‘Aren’t they the two fledglings that failed their warrior trial?’ a slurring voice said.
‘Ignore them,’ Jost whispered.
‘Run back to your sister’s apron strings,’ one of them said, pointing at Riv, then he fell over, laughing.
Riv scowled at the warriors, a mixture of young and old. The one who’d fallen over climbed back to his feet, only a few years older than her. Jost was pulling on her arm and she gave a frustrated sigh, stamping down the ever-present rage that had begun to burn again. She turned away with Jost and began to walk away.
‘Fly along, little fledglings,’ another guard said, making a flapping motion. ‘Get back to Big Sister before it’s too late.’ The one who had fallen over laughed so hard it sounded like he was crying.
Riv twisted on her heel and marched towards them, the rage descending like a red mist again.
‘What?’ Jost said. ‘Riv, what’re you doing? Riv, no, come back, Riv. Riv, please.’ He hurried after her, snatched at her arm but she pulled it away.
‘So, which one of you arse-wipes wants to go first?’ Riv asked, glaring at them all.
‘Eh?’
‘Just ignore her,’ Jost said, pulling at Riv’s arm.
‘Listen to your friend,’ one of the other guards, a sharp-nosed man, less in his cups than the others.
‘Aye, listen to that bag of string and run along,’ said another, a woman, a scar running from eye to jaw. ‘No doubt you’ll be a White-Wing soon enough – your sister will make sure of that, even though you don’t deserve it.’ She looked Jost up and down. ‘What is he, anyway? Your guard-stick?’
‘Bag of string? Guard-stick?’ Jost said.
‘You first, then,’ Riv said and leaped at the woman.
She crashed into the warrior, the two of them rolling together, Riv throwing punches and using elbows all the while. Someone grabbed her collar, hoisting her away. A glimpse of Jost punching someone flush on the chin.
He has long arms, as they’re finding out, Riv thought, feeling a rush of joy sweep through her, a grin splitting her face as she let the frustrations in her bubble over into a physical release of violence. She twisted in the grip about her neck, knee lashing out, connecting with something soft. There was a whoosh of air and a gurgled groan and she was no longer being held. People all around her, faces, limbs, all one long, furious, blurred drunken dance. She threw punches and kicks, felt some land, dimly, through her euphoria, saw a flash of a face that looked like Vald.
Couldn’t have been.
And then, abruptly, she was airborne, weightless, legs kicking, the snarl of bodies below her stopping in mid-punch or kick. She saw Jost upon the floor, someone’s arm around his neck, but he had another’s leg in his grip, his mouth open to bite their calf.
The rushing of air about her, a sound. She looked up, saw broad white wings beating, Kol’s grim face looking down at her.
Dawn was close, a grey stain seeping across the horizon, turning the solid black of night into shifting shadows. Riv’s mouth throbbed, pains everywhere clamouring for her attention and she put a hand to her face, felt a cut on her lip, a loose tooth.
She was in a wain with the baggage train, her head on a grain sack, peering out through a slot in the wain’s tall sides. It was the closest to an isolation cell that Kol had been able to find at short notice. Jost and Vald had their very own wains a few score of paces away. Riv could hear Vald snoring, could hear the rhythmic shaking and rattling of his wain’s brackets as if they were in a storm.
It had been Vald’s face she’d seen in fight last night. He’d seen what had happened and come rushing, diving bodily into the melee.
He’s a good friend, coming to help like that. And now he’s in isolation for deserting his post!
Must control my temper, must control my temper, Riv recited to herself, over and over.
If I don’t get my temper under control I’ll never get to pass my warrior trial. I’ll never even get to take it. When Israfil hears about this . . .
She punched the side of the wain, hissed a string of curses and then sighed, setting about removing the splinters from her knuckles.
A whisper of wings, a silhouette blotting out the grey of dawn, and then Kol was alighting inside the wain, sitting down so that he was hidden from view from outside the wain, his great wings wrapping around him. He stared at Riv, his dark eyes fixing her, golden hair shimmering in the first glow of the sun.
‘Disobeying orders and sneaking into Oriens. Fighting guards. Let’s go back a little. Fighting on the weapons-field. Further. Fighting in the feast-hall, kicking your friend in the stones. Back further. You punch Israfil, the Lord Protector of the Ben-Elim, Overseer of the Land of the Faithful, in the face.’ His lips twitched at the last. ‘It would seem you have anger issues, Riv.’ He shook his head. ‘What am I to do with you?’
A silence settled between them, just his stare.
‘Was that a rhetorical question?’ she eventually asked, uncomfortable, ‘or do you want me to answer?’
Kol snorted a laugh at that. He laughed a lot, judging by the creases at his eyes.
‘I can only help you so much – like today in the market square. You must help yourself.’
‘Why do you care?’ Riv grunted. She knew it was churlish as soon as she said it, but she seemed to be doing a lot of things like that lately. Acting, speaking, doing, before thinking.
‘I like you, Riv.’ Kol shrugged. ‘You have spirit. I can see your mam in you, and your sister, and that is no insult. But keep on like this and you’ll never make the White-Wings.’
‘I know,’ said Riv with a frustrated sigh. ‘And that is my greatest, my only wish.’
‘Then let me help you make it come true,’ he whispered.
‘You would help me?’
‘Yes. If I can. But you must help yourself, too. Start by stopping your brawling. It won’t do. It’s spoiling your looks.’ He smiled then, a flash of white teeth and Riv felt herself blushing. Starlight highlighted the arch of his eyebrows and cheekbones, making the scar that ran from forehead to chin a dark valley. Somehow it made his face more handsome, different from the Ben-Elim’s perfection. And fierce. She was glad the sun hadn’t risen so far that Kol could see her blush. He reached a hand out, fingers brushing the cut on her lip. Riv fought the instinct to pull away, would have, if not for the wain’s board behind her head. Something about his touch sent a shiver through her.
‘You are so different from Israfil,’ she whispered, scared by his touch, the smile in his eyes, enjoying it, too.
‘He is too serious,’ Kol whispered, fingertips still brushing her cut lip. ‘This life of flesh, there is so much more to it than his constant frowning and his fixation with the Lore.’
Riv smiled, snorted a shocked laugh.
‘I thought the Lore was everything,’ she said.
‘Is it?’ Kol said. ‘The Kadoshim must be exterminated, it is the only way to fulfil our Holy Calling, to protect mankind. But as for the rest . . .’ He shrugged, a ripple of his wings. His fingers moved away from her lip, a caress on her cheek.