Karigan stared incredulously at him. “This? This is how you test? This is what you do to your initiates?”

“Every one of us,” Fastion said, “has been through a similar challenge. Of course, this was for the first level. The tests become more interesting as you climb the levels.”

Karigan was too angry to care about levels. “You abduct me and attack me, and don’t let me know what in five hells is going on? With sharpened blades?”

“How could we truly test your ability to respond to a threat? If you knew what was going on without the element of fear, it would have been just another practice yard exercise.”

“You bastards!” she spat. “You git of bloody fekking goats!” She loosed all the curses she had ever learned on the docks of Corsa Harbor, and flung them all at Drent and the encircling Weapons. They showed no reaction, which only incensed her more, and when she finally came to a sputtering end, a pall of silence fell over the chamber and no one moved.

“Well,” someone said finally, “she has passed the test for swearing.”

“She doesn’t need a sword with that sharp tongue,” another replied.

“Five hells.” She tossed the sword aside. It clattered with a resounding echo onto the floor. Flogger took his opportunity to escape and scrambled away.

“That is not how a swordmaster treats a sword,” Drent observed.

That set her off again, with more colorful language. Those assembled did not try to interrupt. They just waited patiently.

“And this?” she demanded, raising her bloody wrist with its numb hand. “This was part of the test?”

“Actually, yes,” Brienne said. She removed the bracer from her right wrist and pulled up her sleeve to reveal a scar on the back of her wrist. The others did likewise.

“You idiots,” Karigan said. “You stupid idiots. Does the king know you do this to your own people?”

“He is a swordmaster,” Fastion replied simply, “of the third order.”

Oh, gods. Karigan suddenly felt exhausted. She thrust her hand in Brienne’s face. “So, what is wrong with my hand? It has no feeling—I can’t wiggle my fingers.”

“A numbing agent that was smeared on my blade before I engaged you,” Brienne replied, “which will also ensure a scar forms. The loss of feeling will wear off in time. A few hours, perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Karigan had an urge to swear again, but she was spent.

Brienne just smiled as enigmatically as an Eletian.

“Does anyone,” Drent began, addressing all who were assembled, “wish to speak against this Rider becoming a swordmaster of the first order?”

No one spoke.

Drent grunted. “So it is done.”

“What is done?” Karigan demanded.

“Congratulations,” he replied, “you passed the test.”

She wanted to sit down, but managed to keep to her feet.

“We deemed you already a swordmaster,” Fastion said, “for past deeds you have performed, most recently your work against the aureas slee. You very likely saved our queen. However, despite the fact we have bypassed previous tests, this final one was required for the sake of tradition, and to formalize your status.”

Brienne produced a length of black silk. “For your sword.”

Karigan took the silk, bemused. It was what marked one as a swordmaster. Besides the slash across the back of her wrist, she thought darkly. At the moment, she just wanted to wrap the silk around someone’s neck and throttle them. Instead, she muttered, “I don’t have a sword.”

“As I recall,” Drent said, “you tossed it on the floor.”

Donal picked it up and handed it to her, hilt first. It did weigh nicely in her hand, but it was a longsword. “This is mine? But it’s not a saber.”

“Of course it’s not a saber,” Drent grumbled. “Sometimes you are very limited in your thinking. Most of us have more than one sword.” He gave her his gargoyle grin. “Many more.”

“Your First Rider,” Brienne said, “had a greatsword and a saber.”

That was all right then, Karigan supposed.

“Look at the etching on the blade.”

Karigan found the sigil of the Weapons, a shield etched and blacked into the blade. She looked up questioningly.

“You have been to us a sister-at-arms,” Fastion explained. “An honorary Weapon, and now we wish to formalize your honorary standing.”

“There are these.” Brienne held out a handful of patches. They were embroidered black shields. “For the sleeves of your uniforms.”

Karigan guessed that once her hand returned to normal, she would be doing some sewing—not just the mending of the slash through her sleeve Brienne had made, but sewing patches. Not something she was particularly good at.

“The king,” Brienne added, “approves of us formalizing your status, so no one should object to the addition to your uniform.”

The king approved . . . She bet Captain Mapstone might have a thing or two to say about it, regardless.

“It has never really been explained to me,” she said, “what it means to be an honorary Weapon.”

“Perhaps we should remove to someplace else where we may have refreshment and celebrate your accomplishment,” Brienne replied. “And there we can answer your questions.”

As they prepared to leave, Drent produced a plain black scabbard, in which Karigan sheathed her new sword. They filed from the chamber, and as she passed through the doorway, she felt a warming of her brooch. She paused and turned.