‘Think,’ Aphra said, poking Riv in the temple. ‘The warrior trial is not just about skill of arms, Riv. Think about it. It is all a test to deem if we are fit to face the Kadoshim in battle. For that you need blade-prowess, of course, because the Kadoshim are strong, yes, fierce and deadly, that too. But they also have dread-cunning, and will exploit any weakness. Imagine you were in a shield wall and the right insults wormed their way into your head and heart – what if the rage took you then, and you leaped from the wall in a red-murder haze? The wall would be shattered, and your sword-kin would die.’
Riv thought about that awhile, and whatever way she looked at it there was no getting away from the sense of it.
‘That smacks of truth,’ she conceded, ‘but it doesn’t mean it is the truth.’
‘This time it is,’ Aphra said. ‘A similar thing happened to me, on my warrior trial.’
‘Really?’ Riv asked, wanting it to be true. It was a far better option in her head than the Lord Protector secretly being a wicked, malice-filled bastard. ‘The Lord Protector?’
‘No, it was Kol that sword-schooled me.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look. ‘But he said some hard things to me. Things that were close enough to truth; if you looked at what he said in a shift of light you could almost think, maybe . . .’
‘Aye,’ Riv agreed, a hiss of breath.
‘But they were not the truth,’ Aphra said, shaking her head. ‘Kol spoke to me afterwards, and told me it was only a test.’
‘Will the Lord Protector tell me the same, then?’
‘Well, I’m thinking, no,’ Aphra said. ‘I controlled my anger, unlike you, and still passed my trials, remember, where you have failed. You will have to take them again, so the Lord Protector will not want you knowing. I shouldn’t have told you.’ She looked sternly at Riv. ‘Don’t tell a soul, not even Mam.’
‘I won’t,’ Riv grunted, almost insulted, as if she would ever betray her sister’s trust.
‘And then there’s the matter of punching the Lord Protector in the face,’ Aphra continued.
Riv hung her head and put her face in her hands.
‘An apology may be the wisest step,’ Aphra said.
Riv’s gut instinct was to snarl NEVER. Israfil’s words were still a sharp knife in her soul, but, if it had all been a test . . .
It does make sense, and is something the Ben-Elim would do: testing every aspect of a warrior, mental as well as physical.
‘It was a great honour, the Lord Protector choosing you to fight, to test. He must see greatness in you,’ Aphra said. ‘As do I.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Riv. Shame I didn’t live up to it. ‘I’ll apologize, then,’ Riv said grudgingly.
‘Good,’ Aphra said, taking Riv’s arm and tugging her to her feet. ‘Now let’s go and find Mam. She’s searching for you all over Drassil.’
Riv stood, feeling some of her hurt and anger drain away.
‘When do you think the next warrior trials will be held?’ she asked her sister.
‘A few moons, most likely. As soon as there are enough recruits reaching their name-days to make a shield wall.’
Maybe still this year, then, Riv thought, before Midwinter’s Day.
‘Before then you’re going to have to do something about that temper of yours, though. It seems to be getting worse, not better, and that’s not the kind of quality the Ben-Elim want in their White-Wings. Discipline, control,’ Aphra said, putting an arm around Riv’s shoulder and steering her up the stairs towards the open entrance.
‘Aye,’ Riv agreed, knowing that was a truth harder in the doing than the saying.
I’ve never been the calmest, never as calm as Aphra, but she’s right, it is getting worse.
‘Otherwise one day it is likely to get you into a whole lot of trouble.’
I think it already has.
‘Why did you come here?’ Aphra asked her.
‘Don’t know.’ Riv shrugged, though she did know, pausing and looking back into the chamber, her eyes drawn to the figures of Meical and Asroth upon the dais.
They had been frozen like that since the great battle, over a hundred years ago. The Seven Treasures had all been present, forged from the Starstone, and it was by the Treasures’ power that a portal had been opened between the Banished Lands and the Otherworld. Through that gateway the Kadoshim had poured like a dark plague, death and destruction their sole purpose, but fortunately the Ben-Elim had followed close behind them, saviours of humanity.
Somehow the Treasures had been destroyed, reduced to molten metal, and Asroth and Meical had been caught up in their destruction, coated in the cooling ore, frozen for all time. Whether they were dead or alive, no one knew, but the Ben-Elim in a humbling act of self-sacrifice had elected to stay and guard mankind against even the possibility of Asroth’s return, and to hunt down and destroy the Kadoshim that had survived the Battle of Drassil.
That was why she had come to this hall. To remind herself why she had trained so hard, each and every day of her remembered life; to remind herself of what was at the heart of all the blood and sweat, the dark mornings, the muscle straining, the exhaustion, sacrifice and discipline. Something that was bigger than her insignificant life. Something that gave her meaning and purpose.
The great fight. The holy war. And I must be a part of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
DREM
‘Grab the branch!’ Drem heard his da shout. He splashed about wildly, saw the branch as it loomed close and reached out, the fingers of one hand wrapping around it. He felt the river current still tugging at him, his arm and shoulder muscles stretching and straining – for a moment he was sure the river was going to win – then Olin was pulling him into the shore, a hand under his arm helping him rise. Drem hobbled onto the riverbank, his ankle a throbbing pain.
Olin didn’t look much better, grey hair hanging lank, his face pale and gaunt, dark hollows under his eyes. The sleeve of one arm was torn, a long red wound beneath it pulsing blood.
‘Need to l-l-look at that,’ Drem said, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.
‘Let’s get warm first,’ Olin muttered, eyeing the darkening sky.
The river had carried them out of the foothills and into the plain that surround the Starstone Lake. Drem looked back up at the hills and mountains, his mind filled with the memory of the white bear that had come so close to killing them both. He shivered.
Fire.
Both their kindling pouches were soaked through, but they found dead rushes close to the river and gathered great bundles of them, then used their striking irons to set sparks leaping. Drem groaned in pleasure as the first warmth of the flames lapped against him. They stripped their wet clothes and hung them close for drying. Both of them were covered in cuts and bruises where the river had introduced them to rocks and branches on the turbulent journey from the foothills to the plain. Drem’s bone-handled seax had managed to stay within its sheath; he kept it close, the white bear never far from his mind.
Olin splinted his ankle, which was swollen and bruised purple, but didn’t feel broken, and then Drem set about stitching his da’s arm. A claw from the bear’s parting swipe had gouged a long furrow almost from shoulder to elbow. Drem boiled some water, let it cool awhile and then cleaned the wound out. He took a fish hook and thread from a pouch on his da’s belt and began methodically stitching the wound up.