Bellico’s vesti ferre was, like his hymn, an impeccable white that gave startling contrast to the swarthiness of his skin, though along the stone forearm were inch-long black spikes. It had grown to reflect the heart of its master, pure and firm, large and ferocious. The clan chieftain’s weapon was eel-smooth and paler than cream, a platinum vein splashed down its face. “Theca Ariosa, Maestro Bellico,” he said in Silici, “I attend your will.”īellico shifted his hymn, a blade as wide as Imre and longer than Imre was tall. The thump he produced was a far cry from the mighty clap the Silici folk delivered with the same gesture. When the assembly had at last settled and Imre’s turn came to approach the platform, he saluted the family in their own fashion, a bow at the waist and a strike at the breast with a closed fist. Two of their children sat beside them: Eroico, a boy at least ten years Imre’s junior who nonetheless served as the clan ambassador, and his sister, slender and grim, Cantiléna with the copper-colored arm. Together they ruled the clan, for together they were the deadliest of their people. And most intently he studied the souls upon the dais, for that was where his fate lay.īellico, with blade in hand and showing no signs of fatigue, had returned to his place next to his wife, Ariosa. He swept his gaze across the gallery, even as dozens of Baremescre gazes bent to take his measure. He studied the surgeons as they carried the defeated man away, watched the lurid flow of blood stain the green grass black. But his father had taught him to at all times observe, so even while his heartbeat raged, he studied. He struggled mightily to keep his breathing steady. Even in the dawn chill his bare scalp was beaded with sweat. Imre stood in Baremescre garb-linen trousers with a bolt across his chest-upon a tight, pliant sward that made up the amphitheater floor. The Baremescre rang out their applause in an amphitheater of sculpted marble, in galleries flanked by ancient archways of wrought stone vines and blossoms cunningly entwined with true ivy. Each stone arm, or vesti ferre as it was called in Silici, differed from the next in color and shape, for it grew according to character. It was iron-hard yet very much alive, able to move, turn, and flex. At the shoulder joint, flesh blended seamlessly with a durable substance that composed the entire limb, inside and out, down to the fingertips. And each had an arm of stone, the right arm, every one. They were the peers of the clan Baremescre. Thrice more they crossed with rat-a-tat speed-bark and crash and clack-until a sudden red mist wreathed the challenger, and he sagged to the ground in a heap. He and the challenger, a stranger to Imre, circled each other with the patient deadliness of warships in deep water, until by some silent agreement they lunged, stone blades colliding with a thunderous report. Maestro Bellico’s skin was the color of bronze, his features hawkishly angled, his movements lithe. This he clutched as he watched Bellico punish. In a sling at his hip dangled a living sword grown from the bones of a dead man. Imre Usaym Balgas stood near the dais alone, waiting to be judged.
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