“If they choose you,” Shamil pointed out in a low murmur. “And don’t decide to let you fall.”
His eyes slipped to the nest, the tallest rise in the Eyrie, a narrow spike of rock beneath which they had laboured to clear the ordure of the creatures that nested in its upper reaches. Within waited birds who had yet to accept a rider, one of which he hoped would choose him before the day of the leap finally dawned.
“I saw Rignar this morning,” Lyvia said, her tone deliberately bright, he assumed in an effort to alleviate his doubts. “Seems he’s already bonded with his bird, an owl he calls Kritzlasch. Mages are always bonded to owls, apparently.”
Shamil gave a vague nod in response, gaze still locked on the nest. “It would seem appropriate.”
“Some legends have it that the birds see into your soul. If they find courage, they choose you.” She nudged him with a hard shove of her boot. “In which case, I think you worry over nothing.”
Shamil glanced at her half-smiling, half-annoyed face before looking away, as unwanted memories rose for the first time since his arrival at the Eyrie.
The raptorile blinked its eyes, and he saw the soul behind them, saw its pain and fear, saw that it felt and thought as he did . . . saw enough to suffer the weakness that disgraced him.
“Yes,” he muttered back, getting to his feet. “I heard the same thing. Come, Tihla will be expecting us at the spit.”
5. Stielbek
Come evening, the sentinels would gather in the bowl-shaped nexus of channels between the tiered rises. When the sky began to darken, it fell to the fledglings to roast either a goat or a boar over the glowing coals piled into a circular pit, a chore that required regular and attentive turning of the spit. They were also required to boil and stir the vegetable broth in large iron bowls, which served as an accompaniment to the feast of meat. Shamil found this the most onerous of their chores, requiring over three hours of labour amidst air steamed to an oppressive, sweat-inducing thickness. Tihla had issued stern instructions that they remain silent throughout these nightly gatherings, and they were permitted to eat only after the sentinels had had their fill.
At first, Shamil had expected some measure of taunting and ridicule from these veterans, such things being a salient and required feature of life in the Doctrinate; his back still bore the marks of stones and various projectiles hurled at him by the older students along with a torrent of verbal abuse. But no bullying was forthcoming, instead the two fledglings were either ignored or spared a rare glance of sympathy or grim encouragement.
The assembly numbered about a hundred in all, and Shamil saw no unscarred faces amongst them, several sporting eye patches, whilst a few wore wrought-iron hooks in place of lost hands or wooden pegs instead of vanished legs. He therefore found the good humour that pervaded the gathering distinctly odd, even jarring. Men and women with injuries that would have seen them beggared in most realms exchanged affectionate jibes and roared with laughter at ribald jokes. Tales of near death and calamity abounded but were never spoken in dire or foreboding tones. He might have ascribed it to the forced bravado found amongst many a warrior band, but the absence of fear in this place was as potent as the sense of warm companionship. Morgath Durnholm had spoken true, this really was a family.
The first wing spoke often throughout the evening, but Shamil noticed he never shared any stories of his own, instead commenting on the various tales with observations that were either gently chiding or concealed a compliment within apparent scorn. Durnholm was also, Shamil saw with growing admiration, highly skilled at quelling the rare disagreements or burgeoning arguments that rose amongst his subordinates. Sometimes two sentinels would carry mismatched memories of an event, which could lead to conflict for it was clear that a correct accounting of shared history was highly important in the Eyrie.
“No,” one stated, interrupting a lurid recounting of the death of a comrade some years before. She was a slender woman of similar complexion to Shamil but spoke with an unfamiliar accent, coloured now by an emphatic note as she rose, shaking her head at the stocky storyteller opposite. “It wasn’t just flensers that day. There was a whole company of vehlgard archers at the lip of the Maw too. That’s why Hawber took his bird so high. That flenser pack would never have got him otherwise.”
“He soared high because he was too fond of flying, Ashinta,” the stocky man returned, not without good humour, but also with a steely defiance in his eye. “Sky mad. Something we should all guard against.”
“He was no more sky mad than I,” Ashinta insisted, voice growing heated enough to draw a glower from the storyteller. His face darkened as his lips began to form a response, the retort lost when Morgath’s voice rang out, loud and cheery.
“We’re all sky mad!” he laughed, rising to clap a hand to Ashinta’s shoulder. “At least a little. Else, why would be here?”
This drew a laugh from the other sentinels, and just like that the rising tension was gone. Morgath Durnholm, it seemed, knew how to wield his words as well as Tihla could wield a spear. Ashinta gave a slightly sheepish grin as the first wing jostled her, resuming her seat whilst he raised his voice once more.
“I think, brothers and sisters, our fledglings have endured our tales long enough.” He turned, extending a hand to Shamil and Lyvia. They were busily scouring the slops of broth from the pots and took a moment to realise all eyes were now turned in their direction.
“Fourteen evenings filled with stories of enough horror to send any sane soul scrambling down this mountain,” Morgath went on, eyes warm as he regarded them, “and yet they stayed. Despite every indignity, chore, and injury our excellent second wing heaped upon them, they stayed. She has pronounced them ready for the choosing, and I agree. Do I hear a dissenting voice?”
There was a long moment of silence, Shamil’s gaze tracking over the tiers of serious faces arrayed on all sides, finding shrewd appraisal on some but acceptance on most. The silence stretched until Morgath gave a satisfied nod, only for a single voice to speak up.
“The girl,” Ashinta said, dark eyes fixed on Lyvia. “She looks too much like the Wraith Queen’s statue. It’s . . . unnerving. An ill omen, some might think.”
“Are you a seer now?” another sentinel asked, sending a ripple of amusement through the crowd.
“Course I’m cacking not!” The woman’s snarl faded into a grimace as she continued to stare at Lyvia. “Just worried how the birds will take to her is all. Mine gets twitchy at the mere sight of her.”
“The great wings will decide,” Morgath told her, his voice for once devoid of humour and possessing a note of authority that caused Ashinta to meet his eyes. “The Eyrie belongs to them as much as us. She’ll be chosen, or she won’t. Besides, none of us can help how we look.” He held her gaze until she nodded and looked away.
“Then it’s decided.” The first wing moved to wrap a broad arm around Shamil and Lyvia, pulling them close. Shamil noted that this time his fellow fledgling didn’t shrink from the first wing’s touch. “Tomorrow, our young friends will meet the great wings, and let’s hope they emerge with all their fingers intact!”
He laughed, long and loud, and the collective amusement of the sentinels filled the bowl and cast their mirth into the night sky like a roar. As it faded, Shamil saw a blossom of red above the Eyrie’s eastern flank, brief and gone in an instant, but very bright, nonetheless. No one else, however, seemed to notice.