Page 123 of The Space Between Stars

Calver stood still until the crowd around them heckled and booed. There was a shout about calling it a draw. A man in the back cackled. Fates, this was misery. Doing nothing was harder than accepting defeat. But he’d take the loss if that meant this would end.

Mastico finally advanced. He tested a few slow swings, each coming closer to Calver, who did not blink, then his eyes narrowed.

“No longer interested in making a spectacle?”

Calver raised his hands, as if to catch whatever came at him—he could at least fake it for a swing. As the curved wooden blade charged down, Calver saw through the sergeant’s feint and let it happen. The blade shifted course. Kian slipped a leg behind Calver’s and threw him hard. The ground rose up to smack Calver—Fates, its aim was impeccable. He inhaled sand as he sucked in through his teeth. His back screamed. He couldn’t tell the false stars from the real ones as his vision blackened and reset.

“Point!” Trokus called out from somewhere, following the blow of his whistle.

At least Calver wasn’t coughing up blood. That was his least favorite.

“Rise, murderer.” Kian’s voice. A laugh or two followed from the spectators.

Calver wondered why those words burned so deeply. He was a murderer.

In a flash, he saw Pim, holding out his hand like he had so many years ago. “Rise, Curtaim, rise! We can’t win this one without you.”

Rise? Kian’s words were a mockery of his own memories. Rise was what they said in Calisto’s studio, when a teammate went down.

“Stop lying around, Cal.” It was Raimee’s imaginary voice this time—a teasing murmur. “We have plans tonight, remember? I’d rather not spend them fixing you up.” Why did she torment him like this? It was as though the sand had struck him with lunacy… but perhaps something else too.

He was on his feet. He didn’t know how he’d got there. Pain—so much pain. But there was pain on every path. He might as well pick one that gave him satisfaction.

Kian ran his tongue over his teeth and set his jaw. “At least you follow instructions. Now fight, murderer.”

But he wasn’t a murderer anymore. He didn’t take lives. He saved them. Three, now. And he had much more ground to make up before he was done.

Calver moved in on the sergeant, dodging a swing. He had better reach than Kian. When the dowaga left a primary guard, Calver lunged forward and caught Kian’s arm. It turned into a grapple. Calver fought for wrist control. Kian resisted. He knew what he was doing, but Calver knew better. He freed one hand and slammed it into the back of Kian’s. The dowaga dropped to the sand.

The burns and lacerations in Calver’s back screamed as he wrestled Kian to the ground. The man beat at him as he stretched for the dowaga. No throwing the match. No taking the loss. He was fucking tired of everything—including losing. Calver’s fingers clasped around wood, and he pulled the weapon back. He could have leveled it over Kian’s throat. It would have won him the match. Instead, he tapped it against Kian’s side.

Trokus’s whistle blew. “Point!”

Kian’s brow furrowed, but the small victory felt flat. Calver wanted to fight him as a dowagist, not a grappler. He didn’t want any more excuses. He didn’t want any more regrets. He was so tired of having to redeem himself. If he’d done things right the first time, there would be nothing to redeem.

Kian’s second passed him another dowaga. Now they faced one another as equals.

The whistle blew. Calver set his jaw. This time he pushed past the pain and advanced to strike the first blow. The crowd roared, nearly two thousand heads screaming out in appreciation. Blow met blow. Parry met parry. Frustration mounted on Kian’s brow until Calver snaked his wooden blade into a series of deft twists, catching the claw of Kian’s dowaga and sending it wide.

He would leave tonight, but he wouldn’t leave quietly. On his way out, he’d steal this crown.

He smashed Kian in the jaw, kicked him in the solar plexus, and brought him to the ground, wooden blade at his throat. Kian’s hand shot into the air, and the crowd erupted. The whistle blew on the round.

Relief flooded Calver. His eyes locked on Kian’s. Their chests both heaved, Calver’s from effort, Kian’s from outrage, too. Calver then did a thing his instincts warred over: he held out a hand. The honorable thing, the very thought of which made his skin slither. Just months ago, he wouldn’t have believed he’d ever willingly touch another person again.

Kian took it. “If only your etiquette with a blade extended to your etiquette as a man. The Red Wing is wanting for talent that isn’t treacherous.” On his feet, the sergeant turned his back.

A sudden hush fell over the ring, not so different from the sounds of shifting sand. The recruits parted to let a man pass through. Flecks of white peppered his cropped hair, and while he resembled the sergeant beside him, his eyes were soft, not hard—as if they had weathered alongside the lines in his face. The gladiolus pin of high command glinted on his shoulder in the moonlight.

Kian dropped to one knee, head bowed. “I can explain—”

“There’s no need.”

Kian’s father. Second in command of the Red Wing. Thyatira’s right hand.

Calver dropped the wooden dowaga and stepped backward. No one could be blamed for his taking it, but he could certainly face additional repercussions for using it. He’d been so close to getting out—still had to get out, if anyone in this caravan was to make it to Seraphinden alive. But it would only work if he left in discretion. He had no choice but to act with full compliance.

“Pick up the weapon.” The Major General’s voice lacked his son’s anger. It was as curious as it was commanding, reminding Calver again of Calisto. He swallowed his nerves and squatted, the motion barely tolerable, eyes trained on the Senior Mastico. He rose with the wooden dowaga loose at his side.