The Proving of Champions, Chapter 13

The swornmen and women of Thorgarick and Volcat stepped to the wide expanse of the net at the south of camp. They looked at each other, then away from the worried faces to make sure the toes of their boots didn't catch the gaps in the netting. Even the taut, expertly crafted netting of the Valcots stretched and bowed as the weight of twenty individuals and the matter before them collected.

Terrel, Daralis, and Marina sat tall and impassive in front, facing the crowd. Terrel and Daralis were both at attention as if carved from the stone of their native mountains. Marina had brought tea with her and sipped it with a peaceful expression. Fleta could not sense any more emotion from the Undora first disciple than the determined calm of her sculpted expression. Bertram was next to them, spine less sunk in a slouch than usual, eyes focused on variables a thousand feet away.

The swornmen separated, with Thorgaricks on the left and Valcots on the right, as Fleta and Alex approached the group. Alexei folded himself into a compact sitting position a few feet behind Ogden. When Fleta hesitated, Daralis immediately beckoned her to the front. Fleta glanced back at Alexei, about to apologize, but he nodded toward Daralis before a word left her open mouth. "If you would lead your people," Alexei whispered. "Then lead."

While everyone settled, with Fleta sitting on a cushion between Daralis and Marina, she leaned across Daralis to the High Skald. "Maybe we should introduce Alexei?"

"Hmm," Terrel frowned, bemused. "Of course. Strange times when the introduction of the first man from the Market of the Damned isn't the most urgent topic of conversation. Still, you are correct. We should clear the air and clarify his role in the story we tell tonight."

"He has been getting quite a lot of discomfited looks from the Volcats," Daralis observed.

"Yes, yes, after an invocation," Terrell muttered. "We can use all the grace the Paragons are willing to grant. I believe Marina was willing to do the honors." In a louder voice, he turned to Marina. "We begin with a prayer from Marina."

The gathering of men and women looked upwards towards the skies. Marina stood, leaving her teacup with Bertram, and began the prayer with her arms open, palms up, in the attitude of receiving. "The gifted ancestors, who came before us, hear us. Allid Thorgarick, undefeated in battle, we call upon you. Evard Volcat, brilliant in strategy, we call upon you. Rifelit Karatuk, one with the blade, we call upon you. Olzeka Undora, the strength of men's hearts, we call upon you. Turn to the Paragons in the Halls of the Sky. Ask Thorgarick, Volcat, Karatuk, and Undora for grace on our behalf, that we might overcome, and that we might be glory to our orders and to our families."

Fleta was surprised at Marina's easy recitation of ancestors outside her order. At least, Fleta noted that Allid's name and formal sobriquet were correct; she wasn't sure of the others. One reason why she is first disciple, and I am not, thought Fleta. Still, as she looked toward skies not her own, hoping the Paragons in the Halls of the Sky watched over them in this strange realm, she felt comforted. Or perhaps it was merely the influence of Marina; she was certainly a wise choice on Terrell's part.

After Marina sat down and reclaimed her teacup from Bertram, Terrell stood up to address the group in his resonant bass. It was low-vibration, quiet yet projected; it sounded firm without crashing through the trees and disturbing beasts. "Tonight, we will review the events of the past week and plan for our safe return to the Marble Halls. But first, I must introduce a rare individual who has played a significant role in our struggles. Alexei, will you stand up?"

Everyone turned to stare at Alexei. Apparently, the Volcats already recognized the name from Thorgarick tales over dinner. Alexei slowly rose straight upward from his cross-legged position.

"Alexei is not a practitioner or a product of the dark arts." The Volcat gazes crawled over Alexei's gray skin, pausing at his second mouth and pair of arms. For this, he stood as still as a marble statue. However, Terrel's last phrase made his toes curl and tense. Fleta had known him only briefly, but she felt like she was beginning to see his tells as Daralis would or sense his emotions as Marina would. He is the product of dark arts, Fleta thought, sharing his discomfort. Just not ours.