The arena filled to capacity. It was the first major match in a long while. As excited spectators pressed their way in, Gene sat in the place he had promised Beka. His face was hard, but confusion swirled within him. Was simply watching really the best thing to do? Even if Beka died here?
The large and small matches all ended, and at last the final bout, Beka against the Red Blade, began. Beka’s skill did not seem to have rusted in the slightest. The Red Blade was strong, but in a brief span he suffered three wounds. At this rate, Beka would win.
Gene relaxed. He felt he had worried for nothing. Gene himself knew Beka’s ability better than anyone. He too had grown rapidly over the years, but he was still far from defeating Beka. Beka went on and on about having grown weak, but that was only because he compared himself with his own prime. Even now, he was terrifyingly strong.
Then Beka staggered for a moment. Gene gave a start. That should not have happened. Beka changed direction, but the Red Blade attacked without allowing him an opening. A moment later, Beka turned his head once more. Then he suffered a wound on one arm.
Gene looked behind him. Someone in the stands was playing with a mirror. No, it was not play. It was a vile trick to secure victory. He tried to climb up at once, but there were too many people. While he struggled to get up, Beka was wounded again. The person Gene glimpsed was a girl with a frightened face. Perhaps she had seen him, for she vanished among the people’s backs.
Breathing hard, Gene looked down at Beka. In the meantime, the balance of the match had tipped completely the other way. Since his sight had worsened, Beka had not been able to shake off the afterimage of sunlight easily. A dreadful thought bored into Gene’s mind. What if Beka lost like this?
He could not. It must not happen. What a contest Beka had been waiting for, what an end he had wanted. To lose to a petty trick like that!
Finding the girl was not the issue. The match had to be stopped. Gene pushed through the crowd. The nobles’ box looked terribly far away. It was not far, in truth, but it seemed to take an eternity. At last, standing before the guard protecting the box, Gene shouted to the minister seated inside.
“I am Prince Polytimos! I order you to stop the match at once!”
An uproar broke out in the box. Since Gene was not dressed like a prince, word passed from mouth to mouth until someone who knew the prince’s face well was summoned. All the while, time continued to slip away. When Anthalon, the king’s adviser and chamberlain, appeared and bowed to Gene, every noble in the box rose and bowed as well. Anthalon asked,
“For what reason do you wish to stop the match?”
Gene shook his head and stamped his foot.
“There’s no time to explain. Stop it now!”
At Anthalon’s command, a yellow flag went up. It was the flag signaling that the match was void. But the two fighting gladiators did not see it at once. Neither did those whose duty it was to stop the match. Every one of them was watching the contest with sweaty palms.
Then, dazzled by the reflected light once more, Beka briefly lost his sight and aimed in the wrong direction. At that instant, the Red Blade thrust beneath Beka’s throat. A groan escaped Gene’s mouth as though he himself had been stabbed.
Beka remained standing instead of collapsing at once. Sensing victory, the Red Blade withdrew several paces and held his sword at the ready. With his right hand, Beka unfastened the shoulder strap securing his breastplate. Blood spurted like a fountain, but he stood and endured it. At last, the breastplate fell to the ground.
Beka turned his back toward the place where Gene had been sitting. On his back, Gene saw a tattoo he had never seen before. Beneath his neck, above the shoulder blades, two wings spread wide. The head was that of a fierce bird.
Then Beka tried to turn and look at Gene. Gene realized he was not where Beka was looking. He had promised, but it was too late to run there. And the nobles were watching. After only a few seconds’ hesitation, Gene shouted.
“I’m here!”
And Beka fell.
Gene went down. Now every spectator made way for Gene, no, for Prince Polytimos. As he leaped into the arena and ran toward the body, Gene thought that in his final moment, Beka had not heard Gene’s voice. Had not seen Gene. And so he had died thinking Gene had failed to keep his promise.
But Gene would keep it. He would carry Beka’s message to Delphinad, and one day he would become someone who surpassed Beka. In doing so, he would prove that once, in this world, there had lived an extraordinary man named Beka.
Then his tears spilled over.
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