What better way to test if we are ready to hunt Kadoshim? The Ben-Elim are the closest thing to our enemy.
Riv ducked a blow that would have taken her head and rolled away, jumping back to her feet and leaping at Israfil as he followed, which, judging by the brief twist of his lips, caught him by surprise – Riv’s sword snaking through his defence and stabbing into his thigh.
If it was cold steel you’d be bleeding like a speared boar now, she thought, then grinned.
‘You try too hard,’ Israfil said as he swept in closer, his sword chopping at her head, deflected, sweeping into a slice for her throat, knocked away, coming back to stab at her face, Riv swaying, stepping back, thrown off balance by his words, not his blade.
I have tried hard all my life to be the best I can be, to be worthy to wear the white wings, to fight for the Ben-Elim. How is that wrong?
‘You fight to prove yourself to others,’ Israfil continued, voice low and fierce, meant only for her ears. ‘Pride drives you, and you think it makes you strong.’ His words pounded her as hard as the flurry of his blows that followed. Riv staggered backwards, her parries and blocks wilder, her counters slashing only empty air. ‘But you are wrong,’ Israfil ground on, ‘your pride is your weakness.’
She felt a squeeze of pain in her chest at his words, the world dimming around her, her vision focused solely upon Israfil.
‘It makes you brittle,’ he said, lips sneering in disgust and disappointment.
Riv reeled, spinning into open space to give herself a moment to recover; she was gasping as if she had just been gut-punched.
Brittle? No. I am strong, have trained every day, all my life for this.
Israfil’s blade slipped through her guard but her quick feet pivoted her away, its edge grazing the leather of her jerkin.
‘Is it because you have no father?’ Israfil said as he swirled around her. ‘That you feel you must try so hard to prove yourself?’
‘What?’ Riv spoke for the first time, feeling her shock and hurt shift into something else, edged in red. ‘No,’ she said in a snarl, ‘my sister is a White-Wing, as was my mam before her. I have enough to admire . . .’ More blows, driving air and words from her lungs, Israfil’s wooden blade connecting with her shoulder, one blow flowing into another, cracking into her ribs. A great pulse of his wings and she was stumbling back, slipping to one knee, the pain in her side fuelling the anger that was swelling in her gut, outrage at being so wronged by someone she had respected completely and utterly until only a handful of heartbeats ago.
My father? He is long dead.
She looked up at Israfil, who hovered above her, mouth twisted in some unreadable emotion.
‘You are weak,’ he said to her.
Riv leaped at Israfil, a red rage flooding through her. She grabbed his belt and hauled herself higher, saw his mouth was moving but could only dimly hear his shouted words because there was a roaring in her head like a storm shaking the trees of Drassil, and then her fist was slamming into Israfil’s face, once, twice, blood gushing from his nose, and his wings were beating, lifting them higher. Part of her was appalled at what she was doing, but that part of her was small and powerless, an observer to events, nothing more, watching as she rained blows upon the Ben-Elim. Even then all she could hear were his words, you are weak, you are brittle, and then the red mist filled her head and her vision until she saw and heard nothing except her own wordless howl.
Riv blinked awake and sat up with a start. She felt a pressure upon her chest and saw her mam’s face staring down at her, eyes creased with worry.
‘Easy, Riv,’ her mam said. ‘Rest a while.’
As if I ever took that advice. Riv snorted, pushing her mam’s hand away. She sat up, saw that she was still in the weapons-field, her mam kneeling beside her, a crowd gathered in a half-circle around Vald and the others who had completed their warrior trial. They were standing in a line, faces glowing with exertion and pride as Israfil stood before them, commending them on their prowess.
You are weak.
Riv put a hand to her head, squeezing her eyes shut, remembered frozen moments: leaping at Israfil, blood from his nose, rising into the sky.
‘What . . . happened?’ she muttered, an ache in her back between her shoulder blades pulsing up into her head. She twisted, rolled her shoulders.
‘You attacked Israfil,’ her mam said, a horrified whisper.
The voices of her companions and friends rose up, reciting the first lines of the Oath.
‘I am defender to the Faithful,’ they all began, voices ringing out.
I should be there, beside them, she thought. They should be my sword-kin, now, except that they have passed their warrior trial, and I have failed.
‘I am the sharp blade that will slay the Fallen,’ echoed across the field.
She looked back to her mam, who was regarding her with sad, disappointed eyes.
With a choked sound in her throat, Riv pushed past her mam and ran. She saw heads from amongst the gathered crowd turn and stare at her; her sister, Aphra, her pride-filled gaze of earlier a thing of history now.
And then she crashed into someone, both of them tumbling to the ground. With a grunt, she climbed to one knee, saw the other person spring agilely to his feet. The youth was staring at her, lean and sharp-featured, with deep, almond-shaped eyes and dark, weathered skin, almost the same colour as the alder-wood hilt of her sister’s short-sword. She knew him, or at least, knew his name. Bleda, the Sirak prince who was a ward to the Ben-Elim. Riv remembered the day he had been taken, all those years ago when she had been her sister’s attendant, her shield-carrier, weapon-cleaner, water-giver and all other manner of tasks. She had loved it. But not that one, long ago, moment. The scene flashed through her mind, seeing the boy’s proud face, his curved bow falling from his hand, face stricken as his kin’s heads had been tossed into the dirt before him, tears streaking down his face as the giant Alcyon had carried him away.
Bleda looked at her now, standing over her, his face as emotionless as the Ben-Elim, eyes dark pools.
‘I heard what he said to you,’ Bleda whispered. He reached a hand out, not to help, but to wipe a tear from her face. He looked at it, glistening upon his fingertip. Something about him changed, but it was only in his eyes, his face still as carved stone.
‘This is his victory, your defeat,’ he said, showing her her own tear.
She stared back defiantly, letting him see her anger and shame, allowed another tear to roll down her cheek. Her own form of defiance.