They converged on him at once, removing his clothes. He bit down a protest, forcing himself to be still and supplicant. Once he was completely naked, even his socks removed, they wrapped a loincloth around his waist, securing it with a crude rope belt. Somehow he felt even more exposed with it on. Finally, one of the priestesses fastened the vambrace around his right arm once more, hiding the Shieldhawk tattoo. It seemed he would be able to keep that secret from the public, at least.
A moment later, Corwin found himself standing beneath the canopy in front of a ceremonial table set before the high priestess. Two chalices, golden and encrusted with precious gems, waited side by side on the table, both full of some dark-red liquid. Wine, Corwin hoped. He’d seen blood look that same color.
Beside him, Edwin also wore a flimsy loincloth around his waist, although there’d been no need to hide any tattoos on his body. The councilmembers, along with Grand Master Storr and Maestra Vikas, hovered to either side of the high priestess, watching silently. Corwin caught Minister Rendborne’s gaze—so impossible to miss with the striking color of his eyes—and the man gave him a conspiratorial wink and flashed an encouraging smile.
Raising her hands, the high priestess said, “Today, you, the princes of Norgard, sons of Tormane, will be tested for your worthiness as heir.” As in the opening ritual, she wore a headdress made of a horse’s head and diaphanous ceremonial robes. “But first, you must drink of the blood of the goddess. It will give you both vision and sight.”
There’s a difference? Corwin wanted to say, but wisely he kept his mouth shut.
The high priestess picked up the cup on the right, the gold-coined bracelets around her wrists jangling with the movement, and raised it to Edwin’s mouth, bidding him to drink. He did so, closing his eyes as the cup’s golden edge touched his lips.
Corwin closed his eyes as well when the high priestess offered the second cup to him. For a moment, as the liquid touched his tongue, he tasted blood before it transformed into the familiar, rich flavor of gothberry wine. Even still, it left a strange, bitter aftertaste, and he felt the heat of it pool in his stomach.
When he emerged from beneath the canopy a few moments later, the sunshine stung his eyes. The high priestess herself led him and Edwin up the stone steps to the top of the Asterion. It was so high, it felt like the top of the world, the landscape below a distant blur. Corwin shivered as the wind nipped at his naked flesh and ran rough fingers through his hair. He had never been on top of the Asterion before, but he’d seen others make the ascent, the old and the infirm, giving themselves over to sacrifice. The evidence of that act remained in the dark stains covering the stone, scars of both blood and ash.
The high priestess stopped just before the threshold of the Asterion and turned to face them. “Once you cross, there is no returning until it’s done,” she said. Then she stepped aside and bade them enter.
As always, Edwin went first, although Corwin could see his trepidation in the rigid line of his spine. Corwin followed after, walking boldly at first, only to lose his nerve the moment he passed over the threshold. The sun, blinding a moment before, faded to gray as an unnatural mist rose up all around him. He blinked, his head swimming at the sudden change, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see anything. It was as if he’d stepped off the earth and into the clouds. The crowd below, the fields and distant hills and woods, all was gone.
Corwin walked forward a few steps, searching for some sign of what to do. He didn’t dare go too far, not with how little he could see. Although the altar was large enough to hold a hundred men standing in a circle with arms widespread, Corwin didn’t want to be the first heir to plummet to his death by accident.
Seconds passed slowly, agonizingly, the mists swirling about him. He could still feel the wind from before, but despite its strength, it couldn’t dispel the unnatural haze. What now? Corwin thought, turning in a slow circle. Then, as if in answer, he spotted a glint of something just ahead. But it disappeared just as quickly, and he waited for it to happen again.
When it did so a moment later, he moved toward it cautiously. The mists parted at his approach, revealing a large, old tree that he knew beyond doubt did not exist atop the Asterion. It will give you both vision and sight, the high priestess had said. Visions. He wondered if there’d been more than gothberry wine in that cup.
Three swords stuck out from the center of the tree’s broad trunk, their blades halfway buried in the wood. The one on the right was his father’s, the golden hilt carved into the likeness of Niran and Nelek. The one on the left was his own sword, the hilt wrapped in leather with a straight, unadorned cross guard above. A large sapphire imbedded in the pommel provided the only ornamentation. The sword in the middle he didn’t know, but it was so striking he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from it. Its blade was made of black steel and the hilt of ivory. Five gemstones of different colors adorned the pommel—blue, white, green, red, and brown.
Summoner, Corwin realized. The mythical lost sword once carried by Norgard’s first king. He longed to touch it, but something inside him stayed his hand. He was in the midst of a trial, and this was surely a test, a choice. Did he take his father’s sword, the sword of a king? Did he take Summoner, sword of myth and legend?
I am none of those things. With his decision made, Corwin wrapped both hands around the hilt of his own sword and yanked it free of the trunk. The moment he did so, the tree and the other two swords dissolved into mist. But the sword in his hand remained solid and real. He tightened his grip on it just as a loud keening sound reached him.
He spun in time to see the nightdrake charge him, leaping out of the mist like some kind of white wraith. The size of a bull, its thick-muscled body moved with powerful grace, quick and deadly. This isn’t real, Corwin thought, just a vision. But his mind couldn’t tell the difference and the instinct to protect himself took over.
Gripping the sword in both hands, he lunged toward it, stabbing at its neck. The drake dodged to the left, avoiding the blow by inches. It spun, twisting its body in midair, and charged him again, jaws snapping. Corwin leaned backward, just avoiding the teeth as he made another stab at it. This time he hooked the inside of the drake’s jaw. The creature gave a scream and yanked its head back, opening the tear begun by Corwin’s sword even farther. Blood seeped out between its fangs, and it snapped at Corwin again as it backed away. It disappeared into the mist, but Corwin could still sense it nearby. Circling, watching.
Hunting.
“Come on,” he said. “Come at me one more time.” He slowly pivoted, eyes searching the mists.
The nightdrake charged him from far to his left, its movement foretold in the smoky swirl. It leaped, wings fanned out behind, the whole force of its body in the motion. Corwin spun toward it, the instinct to strike strong inside him. He resisted, waiting for the right moment. Just before the drake reached him, he pivoted, letting the drake’s head and neck get past him. Then he drove the sword down, spearing it in the soft place between the neck and shoulder. The creature screamed as it fell, sword buried half a foot into its body. Its claws raked against Corwin’s bare leg as it convulsed, and Corwin yelped from the sudden pain. Definitely no mere vision. Leaning on the sword, he drove it further in, but the next moment, the creature dissolved into nothing.