The king’s attendants and his guards, who had been standing around anxiously, hands hovering over their weapons, breathed a sigh of relief, all but Dionis. He’d been talking to one of the Eddisians and was moving through the crowd toward Hilarion. As Dionis passed Thalas, the priest reached out and took his arm, saying nothing, just holding him lightly at the elbow. Too respectful to throw him off, Dionis was stopped in his tracks.

There was a final match—against a seasoned warrior who represented the best of the old men, those with the years of experience to judge a new king. When the circle of Eddisians opened to admit Eddis’s minister of war, the king, sweating and tired, with bruises rising all over his body, said, “I thought it would be Ornon.”

“You would make short work of Ornon,” said his father.

“Yes, that’s what I thought, too.”

Ornon, who was standing right there in the crowd, glared.

Eugenides stepped back into a fighting stance as his father raised his sword. “There won’t be accusations of favoritism, will there?” he asked.

“No,” promised his father.

It was an unfair match from the beginning. It was meant to be, with the king already weary and the minister fresh. The wooden swords knocked against each other, making a noise like a house being built, or one being knocked down. The sound redoubled suddenly and the king, tired as he was, scored a hit and stepped back. It was a hard hit, and the minister grunted and tapped his chest in respect.

Hilarion thought the match was over. Looking around in relief, he realized that the Eddisians had slowly been shifting position. They were not just in a circle around the match; they were in a circle around the Attolians.

Then the king and his father crossed swords again, and Hilarion’s attention returned to the match. The next hit went against the king and he retreated, circling to gain time to recover. The minister continued to press him and landed two more blows, though glancing ones, on the king’s upper arm and his knee. The second blow made the king hop, but he shook off the limp and attacked again. Unlike the contests with the younger men, this was not a trial to win. It was a trial to endure.

Hilarion had had enough. As he took a step forward, the Eddisians struck. Even the guards, with their hands on their swords, had no chance. As the king and his father battled on, there was a brief all-out brawl. The Attolians went down, but they went down fighting, with two or even three Eddisians on top of them. Even I, as I rushed for my king, ready to do my feeble best for him, was scooped up by a man I hadn’t realized was behind me. Aulus, holding me with my feet kicking in the air, rumbled in my ear, “Not a contest for you, little one.”

I bit him so hard I tasted his blood in my mouth. With a shout, he let go of me. Afraid of falling to the ground, I could not let go of him. I held on to the cloth of his tunic with my good hand and bit down harder. Aulus bellowed like the bull he was. By then my feet had found the ground, and I stumbled away. The Eddisians nearby were laughing, and I hated them as I’d hated no one since Emtis.

Aulus could have knocked me down with ease, could have ignored me, as I was no threat to anyone. Instead, he held up both his hands, blood on his hairy forearm, and said, “Peace. Peace, warrior.”

As he approached, I blew spit at him, and he stepped back again.

“My word as prince that I will lay no war on you, if you give yours to be still until this contest is done.”

“Aulus, he can’t give his word.”

“Shut up, Boagus,” said Aulus. “Do I have your word of peace?” he asked me.

The other Attolians and Perminder, the lone Sounisian, who had also given his all and had a cut above his eye and blood streaming down his face to show for it, were one by one giving their words and climbing back to their feet. The Eddisians were wiping away their own blood and rubbing their bruises. Only the guards were still pinned to the ground—the Eddisians not adding insult to injury by asking for their surrender. Reluctantly I nodded, and Aulus, very warily, reached out to shake my hand.

The king’s face was swelling and one eye was almost closed. His nose and mouth were bleeding. He was staggering backward when he suddenly dropped to one knee. The minister stepped in with a blow, but the king, who’d been faking, twisted away. He stabbed the minister in the knee and swept the other leg out from under him before he could retreat. His father fell heavily and the king lashed out, kicking him so hard in the head that he lay blinking at the sky for a moment while the king staggered away.

He had won, I thought, surely. Aulus, towering over me, slowly shook his head.

“You know your limits only when you reach them,” he said.

The minister got up and then they went on fighting. The king fought until he couldn’t stand. When he fell, he still fought, and the minister went on beating him until the king couldn’t move. Each time the minister stepped away, the king raised his sword, strokes so feeble they were harmless, but blows nonetheless. Finally the minister stepped onto the king’s hand and bore down on it with all his weight. When he lifted his foot, the sword dropped from the king’s hand. Eyes closed, the king still reached for it.

“Enough, Gen,” his father said, bending over him.

The king swung his other arm, the one with the hook, and almost caught the minister in the face.

Sighing, the minister walked around to the other side of him and kicked him hard in the bicep.

“Enough,” he said again.

The king shook his head, but that must have been the last of his strength. He tried to get up, but only made it onto his side. He pushed with his hand, but couldn’t lift himself. His feet scrabbled against the ground. He couldn’t get any purchase. Sobbing, I took a step forward, and Aulus gently wrapped me in his arms, pulling me back against his chest.

The minister of war trudged away, across the court to a bench against the wall, where he painfully took a seat.

The king lay very still.

I threw up.

Aulus said, “Oh for crying out loud,” but didn’t let go.

Teleus arrived.

Sotis hadn’t made it beyond the archway that led out of the training ground. Eddisians at its entrance had turned away anyone too interested in what was going on that morning. That didn’t mean that news wasn’t getting out. Some of the terraces of the palace overlooked the guards’ barracks below, and any soldier knows the sound of a brawl from a mile away. Word had finally reached Teleus, who’d come with men armed to the teeth and not with wooden swords.

He was restrained by the magus of Sounis, who’d been awaiting the captain’s inevitable arrival. Whatever the magus said, it kept Teleus standing with his hands balled into fists while we all watched the king, the sound of the hawkers at the morning market floating over the palace wall, the sparrows and pigeons who had been driven away one by one returning to peck at the dirt.

The king moved; he reached out, feeling for his sword. Then he lay still again, blinking up at the sky. A little later, he rolled onto his side and levered himself up on one arm. The arm still wouldn’t hold him, and he lay back down.

The minister of war nodded to Crodes, who stepped soberly out to the king and squatted down to ask him if he wanted help.

We couldn’t hear the king reply, but Crodes raised both hands and backed away as if from a hot fire. Returning to the minister, Crodes shrugged. “He said, ‘No, thank you.’” Only the Eddisians laughed.