The question burns. I push for the answer. It’s there, just out of reach. Yet, the closer I come, the more the fog thickens. No matter the distance across time, everything has reason. There is a path that can be traced. It holds the key. Someone knows. I must know.

How did we arrive here?

ARC 5 - PARACLETE

CHAPTER 7 - DISPARITY BY DESIGN

The roar of the crowd filled the arena. Another had fallen.

Nothing would dampen their spirits; not the sweltering sun and certainly not the death before them. They thrived on both. A battle, Emperor Tsurat had called it during his initial announcement. For once, all of the guilty would be permitted to fight as one. They were, however, noticeably less equipped than their opponents. Outnumbered, too.

There was never much hope for them. They banded together, but sloppily. They were quickly surrounded, the edge of their formation slowly picked apart by the more experienced forces brought to bear by the royal family. One or two managed to score lucky hits and the crowd swelled in anger with each fallen Shaktikan soldier drug back down the tunnel at the arena's edge. The felled accused, however, were left where all could see, their final moments spent lying atop blistering sand.

A wave of cries, screaming in bloodlust, swept across the stands. Only two remained now.

Raegn stuck out a lip and blew a breath up over his face in an attempt to push the next bead of sweat away from his eyes. They burned of salt at the edges and in the subtle shifts of his weight, he could feel the sogginess of his socks. Unlike the common folk packed into the rest of the arena, by nature of guarding a guest most royal, they’d been afforded both shade and space - not that it much helped. He could probably cook a slab of meat on his armor if he gave it a bit of patience.

Victoria sat in front and below them, just out of arms reach, with Tirin and Tanis positioned on her either side. She’d said not a word beyond simple agreements to Tirin’s remarks since they'd arrived. “Aren’t they wretched?” and “Poor fighters, aren’t they?” he’d said. Each of his quips met only by a pained smile and shallow nod. Tanis had none of her rebellious nature that they’d seen at the previous night’s meal, probably because of the very public nature they were in. The Emperor sat lower down, nearly at the top of the wall encircling the arena’s floor. A prime position to see - and to be seen.

The final two fell, one from a cut to the leg that brought him to a knee before losing his head and the other with a sword through the back. The Shaktikan soldiers hefted their weapons into the air. They celebrated their most noble victory and the approval of the crowd rose to join them. They were permitted to continue for a time, the girls blowing kisses down to their valiant fighters and old women shedding tears of joy. The enemy had been vanquished. Justice had been done.

Raegn tried not to pay any mind to the hollowness of it all. The accused had been weak, their hunger-panged frames obvious even from the distance. Half of them had probably stolen food so they could survive another day. Thieves, yes, but they’d been in unfortunate circumstances. The biggest criminals were in the stands, right in front of him. They wrote the laws so that they might never break them, all while punishing others for the struggle that had been forced upon them.

Khada Tsurat rose, a leathery hand lifted out from under a splendid set of loose robes. The crowd hushed. The soldiers saluted.

“Today, for those most faithful, I have arranged a special event,” the Emperor said.

The Emperor did not shout, he spoke conversationally. The arena was near-silent, yet that would not have been enough for his voice to be heard by all. Still, his words echoed just the same. A bit of an otherworldly air to them, too. Raegn recognized it as the Light.

The royal family had some affinity, then, he noted. The talent was strictly monitored and controlled by the Tsurat family, yet they demonstrated it freely. Another method of control.

The cheers of the crowd reached new heights as a single man, wearing only a banded leather skirt and carrying a sword and rounded shield, entered the arena. Cries of “Jaris!” began until they became a singular chant aligned with the man’s confident stride.

“Oh, he’s taken another fight has he?” Raegn heard Tirin say as he leaned in front of Victoria to eye his sister. “I thought he’d made enough from his earnings to retire.”

“I’m sure father is paying him handsomely for the appearance,” Tanis answered dryly.

Tirin scoffed, then turned his attention to Victoria. “You’re in for quite the treat, Princess. Janis is one of our best fighters. His elder brother is better, of course. A superior showman, too, but neither of them have ever lost.”

“Remarkable,” Victoria agreed with hands tightly clasped in her lap.

Raegn tried to glance toward Nora, but the damned eyeholes of his helmet wouldn’t afford him the angle unless he turned his whole head. Not that he’d get in trouble from it, but they weren’t exactly supposed to draw any attention from the royals in front of them. Still, he wanted to see if his partner was as disinterested in this farce as he was - and if she was sweating half as much. He risked a slow turn of his head. Nora leaned ever so slightly forward, her gaze set hard on the man in the center of the ring as though she were studying his every move. Perplexing, that. Raegn let his attention return to the duelist as well, watching as he bowed before the Emperor. What would be so interesting about him? He was little more than a mercenary for hire, regardless of his prowess. Light, the heat even slowed how fast one could think. It took far longer than it should have for the pieces to fall into place in Raegn's mind, and even then only because his own sweat might have greased them.

He was undoubtedly not the first person Cenric had trained. The High Justicar was Nora's sponsor, after all. She’d likely gone through much of the same training he had, to include fighting with Eryk and Tylen. Eryk had called himself a duelist. Referred to fighting as an intimate affair, too, before describing how he couldn’t bear to have someone know the details of how he fought. If he’d used the same words with Nora, then she was watching the duelist in the arena to learn. Raegn caught himself chuckling. Was there no limit to her desire for perfection? Light knew, she probably couldn’t stand to have someone that might be her equal.

“Your beloved champion has come to answer the call of justice!” the Emperor announced over the crowd. “To fight a so-called hero of the rebellion!” he declared with a sharp point toward the tunnel across the ring.

The elated cheers shifted violently towards jeers and insults Raegn couldn’t have thought up if he were given an entire season as the accused made his way towards the center.

“What do you say we have a bit of a bet?” Tirin asked.

Raegn flicked his eyes down towards the royals, but the First Prince had been asking his sister, not Victoria.

“Fine.”

“I’ll place mine on Janis, of course,” Tirin said.

“Of course,” Tanis agreed.

Raegn rolled his eyes, then scrunched them closed as karma put a bead of salty sweat right into one corner. Tanis hadn’t even bothered to glance in the direction of her brother. She’d been sitting nearly as stiffly as Victoria had for the entire affair, but he reasoned she was just as liable to be squeamish about blood and death as the Elysian princess despite initial appearances. Still, a sibling rivalry? How unexpectedly common them.

“Let us see who is worthy of witnessing another rise of our glorious sun!” With a downward fall of the Emperor’s arm, the two combatants took to their stances.

The rebel, to Raegn’s surprise, moved quite well. Far better than any of the others they’d seen, anyway. The men circled, then swords met shields with a rugged clang and the crowd exploded.

The main event had begun.

The rebel recovered from the strike, circled, then lunged back in. The thrust was parried, shield met shield in a furious push, and the two broke apart, a swipe from Jaris aimed at the leg narrowly dodged. They set again, feinting in and out, testing and prodding one another’s defenses.

The dance continued with neither combatant’s blade able to find anything other than shield or air. Yet, the longer the fight drew on, the lower the rebel’s shield became. The man was tired. Raegn squinted through the burn in his eyes and felt another drop of sweat take a merciful path past the edge of his brow. There wasn't any bruising. No scars from a whip. The only thing apparent was skin as dark as a Shaktikan field worker. Odd for a member of a rebellion that supposedly only existed in the city.

Raegn called a touch of the Light, a pull of his soul so small that a single dewdrop from the morning grass might not compare. Enough to bring his sight into perfect clarity, though. To him, the cracked lips and sunken eyes of the rebel became plain as day. They’d dehydrated the poor man. Probably left him to cook for a day or two, as well.

The flat of Jaris’s sword clapped against the rebel’s shield and threw the defender off-balance. He retaliated with a sloppy swing to keep the duelist at distance, an attack easily side-stepped. Even if the rebel were at full health his odds weren’t good. Jaris was a clean fighter. Efficient in his movements. Strong footwork gave power the rebel couldn’t seem to match and deft parries afforded the royal duelist ample opportunity to counter.

The rebel raised his sword in a desperate downward strike. Jaris was prepared. Already in a crouch, he exploded outward and put his blade through the rebel’s upper arm. Only the first half of the man's pained cry could be heard as the crowd drowned him out. He swung wildly with his shield to create distance, desperately trying to escape the death that reached for him. Jaris absorbed the blow with his own shield before hammering its edge into the rebel’s throat. The sword came free and blood stained the sand as the rebel fell to his knees with a limp limb, unable to breathe.

Raegn winced as the rebel clutched his neck with one good arm. He knew what it felt like. Air failing to reach the lungs. The panic that set in stole what little energy was left and buried rational thought so deep it might never be found. A glimpse of seeping blood drove the heart ever faster, a cycle that brought about the end with cold certainty. Few things could break that spiral. In his own moment of near-surrender in Bastion’s cave, though, he’d had one thing this poor soul did not. Or, even if the rebel did, the man couldn’t use it. Raegn recognized the symbol. The very same the Order had used during a portion of the Templar trial, though rather than etched into a small token and fastened by leather to the arm, the one he saw now was branded into skin.

Jaris became still, watching the struggle for life before him.

Finish it, Raegn prayed. The victory was clear. There was no point in the suffering. He tore his eyes away from the arena floor, but there was no reprieve. Victoria was visibly shaking. Tirin’s fists were pounding on the arms of his chair. Spit flew from the mouths of the masses, bloodlust fueling their howling as though they might summon death.

Khada Tsurat rose.

“Let any who oppose my rule see: there is nowhere you can hide.” The Emperor's unworldly voice carried through the arena. “The Sun is the Light!”

Tanis grasped Victoria’s hand. Tirin’s excitement brought him up from his seat. The crowd roared in unison, repeating the Emperor’s proverb.

Jaris drove his sword through the rebel’s chest.

Tirin sighed, then brushed aside the drapery covering the doorway and stepped firmly into the Emperor’s chambers. He hadn’t been summoned, but with his initial plan for the evening falling through he had little else to do. His body felt wound up after the afternoon’s duel and even after several glasses of wine and a bath he couldn’t settle. There wasn't any harm in a quick visit, anyway.

His father sat at a small table in the center of the room, a few candles providing the only light. The bed was still neatly made and would remain that way until the sun was about to rise if tonight were like most. Khada Tsurat took no joy in ruling, it seemed. His every waking moment was spent tirelessly leading their people. Too many moments, Tirin thought as he noted the dark bags under his father’s eyes and how his leathery skin hung tiredly to his face. The man never drank. Never took enjoyment from any of life’s pleasures. Such a lifestyle wasn’t what Tirin desired, but perhaps his father worked too hard. When it came time for him to rule he would let the simple matters be handled by advisors and the like. There was no sense in working oneself to the bone if there was no time to reap the benefits, after all.

Tirin stopped some distance from the entry and far enough from the table that he could not make out the words his father wrote onto parchment with a black quill. A respectful distance. One he'd learned long ago.

The Emperor gave no indication that he'd heard him enter. Tirin considered clearing his throat, but the sound of his father's voice brought a twitch of surprise and he choked and coughed instead.

“How are you getting along with the Elysian girl?” Khada asked while scratching away.

“Fine,” Tirin answered, trying not to show his agitation at not being invited further in. Standing in the middle of the floor was the place of a servant, not family. Whenever Tanis spoke with their father she garnered his full attention, yet he earned little more than glances. He was the heir! Was he not worthy of more? What was so important about the decrees and orders his father buried his head in every night? And why were such things kept at such a close hold? If he’d tried to approach the table or, Sun-forbid, take a seat, he would’ve been smacked like an insolent child.

“I suppose it matters little,” Khada said after finishing another line with his quill. “Do what you will with her, but do not sully our bloodline by giving her a child.”

“Of course not, father.”

Tirin waited with clenched fists, hoping that there might be some conversation - some inkling of whatever plans were being written just before him. He tried often, but was given so little. Were they to war the Elysia? Finally send their forces to root out the pestilence of a rebellion? He was a heartbeat from choosing the path of their people and he knew nothing about what courses had already been set.

“Are you going to stand there like a fool all night?” Khada grumbled without looking up. “Be gone with you.”

“But father,” Tirin complained, “do you not wish to talk? You could tell me how you plan to bring Shaktika out from shadow and prosper beneath the sun. I can begin inspecting our army or summon our spies to find where they're hiding--”

Khada set his quill down lightly and clasped his hands atop the table. Eyes filled with disdain lifted and settled with the weight of a mountain. Tirin slowly closed his mouth and fought to keep his lip from trembling in fear, but managed to root his legs to the floor in brazen defiance.

“If there were things I thought you should know, I would tell you. When I say you are ready, you will be. Until then, you will be obedient and patient."

Tirin swallowed, opened his mouth to complain, but thought better of it. His father's words were bitter and cold, so much so he'd felt them climb his spine and shivered. Forcing the issue was no longer in question. He’d tried just the once two years ago and it had taken almost an entire season for the bruises to heal. He bowed his head in sullen defeat and retreated from the chambers, leaving the aging Emperor to his writing.

"Perhaps if you spent less of your time whoring your way through the palace or at least kept your mouth shut around whatever servant you take to bed you would know more," his father said as he passed through the drapery covering the door.

A clay pot sitting beneath a painting of his grandfather was the first victim of Tirin’s newfound warpath. It shattered against the far wall, cutting the drapery where it had impacted. Did his father think him a fool? That he couldn't handle himself? They were the gods of their empire! Caretakers of the sun's Light! Who cared what he did with mere servants? And to point out the most obvious of things as though he were a careless child! Of course he wouldn’t impregnate the Elysian bitch! Even if he did there were other ways to solve such problems. What was the point of bringing her to their palace if not for a bit of fun? What did his father stand to gain? Avoiding a war wasn’t in their nature, it was what had given them freedom!

Delaying it, then? he considered. Or simple knowledge, maybe. He could help, if only he were told! She was so timid it would almost be too easy. He wouldn’t have even considered bothering his father on this particular night if his time with her hadn’t been interrupted. He could’ve gotten her to tell him anything. To do anything!

Oh Victoria, he thought, letting the memory of her sway his heated blood. She was quite pretty, despite being so pale. Her eyes were large and lovely but, if he were to nitpick, a smidge too far apart. Her lips were maybe a bit too thin as well. She had a good shape to her, though; slender and weak, not like the doughy woman she kept for a servant.

That blubbering woman, what with her excuses and constant talking. Sun scorch her! He cursed the handmaid to burn as he stormed towards his room, stopping only to snatch the arm of a young servant girl. The tray with mugs of wine she’d been carrying clattered to the floor, but she didn’t make a sound as he drug her through the palace halls.