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The shadow of Risteard's cape cloaks me. ?Lag Oscaid,' freshly embroidered in Risteard's black cape below the oxen family crest. I am to champion my crippled older brother. Accused of murdering and kidnapping a mariner's daughter, Risteard rots shackled in a Pori labyrinth.
Burly magistrate guards bust our hut and find blonde hairs in Risteard's chamber. Hair of the missing girl. Chief Falltach's wife shaves her own blonde hair to the scalp, days prior. A coincidence? Last summer scourge men cleave Risteard's arms. A sacrifice defending Chief Falltach's sugar cane fields. Risteard's arms lay buried beneath the sugar cane, feeding our village. Wreaths of ginger and hibiscus wilt around our hut, once delivered daily by villagers.
Jealous, Chief Falltach dooms Risteard to thraldom. Whispers of shock and disgust spread hut to hut. Monsoons of scandal descend on our family. No choice bar Imperial appeal. Emperor Anceartas answers our plea via letter.
There is sufficient doubt of Risteard Sweet Leg's guilt in the murder and abduction of Allanagh Watson. By royal decree Lag Oscaid will challenge Chief Falltach's doom of Risteard Sweet Leg by means of single combat. The bout's outcome shall deem the will of the gods and by extension, Emperor Anceartas. Chief Falltach can select any citizen or beast as his champion. Thus, Risteard Sweet Leg's fate will be determined in Pori next full moon.
Each sweep of Risteard's sword along the wet stone hisses and reverberates around the chamber. Risteard's splintered shields lay stacked against the east wall. His spears to the west. The southern wall bears his armour, which shan't fit my scrawny shoulders. Baying for blood, the crowd's chants pour in via north facing oaken doors. I'm their lamb, ripe for the slaughter.
Risteard calls his sword ?Gomharr Namhaid' meaning harvester of enemies in the old tongue. A lip of burr curls towards me. I flip Gomharr Namhaid and sharpen its other side. The sword's weight burns in my forearm. The wet stone quickly gives Gomharr Namhaid sheen reflecting the chamber's amber torch light.
A gladiator's shrieking cry pierces the oaken doors. The crowd cheers to deafening levels. Only two bouts before mine now.
I throw my robe into the spears. Three spears scrape along the wall rattling into the ground. I inhale until my chest puffs out. One, two and three. I release the tension in my body with a long exhale. Getting stressed and throwing gear around will not help me.
Risteard says, ?focus and composure are your mightiest allies, and the mind is your strongest weapon.?
I slip into Risteard's sweat-stained silk tunic. The resewn shoulders sag to my elbows. So much space to fill.
Muffled grunts and steel clangs filter into the chamber as I fasten my leather sandals. Keep preparing, ignore the carnage. The greaves, poleyn and cuisses all fit my chicken legs with ease. I rise to receive a sharp pinch on my right knee.
Another of Risteard's axioms, ?always put your gauntlets on last.?
I lean over tucking the skin back inside the poleyn.
Another thunderous roar of the crowd. No scream? How did he die? Sword through the visor? Knocked unconscious by a mace and hacked into a slurry of flesh and shattered armour? My throat runs dry. A lineated woodpecker heartbeat pounds my ribs. Deep breath. Risteard would be ready by now.
There is only one bout until I am due on the sand.
I strap on Risteard's glistening breast plate. It fits snugly over the chain mail running from my chin to my wrists . The weight presses on my chest. I rack my knuckles over the plate a couple of times, solid. Courtesy of the scourge men, the pauldrons are cracked and chipped. They are too large, spanning out from my shoulders like eagle wings.
Gomharr Namhaid hisses sliding into Risteard's belt scabbard. I inspect the splintered shields. ?Each reinforced with blood,? as Risteard would say.
I choose a green shield with a oxen horn bolted onto the boss, ideal for solo battles.
A gladiator's groaning wail flows into the chamber submerging me in horror.
The wailing says, ?your time is up.? Snickers, turns away, turns back, and says, ?your brother won't see day again nor taste sugar.? It flicks me behind the ear and whispers, ?to think you, a second son may raise a spear on the sand and win is ludicrous. Farm your oxen, till your fields and herd your sheep. They will maul you like the runt you are. All you'll accomplish is annihilation of the Oscaid bloodline, second son.?
The groan ends and silence grips the crowd. Stomps of guards and a corpse grinding along sand are the only sounds in my chamber.
Guards will call me out any second. I fumble at the spears, picking the longest for reach. A spark of blue light flashes off the spear tip. Deep breath. One task at a time, get the helmet on.
As Risteard says, ?Once you have the helmet on, the world stops, then it's just you and your prey.?
The horned helmet blinks between amber torch light and blue lightning.
?No,? I say.
Pale blue light is strobing through every crack in the oaken doors. I am in the bowels of a sinking ship filling with lightning.
?No no no.?
The earth trembles. Thunder booms on the sand. The amphitheatre shakes with each sky splitting strike.
?By the gods, please no.?
A deep growl echoes around the amphitheatre penetrating my chamber.
This time saying, ?I'm a godless thunder bear. Chief Falltach has starved ravenous. I will tear you open and rip free your innards. The armour you wear makes but a plate for my dinner.?
I fold a thick cloth twice around my runt head, covering my ears. Sweat causes me to lose grip of the cloth. I tighten the knot until the thunder is a distant echo.
In my haste I jar my right index finger on a gauntlet. Agony radiates from my knuckle. Deep breath. I clench my right hand; it still makes a fist. Deep breath. The gauntlets slide on.
Clinking, clanging, and clattering, I sit in a trembling crouch. My right leg twitches and jerks. Sweat from the cloth around my head already stings my eyes.
To cross blades with another man is challenging. I'd give myself a one in three chance of victory. Long hours as Risteard's training partner taught me battle principles. Keep my feet shoulder width apart. The legs and torso generate striking power. Grip the spear's shaft by the midpoint for maximum control. Technique will not be my issue. Risteard is a great warrior, and I am blessed by his training, but a thunder bear is a force of nature.
Why haven't they called me out yet? Is Emperor Anceartas absolving Risteard? The thunder bear turning on its handlers, scattering the crowd. No, infrequent faint cheers still find me. Thunder bear stomps still shake my bones. Beast lightning flares still jump into the chamber.
Chief Falltach is putting on a show for Pori's aristocracy. Also, to intimidate me. Prolonging my convulsions, stomach bile whirls up touching my tongue. Deep breath. One, two, and three.
?Focus and composure are my mightiest allies,? I say. ?My mind is my strongest weapon.?
I shan't cower. Bouts are lost in chambers and won on sand. Risteard would not wait for a shrill voiced guard to knock on the door. Nor shall I.
The black cape fits well. I secure the oxen head broach. Deep breath. Bloodied shield on my left arm, spear in my right hand and Gomharr Namhaid's pugnacity on my hip. I stride forth kicking the oaken door with oxen force. The metal bolt bursts into shrapnel. Doors hurl outwards crashing across the sand. The afternoon sun blazes upon me, a glistening hero.
Thea Daniels. Thea didn't think her mother had known her name, yet there it was, scrawled on the box of her mother's belongings. It had taken Thea a while before she could even look at the box, let alone think about opening it. The mother who was in this box was a stranger to Thea, not her mom. No, Thea's mom was downstairs reading in her favorite armchair, like she did every night after dinner. Thea knew none of the habits of the mother in this box, but she knew that would change as soon as she opened it.
The box was packed neatly, though the blanket covering the rest of the contents was riddled with holes. Thea lifted it out carefully, afraid it might disintegrate in her hands. When she unfolded it, she found a large stain in the center discoloring the seafoam green. Her mother must have taken great care to fold the blanket just so to hide the stain when she packed the box. The only other thing in the box was a crimson leather journal with the name Thea Allen written in bold black letters on the front. Thea felt a spark of anger at the name; she had always thought her mom had named her. Shoving those feelings aside, Thea opened the cover of the journal and a piece of paper fell out. She picked it up off the floor and smoothed it out on her desk.
My darling Thea,
I know how you must feel about me, and though I know it won't make you feel any better, I often feel the same about myself. There are so many things I wish I could go back and change. I would have given up the world if it meant I didn't have to give you up. You were my little touch of heaven in a dark, dark time.
When I was first pregnant with you, I felt joy for the first time in a long, long time. That joy soon turned to fear. I had no home, no car, no job. I had to resort to stealing prenatals and anything else I might need. I swiped that blanket from a yard sale, and though I tried to save it for you, the nights kept getting colder and I had to use it to keep both of us alive.
I tried to get a job, I really did, but as you grew, I couldn't do much anymore. I was lucky enough to have a couple of friends who gave me food when they had extra, which is the only reason we survived. When you were finally born, I took one look at your sweet, sweet face and knew there was no life for you with me. I gave you the one thing I had left to give: my name.
Over the years I have often wondered if I could have kept you, especially once I found work, got an apartment, and had the means to take care of you. It was easy to forget how difficult my life was before, how unfit it was for a child. A few years went by before I got married. I then had two more kids, a boy and a girl. I hope you get to meet them, if you want to.
When I found out I was dying, you were the first thing on my mind. I guess I had always held out hope that I would meet you one day, maybe at a café. I would bump into you, you would introduce yourself, and I would know. Thea. My Thea. I am so sorry I wasn't there to watch you grow up, but please know that I love you, and I am so, so proud of you.
Love,
Mom
Thea wept. These were the words she had longed to hear her entire life, the ones she had hoped to be true. She had chosen not to have contact with her mother, even after hearing that she was sick. She'd kept thinking maybe later until there was no later left. She hadn't wanted to know why her mother gave her up, not when it was possible that she just didn't want her. And she loved her mom, the one who raised her, loved her, praised her, punished her?but didn't name her.
Thea ran downstairs, letter and journal in hand. ?Mom.?
?Yes, sweetie?? her mother asked, placing a bookmark in her book and setting it aside. It was the bookmark Thea had made for her in grade school out of cardboard and red duct tape. She had written ?I love you, mom? on it in black sharpie.
Thea shoved the journal at her mom and asked, ?Did you know my mother's name was Thea??
?Yes, I did. That was about all I knew about her,? Thea's mom told her. She looked at the journal, but didn't take it from Thea.
?Why didn't you tell me?? Thea sobbed, ?You always used to say, ?my darling Thea, my little gift from God', but you never told me that was her name for me.? Thea handed her mom the letter, waiting impatiently while she read it.
Handing the letter back, Thea's mom asked, ?If I had told you, how would you have reacted? Would you have been glad to know, or would you have resented it??
Thea thought for a second before responding. ?I?I guess I would have resented it.?
Thea sat down on the couch next to her mom's chair and read the letter again. She started to wonder what her mother's life had been like, before and after Thea was born. Then she started thinking about her mother's family. She had a husband, kids. They were Thea's stepdad, her half siblings. If she wanted them.
?Mom?? Thea took her mom's hand in hers.
?Yes, Thea.? Thea's mom gave her hand a slight squeeze.
?I think I want to meet them, would that be okay?? Thea looked up from the letter and met her mom's eyes: soft, warm, full of love and life. She wondered what her mother's looked like.
?Of course, sweetie,? her mom said, ?The funeral is on Saturday, you can meet them then.?
Thea stood at a distance, watching the crowd of people, the crowd of strangers. She wondered who was related to who, who was related to her. She wondered if anyone knew who she was. Thea stood frozen, too afraid to step forward, unwilling to step back. Once she took a step, either way, she was altering her life forever. Then she saw them. A boy and a girl, standing on either side of a man. Thea's feet carried her forward without her knowledge, until she was right in front of them. They looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to introduce herself. Thea's mouth struggled to form words, struggled to move at all.
Finally, she got out, ?Hi, I'm Thea.?
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