Page 33 of The Kingdom of Flames

It wasn’t earned.

Dritha had become her closest friend in the land of the Red Banner. In the mornings, after lying with Encarmine until her body trembled and her jaw ached from his girth, she left the Lord to tend to his men. There were always campaigns, always trainings, and plans. His lands were always on the defense from men who lived in his realm and sought supremacy.

After they broke fast with Encarmine’s soldiers, he would always rise and kiss her brow.

“I will see you this evening.”

Celestine loved to see him ride out with his men, some fifty soldiers and veterans, to patrol. Encarmine always led from the front, holding his own banner, as was his way. Men fell to their knees in deference as he passed, but he always bade them rise as equals.

His dominion was the heart of his people, in their discipline and stoic ways. After he left, Celestine would dress in her linen and leather, and Dritha would meet her in the courtyard, wild-eyed and grinning. They rode together down to Firekeep where the smaller town’s primary task was guarding the supplies that entered their realm.

Firekeep was where the youth of the Red Banner spent their adolescence. Men and women lived in barracks, separate, but often training together.

Dritha spoke as they entered one of the armories, “A woman cannot best a man in strength, and it is a fool’s errand to think training and quickness can wear down the brawn of a beast.”

“Then why train women?” Celestine asked as they donned training padding.

“Two or three skilled spears can down the fiercest boar,” Dritha answered, tossing her a training stave. “And an errant arrow has downed many men who would seek their own crown. It is the breaking of a line that wins battles, not the butchery of men. Sickness, wounds, disease, these are the killers of warriors. A soldier’s job is to make the introduction with the point of his spear.”

Celestine nodded, not really understanding it. “I suppose, that makes sense.”

Dritha laughed in the armory's darkness. The heat of the day was already beginning, and Celestine was still a foreigner to such warmth.

“You’ll see today.”

Their drills came that day in spear and stave. Celestine moved in unison with thirty other girls and women. Their endurance was formidable and impressive. During most exercises, Celestine had trouble keeping up, often stopping and gasping for breath.

Dritha shook her head. “Your wind needs work, Final Bride.”

Other women laughed without cruelty. Celestine grinned. Her stomach and throat tasted of the acid of exertion.

“Especially if you seek to have Lord Encarmine take your crest. We are not vanquished enemies in the bedroom, playing dead for sport.”

“We take the fight to them!” another woman laughed.

After that, Celestine’s mornings in the Firekeep schola became more hellish. They would run the hills together. Always together. The strength was in others. She saw the other training groups doing something similar in the hills, but her team pushed harder and harder up the hills. Celestine shamed herself by vomiting on the first afternoon, apologizing to Dritha.

Dritha patted her on the back and hoisted her up. “Never apologize for the body’s ways. The brave mother doesn’t apologize for the blood and shit of birth, it is the battle of bringing life into this world. Though if this continues, we best not waste breakfast on you.”

The runs continued. The second day, she sent a note to Encarmine that she would sleep in the women’s barracks and again on the third. It felt right.

Celestine’s world became the march, the drill, the bruise, and rattled brow. She felt her body become leaner, stronger. There was blade and stave work, but it was mostly learning to move together everywhere in tight formation. They ran together. They marched together. They locked shields for hours, poised and flanking an invisible enemy.

In the evenings, exhausted, she would walk to the mess tent and join the indistinct murmur of the exhausted soldiers eating. She felt a closeness with the women of her company, and in that plain wood table among dozens of other smiling faces, she learned the feel of camaraderie. She missed Encarmine and his touch, and the mornings in his keep. This was his way, and living as his people did was learning him too.

Other women and men often remarked about Encarmine with a loyalty she had never seen. They would, and did, follow him to war and death. There was no blind fanaticism, simply their way of life. There was no embroidery except the stitching of flesh. There was no softness save for the embrace of her bunk in the evenings. Her body became strong. Hard. A storm began to rise in her when exhaustion strangled her muscles, and her throat burned. The defiance of death.

Among the company of her squadmates, she was the worst spear, but she shined when they were locked together in formations and sparring bouts of groups. Celestine learned the quick call for help, for praise, and for challenging others to push harder. For the first time in her life, the challenge of competition interested her.

A note came for her at the end of the week.

It pleases me greatly that you are learning the lessons of my people. I miss your touch and seek your embrace, but feel great pride in the tales I am told of your prowess. I will seek your final ribbon soon when your tutelage ends.

Then mine will begin.

-Lord Encarmine

Celestine kept the note close, feeling the fierce pride at his words. It was a new feeling, wanting to please him. Not with her appearance or lust but with deeds. This land was his body, and these people were his blood supplying his veins. Encarmine’s armor was etched with the names of the valiant dead, and it shifted with the grim history of his people. Perhaps one day, she too would be etched there.

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