He stepped forward, accompanied by Ryan and Kelly, at the same time a trio of the newcomers did the same. They were to meet in the center of the arena for formal introductions, then separate to about three meters for the duel itself—but Medart came to a shocked halt as soon as he was close enough to recognize the central member of the other party. The Sandeman's familiar tattoo 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 would.