Chapter Thirty: Trial of the Fallen Hero

“The strange colour of the trees within the City of Twilight lends itself mostly to the presence of the Worldspring. Twilight has long been thought to be the time when the boundaries between Astreal and the physical realm are the thinnest, when the flow of Spirit is most easily moved, so it is only fitting that the trees take upon that colour.”

—Dagus Adem, The Adventurer’s Guide to the Continent

Ein was furious.

“This is ridiculous,” he fumed, staring at the scrap of paper in his hands. There was a single line of hastily scrawled text on it, a brief notice that Alend had left to go visit the King. Beneath it was another note, this time by Garax, advising how the storyteller had also left to ‘see the sights.’

“Well that works perfectly in our favour,” Evaine said merrily. “Let’s go exploring.”

“Exploring my foot,” Ein said. “I can’t believe Father left without us.”

“Come on,” Evaine pouted. “Your father’s probably just caught up in the technicalities or something. The King gets a lot of visitors every day. Let’s give it until the evening before we check up on him.”

Ein folded his arms. “Well I’m staying right here, Aldoran be damned.” And here I thought we’d cured his stubbornness.

“What about you, Bran? Ein’s going to let little old defenceless me roam the streets by my lonesome.” Evaine curled the edges of her lips.

Bran shrugged. “I guess it would be a bit of a waste if we came all the way here and didn’t have a look around.”

“You two have fun then,” Ein said hotly. “I’ll be here when you come back.” He picked up his sword and began to swing at the empty air, swearing under his breath as he did so.

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Bran and Evaine started from the bottom of Wall Smythe at a marketplace several streets down from the inn. It was early in the morning, but the sheer amount of people was staggering. Farmers and merchants were already setting up their stands, swamped by low-class citizens dressed in patched rags scrabbling for the best deals. Stalls had been erected on the side of the road, selling fruit and vegetables, ice-boxes of meat, silken robes and odds and ends. Carpets lay unfurled on the paved ground with rings and amulets, bangles and bracelets and necklaces with fake diamonds as large as a fist. The air was rife with noise, of people bargaining and bartering, of sellers flaunting their wares.

Bran took a break under one of the trees as Evaine continued to wander around the square, marvelling at every second thing that caught her eye. He plucked a rosy leaf off its branch and stared at it.

If only I were more like Ein, he thought. Maybe then, she would look in his direction.

Now that he thought about it, he was surprised enough as it was that Nath and Valeesha had promised their daughter to him. Granted, wealth and land had played a large part in it, but Ein was just such a better person than he was. Ein didn’t freeze up in times of need. Ein was decisive. Ein was heroic.

Bran hated himself for thinking that way, but he couldn’t stop. That was just the type of person he was, and now that they’d left Felhaven and its traditions far behind, he had to win Evaine’s affections entirely on his own.

They went to the chapels next, all seven of them. They were spread out along the border between Smythe and Norn, identical in design but with a different statue and symbol outside each entrance. Priests moved about, reading their sermons, giving their blessings, sweeping the dust off the front steps. There was a wedding happening outside Cenedria’s chapel which Evaine stopped to watch. Once the vows had been exchanged and the sky was raining with pink blossoms, they entertained themselves by donating at the wishing fountain, each tossing a copper coin into the water by the goddess’s feet. Bran’s wish was to be with Evaine, preferably back home. He didn’t know what Evaine wished for and he didn’t ask, as much as he would’ve liked to.

Aldoran was laid out like three concentric circles, so it was nigh impossible to get lost. Each Wall was like a city in itself, complete with a multitude of shops and inns. One only needed to walk in a single direction until they reached a Wall and then follow it all around to be back on their way.

They spent a while in front of the map, resting their feet. Evaine had finally conceded that it was impossible to explore every corner in just a single day, so they formed a plan of sorts—a shortest path through the most sights and landmarks they could manage. Bran couldn’t say he was disappointed that they’d be skipping the graveyard and the slums. He’d had enough of the dead and the dirty on the road to Caerlon and the Blight-stained King’s Highway.

They followed the canal up to the second Wall, passing children as they played in the knee-deep murk, diving off the bridges as their parents chatted nearby. Bran’s spirits lifted as they passed through some of the strange bookstores and pet shops in the more obscure corners. He’d always liked books and animals—the former because they transported him to lands far away, the latter to compensate for the few friends he had. He’d been one of the more timid children back in Felhaven, the type to always sit on the sidelines and watch while everyone else played kickball. He had no idea why Ein and Evaine had even befriended him.

He could still remember when they’d first met, as clear as day. He’d been five, playing by himself at the river. He hadn’t minded spending time alone, watching the waters lap against the coast, skipping stones as far as he could. That wasn’t to say he didn’t long to join the other boys in their little games, but he was content enough being by himself.

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There had been a bend in the Brackenburg where a tree had fallen down during a storm, forming a makeshift bridge across the waters. Bran used to hop back and forth across the trunk, studying the fishes swimming below, poking them with sticks and watching them scatter. One of those days he’d slipped and fallen in.

He could still remember the feeling of despair as his feet failed to touch the bottom, his body growing heavier and heavier as he sank into the soundless void. He’d floundered wildly, trying to stay afloat, but only succeeded in tiring himself further. His last thoughts had been as dark as the depths of the river.

Then Evaine was there, grabbing his shirt, diving after him with no disregard for her own safety. Ein had extended a stick for Evaine to hold onto and hauled them both back to the fallen trunk, where they’d grabbed on and regained their breath. When they finally crawled back onto dry land, Bran had been gasping like a fish out of water, a mix of tears and river-water gushing down his cheeks. Evaine had comforted him while Ein ran back to the village to call for help.

Bran smiled at the memory. Pretty, kind Evaine. A little older than them both, always looking after the two, always leading the way and adding colour to their lives. She’d changed since then, but the core of her personality remained the same. When he thought about it, it came as no surprise that he’d fallen for her.

They continued their tour of Aldoran, and bit by bit he felt himself loosening up. They spent a few minutes watching the Soulforge as it chugged black smoke into the air. Ein would have liked that. They indulged themselves in the entertainment district, Bran proudly scoring them some extra coin with some well-placed shots down at the archery range. He basked in satisfaction as Evaine gushed on about how impressive he was, ignoring the small voice that told him he was useless in the face of real crisis.

They spent the money on colourful desserts and sandwiches with all manner of meat they’d only ever heard of. They weren’t in Caerlon; tourists here were more than welcome and nothing out of the ordinary. Bran felt like he could live here for his entire life and still be a complete stranger to some of the streets and back-alleys.

Eventually it came to be noon, and they arrived at the last stop—the Cirantheon. It was a large stadium with an open roof, almost an amphitheatre of sorts, except instead of there being a stage in the centre there was a gladiator’s ring. Entry was free for first-time visitors. Evaine took full advantage of this, dragging Bran in behind her.

They took a seat at in the middle, well away from a puddle of foul-smelling liquid. The air was rank with the smell of blood, sweat and human waste. A small crowd of a few hundred were present today, scattered about all ends of the arena, gamblers and loan sharks watching the ring eagerly. At the opposite end was a special balcony where the King and other nobles sat, and below that was where the announcer called out with a magic-enhanced voice.

“Couldn’t we have found somewhere a bit cleaner to spend the afternoon?” Bran asked.

“Shh,” Evaine said. “They’re starting.”

The two barred gates on either end of the ring swung open and the two combatants charged into the ring. The announcer introduced them as highwaymen found on the Royal Road, sentenced to trial by combat. Whoever won would be spared their life and afforded a second chance.

Bran closed his eyes half-way into the fight, feeling sick. The two prisoners had fought without holding back, biting and gouging eyes and scratching when they’d lost their blades. It wasn’t a very pleasant sight. Even Evaine was starting to grow pale, though she maintained a front of attentiveness. Bran suspected it was more a sign of defiance than anything else.

“Our next battle will be between another prisoner—a man guilty of adultery—and a relict. Yes, folks, you heard right! We’re pitting him up against a Slazaad captured from the Blight, fresh from Nephilheim! Wyd bless his soul, let’s hope he gives us a fine display!”

“A Slazaad!” Evaine breathed. “How on earth did they manage to capture one?”

“Can we go?” Bran asked. “I don’t think this will be very pretty.”

“No, I want to see! It’s going to cost us the next time we come in, so we might as well stay.”

Bran groaned.

“What’s the matter?” Evaine asked. “Scared?”

He shook his head, deliberately neglecting to mention how queasy Evaine herself was looking.

The Slazaad was let into the ring first. It was a massive lizard—a dragon without wings—and it had a short, stubby neck and tail. Its head was oblong shaped, broad and flat between the brow and the tip of the snout, and long. Like a battering ram, he thought. The relict snorted and roared, trying to shake off the Rhinegold collar around its neck, but to no avail.

“Now we have Master Bowun, our felon! Let’s see if Cenedria takes mercy on him today!”

The gates lowered and a scrawny stick of a man was thrown into the ring, armed with nothing but an iron sword. He ran back to the gates and banged against them, screaming for help. The audience jeered at him from above.

The Slazaad snapped its head toward Bowun and breathed deeply, suddenly calming down. A forked tongue flicked between its lips as it crept closer to the frenzied man.

“Help!” he cried, having given up on prising open the gates. He tried to climb the walls, tried to scrabble up into the stadium while people threw stones and rotting fruit at him.

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” Bran asked. “There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

“Who do you think I am?” she said, tossing her head. “A bit of blood and gore won’t be enough to faze me.” She failed to hide the quiver in her voice.

The Slazaad charged, lumbering across the dirt like a mammoth. Bowun leapt out of the way as wall trembled behind him, dust and debris raining down from where the relict had made impact. It screeched and swung its tail, catching the prisoner in the side of the face. Bowun spun into the dirt and lay, lifeless.

The Slazaad ripped itself from the wall and plodded towards the body, snapping it up in one swift movement, crunching and a grinding as it ate the man whole. The crowd cheered.

“Evaine,” Bran said. “Are you okay?”

The Slazaad burped and spat out a pair of bloody manacles and a scrap of clothing.

“O-Of course,” she said.

“Do you want to head back? Let’s go check up on Ein.”

Before she could reply, the announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium. “This ends our programme today, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you enjoyed the show, and we’ll be back the same time tomorrow with a fresh line-up of fighters!”

There was a deafening round of applause.

“We have a special guest tomorrow, one who’s guaranteed to put up a fight! Some of the older people among you may remember a man by the name of Alend Thoren—” Bran and Evaine looked at each other in horror, “—who was charged with high treason against the High King! A former Kingsblade and a member of the all but extinct House Thoren, we’ll be pitting him up in a special gauntlet tomorrow morning for your entertainment! He’ll have some of his abilities restrained of course, for your own safety, so there’s nothing to fear! Come one, come all, place your bets, and I’ll see you tomorrow for the Trial of the Fallen Hero!”

The crowd erupted into loud cheering, all except Bran and Evaine. Evaine turned around slowly.

“We’d better tell Ein,” she said.