But whatever Tehlvar’s answer had been, spoken only to the gathering of priests far beyond the ears of the assembled throng, it had not been sufficient to secure his ascendency. Druhr-Tivarik he was, the Divine Blood flowed in his veins as it flows through mine, but it had been proven weak, and if the blood be weak, let it spill.
“Kehlbrand Reyerik!” the Mestra-Dirhmar intoned, lowering the knife to point the blade at the young man kneeling at my side. “Stand and be recognised!”
I watched my brother rise, seized by the impulse to reach out and stop him somehow. Although young and steeped in the priests’ lies as I was, I still knew his choosing to be a curse and not a blessing. To restrain him at that moment would have meant death, and not the swift end meted out to Tehlvar. Interference in the priests’ rituals would earn me the worst of torments. So perhaps it was fear that stilled my hand then, for I have never pretended to be the bravest of souls. But I don’t think so. I think that, like all the many others present, I wanted it to be Kehlbrand. I wanted to witness the moment the true Mestra-Skeltir took his place. So I didn’t try to stop him, not then. That came later.
“By right of blood you are now Skeltir of the Cova Skeld,” the priest told Kehlbrand. “As dictated by the Laws Eternal, tomorrow morning will be set aside for challenges. Any warrior of sufficient rank who defeats you will stand as Skeltir in your place.”
Kehlbrand bowed his head in grave acceptance before raising it to meet the priest’s gaze with an expectant eye. I saw the old man’s face flush with angry reluctance then. He could simply stay silent; having formally appointed my brother to the role of Skeltir, he had no obligation to also call him to the question, save for the fact that Kehlbrand had already achieved far-greater renown than most others who had received such an honour, as every member of the Hast well knew.
The priest’s lips slipped over his yellowed teeth in a poorly concealed half sneer before his features resumed the mask of dutiful certainty. “If you live,” he said, “return here one hour before the sun’s apex to answer the First Question of the Unseen.”
He let his arm fall to his side and paused to survey Tehlvar’s body. I found his expression a sudden contrast to the mask from only seconds before. Now he seemed much older, sadness and regret clear in his eyes for one brief instant before he turned and walked away amidst the ranks of the lesser priests.
My people are never fond of overlong rituals, and soon the representatives of the hundred Skeld had all drifted away to their respective encampments. Kehlbrand, however, lingered and therefore so did I. Moving to the altar, he closed his eyes and placed a hand on our brother’s forehead, murmuring his own soft farewell. He had been at Tehlvar’s side for much of the preceding few years, gaining enough renown to justify a challenge for the Skeltir’s mantle, but he never had.
A loud belch sounded behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Obvar leaning against a monolith, wineskin in hand as he regarded me with a questioning glance.
“He’s saying goodbye,” I said, turning away.
“The pious arsehole’s dead,” Obvar muttered, coming to my side. “Can’t hear it, so what’s the point?” The question was evidently rhetorical, for he forestalled my curt response by proffering the wineskin. “Drink?”
Obvar was always offering me drink, and more besides. It was many years since his childhood bullying had given way to a different kind of interest. I often reflected that I preferred him as a bully rather than a suitor. However, my initial impulse to stern refusal stalled on my tongue as I noted the absence of carnal interest in his gaze. Unlike Kehlbrand, the disparity in our height had grown over the years, and I was obliged to look up to gauge his expression. For once he seemed troubled rather than lustful.
“Give it here,” I said, taking the wineskin. The first sip had me blinking in surprise. Instead of the thick, floral berry wine typically drunk by the Hast, this was something far lighter on the palate. The taste was rich and complex, shot through with a pleasing earthiness and balanced by a smoothness that made it slip down the throat very easily.
“That’s not cheap, you know,” Obvar said, his thick brows bunching as I took another generous swallow.
“What is it?” I asked, handing back the wineskin.
“Not sure of the name. It’s made from some kind of fruit grown in a land far across the sea. At least that’s what the merchant I stole it from said. I let him live on the condition he come back next summer with more. Said I’d even pay him for it. Wasn’t that nice of me?”
“Did you let the others in his caravan live?”
“The young ones.” He shrugged and drank. “Slaves are valuable.”
“What a disgusting animal you are, Obvar.” The heat of genuine detestation sang in my voice, loud enough to make the wineskin pause on the way back to his lips, which broadened into a smile.
“Eighteen summers old,” he said, looming over me as he stepped closer, the familiar lust creeping back into his gaze. “And still not wed. I always like the way your tongue cuts me, girl. Makes me wonder what else it can do.”
I stared directly into his eyes, meeting the lust I saw there with utter disdain. I wasn’t afraid and felt no need to reach for the long-knife on my belt. I was Druhr-Tivarik and, whilst childhood torments would have been punished with a beating, any insult or injury now that I was of childbearing age would earn him the lengthy death of a dishonoured warrior. However, as our gazes locked and seconds stretched into moments, I was given to wondering if this was the day when his lust finally overcame his caution.
“When your brother becomes Mestra-Skeltir,” he said, voice thick and teeth bared, “we will conquer all. We will ravage the lands of the Merchant Kings all the way to the Golden Sea, and I will be at his side for every battle. When all the glorious slaughter ends and the final drop of blood falls, he will ask me what reward I desire for my service. What do you imagine I will ask for?”
“Luralyn.”
Our eyes snapped to the altar at the sound of my brother’s voice. Kehlbrand didn’t look at us, standing with arms braced against the altar’s edge, his gaze still captured by Tehlvar’s body. “I will have counsel,” he said before glancing up at Obvar. “Saddle brother, go and slake your appetite on a slave and leave my sister be. And don’t get too drunk. I may have need of your blade on the morrow.”
Obvar stiffened and I saw a faint twitch of resentment pass across his lean, bearded features. It faded quickly, however, and he let out a faint sigh of acceptance. Saddle brothers they were, but Kehlbrand was Skeltir now.
“Here,” Obvar grunted, shoving the wineskin into my hands. “A token of esteem for my Skeltir’s sister.”
I watched him stomp off towards the encampment of our Skeld, feeling a brief spasm of sympathy for whichever unfortunate slave caught his interest. Slaves are not of the Hast. I inwardly recited one of the Laws Eternal as I joined Kehlbrand at the altar. Anything not of the Hast is booty.