They escorted him to the main chamber. Four guards, two in front and two behind. As if they really had to fear him. Him. It was ridiculous.

Ahead, he could see people moving, heard indiscernible murmurs. He couldn’t understand them, he just knew they were talking.

When they entered, he saw the council, the guild, his parents.

Barba perched in a corner of one of the listener benches; back straight, head bowed, he could tell she took care not to look at anyone, not to look inviting or eager to join the discussion.

He wondered if she was if she wanted to say something in his defense. But what could she say? What could anyone say? He saw his mother, her yellow eyes pierced his. Her face was swollen. Next to her, his father. His hand on her shoulder.

Kirdain wanted to retch.

He wanted to hit this man. Hard. All of them, in fact. He wanted to hurt them. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he was weak and small and powerless. Because he was just one person, even less.

He hadn’t noticed how the guards stepped aside, but someone was talking to him. He blinked. In a hushed voice, Hinala was talking to him.

“Kirdain”, she said, “listen.” She was tense, eager to finish whatever she wanted to say before he could speak. He nodded. Whatever it was, it was probably good. She was smart, strong. He trusted her. She and a few others, everyone else could rot in the Usurper’s dungeon for all he was concerned.

“It is going to be harsh, but it is the only way, understood? We made an agreement and you must accept it. Do you understand me, boy?”

He looked at her, however unwilling. He looked at her and froze inside. Hinala looked desperate, maybe even afraid. But she was strong, she was clever, she was powerful, was she not? Why was she afraid? What could scare her?

”Do you understand?”, she asked again, more urgently this time. He nodded. He understood. Except that he didn’t.

She smiled, he did something face-related.

She turned away. Kirdain blinked.

It felt weird. It all felt weird. Unreal. He had probably been hit on the head way too often in the last few days. While Kirdain had spoken to Hinala — or been spoken to by Hinala — the groups had dissolved. The council members stood behind their seats at the council table, made from sandstone. An awful contrast to all the quarry stone, the dark woods and heavy lead glass. An additional seat stood next to the table. A place for the guild master.

His parents had joined Barba on the listener benches he assumed. Behind him, he couldn’t see. Somehow, he ended up in the middle of the room. Alone. All alone. Not even the guards were with him anymore.

An old man with a bald head and more rings than fingers stood up. He looked a bit as if a pig had decided to wear a naked sheep’s head and walk on two legs. He had a cane to support his waifish figure while standing and his bright, small eyes found Kirdain’s. He wanted to look away. To spit, to simply leave. To tell them, all of them, that they were just idiots and pricks and should leave him alone.

That he had done nothing wrong. But he had. Oh Regent, he had. So he stayed.

He stayed and listened. Listened to the self-important words of an old merchant who knew nothing. Who understood nothing. Who now sentenced him to death.

Seventy strokes with a birch cane. That was deadly. Really deadly. Even if they only caned him in intervals as they said. Ten strokes, then two months pause. He would probably not survive that.

And they knew it.

And they would do it all the same.

They would kill him for being afraid. But Hinala. Kirdain couldn’t look at her. How could she have agreed? How could she ever do that to him? Had he offended her, too? Didn’t she care anymore?

”The council agreed to this”, the old pig-sheep said, “but however, there is a difficulty.” Kirdain’s head snapped up. He listened. He really listened now.

“It has come to the council’s attention, that an unbound horse has expressed her interest in you. Therefore, you, Kirdain Shoemaker, are not under our jurisdiction anymore. Just as all hopeful people who are approached, you are to go with the Horse to Nahandrain and become a Vandrainor.”

Kirdain didn’t smile. His face was stone.

This gesture wasn’t for them. Only for her. And she wasn’t here. But he felt the warmth all the same. Remembered her touch and smell. So familiar yet strange. She had felt like magic, like flying, like running water. And more. Crisp and yet wise.

Inside, he smiled.

“But we cannot let you go unpunished. Not even as a Vandrainor. So we have this compromise for you: After you finished your training, however long it may take, you are to return here and accept your punishment. If you don’t do that, you are not allowed back inside Agshraf ever again. And you are — as a general rule — not allowed to return for the next seven years, as this is the usual time one needs for their training.”

Kirdain blinked. It sounded good enough. Why should he even want to come here ever again? Besides, when he came back he would be a Vandrainor, a Twospirit, a rider. He would take anything they got. He would be able to take anything they got.

He grinned. It was a lonely, wolfish grin. “I agree”, he said.

They made him swear it — by his human blood and otherworldly soul, by the roofs of Inrahim, by the Shadow and the Regent.

The cut in his hand hurt, but he said nothing. He would not compromise what little dignity he had left. Not because of a cut in his hand.

After that, they told him to leave. He was not to take anything, not to dwell in the city. In fact, he was escorted out of it by the very four guards who had led him into the main hall. At least he thought they might be the same. He wasn’t sure.

The city was busy as a bee hive. Of course. The Herd was there.

Every young person ran about, trying to catch a glimpse. Every elderly was keeping one to two eyes on their offspring, or was busy recounting stories of famous Vandrainor, famous horses, famous battles.

It was a spectacle. And within this spectacle there was a scandal. The scandal of Telorim Shoemaker’s son, the youngest member of the craft’s guild, being led out of the city, escorted by guards.

They all knew, what happened. And most of them were angry. Or distant, or spiteful.

He had compromised the ritual. What if the Herd wouldn’t have come again another year. All because of him. And he had been the Watcher the year before. And the year before that. What if he had always compromised it, and the Herd hadn’t come because of that. He could hear people shouting profanities. But they didn’t reach him. What did reach him was a cabbage, though. Right in the head. It wasn’t hard but thrown with enough strength and determination to twist his neck. The guards noticed it. But they didn’t intervene. Fortunately, someone took that moment to make an announcement. Ishgol, the famous Ishgol, the only one who ever rejected a horse. He must have left the council meeting early because he seemed drunk already. He stood on top of a pile of barrels and proposed a toast. “To the first Vandrainor of the Season!”, he said, his words slurred, his footing uneven. The people roared. They didn’t know.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

And while they cheered: “Vandrainor! Vandrainor! Vandrainor!”, the first Vandrainor of the season was led out of his hometown. He was not to return for seven years, and if he did then, there would be a punishment waiting for him.

The guards left him outside the gate. Without a single glance back, they just turned around and walked away. People, who had seen him grow up. People, whose children had been his friends or enemies or rivals. Ironically, he was the one, looking back. So he saw the man coming up behind him. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a scarf obscured his features. Strange enough. It was warm.

”Father”, Kirdain said. He was not afraid. He was just numb. As if everything that defined him was somewhere else. Behind, or perhaps ahead of him?

Telorim Shoemaker didn’t take off the scarf or the scowl. He didn’t touch his son, nor did he hit him. He reached out, a satchel in his hand.

“Here”, he said. “It was your grandfather’s, you should have gotten it when you took over the shop.”

Kirdain shook his head. “Keep it”, he said. “Keep it for Barba. She will take over the shop.” ”You should have it. It is important for the family, important for me. It could help you.”

”A shoemaker’s tool? Father”, Kirdain said, and suddenly, he straightened. Drew himself up to his — not very impressive — height. “I might be scared, I might be unworthy, but I am not pathetic. Keep your poison. Let me go. Focus on Barba.”

Telorim’s face was unreadable. Kirdain had never known how to interpret his father. “She will be okay. They will be okay.”

Kirdain winced. For a second, he thought about punching the man. Hard in the face. But Telorim was faster. He turned around and left. Kirdain watched his father’s back disappear into the city.

Barba would be okay. And his mother? At the end, Telorim loved her. He loved her more than he hated her. No harm would come to her. Not from the council’s table, anyway.

And for the moment, that was enough. Because it was the only thing he could do.

He stood for a while. Hoping. He knew whom he was hoping for. But none of them came. No one came.

The city celebrated. Celebrated a hero they would soon condemn.

Tragic.

His grandfather would have appreciated the irony. But the old bastard was long gone and rotten. He wouldn’t come to say goodbye, either.

So Kirdain turned away. Away from the city, away from his family, away from his friends. Away from the world he knew. Away from pain, away from shame. Away from his shackles. For a second, he considered that he could just walk away. Wherever he wanted to. How would they ever find out? They might just assume that he hadn’t made it there alive. Roads were dangerous for all he cared, for all they cared.

But his feet dragged him onto a foretold path, a path towards the northern skirts of the forest. And there, between heather and hemlock, on a clearing, she waited for him.

A young pinto, white and chestnut brown, warm black eyes. The most beautiful being he had ever seen.

He hugged her, and she nestled close to him. As close as possible. She patted his shoulder, huffed, sniffed. When she noticed his bleeding hand, she blew on it, and the cut disappeared. She licked his hand. He smiled.

He would never be alone again. Not in the same way.

She led him away to a path. People were waiting, horses, a wagon. And humans, he thought. Their faces were obscured by the sunlight, but he could hear them just well.

“Welcome, Atela. Welcome Kirdain. Welcome to the Vandrainor.”

Inia watched her older sister giving birth knowing, that she would not die.

It was messy. She had already shitted and pissed herself, she was screaming and swearing. Sweat and blood were a theme: Her husband’s hand was bloody from her scratches.

But she would not die.

No woman of their standing would ever die in child bed. Nor would their child. If they made it out of the womb alive, they lived. If they died inside, too bad.

But never would they take their mother.

A common woman might die, or an unprepared one. But noble ladies were never unprepared, they always knew. So they had the best midwives to help deliver, the best doctors, the best medicine. But in truth, it was the conjuress and her pack of mice that kept her alive at the end.

Inia looked at the young woman with polite interest. She wore the expression of professional neutrality, but her pale skin gave her away. She was already fighting for the lady’s life. The head wasn’t out yet, and they had been here for almost two days.

But her sister wouldn’t die.

And so Inia waited, and watched and hoped for a girl while her sister did the opposite. Because girls might die in childbed.

Inia watched one of the mice drop dead. The whole posse had been well-fed and energetic when the labor had begun. But now they were slow, huddled close together, and looked thinner. The dead one looked starved. The conjuress sweated.

Inia didn’t know how it worked exactly, but she knew that the conjuress’s mind was connected to her sister’s life energy. She could feel how weak or strong she was, and she extracted energy from the mice and gave it to her sister or something along the lines of that. Inia didn’t know a lot about magic.

But she wanted to know. To learn. She wanted to learn everything there was. To understand, to help, to fight, to heal. Her fingers touched her cheek underneath her veil. She wanted to. So while her sister hoped for a boy, heir to the title of Lord Orniad and seventeenth in line to the Night lands throne, Inia hoped for a girl. A girl to set her free.

And she hated herself for it. But not enough to not make a face, when blood finally came, and with it the child, and the cord was cut and the midwife exclaimed: “A boy!”

She didn’t feel like celebrating.

Her gaze fell upon the conjuress. All of her mice were dead.

She left. They would tell her the color of his hair later, but she knew already. And she didn’t care.

The mountains were beautiful this time of day. Even here, the peaks were touched by the sun. Even here.

She stood on top of one of them — Baragnak had it been called in the Old Days. Before Twospirits or anything alike came along.

She stood and looked farther than anyone could do.

She saw, and her heart ached, so she turned away. Away from the world and toward the island. Her heartbeat sped up, and a tear fell on her amethyst skin.

Soon, oh so soon.

It was time. And she had seen the threads of fate. They had started to envelop people once again. She had seen them. The only question was would they make it this time? A tedious question, one she would not answer. They either would or they would not.

She would wait. As she always did.

She sighed, and turned back to the world, and looked and searched for splinters of tears.