CHAPTER 6
I never was a man of patience.
—Entry from the private diary of Jerris, Dragonbound.
SERAE
I was not permitted out of bed, not that I had any desire to leave it.
The sky was gloomy, my vision hadn’t cleared yet, and I hurt everywhere.
Worst of all, I couldn’t rest my glasses on the bridge of my broken nose, compounding my diminished sight.
Safe to say, my first few days in Rihtlond were some of the worst of my life.
Twice per day, an ancient woman visited to slather a hot paste over my wounds and wrap them in fresh linens. It made the room smell of pungent, bitter herbs.
“What is this?” I tried asking her.
She wagged a finger at me. “Don’t touch.”
On day two of bed rest, Kahvrah entered our little room to answer questions about my first test. Gerta had to step in for me, as the only question I had was, Why the fuck are you trying to kill me before I even meet my betrothed?
“Warrior’s Initiation,” Kahvrah said, as if that were explanation enough. “No one in the Riht would fall after a few seconds, but you are not of the Riht.”
It was not at all reassuring to hear the test was designed to fail—or that most people walked away injured. The trial tested resolve, which did not bode well for what was to come.
On the third day, Gerta found a woman willing to send my first two letters home for a few scale each. It felt easier than asking for Dane’s help with correspondence to my sister. I didn’t know what he had in store for me next, but I had a few cracked ribs deterring me from seeking him out.
The fourth day started with sunshine. Sunlight streamed in through our single small window, bright and insistent.
I decided it was time to get up. Everything ached, but I managed to stretch my arms above my head without blacking out.
I even pinned the curtains back on their hooks with barely any shaking.
Our room was still chilly, but I rotated the panes open for a bit of breeze.
I had a bad feeling this was as warm as it got in Rihtlond.
Gerta greeted me soon after with our breakfast trays and a smile. “We’ve been told to report to the smallest training room as soon as you’ve eaten.”
“For another beating?”
“Martyrs, I hope not. How are your ribs?”
“Lovely.” Gerta shot me a look, and I rolled my eyes. “They’re improving. I can barely feel any tug when I breathe.” That much wasn’t a lie.
“Milady, I’m sure you want to appear strong, but cracked ribs don’t heal in three days.”
That was definitely true, but poking at my sides wasn’t as excruciating as expected. “Maybe Rihtlondish herbs are stronger than ours? Think I can get out of whatever’s coming if they are still cracked?”
Gerta’s next look was spectacularly doubtful as she held out both hands. When I gave her mine, she spread my arms wide and rotated my torso side to side like a ridiculous pantomime top. Crimson blossomed behind my eyelids.
I gasped, trying to tamp down the pain. My experience with pain mitigation was woefully insufficient. “Burning Martyrs, I don’t have to go, do I?”
She nodded and let my arms drop. “We stop at the first sign of discomfort,” she grumbled with her back to me, then, “Burning Martyrs, indeed.”
I slipped into my boots. Training. What in the Creator’s fucking bones was I supposed to do with that?
Judging by the weapons lining the training room, it would be a bit more than target practice with a bow.
Which I might be ready for if Mother hadn’t stopped me from ever touching a sword.
A lady learning archery is bad enough, she bemoaned.
All too soon, it was time to make our way to the training rooms. Gerta had memorized the path in the days I was immobile.
Inside the descending stairway, I froze on the landing, staring down at the double doors.
It seemed the Creator had spared me when I noticed the first door on the right had been propped open.
Kahvrah stood in the center of a small room with rug-lined flooring. She motioned us in.
“Good morning,” I tried, dipping into a curtsey.
Kahvrah offered only a curt nod to each of us. “You will begin all lessons with a dowsa.”
“Which is?” Gerta asked.
“A pattern of body movements, which you will memorize and repeat until you know each motion perfectly.”
“So, like a dance?” I offered.
“Yes and no. It is better if I show you. Since you have no dowsae of your own in Inra, I will teach you our child’s dowsa.”
Gerta scoffed.
Kahvrah cracked a grin. “I doubt you could handle anything more.”
With no warning beyond the tensing of a muscle, she leapt into action.
She spun, kicked, and moved between stances with a speed that belied her grace.
We stood entranced. Her movements were far more intricate and precise than what I had seen in the camp—those looked like synchronized drills.
This was power, fluidity, and control. This was a woman who devoted her entire life to her body.
It ended as it began—abruptly and without ceremony. For a moment, I wondered if it had happened at all. I looked to Gerta, her eyes locked on Kahvrah with a new intensity.
“Now you!” Kahvrah shouted, then let out a bellowing laugh at our blank faces. “No? You cannot copy?”
What a delightfully fair task that would be. “You’ve been practicing this for, what, your whole life?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Does every Rihtlonder study combat?” Gerta added.
“No. This is not combat. This is body health, nothing more.”
Not combat training? I looked anew at my memory of the warriors in the camp. If those sharp, strong movements were just maintaining their bodies, what on Jaeda did actual training look like? The thought was sobering.
Kahvrah’s smile dropped, and she adjusted her stance—legs shoulder-width apart, spine straight, and arms relaxed at her sides. “Now, do as I do.” She motioned for us to mirror her, pivoting one leg behind.
“You must be joking,” I said. Call it health, combat, or anything in between, I wasn’t here for this. I was here for one reason alone—information.
Kahvrah’s body snapped to face me. “I am not. You are here to train. We begin now.”
“No.”
“No?”
“If there are lessons to learn about Rihtlond’s governing, I will learn them, but I will not take part in warfare.”
Her eyes sharpened. “You will learn what I teach. If you do not like it, take it to Dane— tomorrow. Today, you learn.” She turned to face forward, and slow as molten glass, she began.
I scowled but followed her movements—arms sweeping in wide arcs, feet shifting, body bending and twisting.
Every movement was slow and controlled. My glasses kept slipping with these movements, and I had to push them up my nose so often that Kahvrah began shooting me severe looks.
Within minutes, I was drenched in sweat and vibrating from the pain in my ribs.
Gerta beside me looked no better. The entire circuit lasted under ten minutes, and by the end, I was panting—hard.
Kahvrah tutted. “We will work on it. At least you are both still on your feet. Have some water”—she gestured to a short, round table with a pitcher and glasses in the corner of the room—“and we will try again.”
“Again!” I shouted, earning myself another glare.
After an hour, my muscles were jelly, but as a small mercy, the ache in my ribs had gone numb.
Instead of giving us time to rest, Kahvrah made me recall the way back to the kitchens where we ate flatbread with bean paste. “This is fuel for your body,” she said in that clipped tone of hers that could have been brevity as easily as annoyance.
When the three of us finally made our way outside the keep, it was well past midday.
Every step was agony on my ribs, but having the sun warm my skin was a blessing.
I thanked the Creator for being out of the dim lighting of the keep.
It was no wonder it stayed so cold, with its thick stone walls and sparse windows.
As we walked, I studied the plant life. Trees grew between buildings, bushes bordered homes and lined walkways, and numerous building sides boasted climbing vines.
Most of the plants were thick with fruits, though some were still in blossom or barely starting to bud.
It reminded me of harvest rotations back home.
“They’re crops,” I gasped, earning an appreciative nod from Kahvrah.
“Everything planted in the Riht has a purpose. Is this different from Inra?”
“I suppose. Crops are for farmlands, not city streets.”
She nodded. “A wasteful approach, I think.”
I bristled, turning away from the apple blossoms I’d been admiring with a frown.
“We are going to the closest market,” Kahvrah explained as we continued on. “This is the only market you may visit until Dane says otherwise. When you are permitted to leave the keep, you must always be accompanied by one of the Riht. Your maid is not enough.”
My frown deepened. Prisoner is better than slave.
My mind drifted to my absent betrothed. Not a word about Eldreth had been uttered since our arrival in Rihtlond.
I was not eager to ask why. I wished, not for the first time, that this was not my fate.
Merria had always wanted the attention, the importance, and even the foreign prince—not me.
How our fates had been switched, I might never understand.
The walk to the market was easy in these Rihtlondish boots.
We crossed the length of the castle grounds on stone roads, and my feet were hardly affected.
Clouds rolled in, and the sky opened up for a few minutes during our walk.
In sollars, with soles barely thicker than indoor slippers, my feet would have been aching and soaked through.