‘Adonai of the Ben-Elim, I judge you guilty of breaking our Holy Lore,’ Israfil cried out as he raised his sword, ‘and in judgement I take your wings.’ The sword sliced down, a sound like soft wood splitting, an explosion of white feathers as the wings were sheared away, followed by a piercing scream, ringing out, another heaped upon another, seeming to Riv that they would never end, fading slowly to a piteous whimper as Adonai slumped in the grip of the Ben-Elim to either side of him. His two white wings lay in the dirt, speckled with crimson as blood pumped sluggishly from the two stumps upon his back.

Israfil and the Ben-Elim guards stared down at Adonai. Riv glimpsed a ripple of emotion on Kol’s face, something between pity and shame.

Israfil turned to Estel.

To Riv’s surprise the woman did not cry or whimper, but instead stood and returned Israfil’s gaze with a silent courage.

Like a White-Wing, Riv thought.

‘You, Estel ap Toril, are stripped of your rank and position in the White-Wings. You are banished, from this moment forth, from Drassil and the Land of the Faithful. You have two moons allotted to you to vacate this realm, after which, if you are discovered within our borders, you will be executed without trial.’

He glared down upon her, his sword still dripping with Adonai’s blood.

A white feather drifted down to the ground between them.

He stepped forwards and grabbed the White-Wing emblem sewn upon the shoulder of her training vest, ripped it off and threw it to the stone floor.

‘Do you understand your punishment?’ Israfil said.

Estel did not answer, just stared at Israfil.

‘Estel ap Toril, do you understand your punishment?’ Israfil repeated, quieter, yet more terrifying.

‘I do,’ Estel said, bowing her head, a sob rippling through her, quickly controlled.

‘Get them out of my sight,’ Israfil snarled and strode from the Great Hall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: DREM

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

DREM

Drem opened the door, looking out and along the track that led to their hold. Riders were approaching. Lots of them.

‘Da,’ Drem said, stepping out onto the porch. His da followed, moved in front of him, wrapping a cloak about his shoulders and slipping the Starstone Sword inside it.

Riders cantered into their courtyard, ten, twelve, sixteen men, more still coming. Drem felt a leaden weight shift in his belly, because he recognized some amongst them. The man at their head was shaven-haired and had a scar running from mouth to jaw, and behind him rode a man with a wispy red beard. He had a new bruise that covered half his face, one eye purpled and swollen.

Has he been fighting someone else?