attoo of a black-barred violet flower was
missing from his cheek, but Medart knew him well enough to recognize
him easily without it. "Oh, shit," he said, involuntarily. "Nevan!"

"Keep going," Ryan urged. As the three began moving again, he asked
quietly, "What's wrong? You know him?"

"Too damn well," Medart said. "Nevan-Corina DarLeras and I have been
battle-companions for the last century, since we fought together
defending the Palace in the last battle of the White Order revolt. I
know intellectually that this isn't the same person, but dammit, it's
going to feel like I'm trying to hurt a friend." Thank all the gods,
Sandeman duels were to disablement or conclusive advantage; he didn't
think he'd be capable of killing--or trying to kill--a man he knew as
one of the Empire's best defenders.

"This one is Nevan only," Ryan agreed. "His face shows he has never
sworn personal fealty or won the right to use his thakur's name. While
it would be dishonorable for you to fight a battle-companion, he is not
truly such--though I agree the resemblance will make this duel more
difficult."

"Yeah. Don't say anything, though, okay? At least till it's over."

"As you wish, James."

The last few steps to introduction distance were silent. Medart used
them to study his opponent, apprehension growing. He knew precisely
how good Nevan was at both conventional and psionic combat; since he'd
been chosen as the Sandeman champion for this duel, there was every
reason to believe he was just as good at magical combat. And Medart
could remember thinking, the first time he saw Nevan battleprepped, how
much he'd hate to be on the receiving end of the younger man's skills.
Now that he was about to be, that opinion was even stronger.

But Medart had motivation of his own, and his pain and weakness were
masked by the medications he'd taken. He exchanged bows and
introductions with his opponent, then stepped back and began working
the spells he'd been taught.

He could feel immediately that this was one of his strong days. The
power flowed into and through him, part surrounding him in a silvery
glow, part erupting from his hands like emerald blaster bolts.

The bolts flared off Nevan's shield, blending in with his
counterattack. Medart's shield blazed scarlet, held--but he gasped as
all-too-familiar pain shot through him. The quidine couldn't withstand
active magic, it seemed; he could only hope the rest of his meds woul