The Testing Read Online Free Page A

hard was certainly one of them.
    His sister…Corthain wondered what had become of Thalia. She had been thirteen when he had left, an Initiate in the Conclave. Was she even still alive? She would have gone through the Testing by now, and assuming that she had survived, she would be a full Adept. Not that it mattered. She hated him for what had happened to Solthain, and he doubted that twelve years had softened her feelings. 
    “You’re familiar with the city, sir?” said the teamster. “Not many outlander lords would known about the Silver Coin Inn, or Magister Arthain, begging your pardon.”
    “Yes,” said Corthain. “You could say that.” 
    The Silver Coin Inn was four stories of stone and timber beneath a roof of clay tiles. It catered to outlander merchants, and offered warehouses for guests to store their goods. And as an added bonus, the Inn owned no slaves, but employed freeborn servants. After some haggling with the innkeeper, Corthain rented the top floor for his retainers, and one of the warehouses to store his casks of wine. As his porters started to unload, he circled around the back of the warehouses, intent of observing their security for himself.
    And stopped. 
    Four men lounged against the back wall of the warehouse, watching him with narrowed eyes. They were Jurgurs, tall and pale, with thick red hair and blue eyes. Ritual scars covered their cheeks and jaws. Warriors, then; every Jurgur of the warrior caste marked his face with scars to show that he had no fear.
    Or at least they had, until Corthain had shattered the Jurgur horde at Dark River.
    “Well,” said one of the men in Jurguri. “What have we here?”
    “Some Callian lordling,” said a second man. “Probably with a fat purse.”
    Corthain snorted. He had warned his people against wandering about alone, and here he had disregarded his own orders and blundered into a band of robbers.
    “Let’s take his gold and dump his corpse in the harbor,” said the first man. “No one will care if another dead man washes up with the tide.”
    “Until a demon enters into the corpse. But you are correct,” said Corthain in Jurguri, and the robbers looked at him, startled. “One corpse in the harbor will not draw attention. Nor will four, for that matter.” 
    “You speak our tongue, dog?” said the first Jurgur. “It is dishonored coming from your filthy lips.” 
    “I suggest we go our separate ways,” said Corthain, flexing his hands. “I will give you this one chance.” 
    The Jurgur sneered. “You’ll squeal, before we’re done with you.”
    They came at him a sudden rush, clubs in their hands.
    Corthain drew his sword.
    The hilt was new, under a year old. The blade was much, much older. Over fifteen hundred years older, in fact. The dark gray metal was a relic of the Old Empire, forged using secrets of metallurgy now lost. Lighter and harder than any other metal, it never lost its edge, and it never cracked or splintered. He had taken it from the corpse of a Jurgur chieftain after Dark River, and the Divine alone knew where the dead man had found it. 
    Then the Jurgurs were on him.
    It had been four years since the battle, but Corthain had not let his sword practice lapse. Every day he performed the Forms of the Sword, and they had been etched into the muscles of his wrists and arms and legs. His blade blurred through the Noblewoman's Fan, and he blocked the swings of the Jurgurs’ clubs. He pivoted, his arms moving through the Falcon’s Dive, and one of the Jurgurs fell to his knees, gagging, blood spurting from his throat. The other three kept after him. They were not used to fighting in a group, and their attacks got in each other’s way. Corthain’s blade licked across another Jurgur’s arm, and the man fell back with a howl of pain. And that gave Corthain the opening to step closer and stab, sinking his blade into another man’s stomach. The Jurgur folded with a groan of pain, and Corthain kicked the man off the