Chapter 15

“ G ent.” I say the name without thinking and manage not to scream as a shadow drops down next to me in the near darkness. Thick, fleshy walls close around me, and I’m scooped up in a cradle of warm hide, then lifted with sickening speed. This…this is the Divh’s paw . Shock silences me, and a moment later, I am face to eyeball—what I assume is an eyeball—a dark gelatinous mass that seems close enough to fall into.

I don’t think that would end well for me.

“Say your name, Talia. Your name. Not Merritt’s.” Nazar’s voice whispers in my ear, but my mind cannot comprehend him being here and not here—and he’s definitely not here, standing in this, this…

I swallow and sway against the thick, warm skin, instantly shrinking away from it, but there’s nowhere to go. Panic builds again.

“Your name ,” Nazar snaps in my mind.

“Tal—Talia,” I whisper at the enormous eye, anger and shame suffusing me. I’m not Merritt, the rightful warrior for this Divh. I should have protected him better, should have?—

The eyeball shifts in the moonlight, the lid hovering above me, and all other thoughts flee as I realize my Divh has eyelashes . Eyelashes! That seems so preposterous that a laugh rolls up from my belly, and I grab the sides of the Divh’s palm as my shoulders shake.

“Again, Talia,” Nazar urges from—wherever he is—breaking in on my hysteria.

“Talia!” I shout on the heels of a hiccupping laugh, the sound seeming far too loud next to an eyeball.

Gent, apparently, thinks the same thing. Its head jerks back, and its paw closes convulsively around my body, my laughter instantly choking into a terrified yelp. At the last second before it completely crushes me, the Divh freezes. For a long, sickening moment, so slowly that it has to be deliberate, it peels its fingers back until it can see my face again.

We stare at each other, and I realize something else.

Gent is not an it.

It’s a he.

I don’t know how I know this, but this long-eyelashed beast breathing in short, huffing gasps so as not to blow me off his own palm is male—a sire and a son, a creature with a family and community. I can’t fathom it, but I know with a blasting certainty that this Divh— all Divhs—are connected in a way I’d never possibly imagined. Connected to their warriors, certainly, but also…connected to each other, even if they’ve never before met.

There’s something important about that, more important than I can fully grasp, but I don’t have time to think on it further, because now Gent is staring at me—his own eyes wide as if he’s struggling to comprehend me as well.

Perched in his hand, I’m now far enough away that I can see the whole of his face too. It’s the face of a horned demon, ringed with spikes that glisten in the blueish light, his two eyes on either side of his immense central horn beetle black and sharp with intelligence. Those eyes are set slightly to the front, like a horse’s eyes, not a fish, but enough to the side that his peripheral vision has got to be better than mine. That and the fact that he can probably see for miles in any direction, with eyes so large.

Gent snorts again, a powerful blast of breath that fortunately is directed beneath me. It blows against my tunic and breeches anyway, and I stabilize myself against his palm as I frown up at him.

“Can he hear my thoughts?” I ask into thin air, though Nazar isn’t here. I know he isn’t here. And I know this question would only annoy him.

Sure enough, I receive only silence to my question.

I try again.

“Um, can you…” I shake my head at the ridiculousness of talking to a monster. How could this enormous creature even know my language?

The Divh simply stares back at me, his face placid for all that his gaze is direct. I think of the men on the stage, even of Merritt. He’d shouted to his Divh, sometimes cursing at it, but was all that even necessary? Or was simply Merritt’s thought of leaping into the air all that was needed to show his Divh his intentions. Surely the men on the platforms hadn’t shouted to their Divhs—they couldn’t have. They were too far away. So there must be some sort of mental connection…right?

I picture myself turning around in Gent’s hand as if we are in the middle of the coliseum. I fling my arms out, seeing all there is to see, imagining myself focusing intently on the smallest rock at the top of the stands, or the farthest wooden tower, or the far-distant campfires dotting the hills beyond Trilion. Then in my mind’s eye, I imagine Gent looking around the same way.

My eyes suddenly cloud over, then clear, and I blink in amazement.

I’m looking at the coliseum from a great height. I can see the stadium and the mass of fighting platforms far below, but I can’t tell if anyone stands atop them. I can see the myriad campfires stretching into the night, but I cannot make out fine details. And beyond the edge of the wasteland to the other side of the coliseum, where I know the mighty castle of the First House stands, I can see nothing but an indistinct blur.

Gent isn’t blind , exactly, but he can’t see as well as I would have thought for something whose eyes are the size of a waterwheel.

“That’s okay,” I say, patting his meaty paw. “You can still see farther than I can. That’s good enough.”

I blink again, and once more we’re surrounded with the heavy blue mists of Gent’s plane. The Divh’s chuffing breath blows across my face, smelling of grass and rich earth. I peer around, trying to understand.

“It’s night here?” I ask him. Another huff, and I sense the answer is yes. Probably just as well. If I could see too much more, I’m not sure my nerves could take it.

Instead, I imagine Gent putting me back down on the ground. His paw moves, more slowly this time as well, as if he thinks I might break. Which, of course, I might.

When I stumble out of his paw and back onto the yard, however, my knees suddenly give way beneath me. I sink to the dirt?—

A resounding crash sounds beside me.

My teeth bounce off each other and I turn, scrambling up again.

In mirror fashion, Gent leaps to his feet and backs away, covering the distance of five hundred ordinary paces in a few short steps. Despite the mist, I can see him more clearly now. His snout is stretched into an outsized grin, and his arms are flailing wildly…

I freeze my own arms, forcing them back down to my sides. “He just…mimics me?”

“That’s the most simplistic way of explaining it, yes.” Nazar’s voice is in my ear once more, as clearly as if he’s with me in this plane. “You are bonded. What you do—he does.”

“But, he’s giant. I’m not. Shouldn’t this be the other way around?”

Nazar pauses for a long moment, then continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You must learn to fight with your mind, not your fists, Talia. Otherwise, your Divh fights with its fists and not its mind. And you will fail if that happens.”

“He,” I grumble. “It’s a he , Nazar. His name is Gent.”

Nazar’s chuckle reassures me that he was already aware of this distinction. “And Gent is no longer linked to Merritt, but to you. He has changed.”

I flush. “He was forced to change. He needed to be stronger.” Irritation wars with my embarrassment. “To make up for me . That I’m weaker, our connection forbidden. His role is to take care of me and, well, I guess he will.”

Nazar doesn’t speak for a long moment, but I don’t need him to confirm what I know to be true. “Then given all that,” he finally says, “what are Gent’s strengths?”

I stand back and look at the monster, who takes a similarly long stride backward. “Size.” That’s certainly true. Gent stands far taller than the coliseum—as tall as the two monsters that fought in the exhibition match, I’m certain. Maybe even taller. “Big legs, big arms, big hands.” I tilt my head, considering him. The Divh tilts his and considers me back. “He can run fast I bet, faster than most.”

Gent chuffs a happy breath.

“He can hit and—because he’s sort of built like me, with, uh…arms, I understand how he hits.” Sort of.

“That’s a good observation. What are his weaknesses?”

“He doesn’t have a lot of wide mass—so stability. He can’t fly. He can’t…” I frown at Gent. “Do you breathe fire or anything?”

Gent scowls at me. He blows out a long breath and cocks his head as if to see the results.

“No fire. But he’s got a sense of humor.”

Nazar’s voice becomes a little more strained. “How would he fight the purple fire lizard of the Sixth House? Or the pale lion of the Fourth?”

“I…” I try to imagine Gent against either of those creatures. The images that tumble into my head so quickly make me gasp. “He would rush into the lizard, get beneath her wings. Her belly is her weakness. The lion…” I frown. “He wouldn’t fight him.”

“That’s not an option.”

“I know, but…” In my mind’s eye, I see Gent circling the lion, who keeps equal pace, turning in a tight rotation. Gent seems confused but not upset, more curious at the size and mass of his competitor. It’s bigger than Gent by a fair margin, though Gent is taller. Gent can’t get close enough to wrap his hands around the lion’s neck. Eventually, he sits. He waits.

I flap my hands nervously. I don’t know what to do. “He’s not moving. He imagines himself just sitting there.”

“Don’t mistake patience with inactivity.” Nazar’s words whisper in my mind. I shrug, the image clearing away. I know what I saw. Gent isn’t able to fight the lion, and so he’ll give up if we ever face the Fourth House’s Divh. Something to keep in mind.

Across the field, Gent looks at me, grinning again. Or, perhaps not truly grinning. His wide mouth can’t really assume any other shape, I suspect. I lift an arm, and one of his mighty paws goes up. I kneel on one knee, and he genuflects in front of me, like a mountain bowing down to an ant. I turn slowly, and he turns with me.

“But the men on the platforms didn’t move, not really. They shifted position only in reaction, after their Divhs had been wounded or knocked off-balance.”

Nazar’s voice is back again. “They’ve trained for many years, those men. It will take you time to have their comfort level in a battle of your own. Your challenge is to focus on stillness. Your Divh’s challenge is to understand you.”

I tilt my head, and Gent does so again, like a dog mimicking his master’s move—and yet not. His move is more playful, almost teasing. As if he’s already learned that trick and is waiting for me to catch up.

“I will be very still and imagine only in my head,” I say to him now. He stops, his eyes alight with energy.

Run, Gent. Run fast.

Without warning, Gent throws his head back and roars, a sound so loud, it seems to shake the very walls surrounding this sacred field. Then he turns and bounds away from me, leaning into the run, only it’s not a run like anything I’ve seen him do before. He allows his arms to flow backward, like the trailing tail of a horse or a fluttering cape, and bends forward almost double, his enormous legs churning as his feet pound heavily on the ground. In fifteen impossibly long strides, he’s reached the far edge of this field, and he runs yet farther, whooping with joy as he bursts through an enormous arch I didn’t notice before and into the mists beyond. I step backward, once more at a loss. I hadn’t been specific with my orders to Gent.

What if he keeps running and never comes back?

Nazar seems to share my concern. “Talia…”

“Shh.” I hear Gent’s cries of pure, untroubled joy as they float back to me on the mists. When, at length, the sound grows louder again, I imagine him turning in a wide, happy arc. I send out another call, this time imagining him with me, near me. Picturing him running back to stand with me, to fight with me, to?—

Gent erupts out of the thin air directly in front of me, a large paw sweeping forward to scoop me off my feet. He howls again in total elation, and I can’t help but laugh, exhilarated and frightened and more alive than I’ve ever been. All at once, I see the world not through my eyes but his . The small person in his grasp shining like the brightest star imaginable for all that it is a tiny, fragile thing. The fierceness of his connection to the tiny creature, a connection forged of time and strength and loyalty to elders.

I don’t understand all of it. I don’t need to. Gent lifts his arms high and runs with me through the mists—and his strange eyes can pierce these mists easily, I realize, whereas his sight is simply not as fine in my plane.

At length, he slows and stops, his lungs blowing, his heavy, chuffing breath sounding almost like laughter as he gently sets me down on the ground once more. As I take one shaky step, he reaches out with a finger. I lift my arms high to protect my face and he pokes me, sending me sprawling. At once, he falls on his own back, and his laughter booms above us in the silence of the training yard.

When I stagger to my feet once more, though, it’s not Gent who laughs beside me, it’s Nazar. And he’s not exactly laughing.

“What happened?” he snaps, and I wheel around to stare at him. I’m back—back in my own plane, in the heart of the coliseum. Everything feels damp, I realize suddenly—my face, my hands, my hair.

“What…why am I wet?” I hold out my hands as far as I can, but my cloak is stuck to me.

“You looked as if you were running—head down, arms back, legs straining, though you didn’t move.” Nazar peers at me. “And though you didn’t move, it was as if a cloud had burst open upon you.”

“The mist—we were moving through mist. That’s what did it. And Gent was running hard, working hard.” I peel my tunic away from my chest, grimacing. “This is sort of slimy.”

“It’s also unprecedented.”

I turn to peer at Nazar, only now he’s leaning on his staff, looking like the ancient man I’ve always thought him to be. His words are thoughtful, almost confused. “I don’t know of a connection such as this.”

All my questions from before crowd forth. “How do you know of any connection at all? You’re a priest from the Exalted Imperium. How is it you know anything about fighting or the Divhs?”

Nazar flashes his teeth, but when he answers, I get the sense that he’s withholding far more than he reveals. “I’m a priest of the Light,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Stories of Divhs aren’t difficult to come by. The bards who visited the Tenth House were always quick with a tale, and your father had stories as well, told to him by his father, and his grandfather before that. Stories handed down as a legacy from one generation of warriors to the next.”

My lips twist. “I don’t know those tales.”

“You’re female, and your father was brought up to honor the ways of his father. There was no need for you to know. Your father knew me as a priest of the Imperium, however, not Protectorate born. There was no harm in awing me. And I took the opportunity for what it was, to learn of your world and its customs.”

I shrug. “Your world too.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “There are no longer any Divhs outside the Protectorate, Talia. Not in the Exalted Imperium, nor in the vast nations beyond. Not for more than fifty years.”

Vast nations? I’ve never given any thought to what might lie outside the borders of the Imperium. That nation itself is a mystery to me, a land of gold and jewels and riches beyond imagining.

I put those thoughts out of my head. “What did you learn, then, from the tales of the bards? How can they help me?”

Nazar grimaces. “Now that I’ve seen you with the Divh, they can’t, I suspect. Not completely. And I thought my information was quite good. Certainly nothing I saw in the battle here the other day was unexpected. But those men didn’t laugh with joy as they connected with their Divhs, and they didn’t drench themselves in the mist of the Divh’s realm. They didn’t immerse themselves so fully in its…” he nods, correcting himself, “…in his world. You did. You did so naturally, without needing instruction. From your words and your reactions, your Divh followed your lead without question. You thought a thing, and it followed.”

“He,” I say, offhandedly.

“He,” Nazar agrees.

“You’re right, though,” I continue. “Gent didn’t know my words, but he knew my thoughts, instantly. And when he was running, I knew his. I could see what he saw, feel what he felt. But that’s no different from the warriors of the Fourth and Sixth Houses. They guided their Divhs with their minds too.”

“They did,” Nazar says gravely. “But such guidance improves over time. Much time. Years’ worth of time. Not mere minutes. It will bear watching.”

I drop my arms to my side, resigning myself to being clammy for the near future. “Then I did something wrong, you’re saying. Everyone will know I’m an imposter.”

“An imposter? No.” Nazar turns and begins making his way once more across the wide tournament field. “You have no history with these warriors, and they haven’t seen your Divh. Merritt has been bonded for several years now to his creature.”

“Gent,” I mumble. “His name is Gent.” I don’t know why it’s important, but I say it anyway. “Who is beautiful.”

“To Gent,” Nazar says, with a trace of amusement in his voice now. “Who is powerful and fierce.” I can feel his gaze upon me again, but I keep my head down, focusing on the way before us. My wet tunic makes me unreasonably chilled, and I fold my arms over my chest, my right hand covering the spot where my tunic clings tight against my band. It’s warm beneath the wet cloth, but I still shiver.

“As long as you don’t draw any undue attention to yourself and fare well enough in the early rounds of the tournament—you won’t be seeded in the tournament proper against a seasoned warrior,” he says. “You’ll gain a few critical wins and slip through the middle of the tournament unharmed.”

I nod. “And when I do have to fight a warrior who knows his Divh and how to use him…or her? What do I do then?”

Nazar’s solemn words float back to me on the breeze. “Then you will follow the way of the warrior. You will win, or you will die.”

“Not really die, though, right?” I mumble. “No one dies in the tournament. Not really.”

Nazar, however, says nothing more.