The waters of the alpine lake lapped over me, freezing me to my core as it washed away blood and grime. I could see my father clearly in my mind, pointing at the map to show me the path stretched out before me. “If ye reach this lake, survival is ye’s lot. Bathe in the waters and make ye clean. If she sees ye as worthy, she’ll send soon enough. Aye son, ye’ll feel the gift of the power then.”
The hike had been hard, more difficult than I could have imagined. The cuts and gashes that covered me stung with a vengeance as I slipped under the surface. My aching joints protested. Why could there not have been a hot spring, instead of a pool of glacial runoff? Despite how it’s icy grip enveloped me, it still gave some degree of relief to scrub off the dust and sweat. Silver moonlight slid over my skin as my bruises deepened into purple with every moment. Exhaustion would have overtaken me, save for the shooting agony from every muscle and cut.
I tried to welcome the pain, like my father had told me so many times, but I was not my father. I wasn’t the great chief he had hoped for, nor the son he had prayed for. Would welcoming the pain make me worthy? Is that what I needed to prove my blood?
What if that is not enough? I pushed the thought away. If I could reach this highest sacred pool, then there was nothing I could do but wait.
It was sometime around midnight, judging from the moon high overhead. It’d taken me days to reach this far, leagues from my home with nothing but my pack and my father’s gift.
I rolled the token he’d given me over in my hands again, feeling the smoothed sides of the gold medallion. For the lady when she sends. His reminder echoed to me. The small disc was blank save for the outline of a horse on one side, rearing up on two back legs over our words: but mighty.
It was those words he reminded me of as he lay dying. I may not have been the chief my father was, but I was every bit of my family’s credo. But mighty. In the face of all enemies we may be small but mighty. Tonight I hoped to still be worthy.
It was then that he appeared to me. His sheen in the pale moonlight showed a dapple of grey and white rippling over muscled limbs. Grulla stripes slashed down his legs and back like war paint. Not even my father could have scaled this stallion, as tall as my father had been.
I’d heard of this creature before, who appeared to travelers on moonlit peaks, sent from the goddess herself. His footfalls were as muted as starlings taking flight, hushed rustles from a divine giant.
“Dal’struna. Did you come for me?” I asked.
As if in reply he snorted and tossed his head.
“Did the spirit send you?”
A stamp of impatience was his answer but he lowered onto his front legs, seeming to bow. In his forelock glinted a medallion on a chain, it’s embossed signet matching my own.
“If she sees ye as worthy, she’ll send soon enough.”
There could be no other omen. On unsteady legs numb from the glacial pool I rose and bowed to the beast in kind.
“Thank you,” I whispered. His great head dipped to my touch. I slipped an arm around Dal’struna’s neck and swung myself onto his back, icy water streaming from me. He was all warmth and hot blood beneath my aching body. Greedily I leaned into his radiated heat and marveled. Crone’s tales told of the great Dal’struna being born of the forests and fjords of the moon, as wintry as the tundra. Oh, but if only they knew!
Even as I shivered my aches seemed to soothe.
“Aye son, ye’ll feel the gift of the power then!”
Bless you, Father. Bless you and your riddles, for I felt the blessing of my birthright flood into my bones as sure as the sun rises. I felt his power. No longer did the frigid grip of the mountain lake possess me, nor the exhaustion of my trials. The accolade was done.
The mighty spirit rose, and I, silent in my awe, clung to him like a babe to a breast.