CHAPTER 8 #2
I sucked in a breath, fear lancing through me. “I could be killed?” I had always known these people were brutal. Before coming here, I had worried for my safety. But until this moment, my mortality had never felt so real.
Kahvrah’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes tracked over my face, searching for what I couldn’t tell. At length, she rose to her feet. “Come, let us continue.”
We practiced the sun dowsa for the remainder of the afternoon.
The following morning, we practiced again.
And before lunch. And after. I lost all sense of time, as well as the feeling in my arms and legs.
For more than a week, I lived, breathed, and ate nothing but sun dowsa.
We only rested when I was reciting the vows I would pledge during the Sun Trial ceremony.
The night before my trial, I was a bundle of nerves. Gerta helped me dress for bed with extra care, even though I could long since dress and undress myself. Then, she pulled a tiny box from a hidden pouch in her pocket, revealing a small sweet. It was coated in chocolate and reminded me of home.
“I asked the kitchens to make it specially for you.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “You are a treasure I don’t deserve.”
Gerta snorted.
“I was talking to the chocolate.”
She swatted at me, but I dodged and stuffed the entire thing in my mouth.
When I finally tucked into bed, I rolled to my side, facing the wall. While my thoughts swirled and swirled, they dutifully avoided tomorrow. Confidence was the only thing that could settle my nerves, yet it was the one thing I lacked.
“JUST brEATHE, keep your footing, and for all the Martyrs’ blood, make sure you’ve tied your skirt correctly.” Gerta giggled, but I bent and triple-checked the ties of my skirt. Then, I removed the journal from my pocket and tucked it beneath my mattress.
A knock sounded at the door. “Five minutes,” the gravelly voice of Dane’s guard called from outside.
I sucked in a breath as tension descended over me.
Gerta leaned in and straightened my glasses. “These must be a nuisance to practice in.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I deadpanned.
We walked to our usual training room, our gravelly guard trailing behind and offering me a small smile as we awaited my formal summons. The closed door mocked me. I wanted nothing more than for it to open, yet I dreaded the moment that it might. Gerta stood at my side—her words of comfort expired.
I should be productive. Prepare.
I tried to set my feet, placing one foot behind the other, but I teetered and lost my balance.
The movements of the sun dowsa, which had been drilled into me tirelessly for days, did not appear in my mind’s eye.
My short life, my useless successes back home, and the entirety of my Inraen knowledge could not help me here.
In Rihtlond, I would only ever be a failure. Or dead.
Unless I pass this trial.
But no, that wasn’t my true purpose here.
The thought twisted inside me. The reminder of my task, a cuckoo in a robin’s nest, made my stomach clench.
Nausea crept up my throat, and my mouth pooled with saliva.
Unable to stop the heaves that assaulted me, I ran to the corner to retch.
Bile and the small bit of food I ate splattered over the rug, barely missing my boots.
That was when the door opened—and there stood Kahvrah, a frown etched into her face.
Facing this fear, the consequences of failure, wasn’t the worst part.
It was having these unreadable strangers watch. Would they be there at my death, too?
So be it.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve, squared my shoulders, and marched out the door.
We passed through familiar twisting corridors then turned into one lined with tapestries of warriors in single combat.
At some point, we descended to a lower level, a damp chill permeating the air, and followed a long torchlit passage.
Kahvrah answered my unspoken question. “This leads to the pavilion, where most ceremonies are held.”
I nodded, my useless stomach tightening again at the thought of how many Rihtlonders would be watching. I followed Kahvrah up another flight of stairs and through a narrow hall ending in a blur of white light.
Sunshine engulfed me as I emerged, waiting several heartbeats for my eyes to adjust. I stood at the entrance to a vast arena, not some small pavilion as I had imagined.
Tiers of seating ascended on all sides, each packed with wooden benches, the rows just above ground level interspersed with low platforms. Kahvrah led us up to the nearest one.
Gerta gripped my arm and gestured across the way.
Her lips moved, but I couldn’t make out her words over the hum of the crowd.
I had no idea how many people the arena housed. Surely thousands.
Following Gerta’s gaze, I found what caught her attention.
Dane Auldren stood on a platform to our left, speaking with several men and women.
I looked away, unable to meet his eye, and right to a familiar, piercing gaze.
I recognized the grim set of his jaw as much as his unfairly handsome face—the general from the tent.
There was no mistaking him. In the sunlight, I could see his coppery hair tied up in a knot.
It was no trick of the light. Every Rihtlonder I had met was blond.
Varying shades, yes, but all blond. Back home, hair color ranged from blond to brown to black, but never red.
Aside from myself—and now this general. Shock flooded me, numbing my limbs and weighing me down.
“Who is that man?” I asked Kahvrah, desperation lacing my voice.
She smirked. “Well spotted. He has just returned from across the sea. That is our—”
Drumming drowned out Kahvrah’s words. It came from every platform in the arena, and it was deafening.
The frantic rhythm radiated through my chest. I could feel it in my teeth.
Then, as swiftly as it began, it crashed to a halt.
Every eye in the arena turned toward Dane.
He raised his hands to speak. The general, or whoever he was, with his intense glare and perfect jawline, had gone.
The platform was empty now, save for the dane himself, his chair, and a vacant chair likely meant for his absent heir at its side.
Dane spoke, and his voice boomed through the stadium. I tried not to gape at the sheer volume of it. Rihtlondish words flitted past me, until Kahvrah leaned in and hissed in my ear.
“Today, we gather to accept a new fledgling into our wing,” she translated.
“She will stand before us and ask that we take her into our fold, that we look to her as an equal, and that she may wear the mantle of the Riht as do we all.” Dane paused as murmurs swelled from the crowd.
Kahvrah waited in silence. When he resumed, she continued in tandem.
“Being a foreigner, this is an action none should approach lightly. I ask you, brothers and sisters, to bear witness to this Sun Trial.”
Kahvrah stepped away and spoke, not to me, but to the dane, in unison with everyone around us. Their voices resonated and clashed louder than the drums, jarring my senses. After the single, synchronized sentence, the hush returned.
I gaped at Kahvrah.
She looked me up and down. “It was a pledge to bear witness. Do you not do this in your homeland?”
“Do what?”
“Speak as one voice.”
I shook my head slowly.
“Bring forth the challenger.” Dane addressed the crowd, this time speaking in Mayoran.
Challenger. My stomach twisted, bile climbing up my throat.
Not again. I tried to catch Kahvrah’s eye, but she grabbed my wrist and dragged me down a small, covered staircase that led straight to the arena floor.
Just before we stepped out of the archway, she pulled me to a stop.
A woman was speaking Rihtlondish, and the people responded with deafening cheers.
From the archway, I couldn’t see who awaited me, but I had a terrible feeling I already knew.
Kahvrah moved before me, taking up my view and holding my gaze.
Her eyes were so intense, they cut through my panic.
“Do exactly as we practiced when I opposed you,” she commanded.
“Do not misstep. Do not let your nerves take you. Breathe. If you fall, stay down until she has stepped away. Do not get up before she steps away. Is this clear?”
“Get up? What— I don’t— Shouldn’t we have practiced that?”
“You’re ready.”
Dane spoke again. “Come forth, attestant.”
“Stay until I call you,” Kahvrah hissed.
She stepped out to the center, leaving me behind and alone.
I craned my neck as far out as I dared while trying to stay hidden beneath the arch.
Dane’s platform was out of view, but I could make out Kahvrah’s back, as well as the back of another tall woman with a long platinum braid. My heart sank.
“Dane, I stand before you, attesting the loyalty of Serae of Cavendaffe.”
“Does Serae of Cavendaffe seek acceptance into the Riht?”
“She does.”
“Does she wake each day with the light of truth shining upon her as it does upon the Riht?”
“She does.”
“When she rises each day, will she stand with honor before the Riht?”
“She will.”
“Let her stand for herself!”
At the dane’s proclamation, the crowd erupted into cheers again. Hands clapped. Feet stomped. The ground shook, and for a wild moment, I thought the arena might collapse in on itself. Then, just as before, the cheering cut off in one swift instant, leaving a hollow echo in my ears.
“Come forth, Serae of Cavendaffe,” Kahvrah proclaimed.
I stepped out to absolute silence. I could hear my footfalls on the soft earth. Just as easily, I could hear the shuffling in the stands nearest me as spectators shifted in their seats to get a better look at the Inraen freak.