by Moose Tyler
She changed course and worked herself towards the ledge that jutted farthest out over the sea. The harder routes had smaller holds, and she misjudged a few of her options, which delayed her progress. She shimmied along until she was finally in position on the northern lip. She took two breaths and leapt out over the water to the overhang on the other side. She grabbed it firmly and allowed her legs to swing out and in twice before hoisting herself up on the ledge. She turned and saw that the sun had started to rise. Low against the horizon, a thin grey band pierced the black. It was only a matter of heartbeats before the grey turned to orange, and the sun would inflate out of the water and into the sky. Amaria would be late for her lesson.
“Great Mother,” she cursed before resuming the climb.
The sword felt heavier than it had on the beach, like three more weight sacks had been added. When she finally reached the top, her body parts felt like wilted greens, and first light had passed. She heaved herself over the ledge and ran to the clearing as quickly as her legs would go.
Wanje stood by the first orange-ringed berry bush. “Trouble with the climb?” she asked, as Amaria rushed over.
She bent down and steadied her breath. “No, the climb was good. I just wasn’t expecting first light so soon.”
“What do you mean? It came just as it had yesterday and the day before.”
Amaria sat up. Wanje had a way of asking questions that made her feel like she was going to be wrong no matter what she answered. She thought about Sakina’s advice. Wanje didn’t need a divine vision to know that Amaria had struggled with the climb. It was evident from the sweat dripping off her face. “I did struggle with some parts of the climb.”
Wanje tilted her head to the side and gave an inquisitive look. “I was under the impression you had climbed Mesha Cliff enough to have mastered it. This will set us back a bit.”
Amaria’s cheeks burned. She hated that Wanje thought she had struggled with the climb, especially one as easy as this should have been, had she not strayed off course. “I only struggled with the western overhang.”
Wanje tilted her head to the other side.
Amaria answered before she could ask. “I took that route because I wanted a harder climb.” She smiled. It was the truth.
“Do you think your physical training is over now that you’ve started Quest Training? I hope our lesson yesterday didn’t give you that impression.”
“No, it’s just a habit of mine. I’ve been getting in two or three extra swims and climbs between lessons.”
“Those are not needed. You will get plenty of conditioning.”
“Yes, ma’am. The extra training is more for the Games. I really want to do well this cycle.”
“You need to adjust your priorities, Amaria. That part of your life is ending.”
Amaria looked at Wanje. “What do you mean ending? Warriors compete in the Games.”
Wanje smiled. “Yes, but not like before they take the shield. You think you’re the first to dominate the arena? The queen was quite the competitor in her day, and Janus is just as natural an archer as she is on the sliver. I haven’t seen her compete in bows since she was a child.”
“I didn’t know Janus competed in bows.”
“How could you?”
“I’d pay a few arrowheads to see that.”
Wanje gave a look that indicated that Amaria had missed the point. “The Games are entertainment primarily for citizens and the youth in Themiscia. I won’t say warriors, and even myself, don’t enjoy the festivities, even participating.”
Amaria tried to imagine Wanje competing in the Games but couldn’t picture her in any event. She envisioned her on a sliver and giggled.
“Is this funny?”
Amaria shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Quest Training is when your life takes on new meaning. You must learn to let go of this luxury you have now where the Games are the most important thing in your world.”
“It’s not the most important,” mumbled Amaria.
Wanje’s eyes narrowed, and Amaria looked at the ground. A few heartbeats passed before the sage continued. “I hope you survive Quest Training, Amaria. I pray you do. Six warriors have not been as fortunate.”
Amaria looked up. She had heard that a few warriors, long ago, had died while on the quest through the Great Ravine and the Valley of Sand, but she’d never heard of a warrior dying in Quest Training. Taking the shield was dangerous, and she could fail miserably. She could not do well and be assigned a low rank at a terrible post, but she never thought she could die. “You mean they died?”
Wanje nodded. “This isn’t a game, and you can’t reset your pieces and play again.”
Amaria couldn’t believe that a warrior, let alone six, had died while taking the shield. “Where any of them yours?”
“One. Helena.” Wanje looked at the ground. She smiled as if recalling a pleasant memory. She shook her head and chuckled before looking at Amaria.
“What happened to her?” asked Amaria.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you understand there is nothing more important than our lessons, and wasting my heartbeats will not be tolerated.”
Amaria bowed. “Yes, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
“I won’t bet my arrowheads on that just yet.”
Amaria kept quiet and didn’t look directly at her teacher.
“While I was waiting for you,” said Wanje, “watching first light break, wondering about the reasons for your tardiness, praying nothing serious had delayed you, I had the thought that you might have struggled with your weapon choice. You have quite the collection, from what Pathenia says.” She extended her hand. “What was the decision?”
Amaria took the sword from its sheath and gave it to her. “A very heavy sword.”
Wanje examined the choice. “Interesting.” She slid the blades apart. The metal clinked loudly. She snapped the swords back together. The metal clinked again. She returned the weapon to Amaria. “There’s a scroll hanging from a tree in Plush Ravine. Bring it back here by midday’s horn.”
Amaria was skeptical. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. May the Great Mother guide you.”
Amaria put the sword in the sheath. Not only had she been late for the lesson, but she had brought two weapons. Yet, it seemed that, other than a few firm words, Wanje wasn’t going to dole out punishments for the infractions. Had this been a Desh lesson, Amaria would have been doing push-ups until the Great Harvest. Wanje was either more tolerant or the punishments were yet to come.
Amaria bowed. “Great Mother be with you.”
Wanje bowed, and Amaria darted off. Just as she reached the edge of the trees, she heard Wanje call out a warning.
“Stay focused on the task at hand, and mind your surroundings, Amaria. Danger comes in many forms.”
Amaria stopped. I knew there was a catch, she thought. She waved to Wanje. “I will see you before midday’s horn.” She turned, her smile fading. “Great Mother willing,” she said before entering the trees and starting the search for a scroll dangling somewhere deep in Plush Ravine.
Amaria didn’t waste heartbeats worrying about her surroundings as she rushed to Plush Ravine. Heartbeats were of the essence, and she wanted to redeem herself for being tardy to the lesson. She was certain she could make it back to Mesha Cliff before midday’s horn because she had two things working in her favor.
First, the bulk of the path from the backside of Mesha Cliff to Plush Ravine ran through the Brush. The grass there needed little water but grew fast and thick. Farmers cut it during the dry season, rolled it, and used it to feed the game for the entire cycle. If Wanje had sent Amaria on this task during the rain season, she would have been blazing a trail through grass taller than she was. Thanks to the Great Mother’s blessing, the farmers had already reaped the fields
, so she only had to navigate it at knee-deep. She had to watch for snakes, but she was wearing sandals so they wouldn’t be a big threat.
After the Brush came the Briar, which was the second thing Amaria had working to her advantage. The Briar was a nest of thorns that encircled the northwest boundary of Plush Ravine. If Amaria had brought the bow, or even the gold-tipped blade, she would have had to go around. With her weapon of choice having two blades as sharp as they were, she wouldn’t have to skirt the thorns. She could go through middle without suffering much damage in the process, thus slicing the distance to Plush Ravine in half. Amaria smiled. Her arms would be tired, but she stood a good chance of making it back to Mesha Cliff before midday, provided there were no major issues finding the scroll once she got there.
When the Brush turned into the Briar, Amaria pulled out the sword and separated it. As she had predicted, the blades sliced through the thick, thorny branches like parchment. Though there were a few snags and scrapes along the way, and her arms felt like limp bowstrings, she made it through at a good pace.
When she entered Plush Ravine, she snapped the blades together, retired the weapon, and scanned the tree line. Finding the scroll would be a challenge but not impossible. Plush Ravine wasn’t that big.
She thought she saw it three times, but upon closer inspection, the objects were just dead branches dangling from the trees. She got frustrated and said a prayer asking for the Great Mother’s help. She wasn’t supposed to request something so trivial, but it couldn’t hurt to try.
She was about to switch directions when something caught her eye. She stepped out from behind the large base of the tree that blocked her view, and there, hanging high in the limbs, was the scroll. There was no mistaking it this time. It was tied with a red ribbon and spinning slowly. The sun bounced off the metal ends and blinded Amaria for a heartbeat. She thanked the Great Mother, even though she knew that finding the scroll shortly after praying to find it was more coincidence than divine intervention.
“All in Her name,” she whispered.
When she got underneath the scroll, she looked up. The rope holding it was tied to a limb closer to the top, which meant she was going to have to do more climbing. Her arms were already fatigued. She wished she had brought a bow. With that, she could have just shot the rope from a distance and searched the ground afterwards. Now, she was going to have to walk herself out on a limb. Definitely getting in arms today, she thought as she sauntered to the base of the tree.
The first branch was a good distance from the ground and fairly thick. She removed the sword from its sheath, broke it apart, and took several steps back. She put one blade away, gripped the other tight, raced up the trunk, and lunged. She swung, and the sword sank into the bark. Her momentum almost caused her to let go of the handle, but she adjusted her grip, swung her legs around, and hoisted herself up. From there, climbing the tree didn’t look difficult. She yanked the weapon out of the limb, put it back with its partner, and used her hands the rest of the way.
When she reached the branch with the rope, she walked out casually, straddled it mid-way, and contemplated her options. Her first thought was to repel down and, when she got to the end, cut it, which would allow her to drop to the ground virtually unharmed, if she rolled out of the fall right. She gauged the rope’s sturdiness. It was a good rope.
As she prepared to execute the plan, she had another thought. If she left a quality rope dangling from a tree, Wanje might ask about it, and Amaria would have to answer for the waste. As much as repelling would have been easier, and though the thought of scrambling down the tree made her arms twitch and stomach churn, Amaria chose the more arduous way.
“That’s okay,” she muttered to herself. “Peace and blessings all around.” She pulled the rope up. “Oh yeah, that’s a good one,” she said, coiling it around her arm. “Nice and long. How divine!”
When she got to the end, she untied the scroll and tucked it in her satchel. Her hands were too tired to fiddle with the knot, so she decided to cut the rope from the tree. She slung the coil on a thick nub next to her and took out her sword. She swung too hard, and the blade split the branch, lodging into the wood. She tugged a few times, but it wouldn’t come loose. She braced herself and yanked harder. The sword completely dislodged and knocked her off balance.
She flailed her arms. “Great Mother!”
She clasped her legs taut around the branch to keep from falling off. Once steadied, she put the sword in its sheath, took the coil from the nub, and rolled up the remaining rope. She slung it across her shoulder and backed off the limb.
The climb down was surprisingly easy, and when she got to the bottom branch, she leapt to the ground and tumbled out of the fall smoothly. She stood up and dusted off her kilt before taking the scroll out of the satchel and unrolling it.
The first thing she saw was her mother. The detail was exquisite. It was better than any portrait Amaria had ever seen. She stood on the deck of a ship, with a swollen belly. In one arm, she held a baby and, with the other, a child’s hand. Amaria knew she was the baby, and the child was Sakina. There was something about the way the deck was drawn that made it familiar. The ship was at the top of a waterfall, as if it might tip over, and the sun burned a hole midway down. At the base, two mountain cats crouched on the rocks. She looked at the back of the scroll, but the parchment was bare.
Amaria had been asked to find scrolls since before she could remember. This one was far prettier than any she’d seen before, but it looked like art. For the first time, she wished she had been given a scroll with writing on it, some kind of explanation for why she had been asked to fetch it and what it had to do with her lesson. She rolled the parchment and stowed it in the satchel. Maybe Wanje would explain the relevance after Amaria returned.
She drank what was left in the pouch and ate a handful of figs. Since the path through the Briar had already been cut, she felt confident that she’d make it to Mesha Cliff before midday’s horn.
“Stay focused,” she said. “A little refill then we’re going to do what we do best.” She trilled a soft war cry before heading to the water source that ran through Plush Ravine.
Amaria reached the water source without incident. She knelt and refilled the pouch. While the bag inflated, she removed the scroll from the satchel and fished out the rest of the food her mother had packed and ate it. The climbs, the treks, and blazing trails through the Briar had zapped her energy. Once the pouch was full, she put it in the satchel and took a drink from the source. As she cupped the water and brought it to her lips, she had the thought that someone was watching her. There had been no unnatural sights or sounds, but somehow, she knew she wasn’t alone.
She stood up, dried her hands on her kilt, and casually took the sword from its sheath. Light flickered to the right and caught her eye. She faced the trees. The gleam flashed again to the left, and she shifted position. Whatever it was, it wanted to be seen, she thought, and she gripped the sword tighter. The jewels in the handle dug into her palms. Her hold was uncomfortable and slippery. She scanned the ground for something dry to dust them with, but the earth around her was too wet. She took a fighting stance and readied the sword as best she could.
She heard the opponent well before she had visual confirmation. The sounds of cracking wood were low and slow at first but soon increased in volume, speed, and proximity, yet no matter how hard Amaria strained, she couldn’t see the threat. In a heartbeat, a hooded figure stood in front of her. She swung a staff and struck Amaria across the jaw. She stumbled into the water behind her, and the figure retreated to the trees. Amaria gathered her composure and moved onto dry land, her sword at the ready. She stopped and crouched. “I knew there was a catch,” she shouted before getting serious. “It’s not big, but it sure is fast,” she muttered.
Big would have been preferred. Big caused plenty of damage, but it could be dealt with. You just had to be fast and know
how to take it down, which was why a faster opponent was trickier, in Amaria’s opinion. They required strategy but never gave you many heartbeats to figure one out.
There was movement. She glanced to the right but kept position. She waited a few heartbeats and saw more movement. The figure was before her again. Her arms moved so quick that Amaria thought she saw them blur. She was pelted with fists and knees. An elbow caught her under the chin, and she lost control of the blade. She heard it hit the ground several paces behind her, but when she turned to retrieve it, her attacker wedged a staff between her legs and tripped her. The foe delivered a forceful kick to her ribs before disappearing into the trees.
Amaria rolled onto her back, gasping for air. She could taste blood on her tongue, a bitter reminder that she was getting beat. She sat up and spat it out. She scolded herself as she got to her feet. You’re better than this.
She didn’t have the heartbeats for a longer pep talk. She heard movement again and scurried to her weapon. The blades had been separated. She scooped them up and windmilled them as she leapt and twisted in the air. She felt a connection and heard a crack. Splintered wood hit her face, and her adversary retreated to the trees. Amaria needed a better strategy and quick.
So far, her ability to see and hear had been disrupted, painful blows were being delivered, and the game of retreat to the trees was taking valuable heartbeats. If Amaria couldn’t see or hear she couldn’t fight, so she focused on her senses first.
The sounds around her were being distorted somehow. She assumed others hid in the trees. Her attention shifted to sight. The camouflage her opponent wore puzzled her. She had only caught glimpses but, from what she could tell, it was a cloak and had been brilliantly crafted. Even as close as an arm’s length, she was concealed, keeping Amaria from seeing strikes and tracking the retreat afterwards.
The sounds of movement started again. The cracking of fallen timber and crunching leaves filled her ears. The racket bounced off the trees and made her feel dizzy. She squatted, closed her eyes, and listened for a pattern. The noise from behind her was coming from the other side of the water source, too far away for an attack. The commotion in front and to the right was sporadic and unnatural, contrived. The sounds from the left had taken on the rhythm of a runner’s stride and was moving closer.
