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Again, the deep thumps sound, rhythmic, penetrating the cavity of my chest.
I pull on a leather boot, muttering in frustration when I can’t find the other. Casting my eyes around the room, they fall on the pair laying in a heap against the far wall. Exactly where Rhun threw them.
The gnawing feeling intensifies.
As the drums continue to rattle my brain, I locate my other boot and complete the ensemble, holding my breath to keep all the wounds and regrets at bay.
Without giving another moment to this ghostly place, I bound down the stairs and out the door, leaving that trap of memory behind me.
No one my age or younger has any experience with the custom of Privotus Vimorteth. I remember the lessons I endured on it now. It states that any person may challenge the current Foremost to ritualistic combat for dominance and wrest control of the Vale at any time. The ceremony has not taken place since my father claimed the title nineteen years ago. That no one has bothered to invoke the rite since says much about his strength and character. The only reason I know anything about it is because my ancient tutor grilled me on every facet of the histories of the Foremost and every ceremony related to the position.
The rules maintain that if the challenger comes out the victor, all embodiments of status will be conferred from the Foremost family to them, including their home. But if the challenger is not successful, the Foremost can decide to issue the command of banishment, or death.
It explains why no one is eager to overthrow the Foremost—especially a man as formidable as Dravek.
The Reckoning Grounds have been transformed for the occasion. I may not have personal experience with Privotus Vimorteth, but there are plenty who do. Banners the color of dried blood hang at intervals around the clearing on long wooden poles, a sola bone suspended between every few of them. Valefolk in their best garb stand shoulder to shoulder around a smaller area forming a half circle, delineated by normal animal bones pushed into the hard earth. Six enormous drums are placed along the north line, with six identically clad women swinging long mallets in perfect unison.
Do they get together for weekly practices?The thought bubbles up a laugh in my throat, and I have to work to keep it in. Ridiculous to find humor at a moment that could bring death and ruin to my family.
Or freedom.
Another thought I fight to push aside. But it won’t budge. If no one was to challenge my father, he would be allowed to pass on the responsibilities of the Foremost to his firstborn before he became too brittle to fight back.
A role I have no desire to play.
Maybe this is a good thing,I think.Maybe Myrzeth will win.Noxious guilt seeps through my skin the moment the words flick through my mind. Even though he’s a tyrant, I can’t wish ill on my father.
My brothers stand at my side, like they did at the first ceremony when the solas returned. Unlike last time, my mother is with us. Gone are the featherweight fabrics, the golden designs on her face, the elaborate hairdo. Robed in a modest frock with her simple blond plait draped across her shoulder, she clutches my brothers to her sides, her unadorned arms locking them in fiercely, protectively.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
Drumbeats fill the clearing incessantly, bending every breath, every pump of every heart to their pulse. The moment I think my body might fail under this unnatural rhythm, the drummers withhold their mallets. I swear I can hear all Utsanek take a collective breath.
The time has come.
My father steps into view between the centermost drummers, once again draped in his fur robe the hue of midnight. He walks into the core of the clearing, followed closely by his most trusted man, Krandel. When my father undoes the clasp of the cloak from his throat and lets it fall, Krandel lurches forward to catch it. As he wraps it up in his arms and bows out of sight, a look of barely contained revulsion swims across his features.
Spinning around to assess the gathering, my father raises his arms and reveals the intimidating broadsword sheathed at his side. There’s no question what tactic he will take in the fight. Deadly force.
“And where is my would-be challenger? Has he crawled back into the slimy pit from which he emerged?”
When my father makes a joke—albeit a macabre one—he is used to at least some form of reciprocation. But the attitude toward him has shifted. Not one person laughs or grunts in return.
He hides his alarm well, but there is a subtle tilt to his head, a tightening of his fingers. Neither are good signs.
The people on the other side of the clearing part, and Myrzeth steps into view. My nails bite into the flesh of my palms as I watch a young woman trailing him. The jaunt to her step and the position of her chin communicate her infatuation with Myrzeth. And the spotlight.
Ketra, what have you gotten yourself into?
Father’s opponent does not wear any frivolous garb, and there isn’t a weapon anywhere on him. Instead, he holds his time-worn book up in front of him, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I can feel my father’s patience wearing thin, even from fifty feet away.
“How good of you to show up,” Father bows in mock respect, “to your own challenge.”
Only then does Myrzeth look up from his page. He holds a finger in his place, obviously enjoying the reaction he can provoke in the Foremost. He snaps the tome shut and places it tenderly in Ketra’s hands. I feel sick as I watch her plant a passionate kiss on his lips before sauntering to the sidelines.
The newcomer faces my father again. “Well, then. Shall we get this over with?”
