What From the Water Rises #19

In which Kethes attends a duel.

“I have another duel tomorrow. Challenger’s side,” Leontas remarked, casual as one might observe the weather.

On Isle Ezu, just outside the city of Zuenos, Kethes sat on a log at the edge of a deserted clearing. It was here that he spent most evenings now, sparring with Leontas. The evening was warm, the close, wet air relieved occasionally by a breeze coming in off the sea, the sky going to deep purple above. 

With the light fading, they’d decided that the fight they’d finished moments earlier would be their last, and Kethes had sat down to rest. Both of them panted aloud, the sound filling the quiet clearing, and their clothes were sticky with sweat. Kethes held himself even more upright than usual, his spine straight, his shoulders squared; he’d won this particular bout without the assistance of Leontas’s usual tomfoolery and felt rightfully smug as he pulled off his gloves.

Leontas cast his shirt aside, as he always did when they were done, and sat down just inside Kethes’ personal space. Letting out an unnecessary groan, he stretched, slow and languid as a cat. Kethes, as he always did, ignored these obnoxious attempts to draw his eye, the unspoken suggestion that he could disrobe, too.

“What time?” he asked of Leontas’s duel.

“Noon.”

“And what’s this one about?” Not that Kethes cared; he simply didn’t want to give the impression he was eager to attend.

“Some noble insulted some other noble about something probably inconsequential. I’m sure you know how that goes.”

Kethes nodded, half rolling his eyes. He certainly did.

Leontas had not stopped looking at him throughout their exchange; Kethes felt his gaze on him as he nudged his bare shoulder with his bare arm. “Think you’ll be there?”

Kethes shrugged and kept contemplating the trees across the clearing. “Might as well.” He hadn’t missed one of Leontas’s duels since they’d first met.

“Good.” The other man’s voice was pleased, but not surprised. “The challenger’s asked to remain anonymous, so I don’t have a second, or anyone to call the fight. Would you? Since, you know,” he continued over Kethes’ pretend contemplation, “you’re a disinterested party.”

Kethes raised one dark eyebrow and finally turned to him, knowing full well what he was inviting with both his look and his words. “Disinterested?”

Leontas grinned. “Or,” he said, giving a floppy motion of his hand, “not involved.” He tilted his head, a lock of sandy hair falling in his face, and Kethes could feel the challenge in the teeth of his smile. Leontas wanted him to protest, to say he was involved; they were sparring partners, after all, maybe even friends. Then he could say, “With whom? Me?” and leave Kethes to perish in the waves of self-satisfaction that rolled off him like the heat that rose from the greenery around them.

Instead, Kethes faced away again and said, “You’re right; I’m not involved. But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested. I’ll second for you.”

And though Kethes had denied him the payoff he wanted, Leontas’s grin still sharpened, because he hadn’t said no. He’d said he was interested. 

This was how it was with them. Before and after their fights, Leontas would lounge around, being altogether too tall, and flirt with Kethes in a way that was just barely deniable. During their fights, he would take his flirtations one step further. They sparred, using crudely fashioned practice swords, with the same intensity they had during their first and only real duel. Leontas stared at him with the same bright and burning eyes. But with every passing day, those eyes got brighter and seared deeper, and the man spoiled his chances at winning by attempting clever pins or falls—anything that would force them, however briefly, to touch.

“I’m used to a weapon with the weight at the end,” he’d drawl after he inevitably lost these bouts, the slight quirk of his mouth giving the flimsy excuse away.

Kethes, for his part, never reciprocated outright—their charged duels were both enough for him, and as far as he would go—but he was more than happy to keep Leontas on the hook. He would have his fun, dangling his hair right outside the cat’s reach; he’d even let the cat grasp it a few times, either deliberately or by accident. But the cat was a pet, Kethes its master. He would keep their roles firmly delineated because, beneath it all, he knew the cat was dangerous. Kethes would not stray too close.

No matter how he wanted to.

* * *

The next day, Kethes arrived at the western plaza to discover it already packed with spectators. Islanders of all stripes milled about the edges, waiting for the duel to begin. Children clamored for seats in the palms or on the eaves of the handful of buildings at one end of the plaza; a few vendors from the market down the street prowled the throngs, looking to unload fresh fruit or bits of spiced, steaming fish wrapped in waxy leaves. Already a thick knot was forming at the center as people jostled for a good position to view the fight. 

Kethes forced his way through this press of people draped mostly in rough-spun, the sword at his hip clearing a path for him when necessary. He wondered, as he stepped into the empty circle at the plaza’s center and spotted Leontas—had more than the usual crowd turned out for the fight today?

But it was only a passing thought, and he discarded it as he walked up to Leontas.

“Kethes,” he beamed. He was stretching, an arm pulled across his chest. His war hammer stood upright on the ground beside him. “I’d tell you you’re late, but my opponent hasn’t shown yet.”

Kethes glanced up at the sun, which was directly overhead, and chose not to argue. Instead, he decided to taunt the cat back. “I assume you plan to break another sword today?”

“Of course.”

“Keep it up, and one day, you’ll run out of opponents.”

A proud lift of the chin, a curve of the cat’s mouth. “Leaving me with the only sword on the island.”

Kethes shot a doubtful glance at his war hammer. Leontas, of course, took the bait in just the way he expected him to. “Sure,” he said, “mine is blunter than most. But it gets the job done.” The curve of the mouth increased, revealing teeth. “I’ve had more people screaming on the end of it than you’d believe.”

Kethes couldn’t help it; he snorted, and Leontas practically started preening. In an attempt to steer them into less charged waters, he asked, “Does that mean you plan to break my sword?”

It was the wrong question. “Honestly?” Leontas said, stretching out a leg and reaching for his toes, dangerously casual. “No. I’ve become much too fond of the idea that we might cross real blades again in the future.” His eyes sparkled. “Regularly.”

Kethes looked away, carefully keeping his face neutral. He had opened himself up to this type of banter—should have relied on Leontas to whip out one of his most treasured innuendos. It wasn’t the man’s fault this was a sore area for him. The wizards of Isle Ezu had done much for Kethes since his arrival; he was happier and more comfortable with himself than he’d ever thought possible. But there was only so much they could do.

“I’m not sure we’ll get the opportunity,” he said after a moment, “now that I’m more familiar with the ways of Ezu. I doubt I will be challenging anyone to a duel, or that anyone will be challenging me, anytime soon. The clearing will have to suffice.”

“Hmm.” Leontas straightened, grasping his hammer. He spun it a few times, contemplative, then caught the head with the palm of his hand. “And if someone…? Well, no.” He shook his head. “That would be silly.”

Kethes turned to him questioningly.

“I just thought—” Leontas sucked his teeth. “What if someone contrived a duel between us, say, under fabricated circumstances? But that would never happen. Surely no one would have reason—”

Kethes’ expression flattened as he considered how to deny that anyone would do the exact thing he’d already done, but he was saved by the arrival of Leontas’s opponent. A tall young man, though not quite Leontas’s height—with close-cropped, curling, reddish hair, a decent-looking sword, and a very stiff glare—stepped out of the crowd across from them. At his appearance, the noise in the plaza rose.

“Ah, he’s here.” Leontas perked up, dropping the subject easily, though Kethes knew this wouldn’t be the last he heard of it. “Phaeon, I presume?” he called.

The young man stopped a few paces from them and gave a quick, sparse nod. No one had followed him out of the crowd; Kethes wouldn’t be called to second, after all. 

“Are you the ones who challenged me?” Phaeon asked, sweeping dark, suspicious eyes over them both. He spoke in polite, formal Sehmeri, but Kethes thought he caught the suggestion of a growl underneath.

“No,” Leontas merrily replied. “I’ve been hired as champion, and my friend here”—he put a slight emphasis on the word friend, all for the sake of teasing Kethes, but oddly enough, it made Phaeon’s face darken—“has volunteered to call the fight.”

“And what are the terms of this farce?”

“To disarmament, or the third touch. Anything is legal from the shoulders down, though the death of your opponent is an automatic loss, and invites the judgment of Anvashe.”

“Do we count paces? Announce ourselves? Is there any ceremony at all to this?”

“We can do both, if you like—and the people will want to hear the stakes.”

Phaeon’s scowl deepened. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Excellent. For the people”—at his call, the chattering of the crowd briefly swelled to bursting, then cut down to a scuffling murmur—“let us name the stakes.” He turned outward, toward the ring of spectators, totally in his element, his face aglow with anticipation. “I represent the challenger, who has called this duel as a matter of honor, claiming that Phaeon has paid them a grave insult.”

Phaeon grudgingly raised his voice. “I meet this challenge and say they have insulted me.”

“The challenger has said that your defeat is enough to satisfy them. What prize will you claim should you win?”

Here, Phaeon appeared to harden. “I want to know who hired you,” he said, louder than before. “I want them to apologize and take back what they’ve said about”—he stumbled a bit as his mouth seemed to form a shape he didn’t mean—“my friend.”

“You really don’t know who challenged you?” Leontas asked with only a film of surprise. Underneath, Kethes heard his real words—you insult people that often?

“I was approached anonymously.”

“As was I. Whoever they are, they’re almost certainly in the crowd; perhaps they’ll come forward in the event that you win.”

A note of genuine frustration colored Phaeon’s voice. “How am I to defend my friend’s honor if the one who tarnishes it refuses to face me? How am I to ensure they uphold their end of the deal?”

Leontas tilted his head at him and smiled, just shy of condescension. “Anvashe watches all that happens on Ezu, including these duels. He will ensure proper justice is upheld, as he does in all things here.” He gave a swing of his hammer, and Kethes could see in the carefree movement how confident he was in where that justice would fall. “Now—are you ready?”

But as the young man drew his sword, Kethes doubted. Phaeon was obviously angry—almost, Kethes thought, to the point of being overwhelmed—but nothing marred the perfect lines he sank into when he pulled his blade, nor the ease with which he did so. Kethes could only hope Leontas saw this, too, and didn’t underestimate him; he might have no formal stake in this battle, but he wasn’t uninterested. He wanted Leontas to win.

Both weapons drawn, he backed to the edge of the circle and assumed his duty. “Call,” he said. 

“Leontas, Champion for the Challenger.”

“Phaeon, the Challenged.”

“Backs together… five paces… turn. And begin.”

Kethes had not seen a fight like the one that followed since before he arrived on Ezu. Perhaps ever. It was fierce—at least as fierce as the duel he and Leontas had fought when they first met. Both men were highly skilled, in the prime of their fitness, and equally determined to achieve victory. And though Kethes couldn’t rely on his perception of how long that first fight had been, he was sure this one was much, much shorter. 

There was no friendly testing, no sizing up of the other, no teasing. Phaeon lept immediately to the attack, and his relentlessness kept Leontas on the defensive from the beginning almost to the end. The first touch came after only three moves, a cut to the outside of Leontas’s thigh. 

He fared much better after that, slowly clawing his way back to equal footing with the younger man—but it was an uphill battle, and Leontas spent much of his strength and stamina getting there. Phaeon was inexorable, a force of nature, and an absolute thrill to watch. Kethes had never seen a better swordsman, and he suspected that Leontas had been thrown off not because he underestimated him, but because Phaeon was beyond estimation.

It was obvious that Leontas was just as dazzled as Kethes was. Though he didn’t have room for his usual banter, Leontas laughed throughout, and there were no layers to it, no hint of sarcasm—only pure delight. 

“Who trained you?” he gasped at the end of their longest exchange, after Phaeon had sliced down the inside of Leontas’s left arm. “I don’t think you were a soldier or a common guard.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “Some noble’s personal guard, then?” 

Phaeon didn’t answer. He was panting as hard as Leontas, but not from exertion. It wasn’t until both men reset their stances, Phaeon’s glare not once leaving Leontas, that Kethes glimpsed the depths of the fury animating him. 

With a growing sense of unease, Kethes called for them to resume. Leontas fended off a flurry of blows, sidestepped a thrust, and laughed. Finally slipping past Phaeon’s guard, he said, “You’re good enough to have been part of the royal—”

Instead of falling back so he had space to use his weapon, Phaeon lunged forward before Leontas could finish speaking or wheeling his hammer about, and headbutted him in the face.

Leontas stumbled backward, blinking in surprise, blood already showing on his lips. Phaeon booted him in the stomach, and he fell to the ground. Any other man would have let go of his weapon, either in shock or in defeat, but Leontas did not, so Phaeon slashed a cut across his chest.

Kethes gasped—while the crowd cried, “Three!”

And it was over.

Leontas looked up at Phaeon with real, gleeful awe. Kethes might even have been jealous if he hadn’t felt equally floored. Leontas laughed, though there was a little shake and some blood in it, and started to rise—

But Phaeon pushed him back on his elbows with a boot to his chest and swung his blade around to point at his neck.

Kethes reacted faster than the crowd could make their displeasure known. In an instant, he was on his knees at Leontas’s shoulder, arms spread wide for all the protection they could give. “What are you doing?”

Phaeon did not seem to see him; he only had eyes for Leontas.

“I can’t leave here until I know who hired you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Back off, Phaeon,” Kethes warned.

Phaeon’s eyes flicked between him and Leontas, and something spoiled in his expression. “I need to know—I need to be absolutely certain that they’ll take back their words and never repeat them.”

“I doubt anyone will be eager to come forward now, but those were your terms. It’s not Leontas’s responsibility to enforce them.”

Phaeon’s sword lowered, but only a hair. “I won fairly. Tell your boss I expect an apology today. I expect him to rescind what he said about—about my friend.” And then: “He’s not a faggot.”

A strangled sound escaped Kethes’ throat. The word hadn’t been directed at him, but it still elicited a stomach-turning combination of anger and disbelief and defiance.

But putting his feelings aside, if that was what this whole duel was about—if this was the insult Phaeon had borne, then how had he insulted the anonymous challenger? Who had said what first? And why had Leontas, of all people, agreed to champion for them?

He turned to the man and immediately realized the obvious: Leontas hadn’t known.

All the mirth on his face had fled. It was hard and cold, the browns and golds of his eyes gone dark and flinty. He waved away the concerned members of the crowd who’d stepped forward, and his lips curled as he opened his mouth to speak. Kethes half-expected him to hiss.

“Let it be known to all watching,” he said, his raised voice tinted with a chilly sarcasm, “that Phaeon and his friend are not faggots.” He spat the last word with such heavy irony that no one would miss his real meaning.

Murmurs, condemnations, and derisive laughter ran through the crowd. Phaeon’s eyes widened; his jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. Perhaps he understood what position he’d put himself in. He moved to sheathe his sword and probably leave—but with the expertise he’d shown during his first fight with Kethes, Leontas grasped it before he could, putting all the pressure on the flat of the blade so it wouldn’t slice him open. Phaeon froze where he was. 

“I’ll remind you, boy,” Leontas said lowly, “that you’re not in Sehmera anymore. There are plenty of people here who would take issue with the way you’ve just spoken, and I would be happy to champion for any of them.”

“I’d beat you just as soundly.” Phaeon’s expression had taken on a new, almost wild quality. What it conveyed, Kethes didn’t know—alarm, disgust, uncertainty?—but he didn’t care for it.

“True. You may never lose to me, but you’ll find island life a lot harder if you make it a point to alienate a whole swath of her people.”

“Leontas,” Kethes growled, exhausted by this posturing. He’d stopped paying attention to the crowd, stopped paying attention to anything but Leontas and the sword nearly pressing into his neck. Two wrung-out bits of gold had slapped down wetly behind his eyes. All it would take was a shove, and there would be another on the ground beside him.

To his instant relief, Leontas relented. He let go of Phaeon’s sword, and the young man whipped it away, turning from them to wipe the blood on his pants before sheathing it at last.

“Let’s go.” Kethes hauled Leontas to his feet, but kings—gods—curse him, Leontas wasn’t done.

“Maybe you and your friend should give faggotry a try,” he said over Kethes’ shoulder, much too loud. “You’re clearly no stranger to penetrating or being penetrated by—”

“Enough!” Kethes barked, and Leontas’s eyes darted to him in astonishment. “This duel is concluded. The winner is decided. If there are any further disputes, they will be handled in the same way, with a formally proposed duel at a future time of the challenger’s choosing.” He glanced over at Phaeon, almost expecting to see his sword drawn—Kethes’ own was peeking out of its scabbard—but his back was still to them, his hand tight on the grip. “Unless either of you wishes to face the wrath of Anvashe?”

Beside him, Leontas was silent.

“I don’t care what anyone says about me,” Phaeon said flatly, “so long as you keep him out of it.”

And with that, he stalked off, the crowd parting to swallow him up.

Kethes didn’t want to stick around, either. An awkward buzzing filled the plaza, and he knew Leontas wanted to stay and hear what people were saying as much as he did. So he said, “Come on, let’s get your wounds treated,” and dragged him away.

Neither of them spoke until they’d come to a much quieter part of the city.

“Need to find out who hired me.” The growl floated up to him, barely audible. “Never would have taken this job. So fucking stupid—”

And though he knew Leontas was mostly talking to himself, his words made Kethes’ anger boil over. “It was stupid,” he shot back. “No one is going to ask you to champion for them if you do something like that again.”

“Who else will they ask?”

“Any number of the fighters on this island! Me, Phaeon—”

“He kept his head even less than I did!”

“Debatable, and not important. He could have killed you!”

“And Anvashe would have killed him in return.”

Kethes yanked Leontas into an empty alley and rounded on him. “Yes,” he snarled, “but not until after you were dead!”

Leontas blinked down at him. His own anger seemed to ebb as he beheld Kethes’ wrath. Blood flowed freely from his chest, his arm, but not thick or fast; Phaeon had cut him as shallowly as possible. Later, Kethes might find room to be grateful for that.

“But he wouldn't have done it,” Leontas said simply.

Kethes wanted to throttle him. “Still! Why take that risk?”

“He's just—ignorant,” Leontas said, which was not an answer, his frown bordering on petulance. “And the way he kept hesitating when he talked about his ‘friend’—there’s no way he’s not—”

“What,” Kethes demanded, “repressed? And you thought antagonizing him was the solution to that?”

Again, Leontas didn’t answer. For a long moment, he just stared down at him. Some sort of calculation was going on in his head; Kethes could see that much. But he was too upset with him to care.

That is, until he spoke.

“You're right,” Leontas said softly. “He hit a nerve. I'm sorry.”

And then, with one deliberate step, he closed the space between them.

The baying of Kethes’ emotions—the headlong pelt of his thoughts—ground to a stuttering halt. “What are you doing?”

The gold in Leontas’s eyes had gone molten and inexorable. Kethes tried to back away from them, from what they threatened, but bumped into a raised wall before he could go anywhere. 

“I tried to play this slow,” Leontas said. “Thought I needed to. Sometimes I thought maybe I was imagining it, or you didn't realize—but I wasn’t, and you did.” He prowled closer, planted an arm on the wall. “Now I think slow was just what you wanted.” He leaned down and fixed those eyes on Kethes’. “But I don’t want that. I can't wait.”

“Leontas.” He meant it to come out as a warning, but there was no real force behind it.

“I know.” Leontas lifted a calloused hand to cup his cheek. Kethes thought he might vibrate away from the touch, the slow, possessing stroke down his jaw—might vibrate into pieces—but he betrayed himself by turning into it instead. “Listen—I know. But you're not in Sehmera anymore. There's nothing to fear.” The tenderness in Leontas’s voice was relentless, unbearable. Oh, how Kethes hated this. How he wanted it so, so badly, more than he’d ever let himself understand. “You came here for a reason, right?”

“Not for the reason you think.”

“It doesn’t matter; I don’t care. Just tell me one thing. We don't even have to act on it.” Leontas stroked his thumb beneath Kethes’ lip, and Kethes did not, for one moment, believe him. “I just want to know. Tell me there's something between us.”

He’d been so stupid. So utterly and completely stupid. You didn’t play with a predator. You didn’t master it. It hunted you. To its death, or more likely, to yours.

He slapped Leontas’s hand away with the back of his own and said, “There's nothing.”

Leontas let his arm fall to his side. Amber eyes searched Kethes’ face. He staunchly avoided them.

Leontas said, “I don't believe you.”

“It's true.”

“You haven’t pushed me away.”

Kethes shoved the man off him. Air flooded the newly created space between them, and he could finally breathe. It came in hard, jagged spurts. “Don't bother meeting me in the clearing tomorrow,” he snapped, and turned to escape down the alley.

“And the day after?”

Kethes ignored him, but Leontas would not let him leave so easily.

A hand closed around his arm, pulling him up short. “I'll be there whenever you decide to come back.”

Kethes scoffed and yanked free of Leontas’s grasp. Fury and despair stalked beside him as he stormed off. More than anything that had happened that day, Kethes hated the unshakeable self-assurance with which Leontas had spoken that last.

Hated how, in this instance, he had every right to be.