After the excitement and anticipation, she found that it a relief to be moving at last. She resisted the urge to sprint ahead with the leaders, settling instead into an easy stride as her boots pounded over packed dirt. The first part of the course followed the road that ran east from the village gate, rising slightly through a patchwork of fields for perhaps half a mile until it entered a wide band of trees. Once inside the wood, the road ran steeply down until it crossed a river by a broad, rocky ford. Yet the running course, she knew, did not cross the ford but rather turned aside to the right, following a path that wound its way along the near bank of the river. The path was narrow and rough, crisscrossed by roots and low-hanging branches. There was no possibility of passing another runner along its length; she knew from long experience that it was better to push hard on the first, open section of the course rather than risk being caught behind a slower runner in the woods.

By the time they were halfway to the trees, the pack had strung out. A leading group of three – Miriel could not see for certain from behind who they were, though she thought Meren was among them – was followed by another close behind. Tall, but not gangly as many of the taller youths were, his dark hair cut short – Calen, she realized with a start. She was perhaps twenty yards behind him, and she heard the footsteps of others close on her heels. Best just to hold for now – even if I could catch him, it's too early to spend so much effort. The road rose more steeply in the last furlong before the woods, and the footsteps behind her faded away. Her lips curved in a brief, tight smile of satisfaction.

Though her breath was now coming in deep, rhythmic gasps, she did not slacken her pace, pushing hard up the last slope in anticipation of a slight rest on the downhill. Once under the welcome shade of the trees, she let her legs go, striding loosely on the bare edge of control, down the slope to the river. She slowed a little to make the turn onto the path, Calen now out sight ahead of her. Careful now – the last thing you need now is a fall. She shortened her stride and kept her eyes fixed on the ground ahead, cautious of the many roots and rocks that cluttered the path. So intent was she on the placement of her own feet that she almost ran right into Calen.

He was leaning against a tree, left side covered with bits of dirt and leaf.

"You all right?" she gasped.

He nodded and waved her away. "Go on…ankle just…hurts a bit…"

Her eyes narrowed in sudden concern. "Can you put weight on it?"

He took an experimental step. His breath hissed through his teeth, and his face tightened in pain, but then he took another step, and another. Sudden pounding of feet on the trail, and she and Calen stepped aside to let the runners pass. They slowed a little but did not stop, soon vanishing into the trees. As soon as they had passed, Calen gestured her to follow them.

"I'm fine," he said sharply.

"I'll see you walk first," she countered.

He flashed her a look of mingled anger and shame, but he stepped back out onto the trail and began a tentative, limping jog. She followed, watching with approval as the limp gradually lessened and he picked up his pace. Before long, they reached the point where the path turned away from the stream, climbing steeply up and then breaking out of the trees into open pasture. The village clearly in sight, though still far ahead, Miriel opened her stride, meaning to pass Calen and make up at least some of her lost time. She could hear other runners laboring up the hill behind her, and she had no desire to be passed again. He can make it from here on his own. But when she drew level with him, he put on a sudden burst of speed and refused to let her pass. She countered with a surge of her own, which he matched, and when she glanced briefly at him, she saw a hint of a smile on his pale face. Despite her labored breathing and aching legs, she found herself smiling as well. If you want to race, I'll race. Matching each other stride for stride, they pounded over the rough ground, around rocks and rabbit holes as the village walls drew nearer. Up the last slope, onto the road, and then a final dead sprint to the gate – at the last, she managed to pull away from him a little, the pounding on hard dirt too much for his injured ankle. He passed through the gate only a few moments after she did. Once through, he halted abruptly, bent over and gasping for breath, weight mostly on his good leg. Once she had regained her own wind a bit, she walked over to him.

"You should see the healers."

"No. That is…not necessary." He straightened with an effort, his face tightening almost imperceptibly at the increased pressure on his ankle.

"It is, if you don't want to hurt it even worse when you're sparring," she said, in a tone that would brook no dissent. "Come."

He glared, but followed her to where Arondir stood, a little behind the gate, keeping a watchful eye on the recovering runners. She bowed respectfully to the Armsmaster and forced her voice steady despite her still-pounding heart.

"Master, Calen fell and injured his ankle in the woods. He needs to see a healer."

Arondir turned a piercing gaze on Calen. "Can you not speak for yourself, boy? Is this true?"

"Yes, Master," said Calen sullenly.

"Very well. Come with me." Without a backward glance, he strode off toward the Hall. Calen flashed Miriel an unreadable look and then limped after him.

"What happened, Mir?" Wrapped in her own thoughts, she almost jumped at Meren's voice behind her. She turned to find him watching her a bit warily, concern plain on his face. "I didn't expect you to be so far back, and Lain said he passed you in the woods."

She grunted. "I'm fine. Calen tripped and hurt his ankle. I stopped to make sure he was all right." Even as she said the words, it began to occur to her that she had been foolish. And if you had not stopped, what then? Even if he had broken something, been unable to walk on his own, Faelon would have sent riders out for him as soon as you returned. There was no need to risk your own run. She flushed with irritation and hoped it was not visible on her already heated face. Well, what's done is done. We both passed; that's all that matters.

The final runners were now coming through the gate. Hannas was the last; bare seconds after she stumbled in, the bell rang again to signal the end of the allotted time. After giving the late finishers a short time to recover, Faelon gathered them all around him with a brusque, "Over here, and be quick about it."

As they stood before him, flushed and sweating, some still trembling a little with exertion, he looked them up and down narrowly before giving a short, sharp nod. "At least we've not lost any yet. Better than some years. Any other injuries?" His eyes flicked to Calen as he spoke. Silence, and so after a moment he raised his eyebrows and said, "Very well. Come with me."

Again they followed him at a jog out through the gate, but now he turned to the right, skirting the wall for a quarter circuit until they reached the large open field that Rangers and villagers alike used for riding practice and training horses. The field was now scattered with obstacles, from low benches to a waist-high fence rail. Arondir, Silevren, and Astorion stood there, and tethered to the hitching rail beside them were three horses.

They were all steady, even-tempered creatures, Miriel knew, though the largest, a blue-eyed gray mare called Luin…She swallowed hard as memory of the last time she had ridden that horse flashed suddenly through her mind. Late afternoon, coming back from a training ride with Arondir, and they were perhaps a mile from the village when the storm came, sudden and unexpected so early in the season. A thunderclap nearly overhead had startled her, and she jerked the reins. Luin had reared and thrown her, and then bolted off home. I was lucky to escape with nothing injured but my pride. Perhaps she doesn't remember…not likely. Perhaps I'll be assigned another horse…also not likely. She grimaced. Wouldn't it be like Arondir to give me Luin, just to see what I do?

Miriel listened carefully to Faelon's instructions, for unlike the run, the layout of the riding course varied from year to year.

"You'll mount up over there," he pointed to the edge of the field nearest the horses, "and walk to that first white pole, then trot to the far side of the field, turn around, and gallop back. Turn again, clear all four rails," he waved his hand towards a series of obstacles of increasing height strewn in an irregular line in the center of the field, "and then weave around the poles to end where you started. Silevren will demonstrate."

All eyes turned to Silevren then, as she mounted Luin in a single swift motion and set off across the field. Though Miriel's heart was pounding in anticipation, she could not help the small smile of pure joy that briefly crossed her face as she watched Silevren maneuver through the course with sinuous grace. Yet the smile vanished the moment Silevren dismounted. As Miriel had expected and feared, Arondir motioned her over to the gray.

A quirk of his lips told her that he guessed her thoughts; his words left her in no doubt at all. "Try and stay on the horse this time, will you?" he said in an undertone, as he handed her the reins.

She glared at him and could not entirely keep the irritation from her voice as she replied, "Yes, sir. I will try, sir."

In other circumstances, such a reply made in such a tone would have garnered her a severe dressing-down, if nothing worse. But Arondir only chuckled. "I've no doubt you will. You'll ride third – stay here until the second rider has returned and Faelon signals you."

Miriel did as she was bidden, stroking the horse's neck quietly as she watched Lain and then a black-haired boy from Ladrengil whose name she did not remember. Neither had any particular trouble, though the boy from Ladrengil only narrowly cleared the highest of the jumps. Luin stood docilely beside her, apparently enjoying the caresses. But as Miriel prepared to mount, the mare tossed her head and whickered, stamping her feet and rolling her eyes in a manner that told Miriel very clearly that she, too, remembered their last ride.

"Hush now," Miriel soothed, trying desperately to keep the tension that thrummed through her out of her voice. "There's no storm today, just a few jumps and some quick footwork. I'll not hurt you again, eh?" Still speaking softly, she put her foot in the stirrup and swung smoothly up. The horse paced a bit but seemed willing enough to follow direction. Once she was sure of her seat and reins, Miriel turned to look at Faelon. The Master raised his hand, and Miriel clicked and gently squeezed her heels into Luin's flanks. For a heart-stopping moment, the horse balked, but then abruptly she gave way and started forward. "Good girl," murmured Miriel, patting the strong, rough neck with her free hand. Luin arched a little into the touch, and Miriel almost smiled. Forgiven me, have you?

That difficulty over, Miriel had nothing more to fear from the course. Though it was not exactly the same, it was close enough to those Arondir had made them ride dozens of times in practice. She allowed herself to relax a bit and enjoy the feel of the powerful horse beneath her, lifting easily over the jumps and dodging nimbly around the poles. Under the scrutiny of four seasoned Armsmasters, Miriel did her best to ride as Arondir had taught her, guiding the horse with her weight and legs rather than the reins.

Arondir had been most insistent on training his youngsters thus. It had frustrated Miriel to no end at first – The reins work perfectly well; what are they for if I can't use them? – but once she began to learn the mounted use of sword and bow, she quickly came to appreciate the value of having her hands free. She remembered with vivid clarity the first time she had made a successful mounted pass at an archery target – the pounding of hooves, the fierce concentration, the sudden, overpowering thrill of pure joy as it all came together and her arrow thudded home. She had yelled, unthinking, in wild exultation, startling the horse and only narrowly managing to keep her seat. Arondir had chastised her for it afterwards, but his words had flown over and past without leaving a mark. She struggled afterward to explain to Meren exactly how she had felt at the moment of release: "Like everything, my whole mind, my whole body, was fixed on one point, everything in use, nothing wasted, nothing idle – like it was what I was meant to do." Meren had smiled and clapped her on the back, but she could tell he did not understand.

Yet she kept seeking for that place, spending countless hours on the practice field, often alone but for the horse and the birds that fluttered down to peck for worms in the freshly churned earth. She fell, and she missed, and she growled and sometimes even cried in frustration, returning home muddy and sweaty and aching. But over time the falls became less frequent, and she spent less time searching for lost arrows, until at last a day came when she hit the target on three passes in a row – and turned for home to find Arondir standing at the edge of the field, watching with narrowed eyes. How long he had been there, she did not know, and the elation drained from her like water. Has he come to scold me for wearying the horse? For breaking arrows? For…I don't know what, but surely he'll find something. She dismounted and bowed before him, and then straightened to meet his eyes.

He looked at her for a moment, still, assessing. Then he said abruptly, "Here's where you're going wrong, girl."

Ignoring her weariness, he ran her through the drill a dozen times more, calling out corrections over the beat of the horse's hooves. And she tried, truly she did – but her shoulders and back ached from drawing the bow and holding it steady, and her legs ached from gripping the horse, and she was thirsty and hungry. Just let me stop. You've made your point. But of course she could say nothing of the kind. And so she went on, becoming wearier and sloppier, until at last Arondir growled, "One more chance. That's it."

Fury flared in her, and she did not bother to keep it from her face. It is not as if I asked for this. She pulled the horse round and took a deep breath, willing the anger away as she started forward once more. No distractions. No doubts. She barely heard Arondir's voice as he shouted, "Shoulders still. Shoulders still, damn you. " And in the next moment, that voice changed to an exultant whoop as her arrow thudded into the center of the target.

She slowed immediately, brought the horse back around to the target and dismounted, trembling with exhaustion, to pull the arrow. But Arondir was there before her, drawing the shaft from the target with a jerk, sliding it into her quiver, reaching out swiftly to catch her as she stumbled on a clod of earth. She gripped his arm for a moment, breathing hard, her head spinning. Dimly, she heard his voice again, quiet and steady.

"Hard day, eh? But you made it in the end. Calm yourself now, child."

Shame flooded through her, and with it a sudden, irrational urge to weep as the strain seeped away, leaving her empty and shaken. She bowed her head and swallowed hard, gathering the ragged edges of self-control. At last she let go of his arm and looked up, pale but steady, waiting for his judgment.

"Did I push you too hard, then?" he asked quietly.

There was only one answer, and in the brief moment before she replied, she realized through the haze of exhaustion that it was the truth. "No, sir."

He smiled then, a smile of such warmth as she had never seen on his stern face. "Good. Good. I thought not, but – well, let's get you home." Mischief tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're a mess." She gave a hoarse bark of laughter and gathered up the reins.

That day was in her mind as she rode the trial course, and when she came back at last to the marshaling place and dismounted, breathing hard, Arondir gave her a small nod of approval, and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

Two more riders completed the course, and then it was the turn of Hannas, the girl from Gaerferin. Very small indeed she looked beside her horse, a tall bay gelding called Baran. Yet she mounted easily, seeming to slide into the saddle as though some force other than her own limbs had lifted her there. Baran stood silent and still beneath her, neither moving a muscle until at last they started forward on Faelon's signal.

Even before Hannas had cleared the first jump, Miriel recognized in her a rider superior to any of the Elenost youths. Though surely she had never ridden Baran before this day, they seemed as one creature, not master and beast but two parts of a whole, guided by a single will. The watchers saw it too, and a hush fell at the beauty of it. But for the beating of the horse's hooves, it was nearly silent when a sharp cry rang out from the crowd by the wall. A howl, and a mad barking, and then Miriel saw a dog streak out across the dusty field. There was a faint twitch of movement at the edge of the tall grass, out beyond the farthest jump – a rabbit, perhaps, or a squirrel, Miriel thought, half-amused. And then she, along with everyone else in the crowd, gasped in horror as the dog, heedless of all but its prey, ran almost beneath the hooves of the great bay horse as he came down from the final jump. Baran swerved sharply and reared, whinnying in alarm, and Miriel cringed on instinct as she waited for the thump of the rider's body hitting the ground.

But Hannas did not fall. With no effort at all, or so it seemed, she shifted her weight, leaned into the horse's neck as he pawed the air, then back as his hooves came crashing to the ground again, inches from the terrified, cowering dog. The impact startled the creature from its shock; it leapt up and dashed away toward the gate, rabbit forgotten.

Baran paced nervously, tossed his head, shifted from side to side, reluctant to go on. But Hannas patted his neck, spoke soft words to him, and when she tightened the reins and touched her heels to his flanks, he began to move forward. He went slowly at first, but by the time horse and rider reached the agility poles, they were moving as fast as any of the previous pairs. Hannas guided the horse gracefully through the course, and there were more than a few cheers from the crowd when she pulled up at last in front of the judges. Arondir nodded to her, seemingly without emotion, but then his lips parted and he spoke the first words that had been heard from any of the judges since the riding portion of the trial began.

"Well done," he said, and as Hannas dismounted and passed the reins to the next rider, Miriel saw a smile flash across Silevren's face.

Hannas had seemed calm, but when she drew close, joining the small knot of youths who had completed the test, Miriel saw that her hands were shaking.

I would have fallen. She knew it without question, the bitterness of honesty curdling her sympathy for the other girl. And Arondir knows it. We all would have fallen, most likely, except perhaps Lain. She showed us up. She knew it was wrong even as the thought flashed through her mind. She told herself so, forced herself to step up to Hannas and speak kind words to her, forced herself to meet the girl's tentative, almost frightened glance with a reassuring smile. But behind it the bitterness lingered still, and her joy was gone.

When all had completed the riding course, Faelon gathered them up again and led them back at a jog through the gate and to the open space before the Hall where they had begun the day.

"Retrieve your weapons." This time there was no hesitation. There was only panting breath and the scramble of booted feet and the clank of swordbelts as they were buckled on. When all fifteen were once again standing before him, as still and rigid as their heavy breathing would allow, the Master smiled thinly. "You're learning."

The last part of the trial was held in the practice yard. Miriel felt the undertow of tension that had thrummed through her all morning fade a little. She was comfortable here, had spent gods-only-knew how many hours on this dirt, learning to fight with the Ranger's weapons: sword, bow, knife, hands. Only the first two would be tested today, she knew, though the maethorneth trial in a year's time would test all four. Just as well. I wouldn't want to fight Silevren unarmed. Huh. I wouldn't want to fight Silevren at all. But given the choice… And then, a voice that was her own yet not her own: The Wild will give you no choice.

The two sparring circles had been freshly marked in the dirt with white paint; between the two was a neat pile of cloths. Faelon gestured to it, his voice hardly strained at all, though most of the youths around him were breathing hard from running. "Wrap your blades. When you think you are done, hold them out, and I will inspect them." Miriel and the others fairly dove at the pile; none wished to be last. Swords rasped from sheaths, and then for a time there was only quiet, intent concentration. Miriel did as Arondir had taught her, fingers deftly winding round and round, up and back down the shining steel, until a double layer of cloth blunted its edge. She wound the excess around the base of the blade just above the hilt, secured the end so it would not come unfastened no matter how fierce the fight. Then she held her sword out for inspection. Several others had finished as well, and they stood silent, still, waiting.

And waiting. Faelon watched them, expressionless. Miriel's shoulder began to ache. Come on...Come on... She gritted her teeth, tried to still the shaking of her arm, though every muscle in her shoulder and back was on fire. Not until the last straggler had finished and held his sword in front of him did Faelon begin the inspection. He took his time. He ran his hand along every blade, checked each tip for exposed steel, tested the tightness of each binding. When he finished with Lain, who was first in the line, and moved on the second, Lain began to lower his blade. Before it was halfway down, Faelon's voice cut across the stillness. "Up," he snapped, without taking his eyes from the sword in front of him. With a sigh that was not quite a groan, Lain raised his arms. And so they all stood, sweating and shaking, until the last inspection was done. Only then did Faelon say, almost lazily, "Lower your weapons." The hint of a smile, mirthless and cold, lurked at the corners of his lips as he gave directions for the sword test.

Two would test at once, the judges alternating. At a nod from Faelon, Astorion and Silevren stepped into the rings. He pointed left. "Lain." He pointed right. "Calen." And the test began.

Each bout started with the standard sequence of drills and then moved into open combat. At first, Miriel watched Lain and Astorion, both to cheer on her friend and to take the measure of the Master from Gaerferin. Lain was a bit slow, his arms clearly still aching from the prolonged inspection, but his technique was solid, as Miriel had known it would be. Astorion tested him thoroughly, slow at first and then faster, ranging across the circle and back to force Lain to show skill with his feet as well as his sword. When at last the Master's blade caught his thigh and ended the fight, both were sweating in the mid-morning sun. Lain bowed low in defeat and stepped out of the ring to join the others, breathing hard but smiling. "Not bad," said Miriel with a grin, "for a little guy." But Lain did not respond to the jab. He did not look at Miriel at all but past her, to the other ring, where there had yet been no halt in the thudding of padded blades. Following his gaze, she turned – and then she fell silent, and did not even notice that her mouth remained open.

Calen was fighting Silevren. Fighting, not sparring. Not testing. Fighting as though they were two Rangers, swift and skilled and deadly. They lunged and parried in perfect symmetry, their boots scraping on the bare dirt. Though surely they must have been aware of the audience, they did not take their eyes from each other. They were nearly the same size; Calen was perhaps a shade taller, Silevren a bit broader, but near enough as to make no difference. Silevren was the superior; she was as strong as Calen and nearly as quick, and years of experience had made her wily and resourceful. But it became clear also that she was not holding much back, if anything at all. Her blows were hard and fast, and more even than that, there was a tension in her body, a poised intensity Miriel knew well. She had never seen it, she realized with a flash of shame, when she was fighting Silevren. Silevren was always focused, always intent on her task, but this final level of commitment, this devotion of every resource of body and mind: She doesn't need this with me.

Both combatants were breathing hard now, and Calen had slowed noticeably. He was still on the offensive, as he had been for much of the match, but as Miriel watched, she realized that Silevren was letting him do it, almost inviting him on. Miriel smiled; she had seen her do this before. She's letting him waste his strength; soon… soon… And though Calen was her own contemporary, or near enough, and would be her comrade in training, though Silevren would be watching her and judging her, perhaps fighting her, later in the morning, she felt a sudden, intense loyalty to the older woman. She's ours. She's mine. Don't fuck with her.

When at last Silevren struck, the blow came so fast that Miriel hardly saw it. Calen cried out in pain, staggered back and almost fell on his injured ankle. He regained his balance with difficulty, turned to face Silevren. She accepted his bow gravely, but as soon as he straightened, she closed the distance between them, a look of concern on her face. She laid a hand gently on his leg where she had struck him, gestured to his ankle, and though Miriel could not hear the words spoken between them, it was clear Silevren was not pleased by his answers. He nodded, grudgingly, still gasping for breath, and then she smiled, broad and sincere, and clapped him on the back. He bowed once more, less deeply this time, younger to older rather than vanquished to victor, and she turned away to rejoin the judges.

"And that," said Meren, low in her ear, "is how he got on Silevren's good side."

The sword trials ended with no failures and only minor injuries, and nothing half so spectacular as that first fight. Miriel was last to go; sparring with Faelon, she could feel Silevren's eyes on her. She glimpsed her father also in the crowd, heard Andreth's high voice cheering her on, did not allow herself to wonder if her mother was there. She did well, that she knew even before Faelon spoke the single word she had longed to hear: "Pass." She bowed low, her ribs aching from the blow that had ended the match. She was pleased with herself, and pleased even more when Silevren caught her eye and gave her an approving nod. It seemed that she let out a breath then, a breath she had been holding without realizing it since early that morning, and despite the pain, she jogged over almost light-hearted to join the others at the archery targets.

All anxiety faded from her mind as she entered the range. Here she felt at home, and had done since early childhood. Even before she was old enough to begin learning to shoot, she had spent hours sitting just outside the fence, sometimes with Meren, sometimes alone, watching the Rangers at their practice. They called to her, teased her, let her retrieve their arrows, but mostly they ignored her. They ignored her as she watched, ignored her as she imitated their stance, their movements, even their curses of frustration when they missed their marks. They ignored her, and kept their faces down range so she could not see their smiles.

She remembered her first bow. It was small, sized for the proportions of a child, but perfectly functional. Her eyes had widened with shock when Sirhael pulled it out of the sacking that had hidden it inconspicuously in a corner of the kitchen. She had dreamed of such a gift, of course, but she had resigned herself to the reality that little girls received spindles, dolls, and embroidered aprons, not weapons. Yet there it lay in her father's scarred hands, gleaming softly in the firelight. She took it with reverence, her hands trembling a little as she ran her fingers over the smooth wood.

At first, she could not even string it without help. Drawing it took all her slender strength, and for months her shots went wild, the felt-tipped shafts landing everywhere but their intended mark. Yet slowly her strength grew, and control with it. At last there came a day when her father, beckoning to her with a gruff, "Come on, girl," led her to the range. It was late in the afternoon, nearly supper time, and the field was deserted. Without a word, Sirhael drew the padded, child's arrows from the quiver slung across her back. He went to the weapons shed and disappeared inside. When he returned, there was another bundle of arrows clamped in his big hand. His eyes glinted and the hint of a smile curved his lips, but she had eyes only for the arrowheads. Steel. Real.

"And dangerous. These will kill a man, Miriel, if you are accurate." A pause and then, quietly, "They killed your grandfather."

She bit her lip, pulled back her hand that had reached out to grasp the arrows. She looked away from them and up into her father's eyes, deep-shadowed in the fading light. His face was grave, worn and weathered, and child though she was, she could see the memory in it. Quiet and deep, and rough-edged with pain: "These are not toys." And he handed them to her.

She took them, held the smooth, cool shafts in her palm, felt their balance different from those she was accustomed to: heavier in the tip, weighted, dragging at her hand. She clasped them tightly, looked back up at her father. "I know."

He gazed at her a moment longer, then abruptly straightened, and the smile returned. "Good. Now, you fit them to the string much like your training shafts…"

It had been ten years since that day, and her bows had grown with her, as she grew tall and broad-shouldered and strong, and the bow she now drew was a man's bow. No, not a man's. A Ranger's.

Sirhael had given it to her not long before, on the day Arondir had announced the names of those who were to take the trials. She thought afterward that Arondir must have told him beforehand, for he had it ready when she returned home, fairly dancing with anticipation and relief. Not that she had expected to be held back, but it happened often enough to make her anxious, especially as those who were obliged to wait a year were often girls the Master deemed not yet strong enough. But she was not such a one, and when Sirhael saw the joy on her face, he drew her into a fierce hug. Then he stepped back and laid the bow in her hands without a word.

She fingered its curve, tested the leather-wound grip, strung it with a soft gasp of effort and sighted at nothing. And then, very gently, she touched the letters burned with a sharp, hot iron into the wood near the upper nock.

Maloseg.

It was the name he had given her as a child, the ancient name for the yellow gorse that clung to the hills, green even in winter and flowering nearly all the year round. Dangerous to the unwary, with thorns that would rip clothes and skin, still it was valued for the flowers that could be eaten and the light branches that burned quick and hot and grew in the rocky, dry, windswept places where there was no other wood.

Even as she ran her fingers back and forth over the word, her heart too full for speech, he spoke.

"Bright and hard, soft and sharp," he said, quoting the old rhyme, "Flower of rock and life in snow. Fire for the lost, shining in the dark, ever growing where cold winds blow." A pause, and then, quiet force replacing the singsong of verse, "This will take you into the Wild. If you learn its ways and care for it, it will care for you."

She held that bow now, and it rested easily in her hand, nearly as much a part of her as her own limbs. Bodies thronged around her, voices chattered and shouted and laughed, but she was utterly calm. Here is where I am alive.

Meren touched her shoulder; even without looking, she knew it was him, recognized his step and his breath. And so she smiled, though her eyes remained down range. "Don't even say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you were going to say."

"Now that's not fair." He huffed. "I might have been about to say something encouraging, wish you luck—"

"But you weren't."

"—say that if you're really lucky, you might even have a chance of beating me."

"Ah. Yes. That you might have been about to say. Just as well you didn't. You haven't had the best run of luck lately; quit while you're ahead."

"Am I ever ahead? I never seem to get ahead."

"True. Probably because you're a boy. Naturally dim creatures, I thought everyone knew that."

"Who's this 'everyone'? Someone has a high opinion of herself this morning, thinking she's everyone."

Miriel opened her mouth to reply but shut it again as the crowd abruptly hushed. Faelon stepped forward.

"You all know the sequence. Five arrows from the standing position, three kneeling, two lying on the ground, five timed from the standing, five from cover. Twenty in all."

There were no questions; it was a standard test they had all performed many times over, though never before so large an audience. Three targets had been set up, large sacks hard-packed with wheat chaff and painted with concentric circles. So we'll go in groups of three, and then the cover course at the end. Her heart had begun to beat more quickly, though still her hands were steady and her breathing calm.

"Hannas. Dalbarin. Toldir. On the line."

The three named stepped forward.

"String your bows."

They obeyed, and were each handed a full quiver, and the last test began.

Faelon gave the commands, while Astorion and Arondir stood at the far end of the range, though well clear of the targets, ready to score each shooter. Where is Silevren? And then she saw her, off to the side nearest the weapons shed, before her a series of low walls, piled haybales, and one immense gray boulder. Of course. The hardest part, and the last, and it has to be her. She could not have said clearly why this made her uneasy. Astorion was a stranger; Faelon would rule, and could ruin, her life for the next year…yet it was the thought of performing poorly before Silevren that made the pit of her stomach twist with dread.

And she had plenty of time to think about it. The first group completed their course of fire, and Faelon called the second, and then the third, and still she was left waiting. Meren remained as well, and by the time the fourth group was named, she was not surprised that neither of them were in it.

"Saving the best for last, eh?" said Meren, after the fourth group was called to the line.

"Something like that." They both spoke in low voices, and each sensed the other's tension.

"Well, let's give 'em a show then."

She glanced at him, and her lips twisted into a nervous, lopsided grin. But her voice was steady. "We'll do that."

And they did. By the time they stepped forward, together with a thin, pock-faced youth from Rimnost called Valacar, the crowd had begun to shift restlessly. They knew the trial was almost over, and they were hot and tired, impatient to hear the results and move on to the feasting and dancing that were the real point of Midsummer. Miriel's stomach twisted at the thought, for she had eaten nothing since early morning. The spring had come early and warm this year, so the Midsummer feast would be rich, though she remembered years in which there was little enough. And then she remembered the year before, remembered standing in the crowd, remembered watching intently and thinking, Next year at this time… And now it was here. One more.

She stood quietly, bow held loosely in her hand, as Faelon gave the directions. She had heard them now four times before, and of course dozens, perhaps hundreds of times before this day, and so she let them flow past and made her mind still. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Don't think now; do, and think later. And so when Faelon at last stepped back and called out the command to begin, her hands moved on instinct. She hardly even watched where the arrows went, certainly did not rejoice when they struck in an ever-increasing thicket at the center of the target. She counted them in her mind, slowly and without emotion. One… two… three… after five, she went down to one knee, after eight to the ground, by far the most awkward position, and those two arrows edged out a little from the center, though still within the first ring. Only when all ten were gone did she shift her eyes to glance at the boys on either side. Meren was on his last arrow, Valacar just getting to the ground. There was no time limit for the first set, though Miriel knew any who lingered too long would find Faelon suddenly close behind them; he usually said nothing, his mere presence enough to prod the most careful, reluctant shooters to increase their speed. Yet the judges looked more favorably on those who could be both accurate and fast, and Miriel had her pride to protect.

Meren's grouping was nearly as tight as hers, Valacar's only a little wider. But this is easy. Wait. All three finished at last, they rose and dusted themselves off, then stood quietly while Astorion and Arondir scored the arrows and then pulled them free.

"Eleven," called Arondir, standing before Valacar's target, his voice pitched to carry over the crowd. A single arrow of Valacar's had touched the first ring, earning him two points rather than one, and dropping him down in a game where the lowest score won.

"Ten, loose." That was Astorion, for Meren: all arrows within the central circle, but spread out.

And then, after a hushed pause, Arondir's voice again. "Ten, tight."

Miriel acknowledged the clapping and cheers with no more than a slight nod. It was what she had expected, had done many times before, all ten arrows within four fingers-width of each other, clustered on the center of the target. Before, yes, but never with such an audience. She felt her breath catch and her eyes slide sideways… No. Not now. She turned her eyes again down range, and waited for Faelon's voice.

The timed set was done to a slow count of ten. There was a balance to it, for the inclination of the novice was to rush, to fire all five arrows in hasty succession without aiming. And in truth, there was not enough time to aim, not properly at least. The trick was to not have to aim, to have the feel of the bow and the target such that exact aiming was unnecessary. 'You're not shooting the man in the heart,' Arondir would tell them. 'Catch him in the shoulder or the gut or the thigh, and do it again and again, and he'll stop as surely as if the first shot had been perfect.' There was a gift to it, an instinct for it that could not be denied. But it was only long practice that made instinct reliable, that taught hands and arms and eyes exactly how fast they could move and still be close enough. Not perfect; close enough.

It was not perfect, but it was close enough. Faelon's voice seemed dull in her ears, as though they were plugged with wool; louder was the count in her mind, not only numbers now but the entire sequence. Nock… draw… aim… one… nock… draw… aim… two… That was the key, to keep the rhythm steady, not too fast, nor too slow, so that her final arrow thudded into the target at the moment Faelon called out, "Ten. Bows down."

This time, the result was not even close. Meren and Valacar did well enough, better than most of those who had preceded them, and Valacar at least seemed pleased. Even before the scores were announced, he turned to her, smiling. She flushed a little at his forthright praise, said something encouraging and then turned away, back toward Meren, the scores echoing in her mind. 'Nine. Eight. Six.'

Six. She had done it twice before, that was true. But always at the beginning of the day, and never before a tenth as many people. A smile spread irresistibly over her face, and Meren smiled half-heartedly in return. Eight was a decent score, but it was far from his best. He too had once shot a six, earlier in the spring, on the same day Miriel had shot her second. It had been a good day for both of them, and a better night, buoyed by the exhilaration of success. But that had been the last time, she told him in the morning. 'It won't last; we both know that.' He had nodded, reluctantly, and did not protest, and it was just as well, for if he had, she might have given in. No. We don't need the distraction, or the gossip. Best be done with it now. But still the timed set brought memory back to them both.

She took his elbow, on the pretext of moving toward the cover course, said quietly, "Not bad. Don't think about the crowd," and knew the touch would reach him even if the words did not.

He drew a deep breath, let it out and nodded. "I know. This one will be easier – more to think about."

Her answering grin was mostly unforced. "That's the spirit. Now just forget about Silevren…"

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know, pretend she's Arondir. Or your mother."

"She doesn't look a bit like either one of them."

"So don't look at her."

"But she's looking at me. I can feel it."

"What are you, a wizard? You know when someone's looking at you?"

"Well, yes, if I'm being tested and she's the judge."

"So don't think about it."

"You're useless."

"I know. Isn't it fun?"

He snorted and shook his head, but the lines of anxiety had faded from his face.

She did not try to pretend Silevren was not there. Neither did she dwell on it, but it lingered just below the surface of her mind, keyed her up to an alertness she seldom managed but nonetheless recognized at once. This is it. Now. Everything you have.

But not quite now. Meren went first, and then Valacar, while she stood behind the line and watched, and tried to be calm. At last, when Silevren had scored Valacar's arrows and laid them in the box with all the others, she turned to Miriel.

"Ready?" That was all. A single word, flat and calm, as if neither question nor answer concerned her in the least. Yet there was a flash in her eyes as they met Miriel's, and the corners of her lips twitched faintly upward before returning to their impassive line.

Am I ready?

"Yes." To her surprise, her voice was steady despite the pounding of her heart.

"Go."

The cover course was timed with a specially-designed sandglass, marked with gradations of one through ten, the score a combination of accuracy and speed. There was also a requirement to keep behind the various obstacles, for the course was meant to simulate shooting while being shot at. She loved it. Her heart beat fast, and she had to school her face to calm, lest an inappropriate smile draw the wrath of one of the masters. They were all there now, watching the last group make their way through the last part of the trials. And I am the last one. Ha. Saving the best. Bow in hand, quiver smacking against her back, she ran.

The course extended over perhaps a hundred yards, from the road that ran through the center of the village nearly to the wall. As its purpose was to test the ability to perform under strain, the would-be trainees were required first to run to the wall and back, an all-out sprint, before turning once again to meet the first obstacle. Miriel heard the shouting of the crowd loud in her ears as her feet pounded over the packed dirt. So often was the course used for training that no grass grew there, but the ground was in places rough and rutted, where trampled mud had hardened. Yet she hardly spared a thought for the placement of her feet, trusting that eyes and legs would carry her through with the ease of long practice. She slowed, came to a jerking halt as her hand reached out to slap the rough-hewn logs of the wall, her body turning even as she did so, pushing off against the scrubby grass that clung to the sheltered ground at their base and sprinting back toward the start. Her breath came in deep, rhythmic gasps, urgent but very much in control. Returning to the spot where she had begun, she made a wide loop around the starting mark.

Silevren was no longer there. Miriel saw her out of the corner of her eye, standing well off to the side and in line with the first obstacle, for there was one more requirement, along with accuracy and speed. The judge watched each shot, and if she determined that the shooter was not sufficiently covered, she would call out "hit." If she did so, that shot would not count, for it meant that the shooter had exposed himself too much and been wounded by the enemy's arrows. It was a fine balance, for the farther one retreated behind the wall or rock that was safety, the more awkward the shot became.

It depended also on the judge. They tried to be consistent, of course, but it was never perfect, and Miriel and the others had often complained about it in training. Arondir usually ignored it, as he ignored all their complaints, as not worth the effort of answering. But there was a time when his patience snapped. Or perhaps he saw the chance for a further lesson, or perhaps both. Whatever the reason, he rounded on them.

"Not fair? Not fair! I'm sorry, did you expect this to be fair? Did you expect the Wild to be fair? Will your enemy play by the rules of polite competition? Life is not fucking fair!"

Arondir rarely swore. Though he often shouted, in frustration or impatience or simply because it was an Armsmaster's favored mode of communication, there was seldom true anger in his voice. Yet now his breathing was ragged, his face flushed, and Miriel and the others stepped back before the menace of something almost wild in his eyes. He stood for a moment, glaring at them, as they huddled together like frightened rabbits. Then abruptly he closed his eyes, drew a slow breath, let it out. With a clear effort of will, the rigidity left his body, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and hollow.

"The Wild is not fair. It's brutal, underhanded, kicks you when you're down. Beautiful, yes, heartbreakingly beautiful too. But not just nor fair. Skill and wits and experience may even the odds, but chance is as strong as any of them, or stronger. Stand here, and you live. Stand here," he moved perhaps half a foot to the right, "and a rock falling in the mountains cracks your skull and you die. Place your foot here in a fight, and you get under your enemy's guard. Place it here, and you slip on wet leaves and a sword pierces your lung and you die. Drink from this stream, and you are refreshed. Drink from that one, and you vomit and shit out your guts and you die. And you watch your friends die. You watch those you love die, for any reason or none at all, and you think, It could have been me. It should have been me. Why was it not me?"

His voice cracked, just a fraction, but they all heard it, and they shifted uneasily and pretended they had not. His eyes were not on them, but on the wall behind them, or perhaps the treetops visible beyond it, or perhaps on the distant mountains. Or perhaps on things farther away and long past that the naked eye could no longer see.

"But somehow you must go on living. You must not let the anger consume you. So no, it's not fair. Get used to it." The harshness returned with the last words, and he waved his hand roughly in dismissal. "That's enough for today. Go."

After a moment of awkward shuffling and sidelong glances, they went, straggling back to the armory to put away their weapons, and by the time that was done and they moved off toward the smell of the noon meal that drifted from the Hall, they had resumed their usual chatter. But when Miriel chanced to glance back, she saw him still standing there alone, gazing at the mountains.

Though it had been two years and more since that day, she had not forgotten it. Every time she ran the cover course it whispered uneasily in the back of her mind. The Wild is not fair. Your best is good, but it may not be enough. Though there rose still, unbidden, something of the excitement of a child playing at Ranger, the grim memory focused her mind, and she knew this was not a game.

She knew also that she was good at it, and so she took no chances. Her chest heaved as she approached the first obstacle, a shoulder-high wall of sawn boards. She crouched until her head was below the top of the wall, took a moment to steady herself, then eased carefully around the edge and took the shot. She didn't wait to see where it had gone but slung her bow across her shoulders, set her hands on the top of the wall, and jumped. In addition to serving as cover, each obstacle was also a test of agility and strength. She boosted herself up easily, got both feet on top, and then dropped to the dirt on the far side. A moment to regain her balance, and then she was running. The next two obstacles, a long low mound of dirt and a wall with a hole in it that was meant to be a window, gave her little trouble, though shooting from the ground was awkward, and she bit back a curse as her arrow edged wide. It was the last obstacle that she loathed. It was always the same; though the earlier obstacles were occasionally moved or turned or rebuilt in a different way, the large, lichen-spotted gray boulder at the end of the course had stood there for as long as Miriel remembered. It had in all likelihood been there for longer than the village itself, longer than the Dunedain, perhaps clear back to the shaping of this part of the earth. It was half-sunk in the ground but massive still, and it loomed at the end of the course like a door. Come through me, and it is over.

Miriel threw herself flat against the sun-warmed rock. It flared out at the base, which made the shot difficult, for she could not simply stand and use the rock to shield her body as she had with the wall. But here there truly was benefit in being from Elenost, for she had made this shot dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. She curved her body against the curve of the rock, letting the rough stone take some of her weight, moved around the side until she could see the target, and loosed her last arrow. Then she turned, drew a breath, and launched herself at the boulder.

It was steep and taller than her head, and there were few good handholds or footholds. But again from experience, she knew the best way was to jump and let her momentum carry her up and over. So she jumped, and after a moment of breathless scrabbling, she was on top, then sliding down the other side. A cheer greeted her, the last one over the last obstacle, and as she forced her weary legs into the final sprint to the wall, she could not repress the smile that curved her lips. Done. And not bad.

As it turned out, that was an understatement. She knew it would be. Meren and Lain had done well, but her time was nearly as fast as theirs, and her shooting more accurate, so in the end her score edged them both. That was the usual order of their finishes, and though she had felt some apprehension that one of the youths from outside Elenost might turn out to be unusually skilled, she was not really surprised.

They had gathered off to the side, all of them, and they talked more easily to each other now that the worry was over. They called to her as she approached, still breathing hard and clutching her bow, and Meren jogged out to embrace her even before she reached the group. She held him for a moment, smelled his sweat and the dust on his clothes, heard his voice close to her ear.

"Well done, Mir." Quiet and sincere, and relieved.

She pulled back, looked in his eyes. "You, too."

Then he laughed, slung an arm over her shoulders, and together they walked back to the others.


Note: Maloseg - yellow thorn, my entirely-fabricated Elvish word for gorse, bane of many a pair of hiking pants