Chapter One

She faced the center of the circle with an implacable expression, drawing her sword slowly, letting the hiss of steel ring around the clearing in the predawn light.

It was the only time she found any peace. At any other time, there would be others there, with their noise and gossip. Most Master swordsman were serious and had no time for gossip and chatter, but those younger ones still working towards their full accredation weren't so interested in the pureness of the art of the sword.

Many said she was too serious.

That was mostly the men trying to tame her and chain her down. She refused to settle down and with someone who wanted her for what rank she brought him.

Breathing in and out deeply, she slowly ran herself through a series of complicated formations in one continuous action. Aiern heard the whisper as it slid through the air, slicing threads of wind. The sun began to come up over the horizon, and she worked herself faster.

She speeded up her tempo with each repetition until her sword was a silvery blur. She kept at that speed until the light had ceased looking like a yellowish haze, the mist that often covered the plains of Tilusia dispersed, and her skin glowed with a light sheen of sweat in the softness of the early morning sun.

Aiern halted like she was frozen just as the sun caught her blade and made it shine.

In epic poems, the Hamashiputni were often described as having grace and with flowery words not at all suited to describe a skill that claimed people's lives. Observers saw the beauty, even if the more practical warriors themselves did not.

Sighing slightly at the end of night and the loss of solitude as the sounds of the stirring camp reached her, Aiern sheathed her sword and headed over to the wall surrounding the ring, swiping up a cloth and dabbing her forehead and neck. She wasn't perspiring heavily. No Master swordsman would, and she was closer to that than any other female her age. About two junior ranks ahead.

She smiled slightly. She allowed herself to feel pride, but didn't let it become arrogance. She felt that if one did not let the former get out of control, then it was not akin to the latter. She knew her skill, and others would know it. What use was bragging about it?

Most of her teachers were impressed with her control. She knew this and didn't let it go to her head. Only Master Derlin kept pushing her, and she thanked him for it privately, though she might grumble about it. The other students, and even some of the teachers thought the students were done. Oh, there'd be more classes, new ranks, but if a swordsman was very good, many teachers didn't push them to further themselves.

But there was so much more to learn. While Master Derlin was most students' most hated teacher, he was her favorite. He was tough, but he was fair and he was smart.

She stopped by the well on her way back and, as was custom of the Hamash, she touched her dipper full of water to her forehead before drinking it. And she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth before putting the dipper back into her pack. Everybody had his or her own dipper. Sharing was not something approved of. If something had been used before, it was considered a great insult to offer it to somebody else.

Aiern didn't think much of that.

If someone needed something and didn't have it, who cared if it had been somebody else's? But it was in the Holy scrolls and the priests were very devout.

She ascended the hill overlooking her village with a peculiar kind of regret. She hated hustle and bustle.

The only people she truly liked were her teachers, her father, and her friend, Ilia. Her mother and sisters were irritating, loved to talk, and loved to complain. They were what the Hamashiputni referred to as Leisges, Hamashiputni who did not fight.

Her mother had been disappointed in her youngest offspring since after the novelty of having a copper haired offspring wore off and she realized her daughter wasn't like her other ones.

Her father was pleased with her, and that was what mattered. He probably felt outnumbered in the household, and having somebody more like him must have come as a relief. Someone who he could turn his knowledge and such over to. Which was why he wasn't threatening her to marry a man of his choosing.

Though love was rarely spoken of, there was no denying the deep father-daughter bond. Her mother resented it, and while her sisters were too dumb to know exactly what it was, they responded to it just the same. They constantly argued over who was the favorite and who would inherit and how they would endear themselves to him. However, unbeknownst to them and Aiern, he had decided long ago who he would leave everything to. There had never been any doubt in his mind that Aiern was his favorite.

Aiern headed down the hill with a groan as her stiff muscles protested, going directly to her home before she could be stopped to talk. She had neglected to stretch before practicing that morning.

Once in her tent, she rinsed her face in the washbasin and then changed out of her sweaty clothes. She brushed her hair and then braided it tightly to keep it out of her face before heading towards the meal tent.

She unbuckled her sword before entering the meal tent, as was polite. That had something to do with how their ancestors had always fought, and so to prevent that, weapons were forbidden inside any tents where many people gathered. However, if they wished to go somewhere ELSE and hack each other up, that was their business.

The tent wasn't very full yet. Many people slept later than she did, and some families ate in their own tents; Aiern's was not one of them.

As soon as she entered, her gaze met a very welcome face.

"I greet thee, Ilia Aigne Stormcloud, in the name of Hamash," she said with mock formality, emphasizing her greeting with exaggerated versions of the hand gestures they were supposed to give.

"And I thee, Aiern Greannach Blackwolf, in the name also of Watermaiden Easa and Skygod Speuran." Ilia barely kept a straight face. She could never remember the exact gestures and so settled for waving them about and then wiggling her fingers.

"And of Firegod Ifrinn and his brother Earthlord Talmhainn." Aiern struggled for air as she tried to hold back her laughter at the spectacle Ilia made of herself.

"So I greet thee," they said in unison.

They could only hold out so long, and so both burst into giggles very unbecoming for young women of their age and rank.

"Do you think that placated their sense of propriety?" Ilia asked, gasping as she tried to catch her breath. She was clutching her stomach as they slid into their seats.

"Gods, I hope so. It gets so long winded after that. I'd even hate to say that much again," Aiern said with a laugh. Ilia wrinkled her nose.

"Did you ever memorize the whole thing?"

"Oh, yes. You have to eventually. I decided to get it over with. You have to pass a test."

"You're joking! A test?" Ilia sighed in exasperation. "As if half of these bastards have the mental capacity," she muttered. Aiern struggled not to laugh. She gave an unladylike snort when she couldn't hold it back any longer.

Ilia had been her friend since childhood when they had both roamed afar in the fields of Tilusia. They had both provided the elders with a few more gray hairs, and were very proud of that fact, and the fact that they could actually get the staunchly somber adults to crack at such a young age. It was an innate talent both young women seemed to possess.

Ilia glanced up as she heard sounds of scuffling outside the tent flap.

"What now?" she groaned. She wasn't a morning person.

Aiern gave an unwholesomely bright smile, in Ilia's opinion, and popped her head outside.

"It's Telied and Ferris again."

"Testosterone central," Ilia said, waggling her eyebrows and rolling her eyes at the same time, her usual good humor slowly beginning to seep in.

"You look like a demon when you do that," Aiern said blandly as she slid back into her seat.

"Yes. My mother says it's the reason men won't propose to me and as soon as I have a seizure she's abandoning me." Ilia flipped her long black hair over her shoulder.

"A wise woman, your mother." Aiern smiled at the younger swordsmen who served the meal. "Gods I'm glad we don't have to do that anymore."

"What, serve? We're five years past that," Ilia said, and then dug into the meal without any self-consciousness; Aiern quickly followed suit. "How long have you been up?"
"About three hours."

"That still kills me. How can you possibly get up at that ungodly hour? And why?" She spread both hands, complete with utensils, in desperate entreaty.

"I'm sure the gods are up by then," Aiern replied, knowing such an inane comment would annoy Ilia.

"You're evading again. You're very good at it, but not with somebody who's known you as long as I have. Answer the question."

"Which one?" Aiern's expression was one of pure innocence.

"Tell me or I swear I'll waggle and roll at everybody in here until I embarrass you into it."

Aiern laughed. "It's just quieter. I don't like people."

"Thanks pal." Ilia snorted and shoved another forkful in her mouth.

"Present company excluded, of course."

"Well, that's alright then." Ilia continued eating. A movement caught her eye, and her head snapped up. "Oooh, look who just came in!"

"No. Just tell me, why don't you? Oh wait, no. Let me guess. Who do you announce the entrance of every day, day after day, week after week, and month after month?" Aiern snapped her fingers as if just remembering. "Oh yeah!" She snapped a bite from the roll with a white clash of teeth.

"Brat," Ilia growled, spearing the chicken on her plate almost violently.

"Here's what I don't get," Aiern said with her mouth full. She swallowed. "Why are you so into him?"

"Are you kidding? You're the only one who doesn't see Sean for what he is." Ilia was gaping at her in consternation.

"A side of beef?" Aiern muttered. Ilia ignored her with a haughty lift of her brow and continued.

"The hottest guy here! Who HAPPENS to have come from another tribe." Ilia pointed this out triumphantly, as if she'd made a point, before ducking her head and chasing around a suspicious looking rogue vegetable with her fork.

"So, a fresh side of beef," Aiern conceded sarcastically. She rolled her eyes and continued to chew.

"Hush." Ilia waved her away and watched Sean over Aiern's shoulder as she munched on her food.

He had a great body with a great build, and darker skin than most guys from their camp, which was farther north than Sean's. Black hair curled around the nape of his neck; the color wasn't very uncommon. The green of his eyes, however, was. She watched the muscle play across his arms and entertained a thought of exactly what was going on under his shirt.

Aiern had exaggerated. He hadn't been here for a months. Only about three weeks, actually; however, usually that would be enough time for people to get to know him. But nobody seemed to know anything about him, which added mystery to the long list of his interesting attributes.

She watched with a slight grimace when he was waylaid by one of Aiern's sisters. Chayla was determined to land a husband, and the newcomer had seemed like easy prey. He hadn't responded to Chayla's advances, and since it was the first time she had been denied something, she took it personally and pursued him more aggressively.

Sean would have been smarter to just sleep with her and save himself the grief.

Chayla walked her fingers up his chest and Ilia saw him grip her hands and firmly pull them away from his chest. Well, you couldn't blame a man for having taste. Points for him. She mentally saluted him.

She'd never been properly introduced to him, and neither had Aiern, but what she had heard was that he was a nice guy, and a very, very good swordsman; apparently he was in his last year of training and had come to this tribe to learn from Master Derlin. Everybody knew Derlin was the best. He gave this particular camp of Hamashiputni warriors a certain prestige in addition to being the home of the Blackwolf clan.

Sean had been pretty reclusive since arriving, and hadn't made many friends. Definitely not with the guys his age, who were more interested in women than anything else.

He had made good friends with old Master Gurgin, who, Ilia recalled, was a veteran of the wars in Erinis, and Gurgin was tough to like and didn't like many people.

Aiern's father was one of Gurgin's only other friends, and it wouldn't be long before the two men were met. Ilia gave Aiern a speculative look.

"Are you match-making?" she asked bluntly after having watched her friend's comically intent gaze on the man.

Ilia's eyes widened innocently.

"Don't try that. Whom are you putting with whom? They rarely work out. Just keep your nose out of it."

Ilia glared at Aiern and then resumed shoveling down her food.

"Chew, god damn it. One of these days you're going to be dead from an inhaled chicken." Aiern paused. "Ilia sniffs delicately at the very thought of such an unwarranted comment," she narrated, making Ilia choke from laughter.

She pounded her friend's on the back until Ilia waved her away weakly.

"Are you going to training today?" Ilia asked, chewing her food and doing so at a sufficiently moderate pace to pacify Aiern.

"Why wouldn't I?" Aiern asked as if the question were dumb, her brow creased in a frown.

"I thought you were going to Carin with your mother and sisters."

"Are you kidding me? I can't stand living with them for even two hours. Why would I willingly plant myself on the sacrificial altar?"

"Sacrilege," Ilia gasped with mock dismay.

Aiern pursed her lips but Ilia knew she was hiding a laugh behind them, because her eyes danced with it. She really didn't understand why her best friend didn't accept a marriage proposal, especially one coming from some of the most prominent young men in the tribe. If she herself had those kind of offers, she'd have been married by now. But Aiern was adamant.

When they finished eating, Ilia dumped their leftovers and accompanied her to the training field, which was about thirty meters away from the training ring where Aiern had been earlier that morning.

It was the first day of training since the Festival of the Elements, which consisted of seven days of rest, seven days of celebration, and then seven days more of rest. This was also the time when the Masters divided the younger people into classes based on the assessments that had been made in the three days preceding the Festival

Ilia had been hiding her nervousness, but now her nerves were obvious in the leg she was jangling and the hand that was tapping out a confused beat on her thigh.

Aiern didn't want to admit how much of her friend's feelings she was sharing; she clasped her hands tight, disguising any sign of shakiness. During the assessments, students of the right age had gone through three days of sparring while their teachers watched and made notes.

It was kind of nerve-wracking to be watched with such critical eyes while you're concentrating on keeping another blade from slicing you. Aiern had managed admirably while Ilia hadn't done too bad herself.

But that made no difference at that moment.

As the other students trickled onto the grounds, the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and those who had done extremely well were just as nervous and scared as those that had done very obviously worse.

A buzz covered the crowd, and parents found a dozen excuses to be picking grass there that day, which didn't make much sense. There was only so much you could do with grass, for one thing, and there was just as much by their tents for another.

But it was just as much of a custom as anything.

The two women settled on a stone bench near the center, Ilia glad for once that the early rising habit her friend had procured had rubbed off on her a little.

They went through this every year, but it never got easier. It seemed to take forever for all of the students to enter.

Finally, everyone was seated. Master Wasc strode to the center of the grounds with an official looking expression and smiled almost benignly, which was odd for him. It seemed that everyone knew what kind of nerve-wracking experience this was and did their best to ease the students.

Aiern took a deep breath.