tuck it behind his ear. "Haven't we both been through so much since then? I'd already forgiven you the next morning." She studied him. "In this regard, you haven't much changed."
"Then what did you mean before? When you said I had?"
She contemplated. "That you're more assured of your limits, your convictions. In simple terms, I suppose you grew up."
*
Cedric's opponent was an imposing woman with dark red hair, taller even than Jana, wielding a spear with carved runes along its shaft. Its metallic head shimmered with colors unlike any material Cedric had seen before.
The crowd surrounding them was the largest yet. This was the final match of the preliminaries, as all entrants with fewer than nine wins would no longer qualify to compete for the tournament's last commoner opening.
"The name is Aja, of the Western Isles," the Nordan woman said, twirling her weapon as if it weighed nothing. "You request names, do you not?"
"Aye. My name is Cedric. May the Goddess choose well."
Despite Aja's stature, her attacks were quick and light. The head of her spear became a metallic blur, relentlessly slicing and thrusting into the air that Cedric occupied mere moments before. All other thoughts fled his mind as he focused purely on evasion, but his aching body stiffened and slowed just enough to fail him: a half-minute into their breakneck exchange, Aja sliced a long, shallow cut across his left thigh.
The wound blazed unnaturally hot, like a line of fire had ignited under his skin. Cedric leapt backwards out of range, wrestling down the howl that fought to erupt from his throat.
This couldn't possibly be terramancy; no one would risk such exposure at the foot of the capital, let alone within it.
"Brisannium steel," Aja said, as if reading his thoughts. "Bracing, is it not?"
Cedric's breathing came quick and shallow, whistling through his clenched teeth. He needed to end this match, and soon.
He marched recklessly forward, despite his leg blazing anew with every step, and engaged Aja at closer range than before. Her weapon's length was now a hindrance rather than an advantage, and she was forced into defense; Cedric's strikes may have been unrefined, but they were too strong to not be blocked or deflected. When Aja began to give ground, and her breaths turned heavy, Cedric finally found the opening he'd been waiting for.
His arm shot out and caught the shaft of her spear, anchoring it in place. Aja pulled hard, but was unable to free it from his grip. Her eyes, moss-green, widened in horror.
Cedric tore the weapon from her hands, wrenching her forward a few paces, and shattered it across his knee with a dry, splintering crack. He tossed away the remnants of the shaft and held up the spearhead like a dagger, in the reverse-hold he'd seen other competitors use.
"Do you yield?" he said tightly.
"You're untrained," Aja said. Her mouth twisted. "And you won't kill."
Cedric lowered the spearhead. "All that matters is whether you believe you can defeat me."
She scoffed. "You brute-force your way to victory because you happened to be born with the strength and speed of a demon. This tournament is a contest of skill, not artless barbarity." She straightened and looked down at him with haughty contempt. "Enjoy your place in the Red King's tournament, but know that you do not deserve it."
A strange, intoxicating rush filled Cedric's chest as he watched Aja leave the arena amidst deafening cheers and hoots. He'd felt the same upon Sayid's concession, and to a lesser extent from his eight earlier wins. With a twinge of horror, Cedric realized that against all reason and decency, he was happy. Gleeful, even.
He was enjoying himself.