Worry about making the grueling journey in the coming darkness lapped at Wrena’s mind like the waves on the beach in front of her. They had left their torches in the cave since they’d need both of their hands to climb the Path, but clouds concealed the last light of the day and the shadow of night was crawling forward above her. Salt of the frigid seawater bit into her palm, and she couldn’t help the whimper that escaped as Lori scraped out the unwanted stony guests embedded in them. He was calm and reassuring in his words, but worked as efficiently—and brutally—as he could. After the last of the debris was freed from her palms, she braced herself for a return of the blinding pain of salt and ice in her raw wounds. With strong and steady hands, Lori tore in half the linen cloth that had housed the salted meat and wrapped each piece around her hands. The rain had lessened as the tempest of the storm moved east past the cliffs.

  “You ready for Path of Pain round two?” he asked her.

  “I’m going to require about twenty lemon cakes when this is through.”

  “Too bad the kitchens will be closed to us. You’ll have to ask Big Ubba if he sneaked any out for his midnight treat. He might be willing to part with one if you ask nicely.”

  “Bloody hells, I completely forgot they were to be closed!” Wrena groaned. Her stomach was a knot of pain from hunger. She stuck a chunk of the barely edible leathery meat back in her mouth in a feeble attempt to sate it.

  Shouts sounded down the shore, and orbs of red light danced in the air as if by magic of the forgotten gods. A breath of wind brought the words of the next shout to her—they were calling her and Lori’s name. Curious. Her lord father would not send his men to come looking for his daughter and ward who were to be facing their punishment.

  “Are they calling for us?” Lori said, as confused as she was at the prospect.

  “Our names are on their lips, so I would assume so,” she replied.

  She and Lori called out to the Stillhour men and jogged to reach them. Her blisters were on fire with each pound of her foot on the wet beach, yet she persisted. They reached the party, and the light of the torches they carried revealed House Stillhour’s honor guard captain, Kerrik, and three of his men. Relief flooded Kerrik’s face as he took in the two.

  “Thank the gods you both are in one piece,” he said. “We worried we’d find your bodies smashed against the rocks.”

  “We’re quite well and chipper, Kerrik. We were just out for a stroll, enjoying the lovely westlands weather,” Lori said.

  Kerrik leveled a bored look at Lori. The captain’s woolen black cloak with a collar of sable pelts blew in the wind, forming against the left side of his broad and combat-honed body. Gold trim lined the thickly padded black gambeson he wore above his tunic and trousers, displaying the colors of their house. His shoulder-length hair matched the umber pitch of his eyes, which held the flame of the torch dancing in the wind. The women of Westermin, Neta most of all, fawned over the beauty of the hulking young captain. If she had to listen to Neta talk of his ‘glistening muscles’ on one more occasion, she would cut off her own ears. Wrena preferred the beauty of the blade sheathed at his hip, Honor’s Kiss. While it was no Heritage Blade, the steel sang sweetly nevertheless.

  “Right. Well, all the same, I’m happy you’re both unharmed,” Kerrick said.

  “What brings you to the shores, Kerrick?” Wrena asked. “Father knew we were out here. He sent us, after all.”

  “Aye, and he’s the one who sent us, my lady. He saw the rising storm on the horizon, and when you did not return before dusk, he feared the worst. We are to locate you and bring you back to the keep.”

  A crease formed between Wrena’s eyebrows. She had no illusions that her father cared greatly for her safety, but he was not one to intrude on the course of a sentence. Heat burned in her chest. She went to clench her fist but sucked in a breath at the sharpness of pain of the movement. The presence of the house guards aggravated her. If it were Wes and Lori, her father would not have sent for them and trust that the lads would make their way back hale, if not a bit wet and worse for wear.

  “You have my thanks, Kerrik. But I will be making the journey back to the keep. Unassisted.”

  Lori shuffled his feet in the sand and chose to admire the waves.

  “My lady, you needn’t take the Path back up. We will escort you back to the grounds from the southern trails. You look…weathered, lady,” Kerrik said. His men stood like the stone ancestors of their crypt behind him, following Lori’s path of uninvolvement in the matter.

  “I’ll not take the quite literal easy way out. My lord father bade I climb the Path of Pain, and I would be glad to complete my sentence." She lifted her chin.

  “Wrena…” Lori hesitated. He leaned down to her ear and spoke in a low tone. “Your hands. This would not be cheating your punishment. You’ve suffered, it’s done.”

  “It’ll be done when I reach the top of the Path. Go with them, if you wish,” she said to Lori. She turned to face the guards. “Thank you all for searching for us, you may return back to the castle and inform my lord father that I’m alive and in one piece and will return as quickly as I’m able to climb.”

  With that, Wrena turned on her heels and hiked back down the beach towards her hands’ gallows. She sent a prayer up to the known and forgotten gods she would still be able to wield a sword after this. Behind her, Kerrik cursed under his breath, then ordered his men to find the other search parties and return to Westermin to inform Lord Terryn that he would be accompanying lady Wrena up the Path at her behest. A single, dull thump on leather was heard as Wrena continued her march ahead of them.

  “Welcome to the party, Kerrik,” Lori said. “How long has it been since you’ve tread the pass?”

  “Long enough,” the captain muttered.

  “Fear not. I’m sure it’s only slightly worse than you remember. And in the dark, no less? We may have to have you in the rear.”

  “And why’s that, little lordling.”

  “Well, I don’t know that Lord Terryn would be too pleased if his daughter returned home covered in his Captain of the Guard’s shit,” Lori said. The remark made Wrena suppress a laugh. Typical Lori to transfer her soreness to another with such ease.

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  “To the Stranger’s hells with you, boy,” Kerrik said.

  “Aye, I’ll be right there with you in a few minutes.”

  Wrena didn’t need to see Lori’s face to know that he had that grin he got on his face when he ruffled the captain’s feathers. Lori viewed Kerrik as his sole competition in Westermin for the attention of its ladies. Unfortunately for him, there really wasn’t much of a competition—the captain was four years his senior, held a prestigious position in the ruling house of the West, and had double the beauty. But people did say Lori was handsome, and where Kerrik faltered in his charm, however, Lori excelled. That seemed to be enough for a good portion of the women in their grounds, for he had no shortage of admirers.

  Wrena’s neck craned upward to look at the beginning of the Path. It was six feet up on a ledge that was surrounded by smooth rock with no handholds. It required the climber to begin with a leap. This damnable path was cursed. All of her weight would be on her ruined hands holding her while she attempted to right herself. She stared at it as if that would change its course. Kerrik and Lori stood patiently behind. No doubt awaiting her concession to the stupidity of her own stubbornness. They would be there until the cliffs fell to the earth before she did that. She rallied the spirit of her father’s wild-hearted daughter and jumped. Fire shot into her hands and sent spiked currents up her arms as she dangled there. Her vision turned dark at the force of it. To be rid of the fog, she shook her head, then swung her left leg up near the side of her left hand on the ledge and pushed up on all three limbs with every ounce remaining of her strength, rolling to her back once mostly crested. Dark blue clouds swam in her vision, accompanied by the stars of starvation and blood loss. She worried she would faint if she tried to sit up. This was a stupid, stupid decision she had trapped herself in.

  “Are you well up there, my lady?” the captain asked.

  “Aye,” she managed. Gods, even her voice sounded weak.

  “It’s not too late to turn back and head for the southern trails.”

  “You truly don’t know her at all,” Lori said.

  She heard flesh meet stone and a grunt of effort, and then Lori was sitting with his legs over the ledge next to where she lay.

  “He’s right, you know. Much as I loathe to admit it. What he’s not saying is that your current state of hunger, loss of blood, and fatigue could cost you your life,” he said. “Your life is more valuable than a point made, little harpy.”

  “What honor is there in forfeiting when the journey grows difficult, Lori?”

  “Honor is not always worth the price.”

  “Then what reason is there to live? To become a knight if I would choose the well-traveled road over the road that may lead to pain and loss, but a stouter heart? Ser Henmyre the Honorable wouldn’t shy away from his duty—from his sentence. So why must that be demanded of me?” she said. A tear slipped down the side of her face as she stared up at the night sky, though she knew not from where in her heart it came. Whether it be anger, sadness, pain, or weariness—it was all tangled in a giant knot inside her chest.

  “Let me rephrase; honor is not worth the price when the only person affected by the deed is yourself, and the cost outweighs the lesson learned. Ser Eviyn taught me that,” he said. “I won’t claim to know honor as a friend yet, but I have known men who do. Your lord father is one. I’m sure if he were here, he would tell you this price is too steep for a girl of twelve with the wild spirit of the West in her and a Sandwalking Sword yet to meet.

  “I won’t demand you turn back. I’ll stay with you the entire journey if you decide to make it. The choice is yours, Wrena.”

  Lori’s gentle words rattled around in the fog of Wrena’s mind. She did not have enough energy to consider her choices for the hundredth time that day. This never-ending day. A day of light-hearted adventure, then of terror and duty, of excitement and triumph, of pain and punishment, and of choices. So many bloody choices. Her mind turned to the stories of Ser Henmyre the Honorable, a knight long passed and hero of the known ages of Ileth. He had chosen his honor over his own life. Pryzn’Raa the Usurper had taken his head for refusing his sword to the bastard king, which ushered in the tide that later brought the usurper’s death at the hand of Ser Drydin, the Sandwalking Sword of Rhone. Many claimed that the choice of death over bending the knee had been simple for Ser Henmyre—that he was steadfast to the end, never wavering. Wrena now doubted that claim when faced with a choice that was not nearly so harrowing as his.

  I choose honor, she thought. I will always choose honor.

  Wrena sat up and let the lightness of her head pass. With as much strength as she could gather, she pushed herself to her feet and shared her decision aloud. Lori held a strange look in his eyes, one that she had not ever seen shine there. It looked like disappointment. In a blink, it vanished, replaced by acceptance and of being stalwart in his promise to accompany her. Her own found the next outcrop of the path she needed to reach. She leapt into the air. The burning and stabbing of her raw and weeping wounds amplified to extraordinary levels as they met the bite of its edge. Her sight was black the next moment. Her fingers slipped from the shelf. She heard a shout and felt the slam of her body into another. White-hot pain burst across her skull. Every remaining sense joined her vision in its retreat, and her world faded to nothing.

  ?

  She was floating. Bouncing and floating. Wool scratched her right cheek, and a chilled wind kissed her left. She was in the arms of Kerrik, Wrena realized, as he strode back to the keep. She felt so small in them. Like he could crush her if only he brought them together. The idea of it sent her heart racing, and she shifted as if to ground herself. It appeared those glistening muscles were for more than show, for she could not wrest free from his grip.

  “You may let me down, now,” she tried. “I’m fine.”

  “All due respect, my lady, but no,” the captain replied.

  She wanted to thrash and pound on his chest, but her hands and head throbbed with heartbeats of their own in a violent rhythmic pain. Neta would be swooning if she were in her stead, feverish with delight at the prospect of being a damsel in distress in the arms of the dashing captain like the tales of old. Did all women enjoy feeling so fragile? The thoughts of the curse of girlhood persisted as she lay begrudgingly in Kerrik’s arms.

  Westermin came into view, and her eyes felt like stone doors. Exhaustion took charge of her, and she fought to keep her lids open as she looked on at her home. Moss painted the grey stone in verdant splendor of the walls that towered so high above as if to greet the clouds surrounding the grounds. The sentinels on the wall and in the watchtowers of the western gate yelled commands to open the gates. She wished to walk through the gates on her own legs, head held high, but her eyes were so heavy. It was warm here, cradled in strong arms against a sturdy chest. With startling clarity, she understood what she felt was safety. She had never known such palpable fear and panic as she had today. The realm was bigger, more cruel, than the one she had been a child in only the day before. And it was a jarring discovery.

  “Wrena!” A frantic shout came from the other end of the grounds, and she swivelled her neck to look for the source. Her lady mother ran up to her, her lord father and the twins not far in stride behind her.

  “Oh, my girl,” her lady mother said. The soft angles of her face held relief, but a weariness as she took in her daughter bundled in the captain’s arms. “Wes, fetch Vitasan Marsun and bid him to meet us in her chambers. Be quick about it, please.” Her brother took off running back to the keep.

  “It’s not so bad,” Wrena murmured.

  “You look terrible, Wrena…gods, your head.” Neta lifted a shaky hand to her mouth as Kerrik continued past where she had stopped in place.

  She had lost sight of her father, for which she was glad. She bit her lip to stop the tears that wet her eyes as she thought of facing his disappointment in her. She’d not proven herself worthy of a sword today. She prayed he would not change his mind on the sandwalker.

  Wrena’s fatigue overwhelmed her. What little energy she had found upon regaining consciousness fled her. The hand of the maiden reached down from the unknown realms and closed the stone doors of her eyes. She drifted into darkness in the captain’s arms and did not rise again that night.