A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,71

Jin moved.

In one fluid motion she reached into the quiver at her belt, grabbed a handful of arrows, three at least, holding them in the hand she used to grip the bow, and then she was sighting, nocking, loosing.

Three arrows were in the air before the first one hit the target, and then with a sound like hailstone drumming on clay tiles they thumped into the target, two in the straw man’s chest, one in his head, roughly where Riv imagined his eye would be located.

Riv’s first reaction was a moment of respect for Jin’s skill, a warrior’s gut reaction at seeing skills so precise, an action that she knew was difficult made to look so easy and effortless. That moment was rapidly followed by a rush of anger.

The hot blood-rush flooded her veins, and something distant in her recognized the warning signals, attempting to calm them, remembering Kol’s words to her.

Don’t lose your temper.

Riv was also a little surprised at the depth of her feeling.

I must really hate her.

Hate? Maybe not. Perhaps it is just loathing. Extreme loathing. And a touch of jealousy.

The distant, sensible side of her whispered a question.

Jealous of what?

Of her skill with a bow, of course, the red mist snapped back.

I must get better with a bow, she resolved.

Riv took a step into the field, felt a tug on her hand and she looked down, realized that little Tam was still there. Others were behind her, a crowd thirty or forty strong that had gathered as she’d walked through Drassil’s streets. Some were children, but many were adults, intrigued by this strange new being amongst them.

“It’s forbidden,” Tam said nervously. “I’m not allowed in the training field yet.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Riv said. “Times are changing,” and she hoisted him into her arms, setting him on her shoulders, his legs dangling. Then she walked into the weapons-field.

Tam didn’t complain.

No one else followed, but Riv noticed that most of them stayed at the gates, just watching her.

Riv walked past the duelling square, where one-to-one combat was practised, from wrestling to weapons work. Racks of wooden weapons edged the square, all manner of types and sizes, because it was not just men and women that trained in the field, but giants as well.

Ert, one of Drassil’s many sword masters, took his eyes from a pair of duelling White-Wings to watch Riv as she strode by. He was bald and wore his warrior braid in his white beard. He limped from an old wound, but all counted themselves lucky if they had the good fortune to be trained by him. Riv met his gaze, resisted the urge to look away, fearful of what she would see in his eyes. She respected Ert, and it would hurt if he thought less of her now.

Ert dipped his head to her, a curt movement, like when Riv scored a touch against him when sparring. She felt a grin stretch her mouth wide.

Behind Ert a White-Wing stared at her, revulsion etched on his face.

Riv walked on, past the White-Wings in shield wall training, saw some of Aphra’s hundred there, caught a glimpse of bull-necked Vald and the top of Jost’s unruly hair. Even when it was cropped short in the White-Wing style, it still managed to stick out in all directions. For a moment she wished that she was there in the shield wall with them, that all of this had just been a bad dream. She stumbled to a stop, suddenly realizing that she would never stand in the shield wall again. How could she, with wings? Ben-Elim were not built for the wall.

It was like a punch to the gut.

She had loved the shield wall, the claustrophobic camaraderie and exhilaration, the feeling of strength, of belonging, of brothers and sisters either side, trusting you with their lives, and knowing that you trusted them.

All gone now.

Her wings gave an agitated ripple, an extension of how she felt.

But I can fly, now. That is better than any shield wall. Though lonelier.

She sighed.

“You all right, Riv?” Tam asked from above her.

I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.

“Aye,” Riv grunted. She turned to walk on, almost collided with someone. A White-Wing, young, the feather carved into his leather vambrace indicating he had not long passed his warrior trial and moved from Fledgling to White-Wing. Riv knew him—Sorch, almost as big and muscular as Vald, but where Vald was only an arrogant idiot when he’d drunk too much wine, Sorch was an arrogant idiot