“Here,” Tion said, holding a moistened rag to Anskar’s lips. “It’s soaked in herbs that will ease the pain.”
Anskar bit down on the rag, gagging at the bitter taste. Warm fluid filled his mouth, and he swallowed. Within moments the crushing pain in his chest had reduced to a dull ache.
“Your sternum is badly bruised,” Tion said. “But it will heal.”
Anskar spat out the rag and wiped its taste from his lips. “I dreamed I’d been stabbed through the heart … by a woman—a Niyandrian.”
Tion chuckled. “Dreams play odd tricks on us, though the Five only knows why. Clenna’s certainly no Niyandrian.” He leaned in so he could whisper. “And I’m not even sure she’s a woman; the way she fights, she might be part demon.”
Anskar realized he couldn’t feel his face. He probed with his fingers and felt a cold, sticky layer covering his cheeks and forehead.
“One of my poultices,” Tion said. “For the bruising. There’s one on your chest too, though it’s yet to make a difference.”
With a grunt, Anskar forced himself to sit up. He pulled the sheets down to reveal a purplish bloom covering his entire chest as far as his navel. Clenna had caught him good.
He saw her in the bed opposite, propped up against her pillows, the trace of a smirk on her face. She must have taken some satisfaction from hearing him scream.
“A fraction more force and you might have fractured or broken ribs,” Tion said. “Just thank Menselas it was only a practice sword. Lie back now and rest. You need to be at least partially recovered for the start of the second trial tomorrow.”
Once the healer had shuffled off, Clenna said, “I should have beaten you.”
“You almost did,” Anskar conceded.
He heard Clenna sigh and the creak of her bed as she rolled over. Then she muttered, “Almost isn’t good enough.”
Anskar closed his eyes and let his head sink into the pillow. He had no doubt Clenna would have emerged victorious in any of the other groups. It seemed unfair that she—arguably one of the best two or three fighters among the novices—would have to wait until next year to try again.
He tried to sleep but wasn’t able to find a comfortable position. He watched what was going on in the infirmary instead. Half the beds were occupied by injured novices from the first trial, and priests of the Healer flitted about, pushing wooden trolleys that held jugs of water, towels—both bloodstained and fresh—sharp knives, jars of honey, and pouches of herbs.
Some time later, Tion returned with a bowl of steaming broth—chicken giblets and a blend of pungent herbs he claimed as his closely guarded secret. Whatever it was, it worked. Anskar spooned it down greedily, and within the hour was in one of the private rooms in the bath house, soaking in a tub the healers had filled with salted water for him, letting the aches ebb from his body.
After he’d dried off and dressed in a fresh shirt and pants, he took a gentle walk around the bailey with Tion. Glistening dew still covered the grass, though it was close to midmorning. A cold wind blowing in from the Simorga Sea filled the air with the tang of brine.
“Clenna was certain she had you beaten,” the priest said.
“So was I.”
Tion stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I remember thinking about the kitchen servants; not wanting to let them down.”
“And that’s all?”
“Maybe the Warrior blessed me?”
Tion sniffed, unconvinced. “I’ve no doubt he blessed all of you—at least those who bothered to pray beforehand. But I’ve never heard of anyone getting a second wind like you did against Clenna. Surely, you don’t really believe it was divine intervention?”
“I don’t know. Why would the Five aid me and not Clenna?”
“That, my dear Anskar, I would have thought obvious. But seriously now, describe it to me: everything you felt.”
Anskar pinched the bridge of his nose. It was all still a blur of sensations muddled by pain. “Something like a cold flame erupted inside me. After that, I couldn’t put a foot wrong. My movements just flowed, and Clenna’s seemed so slow.”
A shadow of concern passed behind Tion’s eyes. “Perhaps you should speak with Beof about this. I know little of the Warrior’s gifts, but I suppose it’s possible you could have felt his touch.”
There was more the priest wasn’t saying—something else he’d considered and rejected, or some specter he’d not wanted to raise.
“What is it?” Anskar asked.
“Nothing to worry about. Just be thankful that whatever happened, happened. Either the Warrior touched you or he didn’t. The important thing is that you passed the first trial. And if it wasn’t one of the aspects of Menselas, then whatever was unleashed within you is either perfectly natural or best left well alone. It’s a pity Sister Hathenor’s returned to the mainland; I’m sure she would have had something profound and uplifting to say on the matter.”
On Tion’s instructions, Anskar removed the poultice the following morning. His face was a mass of yellow bruising, and still swollen around his cheek and jaw; and there was a knot at his temple—but nothing that would prevent him from continuing with the trials.
A shard of gray light came through the narrow window above his bed, illuminating the books stacked on his writing desk. He’d borrowed them from the Burg’s library: tomes on the techniques of metallurgy, blacksmithing, arms and armor, military tactics; and Duin’s Cants and Calculations, which was required reading for novices commencing the study of the limited sorcery the Order condoned for defense.
The shirt and pants he’d worn for the combat trial had been washed and left folded atop his bed by one of the Niyandrian servants who oversaw the novices’ rooms. He changed into them, then sat at his desk and leafed through Secrets of Jargalan Crafting. The Order had been trying to emulate the Jargalan swordsmiths for decades, and while they’d made great progress, there was still a way to go before they would be able to produce blades that could never be broken, and were as flexible as they were strong, with a cutting edge as hard as diamond.
Removing the sketches and notes he’d made for the second trial, he glanced over them one last time then folded the piece of parchment and put it in his pocket.
After a breakfast of baked oats mixed with dried fruit and honey, Anskar hurried to the vast smithing hall that was the heart and soul of Branil’s Burg, where he joined the other eleven novices who’d passed the first trial.
Several forges were already in use when they arrived. Anskar covered his ears against the clangor of hammers on anvils—too loud for so early in the day. He wiped sweat from his eyes. Outside, there was a cool breeze blowing, but the smithing hall was stifling, hotter than the abyssal realms.
“Nervous?” Sareya asked him. Her white shirt was damp in patches that clung to her curves.
“No,” Anskar said, averting his gaze. If anything, he was concerned that he was too relaxed. The forges felt like home, and he’d prepared for this trial above and beyond what was expected.
“You noticed?” Sareya asked.
He shook his head, thinking she meant her damp shirt.