It troubled him, intrigued him, far more than it should.
Midday meals were their first opportunity to rest, those seen to by volunteers from the closest village. More often than not, the workers were girls of marriageable age coming to see the fine collection of specimens the sages had picked for training. It discomfited him when they tried to catch his eye as he took his plate. He was certain to always give his thanks, but he did not appreciate the way they allowed a long braid to come over a shoulder, hair dangling far too close to prepared food, the disgust of it smothering any realisation that it was meant to be an attempt at attraction.
None were allowed to wed while called to the duty of training. All knew this. But apparently it was pleasing to tease and to look, to fantasise that an initiate would risk all for a tryst behind the kitchens.
He wouldn’t.
Some did.
It was entirely possible that his father had arranged a marriage for him already and he would return home to a betrothed of his own. There would be some fortune in it, some aid to his farm that would, in turn, profit Grimult as well. His mother was a softer woman, who would ensure that the match was a pleasing one and that the girl would suit Grimult well enough. That was a comfort to him, when he allowed himself to think of home when he was certain the heartache would not distract him too greatly.
Afternoons were spent in the smithy, honing weapons and testing their weights and balances before that too led to testing. Weapons stripped away and sticks and rocks taking their places, improvisation required.
He was not certain what would have to befall them where all weaponry would be gone, but he would rather have more skills than too few, and he had become rather proficient at carving a long branch into a formidable bow, though his instructor warned that the time it took to create such a thing would prove detrimental.
Brutish, yet effective, a large stone could be used to bash in the head of an opponent, or even, if one’s aim was sure, be dropped from a great height.
He did not like to think of the killing to come, but he would be prepared for it all the same.
If it meant she was safe.
Evenings were the greatest change. Instead of the rest and time to themselves that had been graciously afforded in the past, more chores had been established. Mostly the cleaning of the barracks, brooms and dusting rags handed out with as much seriousness as the weapons and bushels of foragables had been earlier in the day.
Grimult only resented it because that was the time he used to send letters home. His mother would begin to worry, he was certain, if suddenly he fell silent. His sisters would think they had been forgotten, and only his father would realise that there would be good reason for the absence of correspondence, soothing all as best he could.
It would not be effective, but Grimult appreciated that he would make the attempt.
Their letters in return were scant, not from a lack of desire to write, his mother assured him, but because they were only allowed one per month. A distraction, she had said, or so the mail-keep had told her.
They were lengthy ones to make up for it, and he kept them all tied neatly in a bundle beneath his spare clothes. Let the others mock him for it if they wished, but he would not be parted from them.
They were a piece of home, joy and guilt warring in turn depending on the news therein.
And he would see them soon.
Families would be called as the initiates once again formed their lines, clothes carefully brushed, hair equally so, and wings preened to perfection.
And a sage would appear and call the name of the one who had been found worthy.
His heart sped even now to think of it.
His assessment was in a few hours, his place in the last third of initiates—more time than he would have liked to worry and fret over the prospect of it, although he told himself it was more time to learn and overcome those skills that were still proving more difficult. If his instructor told him he took too long to carve a bow, he would be faster. He would weave his way through the upper boughs of the trees until he was a better hunter than before.
Because it mattered.
He forced himself to stop his practising when the day grew later. He would not be tardy, nor would he appear dishevelled when they called for him. His mother would expect nothing less, always smoothing down an errant hair or feather that always tended to fall out of place.
She liked her children neat and presentable when they went into town. A reflection of her mothering, she’d say.
Speaking of the trials was forbidden, and if word came that some were too loose with their talk of it, excommunication was hasty and final.
It had not happened to Grimult’s knowing, although all knew the consequences well enough to keep silent even when pressed by a friend nervous about his own to come.
Perhaps there was a formidable beast for them to tame, or even kill. Although, practically speaking, there were a great many initiates and he did not know where they would keep such monsters in the meantime.
His pulse quickened when he wondered if perhaps it included an audience with the Lightkeep herself. Was he to impress her as well as the instructors? The thought of that only added to his nerves as he waited on a low bench near the barracks, those positioned high above providing shade from the afternoon heat.
They had given no indication of where he should be, only promised that they would find him when it was time.
Surely his appointment was soon?
He heard others flying above
