Rift (13 page)

“Mmmm.” Sorcha came into the room. She was holding a long, narrow band of cloth in her hands. “I’m sure. That’s not what I’m here for. Breeches are easy.”

Ember frowned as she tied the laces of her chausses to her cotton braies. “And shirts are hard?” It was odd, but not unpleasant, to have layers of fabric wrapped around her legs rather than the broad press of skirts.

Sorcha laughed again. “Not really. But you’ll want something more than a shirt. Trust me. Take your nightclothes off.”

Ember pulled her sleeping shirt over her head.

“Now lift your arms,” Sorcha said.

“Why?” Ember asked, though she complied.

“You’ll see.” Sorcha began winding soft fabric around Ember’s body, starting just below her armpits. Sorcha kept the fabric tight, which bound Ember’s breasts firmly to her chest, considerably flattening her curves. The wrapping stopped in line with Ember’s lower ribs.

“When you practice doing this yourself, be certain you’ve bound the cloth tightly enough,” Sorcha said. “You don’t want it coming apart when you’re in the middle of a fight.”

Ember watched as Sorcha forced the end of the band beneath the wrapped fabric and over again, holding it in place.

“It’s an extra step, but a necessary one,” Sorcha said. “There’s a reason the Amazons cut off the breast on the side of their bow drawing arm. Our extra flesh can get in the way of a warrior’s tasks. And if not that, your breasts will simply ache if left free.”

“Thank you,” Ember said, grateful for Sorcha’s matter-of-fact approach to this rather intimate lesson. It left Ember wondering if she would have been better off if Sorcha had claimed her rather than Barrow. Yet she was keenly aware of the way her pulse quickened at the thought of being near him.

“You’re welcome,” Sorcha was saying. “I think you’ll find this remedy much preferable to amputation.”

She waited while Ember donned a linen shirt and then the Conatus tabard, belting it low on her hips. Sorcha nodded her approval.

“It suits you,” she said with a smile. “And soon you’ll have a weapon or two to hang from your belt.”

Ember returned her smile nervously. The idea of weapons was thrilling, but intimidating. Having faced the revenant, she knew that all her mock fighting was nothing compared to the real thing.

She followed Sorcha out of her cell and down the back stairwell. Her mind, already full of weapons, manifested them before her eyes as she reached the first floor. The armory’s walls glinted with the steel that covered them. Ember gazed at a tapestry of death with fear and wonder. One wall was filled with swords, ranging from those the length of her arm to others that appeared to be twice her height. Some had curved blades, some straight, and some had wicked serrated edges. Another wall featured battle-axes of all sizes and yet another spears and polearms.

“Anything catch your fancy?” Sorcha asked.

Ember bit her lip. “How . . . how will I know what I should use?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Sorcha said. “You’ll find your arms without trouble.”

They passed through the armory door and into the main hall. Sorcha settled at a table where Alistair sat with Kael and Barrow. Breakfast consisted of a fresh loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, and a brick of hard cheese. Barrow sat quietly, though he glanced at Sorcha, who gave a quick nod before reaching for the loaf. Kael was also silent, but the dark circles under his eyes left Ember guessing that he’d celebrated a bit too much at last night’s feast.

Alistair shifted in his seat, glancing around the table uneasily.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked Ember.

“Yes,” she said.

They fell into an awkward silence as she ate her breakfast. When she pushed her plate away, Barrow stood up.

“If you’re finished, we should be on our way,” he said. “Come with me, my lady.”

Ember scrambled out of her chair, waved a brief good-bye to Alistair, and hurried after Barrow, whose long strides had already carried him out of the hall.

As she walked beside the tall warrior, she said, “If I am to serve you, my lord, it seems strange that you should address me so formally.”

“You would have me use your Christian name?” Barrow asked.

“My name is Ember,” she said. “And I would be called so, my lord.”

Barrow nodded. “Then do me the same courtesy.”

“But I am your servant,” she said.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “I am your teacher, but you serve Conatus, not me. I have no desire for your deference. In battle we fight together, as companions.”

“Yes, Barrow,” she said, dropping her gaze as she blushed.

Ember heard his quiet laugh.

“Is my name so unpleasant?” he asked.

She kept her eyes away from his. “No, my l—Barrow.”

The heat in her cheeks flared. His name wasn’t the problem, but her sense of place remained uneasy. Barrow’s reputation and stern demeanor intimidated her. Keeping him distant felt safer than to think of herself as his companion. In the recesses of her mind, Ember knew she was trying to deny something else. A much more troubling feeling. When she was with Barrow, she wanted to study him, to learn everything about him. She didn’t want to indulge in a childish fascination with her mentor, but despite her intentions, Ember knew her gaze kept finding its way to Barrow’s face, hoping to meet his dark gray eyes.

Barrow suddenly spoke, and she looked away, embarrassed. “Tell me what you thought of your first revenant.”

She shuddered as it dawned on her that “first” implied there were more of those hideous things to come.

“I think the smell is the worst part,” Barrow continued. “Don’t you?”

When she looked at him, she thought he was about to laugh. It made his eyes light up like a storm cloud full of lightning.

“The worst part was that it seemed as though it wanted to eat me,” she said.

Barrow did laugh then. “It certainly did want to eat you. Revenants can only survive by eating the flesh of the living. You would have been a tender morsel indeed.”

“I’m flattered you think so.” Ember frowned at the comment, unsure if it could be taken as a compliment.

He caught the sharpness of her tone and his voice softened. “Have I offended you, Ember?”

She thought to hold her tongue, but words poured out unchecked. “I was thrown into that pit with no warning, given a weapon I didn’t know how to use.”

“You weren’t thrown,” Barrow said. “You walked in of your own volition. And you used the weapon ably.”

“It was cruel,” she said.

“It was necessary,” he told her. “Without the test we cannot determine if an initiate was truly called to our purpose.”

“You would have let me die,” she said. “I could have failed and filled that creature’s belly.”

“No,” Barrow said. “You were watched at all times. Had your life been in danger, you would have been saved. You fought well enough that we never had to intervene.”

“But if the test was to survive—”

“The test wasn’t of your fighting skills,” he said, “but of your mind and spirit. The true test was given by Father Michael, after you knew the truth of our work.”

“But what if the revenant had overpowered me?” she asked, startled by his words.

“It’s happened many times.” He shrugged. “We had to help Alistair escape from the hobgoblins loosed on him.”

Ember stopped mid-stride and Barrow wheeled around, watching her.

“He didn’t kill them?” she asked. This news was more than surprising. In all of her letters from Alistair he’d spoken only of adventure and triumph and never of struggles . . . or failure.

“No,” Barrow said. “But in his defense, hobgoblins are fast, deceptive, and don’t go for the kill. They’re playful creatures, more interested in maiming than murder. We intervened when one had Alistair pinned and the other was about to suck out his eyeballs.”

Ember clapped a hand over her mouth.

“So you see.” He walked toward her. “It isn’t a test of strength, but will. Now your training will begin. You’ll learn to use the weapons and skills required to best any evil you’re sent to face. Alistair would dispatch the foes that overcame him a year ago within minutes. As will you, soon enough.”

Beneath her hand, Ember’s mouth crinkled in a smile. Though she felt for her friend’s plight, she found it reassuring that in her first trial, she’d been more successful than Alistair.

“Come, Ember,” Barrow said. “Your day has only just begun.”

She balked, wondering what could be awaiting her. “Very well.”

“Have no fear.” Barrow was smiling at her. “I won’t ask you to face another creature today.”

“I—” Ember grimaced, worried she’d shown too much fear. Already she felt as though she should be ready to fight whenever asked, without doubt. Without hesitation. Barrow was watching her.

“I knew you’d do well,” he said, surprising her. “I can see you’re already anticipating the work ahead, the dangers. It suits you. From the moment I saw you in your father’s hall, it was clear you belong with us.” He took her shoulder in a light grasp before moving down the corridor.

Ember’s heart twisted beneath her ribs and stole her breath. Pushing aside the strange sensation, she followed Barrow through the manor and out into the courtyard. Her mouth was full of questions, but she bit her tongue. Better to let the answers come to her than to chase after them like an impatient child.

The chill of the day was shoved aside by the heat of the smithy. While their assistant stoked the fires, steadying the temperatures of the forges, craftsmen and craftswomen kept up a steady rhythm of pounding hammers. A chorus of clanging metal filled the air as shields and swords were born. The air shimmered with the power of the raging fires.

“This way,” Barrow said, leading Ember past the line of blacksmiths. The labor was carved into their bodies, reshaping their limbs into thick, sweat-covered muscles as they bent and curved metals to their will.

The workplace of the metalsmiths was large. At least a dozen men and women were bent over anvils or raining hammer blows down onto iron and steel. Red-hot metal sizzled and steam clouds filled the already smoky air as blades were bathed in icy water.

Barrow stopped midway through the smithy, bowing before a figure whose body was pure, hard sinew. Ember was startled when she realized the blacksmith, whose hair was clipped close to the skull, was a woman. Her leather apron was mottled with burn marks.

“Good morning, Barrow.” She returned his bow.

“Morag.” Barrow smiled. “I’ve brought you our young initiate. She is in need of a tool with which to do her work.”

Morag turned appraising eyes on Ember. “She passed her trial?”

Without pause, Morag began an inspection of Ember’s form, asking the girl to hold her arms over her, then out to her sides. She took time to grip Ember’s shoulders, her upper and lower arms.

“She did,” Barrow said while Ember stood as straight as she could. She let herself be stretched and prodded, determined to endure the assessment without complaint. The smoke was making her eyes burn, but she forced herself to meet Morag’s gaze without blinking. Her eyes began to water.

The burly artisan chortled. “Strong spirit. You’ll have your hands full with this one, Barrow. I wonder if you’re up to the task.”

Ember looked at Morag sharply, finding it difficult to believe that she’d call Barrow’s skill into question.

But Barrow simply smiled. “Time will tell.”

Morag grinned at him. “It will indeed.” She took Ember’s wrist and led her to a stool very close to the roaring flames of the forge.

“Sit here,” she instructed. “Be as still as you can.”

Morag moved to a nearby workbench. She emptied the contents of several pouches and glass jars into a mortar and then ground the mixture together with a pestle. She carried the mortar to Ember’s side.

“Do not take your eyes from the flames,” she whispered. “Let them speak to you.”

The fire was so close Ember felt her skin heating up and feared it would soon burn, but she didn’t dare move. Morag flung a handful of fine powder into the flames, causing it to flare up and spew lavender plumes of smoke. Ember coughed as she took in lungfuls of the bizarrely colored air. It smelled of moss and heather and tasted like licorice root.

“Keep breathing,” Barrow said from behind her.

She wanted to beat her chest and clear her lungs of the smoke, but she sucked in another deep breath even as her eyes watered. The flames kept up a furious dance before her, the colors of the sunset darkening to the violet of twilight. Her vision swam and she swayed on the stool, nearly sliding off it. She rubbed her eyes, struggling to see through her tears.

Morag caught Ember’s wrists in her hands, pulling them away from her face. “Nay, lass. Ye must see. Look into the flames.”

But there were no longer flames to see. Through still-watery eyes Ember gazed into a midnight sky, starless and eternal. Somewhere very far away she heard a crooning melody. The voice sounded strangely like Morag’s but was so distant Ember thought it couldn’t possibly be her singing. A subtle gleam cut the darkness. The moon, a bright globe, shimmered into substance, the solitary object in the heavens. As she watched, darkness slowly covered its gleaming surface. She could still see the lingering outline of the full moon, but the encroaching shadow left only a slender crescent to light the sky. Crimson drops slid along its curve before plummeting to the earth.

Ember reached into the sky and the bloodred tears splashed onto her hand, sizzling as they made contact with her skin.

“Ember!” Strong hands gripped her shoulders, jerking her back from the fire and wrenching her out of the vision.

Barrow kept her balanced against his body as she began to cough again. Morag handed him a damp cloth, soaked in some kind of astringent that stung Ember’s hand when he bound it around her scorched skin.

“You’re supposed to look into the flames, not touch them.” He shook his head, but he was smiling.

Ember opened her mouth to protest but only managed more coughing. She was still a bit dizzy. She put her hand to her forehead, closing her eyes, and hoped the smithy would soon stop spinning.

“Here, lass, drink this.” Morag crouched before her, holding a bucket and a ladle filled with springwater.