Chapter Twenty-Eight. Gin
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
GIN
I watch as Eban’s entire body shakes. He’s clearly in distress, and I’m helpless to stop it.
His eyes roll up into the back of his head, and his face twists up in agony—whether with pain or terror is unclear.
He’s somewhere else, with his imaginary sword drawn against some invisible foe, though he only swings it a single time.
I sense a wall between the two of us—he isn’t in this world at the moment; he’s somewhere else. It’s strange to share the same room while also feeling, and knowing, he’s far away. And that there’s a chance, however small, he won’t return.
I wish I’d been chosen first. Witnessing Eban go through this, I’m not confident I can withstand it after all.
Luwalhati watches him intently, her shoulders held back, back stiff, with her hands clasped in front of her.
They’re the only things that give away her concern—she squeezes them so tightly, they’re going white.
Luwalhati glances at me. Concern flickers across her face, a slightly furrowed brow and pursed mouth. I want to do something. Run forward, help him, something.
As if she read my thoughts, Luwalhati puts her arm out in front of me. “You cannot interfere.”
“How much longer will this go on?” It’s a rhetorical question. I know Luwalhati doesn’t have an answer. The trial is complete when the spirit decides.
Eban collapses to the ground.
“What happened?” I shout. “Is it over?”
Luwalhati looks neither pleased nor disappointed. Her reaction reveals nothing. But she does move her arm away, tacit permission for me to approach him.
I rush forward and kneel on the ground next to him. He’s breathing. “Eban? Are you all right?”
Eban’s eyes flutter open. He’s disoriented. He reaches out with one trembling arm and holds his hand to his head. “No,” he croaks. His eyes scrunch closed, like an awful headache came on abruptly.
“What happened? Did you do it?” He’s alive, therefore he must have, right?
He doesn’t answer right away. He tries to stand up, but his legs are weak. I put my arm around him and help him to his feet. “No,” he says. “I failed.”
Luwalhati looks impassive.
Eban failed? But he’s so strong and so brave. If he failed …
I stare at him. But there’s no time to ask questions.
“Gineth, it’s your turn,” Luwalhati announces.
If Eban was unable to do it, I have no chance of making this happen.
Luwalhati asks me to stand before my relic.
She opens the stopper. At first nothing happens.
My trial may not be today after all. But then the same thing happens as with Eban’s— a puff of hazy gray, followed by a tiny orb of light.
Oh, there you are. Ready for this?
It’s Tadhana. My whole body relaxes as the tension leaves me. I try not to smile too widely, in case that’s taken as disrespect for the ceremony.
-Where have you been? I ask.
Looking around. I missed this place.
Then immediately, my mind goes dark, and when my sight returns, I’m flying into the old city of Ophir.
I’m whisked around the city, through lush green parks featuring monuments to leaders I’ve never heard of, over a clear blue stream where schools of minnows dart through the current, past cozy houses and tall buildings of polished stone that reflect almost like glass, until I come to a skidding stop in front of a warrior, standing on the wide steps of some kind of public building, similar to the one where the trials are being hosted. It’s Tadhana, as she’d looked in life.
She’s small and fierce, dressed in armor, blades on her forearms and hanging on her hips. Her hair is shorn and spunky on top, but long on the bottom, plaited into a river of braids.
“You’re taller than I thought,” she says, assessing me.
“But you’re so young,” I say. She can’t be more than twelve years old. That explains the petulance, the attitude, and I almost laugh thinking that my spirit is that of an impulsive, pouty child.
“Is that a problem?” she says, annoyed. She’s still Tadhana after all.
“Just surprised.”
She sniffs. “Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes, grandchild.”
Suddenly, the world begins to spin. I watch the city crumble as it’s attacked by Lacon. I watch warriors dressed like Tadhana battle with everything they have, though they’re no match for the invaders. Not without the power of the relics.
Then I see Tadhana herself, charging at the enemy, mouth open, screaming, though there’s no sound.
Tadhana manages to fell two of the Laconian soldiers.
But while she’s occupied with them, one more appears from behind.
I try to cry out to warn her, but no sound leaves my mouth.
I’m restricted to horrified bystander, helpless to do anything as the invading soldier stabs Tadhana in the back.
I hate this part, she says.
My vision spins again. I’m dragged backward from the site where Tadhana was attacked, through the besieged city, flashes of fire and destruction and slaughter all around me.
I stop suddenly at the city center. The elders of Ophir are gathered up and marched into the middle of town, their faces drawn and feet dragging.
Once there, they’re killed by Laconians, throats slashed by short blades, one after the other.
The people cry out in the streets. I try to close my eyes or look away, but nothing makes the horrific vision disappear. It’s inside my mind, inescapable.
A bell tolls ominously in the square. Bong. Bong. Bong.
You come from the blood of warriors.
Then Tadhana shows me my life with Aris, the night work I so reviled.
There I am, slashing at Blackcoats, sneaking into banks, stealing, all the night work I’ve done, all the men and women I’ve killed.
I wasn’t just a thief, I was also a mercenary, someone who killed for money.
They were criminals, fellow thieves, not one of them innocent but still I’m ashamed, even though there was no other way to survive.
I look at my life, the dark nights and the punishing days, my time at Madame Verona’s, and then I see the girl I was when I lived with Rollo.
Her soft hair, her silky dress. I wanted to be soft, easy.
But that’s not who I am. That’s not who I ever was.
I am a warrior, a fighter, a killer. My mind is clear and certain. No one needs to tell me this; the knowledge is simply there, as if I’ve always known and have only been suppressing the truth all this time.
The images halt. The world stops spinning. Everything goes still, though I remain in the darkness. This is who I am. I’ve always known it. But until now, I haven’t accepted it.
“Did I pass?”
Tadhana appears before me with a grin. What do you think?
A being of striking beauty appears to stand next to her. This is Yarima, the goddess of war, our patron, Tadhana says, reaching for my hand and, with the other, holding Yarima’s. At that very moment, when she touches the goddess, a surge of energy strikes me like a lightning bolt.
My skin begins to turn black, like it’s on fire, yet there are no flames.
It comes from within rather than outside of me.
The hair on my arms burns. Still, I hold steady and do not pull away.
My flesh withers away, peeling from my fingers, turning to charcoal.
I brace myself and stand my ground. This is all part of the trial.
It’s a test. I can withstand it. Resist the urge to break away, to run.
My ancestors endured the trial. Tadhana withstood the trial and passed.
If she did it, I can, too. I descend from warriors.
That makes me a warrior as well. And warriors do not quit.
The pain is immeasurable, from my feet to my head, a shrieking agony, begging for relief.
But I refuse to flinch, to show any weakness.
The anguish stretches on and on, until I’m certain it’s endless, that it must go on forever that way, and still, I stand strong.
It will kill me, or I will kill it. Those are the only ways this ends.
Once my entire body is burnt, my vision starts to fade. The image of Tadhana and the Goddess Yarima grows darker and darker, until they’re mere outlines, until eventually I see nothing, only hints of shadow in darkness, and finally, everything is black.