Chapter 2 Dahvid Tin’vori

He had blood on his boots and a hood over his head.

There was nowhere to look but down. The hood hung loose enough to allow him to breathe, and that looseness created a sliver of visibility. He saw the scarlet spatter on his shoes as they traversed the dunes. He could see dead reeds and choked grass and gray sand. Up one hill and down another. The biggest pity of the whole thing was being trapped with his own stench inside the hood. He'd not been afforded a trip to the baths after his victory in the gladiator pit.

The crowd noise still drummed in his head. There had been a roar when he let the other man spin unconscious to the ground. He'd fought the man straight up. Not using any of his tattoos. His opponent had been a classic brute. Strong as a bull elephant and with about the same level of footwork. Dahvid had danced in and out of the blows with ease.

Apparently, too much ease.

He'd recognized his mistake as soon as he looked at the hourglass on the judge's table. Less than thirteen seconds had passed since the fight began. Afterward, in the training room, Dahvid had been unwinding his hand wraps when two men ghosted through the entrance. Both wore the emblem of Ravinia's most famous warlord. The taller of them had tossed a hood onto Dahvid's lap.

"Put that on and come with us, or else leave the city tonight."

An introduction to Darling was a part of the plan. The only problem was timing. He'd been hoping to make first contact a few months from now. He wasn't ready. Needed more time.

Dahvid felt the pressure at the back of his neck vanish. There was a tinkling rattle of chains, and then the hood was removed. Daylight blinded him. He blinked until there were shapes. He saw two figures in front of him, framed by a wine-dark sea. Distant waves gnawed on the shoreline, filling the silence. There was a sprawling villa on his right. As his eyes adjusted, he knew it was one of the finest houses he'd ever set eyes on. Far finer than the Tin'Vori estate had ever been, though there were many in Kathor who'd envied their family. Once upon a time.

Dahvid straightened, carefully pinning his gaze on the first man. His sister had prepared him for this moment. Darling was not one person, but two. The man standing in the forefront was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Eyes like slashes of river. A proud chin. Muscle rippled just beneath the surface of his clothing, though he was shaped more like a dancer than a fighter. The grand effect was marred only by black manacles attached to each wrist. Twin chains lagged across the sandy earth, connecting the first man to a second. Hidden in the background. Dahvid didn't look directly at that second figure, but when Darling spoke, he heard both voices.

"Do you know who I am?"

One voice was angelic, bright as a church bell. The other was hidden until the very last syllable. It sounded like stone scraping against stone. Dahvid nodded.

"They call you Darling."

There was another rattle of chains as the front figure started to pace. When the angle changed, he could have looked at the second man, who was seated, but he didn't.

"And you know what I do?"

"You run the gladiator pits."

"I run the city," Darling corrected. "I am the lifeblood that pumps through Ravinia."

Dahvid glanced at the villa on his right. "Pays well."

That dragged out a genuine laugh. He heard the deeper voice laugh first, followed by the tinkling laughter of the main speaker. "It does pay well. I run seven gladiator pits. We host ten thousand people a night. Our prizefighters make more money than tenured generals. Every detail is arranged. The fights are balanced. There is a system, because the system is what creates the demand. If I paraded out my best fighter every night, eventually no one would care to watch him. These are basic laws of commerce. And you? You produced an imbalance in that system. People attended that fight to see the Bearling. He's a crowd favorite."

Dahvid pictured the man he'd fought less than an hour ago. He recalled the broken nose, the eyes rolling before his body crashed to the arena floor. Dahvid replied, "Not anymore."

Another laugh, but this time only from the more musical voice.

"Surprises are good," Darling admitted. "But short fights? Those can be a nuisance. I'm sure you surprised them. No doubt they roared with delight. Expectations create a sort of magic all on their own. But then the crowd realized there'd be no more rounds, no more bloodshed, no more bouts. Their night was over, just like that. If I'd known you were that good, I'd have made other arrangements."

Dahvid nodded. "No one asked for my thoughts."

Neither Darling laughed this time. Dahvid's insides crawled as the silence stretched. The front man stood with his hands on his slender hips. Through the crook of one elbow, Dahvid caught a glimpse of the other face. A colorless circle. Not just pale but drained to a dying gray. His lips were chapped and broken. His eyebrows knitted together in a look of chronic pain. It was a spell that the rest of the city pretended not to notice. Those chains running between them were conduits for the passage of a soul. One man was slowly conquering the physical being of another. Such magic was forbidden. The Tusk people would view it as an abomination. Even Kathor, which prized innovation, would have condemned such a practice. Dahvid knew his people had always preferred more legal conquests.

"Would you submit to contractual fighting?" Darling probed. "Under my banner."

"Eagerly."

"Good. It can be arranged. If you satisfy one query."

"You want to know about House Brood."

Darling looked surprised by his frankness. "Yes. My associates have identified you as Dahvid Tin'Vori of the fallen House of Tin'Vori. You were one of the only image-bearers in all of Kathor. It's a rare trait, even for someone with as much Tusk lineage as you. According to a great number of witnesses, you died seven years ago. Yet… here you are. Standing outside my villa."

"What is it that you want to know?"

"Is House Brood going to come sniffing around for you?"

"I think that would be likely, yes."

"And? Will they cause me trouble?"

"Less likely. When their spies come, they'll see a brawler. A man who makes his living day to day in the arena. Sure, one day I might make decent coin in your service, but they're coming to make sure I have no followers, no contacts, no possible incentive to return to Kathor and take my revenge. And I will make sure that's what they see. You've nothing to fear from them."

Dahvid could tell that last line annoyed the warlord, as he'd intended.

"I have nothing to fear from anyone," Darling answered. "Ravinia is mine. The Broods could sail their entire army north, and they'd be lucky to make it up the beach without getting slaughtered. I do not fear them, but I will not suffer lapses in efficiency. A house as powerful as theirs could inconvenience my business. You will put on a good show. Content their spies you've forgotten all about their precious city. Do that and you can make a name for yourself here."

Dahvid knew he could never truly forget Kathor. Not the way the sun struck the water outside the back windows of their estate. Nor the smell of cocoa and cinnamon as he walked through the streets in the Merchant Quarter. Bright memories came to him, waking or sleeping, of the only place he'd ever truly thought of as home. Nor could he forget that dark night all those years ago. Waiting like a coward in the escape tunnel. Hearing the swords scraping overhead as guards died to save them. Knowing his brother was already dead and his parents were already burning. He saw all this in quick, painful slashes of memory. But when he answered, his voice did not tremble.

"Consider it done."

"The contracts are on the table behind you," Darling said. "Sign them and go. My agents will be in touch. We'll have to figure out a good name for you. Build your reputation. People do not buy tickets to watch sacks of meat run into each other. They swarm through the gates to see men and women that we've convinced them are their dearest friends. We will do the same with you."

The warlord's eyes roamed Dahvid's body more openly, now that he imagined him as a possession. He'd grown accustomed to such appraisals as a boy. All his outfits were tailored—once by his mother and now by his sister—with his famous battle tattoos in mind. There were clever slits in the fabric where normal people would never bare their skin. Each displayed one of his tattoos, or at least made them accessible. It was especially necessary in a fight, as he needed physical contact in order to activate their magic.

"I've read that Tusk image-bearers can combine their tattoos.…"

Dahvid nodded. "They're called berserkers. I'm not one of those."

Curious, Darling pointed to the marking at Dahvid's throat.

"What's that one do? The flower?"

Dahvid couldn't see the image, but every time he'd ever looked in a mirror over the last decade, that flower had stared back at him like a third eye. He'd memorized the design over the years. Thirty-seven scarlet petals circled a golden center. Sunlight graced the right half of the tattoo, as if an unseen sun floated above Dahvid's left shoulder, casting its light across. It was the first one that his brother—Ware—had drawn. Before the Broods executed him.

"The flower is a scarlet traveler."

"I know what it is. I was asking what it does."

Each tattoo housed a powerful magic. Dahvid currently wore nine. The scarlet traveler was undoubtedly his most powerful one. "It allows me to exist outside the laws of nature."

Darling smiled at the vagueness of the answer. Both chains were drawn taut, forcing the pretty figure to backpedal toward the other. Toward the master, Dahvid saw. The one who is conquering.

"All magic is an abomination. Some spells are just prettier than others." Darling sighed. "I look forward to watching you fight. Sign the contracts. I'll see you in the pits." And then to his two attendants. "Pay the man."

Dahvid turned his attention to the contracts. Both of Darling's escorts came forward, making a lot of noise, guiding him through the details of the arrangement. One filled the sack they'd used to blind him earlier with a tantalizing amount of coins. A down payment for his services. He knew this was by design. They were enticing him, drawing his attention to hide their master's retreat. Against his better judgment, Dahvid risked a glance back. The dancer had picked up the smaller man. The man that he knew was the original Darling. He ferried his master across the dunes, carrying him like a child. The dark chains trailed them, kicking up dust. Before the escorts could scold him, Dahvid turned around and signed his name.

This was a beginning. Even if it was coming sooner than anticipated.

He smiled at the idea of blood.

"When's my first fight?"