Sunrise painted the eastern corners of the sky crimson as the fiery eye of Gu'r the Lonely One rises. Seeing his time in the Grave was over, Arrow unfolded himself from his cross-legged position. He shook some feeling back into his legs, numb from the long night's vigil, and walked back to the Halls of Keenness, where the Council of Six await him. He carried the sword ceremonially with both hands in front of him, relishing the feeling of worn leather instead of splintery wood.

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety nine misshapen stone steps paved the long trek up the mountain, leading up to a practical wooden gate set in ornately carved walls. Arrow shed his shoes as he entered the Halls of Keenness for only swordmasters were allowed to wear shoes within.

The green-roofed Halls squatted at the far end of the garden-turned practice fields, an angular wooden compound of low ceilings and narrow corridors, which made Arrow feel taller. Everything in the halls was patterned and painted, engilded and bejewelled. The walls were a series of murals narrating the epic founding of the Jian Mountains" Followers. The detailed carving on the overhead crossbeams are lost in the riot of colour. For a long while, it was as though the corridor would never end. Tradition dominated his pace, he dared not quicken or slow, so his grip on the sword just grew ever tighter as the only vent for his frustration.

Inside the main hall, the Council of the Six, one from each of the Jian mountains, sat in a half circle. Each enthroned in enamel and silver there was a certain majesty about them. The focus of the hall was on balance and opposites: the rectangular black floor twisting upwards to a circular white dome. Arrow winced at his reflection on the floor, remembering his endless days as a rascal polishing it.

"The wood-wielder Arrow greets Dai Zhang'men. The wood-wielder Arrow greets the five Zhang'lao," rasped Arrow formally, his voice was still hoarse from a nights disuse, as he dropped onto his left knee and clasp his sword to his forehead. Six pairs of eyes studied him in all directions; he was glad to stare at the floor. I should have done something before I...

"Tian Shi'fu greets the Six," chanted a voice behind Arrow.

He had not noticed his teacher enter the hall. Custom did not allow him to raise his face from the floor or throw glances behind him at his teacher, but Arrow could imagine Tian Shi'fu in him elaborate formal robes and damascened dress armour. There was the sound of shuffling paper.

One of the Zhang'lao spoke, "Young wood-wielder Ar..."

"Yes." Had I answered too quickly? Is it much fault to interrupt the...

"I see the young wood-wielder Arrow is eager," said another of the elders. His voice is gentler than the first and his cadence slower.

"Yes, Wang Zhang'lao. With the impatience of youth, the young wood-wielder Arrow is overeager. He will learn in time," said my teacher. His voice betrayed no emotion save moderate pride in his pupil's enthusiasm, but Arrow knew he was ashamed.

"Such energy should be channelled towards studies of the sword," the Zhang'lao paused. "Do you deem him worthy, Tian Shi'fu?"

"The young Arrow has trained hard: three years as nothing, six years as rascal, nine years as wood-wielder. He now stands eighteen years after his birth before you."

"If all is so, you may raise your eyes, young wood-wielder Arrow."

The young wood-wielder Arrow did so and lowered his sword to the floor. The Council allowed him time to absorb their magnificence. Instead of the Council and their thrones, his eyes searched the curtains of overlapping silk leaves. He smiled to himself; just behind the curtains he spotted the slender figure of Rain. As daughter of Wang Zhang'lao, she could steal into the such ceremonies with ease and had promised to be there for him.

Trained to seek detail, he noted the different designs of each of the silver and enamel thrones, which echoed the chosen weapons of the Council members.

He recognised Wang Zhang'lao, wielder of Moonblade, immediately by the silver medallion. His goat-like beard would have been comical if it wasn't set in a face so serious. His throne was adorned with the three moons, wreathed in wraith-like clouds and dragons. A shadow of the pattern is cast on his midnight blue robes in midnight blue embroidery. Etched with water-plants amid conflicting ripples, it had to be the throne of Cao Zhang'lao, keeper of the Lily Daggers. His robes were a milk-white with tinges of green and yellow, casting a sickly tone over his sheltered pallor.

"When did you first become a Follower of the Jian Mountains?" asked the square-faced elder sitting at the edge of the half circle. His title belied his youth; he seemed no older than twenty five years. His hair was hacked short, almost like thorns. The green stitching which gives his robes a suggestion of leaves and the enamel ivy winding around his throne indicated he was Tao Zhang'lao, wielder of the teeth-edged Briar.

Arrow turned to face Tao Zhang'lao. "At the age of two, found by Tian Shi'fu and Mao Shi'buo."

"When did you first become a rascal?" The trailing ice-blue triangles of his robes told Arrow this was Luo Zhang'lao. The silver tipped cones of his throne mimicked sharp icicles, like those on his blade, Glacier. His long hair was not braided, but instead fell in white icy sheets.

"At the age of three, as the cycle of the Mountains turns," recited Arrow. The Council knew all the answers; Arrow was relatively standard as wood-wielders went, but that knowledge did not calm him. He did not want to be mediocre and forgotten at the next change of the Mountains.

"When did you first become a wielder of the wood?" said Ouyang Zhang'lao. He was nearly bursting from his crimson robes, which were delicately scarred with stitching of the same colour and the red-flecked bloodstone in his ornaments. He had small beady eyes set in the shiny folds of his enormous face. As Zhang'lao and owner of Blood Spear, he should not be overlooked because of his roundness.

"At the age of nine, as the cycle of the Mountains turns." He ached for movement.

"What is the first lesson the Jian Mountains taught you?" Cao Zhang'lao spoke with a measured slowness, as though to a very young child.

"Greenery sprouts forth in barren cliffsides, from the dry bony trees. In the same way is life birthed from death," intoned Arrow. He was questioned on all six of the Jian Mountains" lessons. He could not have made any error in them; they had been so ingrained into his being for the past fifteen years, but the Council's faces remained passive, even bored.

"Has the wood you wield ripened to metal? Have the Councils of the past judged you worthy of a weapon that metes out life and death, young wielder of wood?" Dai Zhang'men, most senior of the Council, leader of their order, finally spoke. His voice was languidly powerful, like the effortless strength of the Jian Mountains. He was a very thin, pale man, but there was nothing sickly about his appearance. High cheekbones, pale skin and dark, sunken eyes gave his long, emaciated face the haunting quality of a horse's skull. There was more augmenting his black robes than red embroidery, as it shimmered with hidden flame: like the glowing embers of new fire. His black braid was interwoven with gold thread and coiled around his neck like a tame serpent, a symbol of his status, belying his great age. It was his sword that bore the name of Ember.

"I have called a weapon to me among the Grave of Swords, Dai Zhang'men. This sword has answered," replied Arrow.

"And its name? Know you not its name?"

"I have not looked upon the blade, nor studied it in the light, Dai Zhang'men."

"Why? Are you not eager, young wielder of wood?" he drawled.

How was he to organise such instinctive feelings into words? And how long was it since the Council asked a true question that demanded individual answers? His body itched for movement. After taking a deep breath, Arrow stammered, "I... I was... told to bond with my sword, Ancient One. To trust it... For me to trust my sword, it too must trust me. By the teachings of the Jian Mountains, trust stems from respect. It chose to come to me and it chose to come in its scabbard. I respect its choice."

All eyes in the room turned expectantly to his sheathed blade. All the titles and status heaped behind their collective gaze made it feel heavy and overbearing. Of all the eyes staring at him, it were those of Dai Zhang'men that Arrow feared most. No. Those aren't eyes. Those can never be eyes. Without whites and without irises, it was the unswerving stare of dead man, the stare of empty sockets and the shadows that haunt them.

Realising he was expected to unsheathe his sword, Arrow reached for his sword. Time seemed to slow. His hands shook as they closed the gap between finger and sword. Finally, his fingers curled around the grip and scabbard; the leather warmed invitingly to his touch. He raised it slowly to eye level and masking his fear in ceremonial slowness, he drew the sword from its scabbard.

"Unsheathe it," commanded Dai Zhang'men with an impatient wave of his hand.

Squeezing his eyes shut in fear, Arrow did so.

There was a rush of sliding metal and a fractured crashes as it met the floor, followed by a collective gasp. Fear-filled, Arrow's heart lurched. The gasp hadn't been one of awe. He opened his eyes.

Protruding from the hilt was a broken sword, no more than a handspan of brown-streaked metal. The rest of the sword had fallen from the scabbard as he had tilted it: no more than so many fragments of tarnished metal. He stared at it in open disbelief. Granted, the swords brought back by the wood-wielders were sometimes a little out of shape, but they were never any broken ones. What happens to bearers of broken swords?

"Well, Arrow?" asked one of the Zhang'lao. Arrow wasn't sure whom, still engulfed in shock. Formalities seemed to have been forgotten in shock.

"I... the sword... it... I didn't know... " Arrow tore his eyes from the floor to face the Council. The air of bored serenity had left them, instead they looked confused. He had just broken years of tradition by the drawing of a broken sword, dragging them from the comfortable repetitions into an unknown domain. He couldn't but also notice that the slender figure of Rain had left from her place behind the curtain; he was alone now.

"What have you to say?" demanded Tao Zhang'lao, leaning forward. His hands were possessively stroking his sword, Briar.

"It... I just called... I didn't know... it didn't seem to be... it was... I mean... I never thought... how was I to know..."

"Enough," interrupted Dai Zhang'men, his voice cleaving through Arrow's floundering.

Arrow silenced immediately.

Dai Zhang'men stroked his chin thoughtfully. The smothering fires inside him had flared and his eyes, lost in what first seemed like empty sockets, glinted. "How do you weigh this sign from the Grave of Swords, Learned One?"

"Beyond my depth, Dai Zhang'men," said Tian Shi'fu. He no longer spoke in his formal voice, the harsh tones he used on the practice fields were creeping in. "But, 'tis my guess that if a weapon comes tottering along means the wielder is worthy, a broken one must mean he just isn't."

The words did not register. Arrow simply refused to hear them. He willed himself to hear something else, to slur the words together into another meaning. But as he silently denied the them, he could hear the sharp, almost musical, shattering of his ambitions and could see all the tiny reflective pieces of it mimicking his actions. As their meaning sank their poisoned teeth into his aspirations, Arrow could see his future, all those possibilities like little pinpoints of distant light, flicker and die, snuffed out by the blanketing words.

"There is reason in the words of Tian Shi'fu." Cao Zhang'lao nodded sagely with his gaze still riveted to Arrow. He coughed, his chest shaking with exertion. "What do you see as the meaning of such a omen, elders?"

"A wielder of wood unready is seen in the lack of a weapon and the promise that one will come. A wielder of wood ready is seen in the coming of a weapon. Thus a wielder of wood unworthy is seen in the coming of a broken weapon."

"Where does your mind stand in such a matter, Luo Zhang'lao?"

Luo Zhang'lao's eyes were as cold as his sword, Glacier. He stroked his white beard with his bony fingers. "I stand with Tian Shi'fu and Wang Zhang'lao. What are your thoughts on this, Tao Zhang'men?

Disagree. Please disagree... You've seen me practice. You've seen me...

"My thoughts are already voiced, Luo Zhang'lao."

"As are mine," states Ouyang Zhang'lao, his swollen lips smacking together as he formed the words. He wiggled a fat finger around inside his collar, trying loosen it for breathing space.

"The Council of the Six speaks as one, for my opinions do not differ from those stated." Dai Zhang'men rose from his throne, stretching out his great height. "Stand you ready for your judgement, young wood-wielder Arrow?"

No! Never. How could I ever be ready... "Yes." Arrow heard his voice croak. For an instant he was be proud of the strength behind his voice, no matter how weak he felt inside.

"Then listen with care, young wood-wielder Arrow, to the judgement of the Council of the Six have placed upon you by the broken sword," orated Dai Zhang'men. "By the broken sword he called forth from the Grave of Swords, Arrow, wielder of wood, shall henceforth be no more a Follower of the Jian Mountains. He shall be stripped of all that identifies him as once a Follower. He shall be cast from the Jian Mountains. The broken sword, given by the past Zhang'laos of the Grave as a sign of his unworthiness, will remain in my care..."

"Good, because I don't want it." Arrow immediately regretted what he said, but it was too late. The looks on the Council members" faces turned to outrage. He flung the broken sword and scabbard down, spitefully glad for he knew it would scar the polished floor. He tore himself from the murderous scrutiny of the Council and marched out of the hall.

There were a multitude of things Arrow wanted to do: to stamp his feet like a mouth-foaming head-tossing horse and scrape his fingernails on the polished floor; to break something expensive, like the cabinet-ful of dancing figurines, their delicate serenity and simpering smiles were offending him. He wanted to hurl vociferous rage at the Council, declare them unjust and most of all, to snatch back his sword. My sword, he thought possessively. Whatever it means or signifies, it was given to me by the Grave. It is mine. But he was too well-trained to show his anger. He pressed his lips to a thin line, trapping the diatribe which was about to spew from it and wiped all other emotions from his face, schooling it into a passionless mask. He didn't know how successful he was; he could feel his lips distorting into the beginnings of a frown.

The wood-wielders and rascals practicing in the field swarmed towards him, bubbling with questions, as he strode from the hall. Their faces were red with excitement and exercise. The older ones were anxious for insight into the ceremony, hoping to glean something useful from his new wisdom.

"Arrow, how was it? What was it like? Was it hard?"

"Was the Council scary? Were you scared? You aren't scared of anything, are you, Arrow?"

"It's not Arrow anymore, is it? What name did they choose for you?"

"What's the name of your weapon? How long did it take to come? How exactly did you call it?"

Arrow ignored their questions. Just a day and a night ago I was exactly like them. Carefree and with purpose... The wooden gates were bolted and barred; he had hoped to fling them open for a dramatic exit and leave them swinging in his wake.

"What are you doing? Where do you want to go?"

"Speak to us, Arrow. Don't be all lofty and distant now that you're a swordmaster."

"I am not a swordmaster," growled Arrow, as he unbarred the gates.

"Where's your sword, Arrow?" One of the rascals had finally noticed.

Arrow didn't answer. He just pushed open the gate and slipped out, leaving the young Followers to speculate. The uneven steps stretched down, like a great gash of stone scarring the hillside. There was a finality about them, as though he could not return after walking down these steps.