Bleda thought about that a moment.
‘Her laugh,’ he said. ‘When she laughs, really laughs, she snorts like a pig. My brother, Altan, he could always make her laugh, with just a look, a raised eyebrow. And once my mother started laughing – like a pig – then we would all be laughing.’ Riv was amazed to see a smile spread across his face, deep and genuine, muscles relaxing. He looked at her. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It is like a gift, a forgotten memory. Ah, to be Sirak again, to live free, travelling with the seasons, dismantling and rolling the gers, herding flocks of goats, hunting with my father, with hawk and spear. The freedom of the Grass Sea . . .’
I believe in the Way of Elyon with all my heart, and pray every day for his Lore to spread throughout the Banished Lands, to bring peace and harmony, but, listening to Bleda . . . She sighed. Life does not sound so bad, the Sirak don’t seem in any great need of saving or protecting.
‘Bleda,’ a voice said, and they looked up together, saw Israfil standing in an open doorway.
‘Come in,’ Israfil said, and Bleda’s cold-face slipped back over his smile, like a mask. He rose and entered the Lord Protector’s chamber. The door closed, voices muffled. Riv could only stand being able to hear their voices but not the words for so long. Then she stood and crept oh so quietly across the flagstoned floor to the closed door.
‘. . . proud of you, Bleda,’ Israfil was saying. ‘You fought for us. For the people of the Faithful. I wanted to give you my gratitude, not just for the act that you did. Stopping the foul deed that could well have freed Asroth from his prison, but also for the principle of what you did. Of making a stand. Of fighting for us. A selfless act against our common enemy. I knew my faith in you was well placed, just as I know that you will make a fine leader of your people. We will accomplish great things together, when you are lord of the Arcona.’
‘The Sirak, you mean.’
‘The Sirak and Cheren will become one, when you and Jin are wed. One people, working with us, driving the Kadoshim from the land.’
‘The Kadoshim, they are terrible,’ Bleda said. ‘I could see their hatred, taste it.’
‘They are,’ Israfil agreed.
‘But I do not think I stopped them . . .’
There was a pause.
‘What do you mean?’ Israfil said.
‘I think they wanted Asroth’s hand. Or part of him.’
Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond the entrance chamber and Riv ran to her seat, only to hear the footsteps pass the door and fade. She thought about going back to eavesdrop at Israfil’s door again, but then it opened and Bleda came out.
‘Riv,’ Israfil said sternly, and she rose and entered the chamber, giving Bleda a little smile as they passed each other. He didn’t acknowledge her, looked distracted.
‘Close the door behind you,’ Israfil said, walking away to stand before an open window, his chamber looking out over Drassil and the plain beyond.
‘Sit,’ Israfil said, gesturing to a chair, his back to her.
Riv did, nervously, wood scraping on stone.
‘I am worried for you,’ Israfil said, turning to face her.
She didn’t say anything, had done so many things of late that she wasn’t sure what Israfil was referring to, and didn’t want to incriminate herself any further.
‘Fighting, with White-Wings, while on a mission.’
Kol has told him.
She dipped her head with a sigh. ‘I am very sorry, Lord Protector,’ she said.
‘I have watched you on the weapons-field. You have the potential to become an exceptional warrior, Riv. One of the most skilled I have seen come up through the ranks of Drassil since the Ben-Elim have dwelt in this world. But more than that, there is a fire in you, a purity of dedication to our cause. You hate the Kadoshim, long to take your place in the ranks in this holy war.’
‘I do.’ Riv breathed, looking up now, meeting Israfil’s gaze.
How can he know me so well?
‘But there is something else in you. An anger that cannot be quenched.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘What I said to you, during your warrior trial. You remember?’
About my father. About my pride. About needing to prove myself. That I am shallow and brittle. Out of control . . .
Even at the memory of Israfil’s words Riv felt her blood stirring, her anger flexing.
‘Aye.’
‘It was not true. It was a test, designed to provoke, to push, to strengthen your control, your ability to weather any storm.’
It’s as Aphra told me, then. And I failed.
‘Aye.’
‘You are the first person that I have told this truth to, before they have passed. All go through it unknowing. It is a hard test.’
She nodded grimly.
‘I want you to pass your warrior trial, Riv. And soon. Dark times are ahead, I feel it. Your sword arm and fervour will be needed.’
‘There is nothing I long for more.’
‘You shall retake your warrior trial soon. So master your anger.’
‘Yes, Lord Protector.’
‘There are other things that I wanted to talk to you about.’ Israfil fell silent, just staring at Riv, a level of sternness in his gaze that she had not seen before.
Oh no. He knows about all of the fights.
‘The other fights,’ Riv said, then paused. Israfil was frowning. ‘What did Kol tell you?’ she asked.
‘Kol? No, it was not Kol that told me of your altercation at Oriens. It was Aphra.’
What! My own sister! How could she?
Riv did feel her anger stir then, a snake uncoiling, hissing and rearing, fangs bared.
‘Riv!’ A hand slapping on his desk, a loud crack. ‘You remember that last command. To master your anger. I suggest you start right now. I can see it in you.’
It’s getting worse. I can feel it there all the time, like a deep ocean, any insult or injury, the wind that whips it into a storm.
‘Please, help me,’ Riv said, fighting back a sob. ‘I can feel it, moving through me.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘It is like a drug in my blood. Like when you drink wine, I feel it in my belly, a warmth, a glow. Then it is in my veins, spreading through me, seeping through every part of me, into my fists, making them clench, and into my head, like a mist, fogging all thought. And then . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Then it is just me, and I am it.’
‘A dark affliction, it sounds.’
‘It can be,’ Riv nodded. ‘And it can move from the belly glow to the head mist in a few heartbeats. No slow process, no time to fight it.’
‘Perhaps fight it is the wrong phrase. Control is what you need. To harness that rage, and use it. You would be formidable.’ Israfil stared at her a long time. ‘Maybe some time at Dun Seren would help you,’ he said, sounding as if he was talking to himself rather than Riv.