Page 52

CHAPTER

Fifty-Two

“O N YOUR FEET.”

Neema woke from a deep slumber, still dressed in yesterday’s uniform. The room was dark, shutters closed, but she could make out two shadowed forms at the side of the bed. She groaned and turned. The Hounds again? “What time is it—”

A bucket of iced water sluiced over her.

Neema shrieked. “Fuck the Eight.”

One of the intruders lifted her up by her tunic. “Do not blaspheme,” he said, and slung her to the floor. She landed hard on her knees.

Another bucket of icy water, this time in the face. She shrieked, more in anger this time. “Stop doing that!”

“Then get up, novice!” A different voice, this one female.

Novice? Neema got to her feet, teeth chattering as she rubbed herself warm. She was definitely awake now. Forgotten on the bedside table, Pink-Pink lifted up one foot so he could stamp it back down. His job. His job to wake her. His job, his job.

“What’s happening—”

“Silence!”

They shoved her into the living room. The shutters had been pulled back, casting it in the soft grey light of pre-dawn. Her attackers, she saw now, were dressed in contingent uniforms.

Bear warriors.

They stood to attention, hands clasped behind their backs, shoulders squared. “Bear Novice Number Two. You will be silent. You will obey orders. Stand up straight! Follow us.”

The Bear Trial, Sol said. He was back in her ribcage, the devious beast. The Bear Trial has begun.

—Yes, I got that. Neema ran her hands through her hair, shook the water from her fingers.

You will need some oil for your hair, Neema, and a comb. Preening is important, or you will not look magnificent.

—Sol be quiet, you’re not helping.

I understand, I will be very quiet, Sol lied. You will forget I am here.

All the palaces had a nickname. The Raven palace was known as the Nest, the Hound palace was the Kennels. The fifth palace was the Fortress. Those who did not walk the Way of the Bear were rarely granted passage through its iron-studded doors. Neema had heard that the interiors were handsome, if austere—limewashed walls and rush matting, plain oak tables and benches, iron sconces and candelabra, heavy stone fireplaces. She’d hoped the Trial would give her the opportunity to see for herself. But as she emerged from the dense evergreen forest that enclosed the palace, she saw that the portcullis was down, the windows shuttered. The warriors who patrolled the battlements and walkways looked sombre. The red and black sigil flag fixed above the entrance had been lowered to half-mast.

For Katsan, their lost Sister. It was too soon for grey mourning patches, but those would follow once she’d reached Anat-garra and fallen into the Bear’s embrace. The journey would take her several months, but there was no changing its end.

Neema’s escort led her down towards the barracks that lay behind the palace. In the distance, at the edge of more pine forest, the island’s north perimeter wall blocked what had once been a fine view of the sea. To the east, the sun was painting the sky a bold orange-pink.

The barracks comprised a collection of low, red-brick buildings set around a small yard. Unlike the Fortress, Neema knew them well. This was where the Bears conducted court business. Just as Emperor Bersun had once chafed against the trappings of his position, so his Brothers and Sisters avoided the gilded halls of the eighth palace. In fact, it was so hard to persuade Bears to live at court, they were sent there on rotation. A posting to the imperial island, it was said, was dreaded more than a posting to the borders of Dolrun. Better the poisoned forest, than the corrupted island.

Neema was surprised to see that the contingent had put out trestle tables, set with a simple but nourishing breakfast. Was it a test? A trick? If it was, nobody had told Cain, their first guest. He had his head down, demolishing a bowl of yoghurt that was meant for the whole table, tipping in extra nuts and berries as he ate. His hair was soaked, his face flushed and bright—more iced water, presumably. To her embarrassment, Neema felt a large, delighted grin spreading across her face. She wiped it away with her hand as she sat down opposite him. She was pleased to see his injuries weren’t as bad as they’d seemed the night before—the cut on his lip was already healing well.

“Hey. Good morning.”

Cain lowered his spoon. “Sorry,” he muttered, to the ground. “Need to focus. Could you…” He gestured for her to move off, further down the table.

Crestfallen, Neema poured herself some coffee and moved along to the next bench.

Oh dear, he is not your friend any more. That is a shame.

—This is a Trial, Sol. We want him to concentrate.

That is a generous way of looking at it, Neema, but you forget I am the Solitary Raven. Abandonment and rejection are very much known to me—

—I can’t imagine why.

Perhaps he regrets your mating last night. I only mention this so that you can prepare yourself for the shattering disappointment. A short, cunning pause, a casual preen. Although, it may be for the best, if you detach yourself from him. The path to the throne is narrow, and must be walked alone, as the saying goes.

—We are not on a path to the throne, Sol.

Look, Neema—the Tiger warrior has arrived.

Neema turned as Ruko entered the yard. Novice Number Three. The Bears were bringing the contenders over in Guardian order. His hair and tunic were also wet, and she wondered how his escort had escaped with their lives. She gestured for him to join her, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down on the opposite bench.

“Don’t talk to me, I’m not talking to anyone,” Cain said from the other table.

He’s only saying that so you don’t feel singled out, Neema.

“So did you kill your escort for chucking ice at you?” Neema asked Ruko. She was only half joking.

He rubbed a hand through his hair, slicking it back. “I doused myself, as ordered.”

It was only then Neema realised—oh, right. Everyone else has a contingent to protect them when they’re sleeping. Although, wait a minute…

—Sol, why didn’t you wake me?

They meant you no harm, I could tell.

—But you saw the bucket of ice. You could have warned me.

Yes Neema, but iced water is a very refreshing and magnificent way to start the day. Also, it was hilarious. Ha ha ha ha—

Neema gave him a very sharp inward glare.

I think I shall visit my field for a while, Sol decided, lifting up from her ribcage.

She sipped her coffee and sighed into the blessed silence. She could feel Ruko studying first her, then Cain. Eventually he leaned in and said, “What happened to Cain’s face?”

“Novice Number One,” Cain corrected him, head down, eating. “I had a disagreement with a pack of those Samran Hounds.”

“About what?”

Cain looked up, briefly. “Whether they should kick the shit out of me or not.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Neema said. “I was worried—”

“So they’re putting us through a morning’s basic training, right?” Cain said, interrupting her. As he talked, he shifted to sit astride his bench, keeping his attention fixed resolutely on Ruko.

Sol was right, Neema thought, downcast. It’s only me he’s ignoring.

“Every morning, just before dawn, Bear novices plunge themselves in a freezing ice pool. So: we get the bucket of water. Then breakfast,” Cain twirled his spoon at the table, “followed by interrogation and endurance training. Then prayers.” He pulled a face, as if that was by far the worst part.

“Neema.” Tala had arrived. Novice Number Four. She strode straight up to the table. “I need to talk to you.”

Neema swung her legs over the bench and followed Tala to a quiet corner of the yard. They did not see Brother Joran, head of the Bear contingent, emerge from one of the barrack buildings, holding a bowl of coffee. A stocky man of middling years, he wore his greying brown hair loose to his shoulders. Standing a few yards from them in the doorway, he could not hear their conversation, but he watched their body language with keen interest, rubbing a hand through his beard.

Tala had pushed herself uncomfortably close to Neema, shoulders back, squaring off for a fight. “Sunur and I talked things through after you left. We agreed we should stay together as a family.”

Neema patted the air in a placating gesture. “I understand. I’m sorry Tala, I didn’t mean to come between you—”

Tala snatched a note from her pocket. “Read it.”

Neema took the note, and read.

Tala, I love you so much, but I have to trust my instincts. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Sunur xx

“She took Suru.” Tala shoved Neema hard in the chest. “They’re gone. Because of you.” She clenched her fist.

Neema drew back, hands in a warding position. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

“Bullshit!” Tala spat. “You’re goading me, just like you goaded Katsan. Playing games. You’re more slippery than Cain.”

“Tala, I swear on my life, I am not playing games. I genuinely care about Sunur and—”

“Don’t you dare say my daughter’s name. Don’t you dare. ” One last shove, and the Oxwoman stormed off, back towards the trestle tables, where Havoc had just arrived.

Neema put her hands on her hips and breathed out slowly, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. She had barely recovered when her two escorts returned and threw a hood over her head.

“Interrogation,” they said. “Move.”

Hands shoved her roughly on to a stool, in front of a table. The hood was yanked free. It was bright red, slashed with the familiar black claw marks of the Bear sigil. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light.

Brother Joran sat across the table from her. He held himself like a priest, hands clasped in front of him, grey-blue eyes soft but searching.

“You’re not up to this, are you?” he said.

The gentleness caught her off guard. “No,” she admitted, after a moment. Bears valued honesty.

“Your rivals have trained for years. Dedicated their lives to this. And you think you can stroll in and beat them.”

“I don’t think I can—”

He slammed his hands on the table. “Did I ask you a question?” he roared.

A performance—turning from priest to soldier. It still made her jump.

So it went on, as the sun rose and poured into the hut. They’d positioned her chair so that the light beamed straight into her eyes. Hands down , her escort would shout, when she tried to shield herself.

Joran kept up a stream of questions, testing her on her past, her character, her faith. Ethical dilemmas. Failures. Weak spots. Regrets. In between times, without warning, the guards would throw the hood back over her head and run her round the yard. One time, they pushed her head into another bucket of ice. Then back to the questions.

She answered them as truthfully as she could. Maybe it helped her, she thought, that she had visited the barracks before, as a high minister. This was not the first time she had sat across a table from Brother Joran. She knew he valued an open, sincere heart, above all things. Just as the Bear palace liked plain, honestly crafted furniture. No gilding, no embellishments.

More questions—about her family now. She admitted she had not found the time to reply to her mother’s last letter, and had forgotten her middle brother’s birthday. Joran rubbed his beard, frowning. If he was trying to catch her out, he was failing.

He should ask you a sports question, Sol suggested.

—Oh, you’re back, are you?

“Novice Two!” Joran slammed his fists on the table again.

She jerked to attention.

Joran glared at her. “Am I boring you?”

Don’t say yes, Neema. This is the test bit.

“I think we’re all bored, aren’t we?” Neema turned to the two guards at the door.

They glanced at each other. The man gave a slight shrug.

Neema turned back, vindicated. “Look. It’s like you said.” She spread her hands out on the table. “I’m not up to this.”

Neema!

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I’d be the worst empress in history. I know the law, and I respect it. And I could definitely carry off the robes.”

Yes. We would have new ones made, black velvet lined with purple silk and studded with diamonds, and a staff of gold, with a very big diamond on the top—

“But the truth is I don’t want the throne. Never have, never will.”

Joran leaned forward, interested at last. “So what do you want?”

You do want the throne, Neema! Tell him you made a mistake. The throne, Neema! That is what you want. Tell him you want—

“Peace,” Neema said, closing her eyes. “A quiet, still mind. That is what I would like, Brother Joran. Peace.”

When she opened her eyes Joran gave her a half-smile. “Interesting,” he murmured, rubbing his beard. “Thank you, Novice Two. You may go.”

Back in the barracks yard, the contenders stood together in line.

“This Trial is in two parts,” Joran told them. “Some of you have fallen behind. Novice One.” He stopped in front of Cain, and clicked his fingers in his face. “You were distracted, and evasive. I’d wake up if I were you.”

Joran passed by Neema and Ruko and stopped again, this time before Tala. “Novice Four. You wish to rule an empire, but you cannot even rule yourself.” He shook his head, disappointed. “Well.

We move on. Endurance training. Plain and simple. No tricks, no games. We are Bears, not Foxes.” A quiet smile passed through the Bear contingent, standing to attention behind him. “Most of you have spent years preparing for this. You think you’re ready. We shall see.”

And so the torture began. Press-ups, sit-ups, squats, grab a pack and run round the barracks. After half an hour, Neema’s legs were shaking so hard she could hardly walk. But she’d made it. She hadn’t given up. Maybe she’d earn a point for her persistence, at least.

“Right,” Joran said. “Let’s get started.”

The other contenders bounced on their toes, stretched their leg muscles, rolled their shoulders in preparation for the real work. Neema stared at them, dismayed. “That… that was the warm-up?”

Shal threw her a sympathetic look. He looked like he’d been for a short stroll to the market.

A Bear soldier dropped a pack at Neema’s feet. She swung it on to her back, staggered sideways under the weight, then staggered back into line. Ruko looked down at her, impassive. It was hard to tell, but she thought he might be laughing at her. On the inside.

Joran signalled for them to follow him—he would set the pace. They set off into the evergreens at a fast jog. Crows flapped from the trees, startled.

Yes, go away, stupid crows. Can you believe Neema, crows think they are cleverer than us, and more handsome. Ha ha, stupid, ugly things…

Neema stumbled along at the back, panting hard. It wasn’t long before she’d lost sight of everyone.

Her female escort was bringing up the rear. She gestured to a track through some bushes. “Keep going. You can catch them.”

Neema took a few trembling steps then tripped down the slope into a narrow ditch. She landed on her back, her heavy pack wedged beneath her. She flailed her arms and legs, like a turtle flipped on its shell. No use. She was stuck.

“Could you help?”

The Bear warrior looked down at her from the high ground. “Up to you. You’ll be disqualified.”

Neema lay still and gazed up at the pines. Her feet were throbbing, everything ached. She could stay here for a bit. What did it matter? Just lie here and rest, breathe in the woodland scents. Listen to the birds.

Neema. Get up.

Neema.

—I can’t, Sol.

You’re not trying.

Neema made a feeble attempt, then lay back again.

—There, you see? I tried.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Sol’s cry pierced her skull like a white hot blade. A pain so terrible nothing else existed. She wanted to die, just to make it stop, please, please make it stop.

The scream faded away. She grabbed desperately at a tree root and hauled herself free.

Keep moving.

She drank some water, the bottle rattling against her teeth.

Keep moving or it will start again.

Neema lurched forward, through the bushes. Her escort lifted her brows in surprise, and followed her.

For the next hour, Neema was plunged into a waking nightmare. Whenever she looked as though she might be giving up, Sol would screech at her. After a while he didn’t even need to do that. Neema would sense him filling his lungs and tumble onwards in a panic, drawing on reserves she didn’t even know she had. The woods smeared about her, swirls of brown and green and grey. Dimly, she sensed the other contenders as they lapped her, ghosts flitting past. Or perhaps she was the ghost, perhaps she had died and slipped from the Eternal Path into hell.

The swirls of brown and green and grey melded together.

She was on the ground, how was she on the ground, when did that happen? She scrambled desperately to her knees, before Sol could start screaming again. The world spun around her.

“Novice Two.” Brother Joran appeared above her. He removed her pack. The relief was so intense, she burst into tears.

“Is it over?”

“It is for you. I admire your grit, but you must learn your limits. You can’t rule an empire from the grave.”

Her escort lifted her up and helped her slowly back to the barracks.

She was flat on her back in the yard, staring at the sky when Havoc limped over. “Torn a ligament,” he said, untying his colours. “That’s it for me. I’m done.” Not just the Trial, but the Festival. The man who’d dreamed of ruling Orrun since he was six years old, was done.

Neema didn’t believe a word of it. An injury in the middle of the woods, when no one was around. How convenient. He didn’t look defeated. Even with his swollen nose and black eyes, he looked decidedly pleased with himself. He must have made a deal with the emperor, or with the Tigers.

“Aren’t you lucky?” he said, his shadow covering her. They were set to fight each other that afternoon. Two free points for her.

She got to her feet. “What did they promise you, Havoc? Land? High office?”

He looked around, to be sure they weren’t overheard. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“You killed Gaida. And now you’re leaving the Trials—I presume to help Ruko.”

Havoc folded his arms across his broad chest. “That’s quite an accusation. Where’s your proof?”

“You know I don’t have any.” She glared at him.

“If you’re looking for remorse, I wouldn’t bother,” he said, and laughed. “Eight. You’re such a hypocrite. You hated her.”

“She didn’t deserve to die.”

“Gaida Rack was a traitor, who conspired against the emperor. If I had killed her, I would be proud of my actions. But as we both know,” a slow grin, “she killed herself.”

There was a commotion on the other side of the yard as Cain and Ruko arrived back, followed closely by Shal and Tala. They flung off their packs, connected for once in their exhaustion, their shared relief that the Trial was almost over.

Havoc watched them with a smug, hidden expression.

“What?” Neema said.

“I was just thinking of something the emperor taught me. You can’t win the game if you don’t know the rules.”

He walked on. He didn’t bother to limp.

“This Trial tested your physical and mental endurance,” Joran said, when the five remaining contenders were back in line. “We looked for the qualities we expect from our novices. Honesty, respect, determination. Above all, the ability to maintain self-discipline, in the most extreme situations. With that in mind.” He stopped in front of Ruko. “Congratulations, Contender Valit.”

Neema was next, to her astonishment. Joran patted her shoulder. “Good effort.” He turned to Cain. “Your lack of focus cost you, but you have impressive endurance skills, Fox contender. Three points.”

Shal was next, and Tala was last with one point. “For what it’s worth, Contender Talaka, I believe the Raven contender was being honest with you, earlier. But even if she was playing games,” a glance down the line at Neema, “this is the Festival of the Eight. No excuses.”

Tala gritted her teeth. “Thank you for the lesson, Brother Joran.”

Joran locked eyes with her. “Fear controlled you today, contender.”

“I was worried about—”

“Fear born from love is the most dangerous kind. The most volatile,” Joran said, gently. “Be wary.”

The contenders were presented with a campaign pack as a Festival gift, with survival rations, leather water pouch, a tinderbox and a brass compass. The Trial was at an end. “You are free to go,” Brother Joran told them. “But perhaps you will stay a few moments and say a prayer for our Sister, Katsan Brundt.”

They bowed their heads—contenders and contingent together. The bell rang out from the bell tower, slow and mournful. A funeral toll, for one yet living.

When the prayers were over, Joran and the rest of the contingent gave a smart Bear salute, and marched off to the barracks.

The line broke up. Neema touched Cain’s wrist. He flinched, and stepped back. “Sorry. Have to be somewhere.” He ran off.

She walked slowly through the woods, heartsore. Clearly he was regretting last night. To be fair, his distraction had cost him today—he was now trailing Ruko by one point. Her own accidental success hadn’t helped, either.

Which reminded her.

She sat down under a tall pine tree, dropped her pack at her feet. The sun threw dappled light through the branches, the air smelled fresh and green. Amazing how pleasant the woods could be, when you weren’t being tortured.

—Sol?

He’d been very quiet since she’d passed out in the woods. Almost as if he knew he’d gone too far, and was hoping Neema had forgotten about it.

Hello, yes?

She touched her chest. —You need my permission to stay in here, right?

Sol, perched on his favourite rib, clenched and unclenched his claws anxiously. I was trying to help—

—Get out.

Sol shuffled along Neema’s rib, closer to her warm, beating heart. He gave his wings a half-hearted flap. You want me to leave?

—Yes.

Right now? Or later? I think later, Neema—

“Now!”

Sol cringed. He was very good at cringing, very practised. As you wish.

Neema felt a sharp pain, exactly like a bird piercing through her chest with its beak. Black, oily blood gushed through the gaping wound. We shall spare you the rest, as before. What you shouldn’t do is imagine a slopping purple-black blancmange, with a gristly spine, vomiting itself into being. Don’t imagine that.

The semi-formed thing splatted on to her pack and slowly reconstituted itself into a large raven. Sol shook out his feathers.

I shall go, you are sure?

His voice in her head, but no longer humming along her bones.

She looked at him. Folded her arms.

He tested his wings. Walked up and down in front of her a couple of times, making forlorn, tragic noises. No. It wasn’t working. Very well, he knew when he was banished, this was not new territory for the Solitary Raven.

Goodbye then, Neema.

A snap of wings. A rush of air. And he was gone.