At the same time, on the far, mist-hidden heights of the Samana Mountains, Margo stirred in Queen Hanna's tented shadow. The air was chilly, with the bitter scent of pine and the damp, loamy musk of wet stone. The fabric of the tent whispered softly as Hanna pushed inside, her green, unblemished skin glowing with the light. Her black eyes met Margo's, a faint smile on her lips.
"You've slept long enough," Hanna told her, her voice rough and authoritative. She strode across the room in fluid, unhurried strides, pulling out a thickly woven, pretty tunic from a chest against the wall. She flung it at Margo, who caught it awkwardly, her muscles still soft from underwater days.
"Dress," Hanna ordered. "You are among warriors now. You will dress like us."
Margo stooped and peered down at the robe, its fabric glinting in dark greens and black-shaded shadows, its threads embroidered to catch the light with the sheen of moonlit water. She wrapped it around her, the fabric cold and smoothly heavy against her skin, molding itself to her shape like a second skin. It was more resilient than it appeared, the threads spun from the fur of mountain animals, cut to defend the wearer from blade as much as claw.
Hanna stepped back, critically scrutinizing Margo. She smiled and nodded, then was done with it. "Now, let's go."
They emerged out into the icy mountain air, the morning fog curling around them. Hanna brought her to a broad, flat rock surface, where score upon score of Samanas wove intricate patterns of battle, their bodies a blur of glinting metal and whips of arms and legs. Growls and ringing blows of metal on stone pierced the air, the rhythmic staccato beat of nude feet on rock ringing off nearby peaks.
Hanna spun to confront Margo, extracting the curved, long blade from the scabbard attached to her belt. She flung it to Margo, who snatched it with a shocked yelp, almost dropping it as the weight of the blade drew her arm downward.
"This is your sword now," Hanna said to her, her voice as cold as the blade in Margo's shaking palms. "Master it, or it will be your epitaph."
Hanna stepped back behind Margo, her arms repositioning, aligning her stance. She breathed softly, her icy breath on the ear of Margo. "Hold it higher. Grip tighter. Breathe with the swing."
They moved in harmony, the sword cutting through cold mountain air, each blow a test of endurance for Margo. Her muscles screamed, her breathing in hard gasps, but Hanna prodded her on, taking her to the edge of her strength.
"Once more," Hanna spat. "Quicker this time."
Margo clenched her teeth, her numb hands shutting tight around the hilt of the knife. She swung again, the blade whining as it bit into the air, slicing through the shadow cast by the twisted, centuries-old trees that clung to the mountain's face.
"You are not weak," Hanna gasped, the words a black, murderous thing. "You will learn to fight, or you will die."
Margo's eyes ran, blurred, but she continued, her protesting body, the blow a desperate prayer to remain alive.
Hanna moved back, eyes ice-cold and triumphant. "Well," she said, her mouth twisting around the edges into a flickering smile. "Perhaps you will escape this world alive after all."
The air during morning Samana camp was clean, with earthy fragrance and the distant rumble of waterfalls. Margo woke to the clink and clanging of metal as armor was pulled open, the aching sensation on her body as she tried to move the muscles stiff from last night's rigorous training exercise. Queen Hanna lounged beside the entrance to her tent, her green-tanned complexion warm under the tender lighting. Queen Hanna called for Margo in the direction of the clearing to join the assembling Samana warriors at the entrance.
"You will be tested today," Hanna told them, her voice as hard as the mountains. "Courage without fear. Precision without hesitation. This is what a Samana does."
Margo stepped forward, her own heart pounding with excitement as the warriors encircled her in a great ring. Their eyes shone with curiosity and subdued respect, but one man stood out—the big warrior whose scars ran like riverbeds along his massive arms.
"I challenge the stranger," he replied, his voice a low rumble. His eyes met Margo's, a glint of black humor flashing in their depths. "Let us see if the Earthling has as much courage as a Samana."
Margo's heart pounded in her chest. She looked at Hanna, and Hanna nodded once, comprehension. She could not deny him. She needed to prove herself, not only to the Samana, but to herself.
The warrior pulled out a crescent-edged knife from his belt, the blade shining like the crescent moon. Margo was aware of the weight of the bone knife Hanna had given her, still unaccustomed to her hand.
"Start," Hanna ordered.
The warrior struck, moving swiftly for his size. Margo scarcely had time to move from his path, rolling aside as he passed the sword by, near enough for her to feel the rush of its passage. She stumbled but caught herself instantly, recalling Hanna's trained steps. Strike at once. Never retreat.
Margo whirled, her dagger flashing out. It clanged against his with a humming vibration, sending jolts of vibration up her arm. He smiled, as if he was enjoying the fight. He kicked out, hitting her in the ribs. She gasped, her eyes blurring as pain shot through her side.
"You fight like a child," he sneered, dancing around her. "Earth has softened you."
She snarled, her arm around the dagger tightening. She gritted her teeth and recalled Hanna's lessons—the way of water, the power of stone. She bent low, her leg swinging in a great arc. He staggered back, caught for a moment off balance, and she struck, cutting a shallow cut across his forearm.
He bellowed, more in surprise than in pain, and struck his sword downwards with incredible force. Margo spun around, attempting to get out of the way, but his blow struck her on the shoulder, holding her fast to the earth. The earth swirled around her as she landed on the ground, the hard jolt in her shoulder radiating through her frame.
"Yield," he snarled, standing over her, his sword raised to strike again.
Margo clenched her teeth, her body shaking. She attempted to stand, but her limbs weighed as much as lead, her breathing in short, gasping gulps.
Hanna's voice pierced the ringing in her ears. "Enough."
The warrior paused, then retreated, sheathing his sword with a look of mild irritation. The ring of Samana warriors grumbled among themselves, their faces a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.
Hanna moved in closer, kneeling beside Margo. "You are not yet ready," she took a deep breath, her face stern but not ungentle. "But you will be ready. Stand."
Margo rose, shaky-legged, aching shoulder, looking up into the warrior's face, covering the fear. He nodded once, fast, politely, then moved back among the ring of warriors, challenge accepted.
Hanna grasped Margo's elbow, pulling her back into the tent. "You have spirit, Margo," she told her, quietly, for her ears alone. "But spirit is not enough. Tomorrow we train harder."