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bouts would take place. Arton noticed men standing in each circle. A blue flag stood in Cregan’s circle and a yellow in Arton’s. The same number of fighters waited in each. With care Arton gauged his opponents. There were both wiry and thick bodies.
    Five of the men stepped from the ring, leaving one of the heavy-set men behind. Arton stepped over the barrier and circled his opponent. The man moved and attacked in the way Stavos had. Arton knew the counter moves. He sidestepped and swept his leg at the man who stumbled and fell to end the bout.
    The second opponent took time to defeat. Arton sucked down some water and felt proud of himself. He glanced at Cregan’s circle in time to see his rival’s adversary fall to the ground.
    Arton’s third bout found him on the ground. So did the fourth. His rival’s crow of victory spurred Arton for his next battle. He won. He wished he knew how many bouts Cregan had won.
    He stepped into the circle to meet his last opponent. He was exhausted and knew he had to draw strength from the air to complete this for a win. When the bout ended he could barely remain standing. Four wins. Was that enough to manage a tie with his rival?
    His steps dragged as he walked to the tent. He pulled off the breechcloth, filled a pitcher with water and poured the water over himself. He repeated the soaking, dried, and dressed.
    Cregan stormed into the tent. His fiery red skin spoke of the day’s burning rays. “You must have been given the easy opponents.”
    “How can you say that?”
    “You won four. I only beat two. How did you manage?”
    Arton looked up. “I trained with the guards every evening when we camped.”
    Mecador entered. “Arton is the winner of the second challenge. He brings four slaves to the citadel. You are now tied for the vacant seat.”
    Arton slipped from the tent. Hunger gnawed, but he had no desire to eat with his companions. He sought the area where some of the men and women had set small stalls were food and crafts were sold.
    He purchased meat on a skewer and handed the woman a yellow fyrestone. She dropped gold bits on the counter for change. He scooped them up and ate the meat as he strolled along. He stopped to buy fruit and two pasties, one filled with meat and the other with fruit.
    At a display of jewelry, he found a ring of braided gold with a dragon forming the center. When he won the competition he would present the ring the ring to Lorana. An orange stone from his pouch brought a smile to the seller’s face.
    In the background he heard music, laughter and voices raised, some in joy and others in anger. Loud shouting caught his attention. He saw some of the wizards, including Mecador, running toward the places where the bouts had been held. He whirled to follow.
    Cregan stood in the center of the circle. Eight clansmen faced him. Arton gulped. Cregan held a wand. He couldn’t be allowed to use a wand here.
    Arton pulled one from his sheath and activated the gem. A flash of light might stop this. He sent power into the wand. He stared at the yellow stone at the tip and tried to draw the power back. A blinding yellow light burst free. Arton dropped the blazing wand.
    When his vision cleared, Mecador and two of the other wizards faced him. “What were you thinking?” the chief wizard asked.
    “To keep Cregan from using his wand on those clansmen. I thought light would stop him.”
    Cregan stomped over. “You fool. I was about to gain us many slaves.”
    Mecador glared. “You acted unwisely and prematurely. Go to the tent at once.”
     
    * * *
     
    Cregan watched as Arton gathered his things in his pack. He rolled the mat and left the tent. Mecador hadn’t joined them. How dare his mentor chastise him for what he’d attempted? He would have won the challenge, adding eight slaves to his catch. Then no one could deny his right to sit on the council.
    He scowled. What had Mecador meant by the remark about acting prematurely and unwisely? A second question