“He accepts me,” Shamil insisted. “It’s time.”
He felt Lyvia shift at his side, a brief fidget of discomfort he assumed came from biting down contradictory words. She had been with him during every visit to the nest, the blue falcon she had befriended perched close to the entrance in eager anticipation of her arrival, whilst Shamil considered himself fortunate if Kaitlahr deigned to snatch meat from his hand.
“And you?” Tihla turned to Lyvia. “Named your falcon yet?”
“Vintress,” Lyvia replied promptly. “‘North wind’ in the elder script.” She paused to shoot an uncertain glance at Shamil, which he consciously ignored. “We are also ready,” Lyvia said, straightening.
“All right, then. I’ll tell the mage and the first wing.” Tihla swept a hand through her tight braids, a rare expression of uncertainty that did much to stir the roiling in Shamil’s stomach.
“Be there at noon.” Both he and Lyvia were unable to contain a flinch of surprise as the second wing forced a smiled onto her lips. “Give you time to settle anything that needs settling.”
She turned and strode off without another word, leaving a thick silence in her wake, which Lyvia eventually broke in a careful, hesitant tone.
“Shamil . . .”
“No!” he said, voice flat and hard as he walked away. “I’m ready. It’s time.”
The beam they would leap from was twelve feet long and aligned so that it pointed directly at Sharrow-Met’s statue. Shamil found himself grateful for this as it gave his eyes something to fix on instead of straying continually to the ground far below. It was a clear day, and the space between summit and earth was for once free of clouds, allowing an uninterrupted view of what awaited him. He had heard that it was common for those who found themselves falling from great heights to expire out of fright before ever hitting the bottom and harboured a fervent if doubtful hope that it might be true.
Before addressing the gathered sentinels, Morgath Durnholm walked to the end of the beam with as confident a stride as if he were mere inches from the ground. When he spoke, it was in a booming voice full of grave authority, the kind of voice Shamil knew had once commanded ships to terrible deeds in distant seas.
“Four centuries ago,” the first wing called out, “this band was founded by the redeemed Wraith Queen herself. Here she ordained a place of service where even the most wretched and disgraced could come to regain their honour. And what honour we have won, my friends. What battles we have fought. None of us came here with clean hands, certainly not I, but never did I witness the face of true evil until I came to the Eyrie. For there,” his finger lanced out to stab at the Maw, “lurks the purest malice, the greatest threat to all that is good in this world. Our duty is a sacred one that requires the utmost commitment, for we do not serve here alone. Our service requires alliance with the great wings, for without them our sacred duty cannot be fulfilled. Their trust was won long ago and must be maintained by every soul who seeks restored honour in our ranks. Today, three new fledglings come to win that trust, and I, as first wing of the Sentinel Eyrie, profess myself humbled by their act.”
He fell silent to an appreciative murmur from the other sentinels. Shamil had noted during the nightly gatherings that they were not a group given to overt displays of emotion or acclaim, but still, he took comfort from the many encouraging and approving glances turned his way.
“Tihla,” Morgath said, extending a hand to the second wing. “Sound the horn!”
Tihla duly raised a large curved horn derived from some huge beast beyond Shamil’s experience. Putting it to her lips, she blew a long, grinding note that echoed around the Eyrie until an answering chorus came from the nest. The great wings emerged from the many portals in a rush, screeching out their response to the summons as they swooped down. Shamil felt a fresh lurch in his gut at seeing Kaitlahr amongst them, flying alongside Vintress.
The birds angled their wings to form a circling flock a dozen yards above the beam, their cries dying away to herald the descent of a palpable hush. Shamil saw the encouragement fade from the faces of the sentinels as the silence persisted, replaced by the closed tension of those who had seen death many times and expected to see it again shortly.
“Rignar Banlufsson!” Morgath called out, striding from the beam to the cliff top. “Come forward!”
Rignar stirred at Shamil’s side, pausing to grasp his shoulder, a frown of resigned determination on his brow, before making his way to the beam. Morgath held up a hand when Rignar placed his foot on the timber, speaking in a quieter but no less purposeful tone.
“Know that even now you may choose to step away. Your service will still be welcome here, bird or no.”
Rignar nodded with a grimace of thanks, then buckled on his helm and took a deliberate step onto the beam. His progress along its length was far less confident than Morgath’s, moving with his arms outstretched to maintain his balance and eyes locked firmly ahead. Reaching the end, the mage straightened, raising his face to the sky, chest swelling as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he leapt.
The owl that caught him moved so fast Rignar’s salvation had been secured before he fell more than a few feet. The bird he had named Kritzlasch folded its wings to plummet down, voicing a screech as its talons enfolded the mage. It bore him up with a few beats of its wings, depositing him none too gently on one of the tiered rises before coming to rest on the tall perch sprouting from its summit. Rignar got unsteadily to his feet, raising a hand in a tremulous wave that drew a short-lived laugh from the sentinels.
“We welcome Rignar Banlufsson, Master Mage, to the ranks of the Sentinel Eyrie!” Morgath called out before turning to the two younger fledglings. “Lyvia Gondarik, come forward!”
Lyvia hesitated before walking to the beam, but Shamil saw no fear in her, only concern. “Please,” she whispered, leaning close to him. “Don’t do this.”
Turning away she strode to the beam and nodded her way impatiently through Morgath’s final warning before making smooth, unfaltering progress from the cliff to the beam’s tip. Her face was a picture of serenity as she donned her helm, spread her arms, and toppled into the void.
Vintress shot from the circle of birds in a blur of blue, catching Lyvia just as her feet slipped from the beam. The falcon twisted, depositing Lyvia onto her back and letting out a cry that pained the ears in its joyful triumph. Instead of bearing Lyvia to one of the perches, Vintress swept back up to rejoin the whirling spiral of great wings.
“We welcome Lyvia Gondarik to the ranks of the Sentinel Eyrie!” Morgath proclaimed, voice fading and gaze taking on a severe cast as he turned it on the last remaining fledgling. “Shamil L’Estalt, come forward!”
Shamil had thought this moment would be shorn of terror, his fears quelled by the depth of his determination. However, it was on weak legs and with a thumping heart that he approached the beam. He listened to Morgath’s final warning with sweat beading his brow and soaking his back, the first wing’s words seemingly spoken from a very great distance; a vague, meaningless echo.
“Not all are destined to rediscover their honour amongst our ranks . . . There are many troubled corners of the world where so stout and skilled a warrior could redeem himself . . .”
Shamil stood as still as his traitorous legs would allow, waiting for Morgath to fall silent, his gaze tracking from the beam to the far-off statue and back again.
“Young man.” Morgath’s grip bit hard into his shoulder, commanding his attention. “This is not a game . . .”