Chapter 32
Initiation
I look around, counting the number of hopefuls left.
There are twenty-five of us. Which means that five of us standing here are not going to make it out.
I rake the faces quickly, finding Tessa and Greg.
When I see Knox as well, limping towards us, I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
All five of us have made it through alive to this moment.
Even Frances is here, wheezing and bleeding, her blonde curls dishevelled and matted, but still alive.
Fion, of course, is absent.
‘Initiation is the final step, when your magic, the raw power inside you, will carry you through to becoming a scholar.’ Professor Grant’s clipped tones fill the space, echoing off those huge granite steps and sweeping out to sea.
No one moves, no one speaks, and my pulse shrieks in my ears like a dying scream.
‘Professors, if you will …’ I snap back to Professor Grant as the rest of the faculty raise their hands around her.
The granite ground beneath our feet trembles.
Alden and I step back as a pillar shoots into the air, then another and another …
all at different levels, and atop them, a shimmering tear in the mist.
‘There are twenty alchemist-made portals. When one of you steps through one, it will seal up behind that hopeful, closing that opportunity to succeed.’
‘It doesn’t look so bad …’ I say softly as Alden’s grip loosens from around my arm, his hand finding mine. I cling to him, heart thundering in my chest.
‘There might be more to this,’ he replies.
And then the arena tumbles into writhing chaos, flames dancing between vines, gargoyles materialising to settle before some of the portals atop those pillars and platforms, vicious claws clicking on stone.
There are shadows, sweeping slowly, as though prowling like predatory wraiths, and I shudder, taking an unconscious step backwards.
Glittering ice forms between the raging flames at the base of the pillars, and vines curl venomously, deadly and dark, as though one step could be fatal.
This assault course, of sorts, is far worse than the one in the courtyard of the Crucible.
Far more deadly. Unsurpassable, unless of course your magic is true and strong.
To discern the real from the unreal, to unweave the magic cladding this arena would be a task in itself, a task none of us have time for, I realise, as a hopeful bolts for the nearest portal.
I watch, heart in my throat as Betram races for a raised platform, blasting back vines that snake for him, dodging a shadowy wraith that shifts his way, before scrambling desperately up the pillar and leaping for the portal.
But it blasts him onto his back. He twitches once, twice and then falls still.
‘And that is why your magic must be powerful enough,’ Professor Grant says, motioning for two scholars to retrieve Betram’s still form.
‘Professor Hess has created a web of portals that react to raw power, that only submit to magic. To your magic. If the magic in your veins is not potent enough, then you will not be able to step through a portal. You will fail.’
I take a steadying breath, steeling myself for this. The final test.
‘ Bona fortuna , hopefuls,’ she says. ‘I shall enjoy welcoming all who succeed.’
I raise my eyes and my gaze locks with Alden’s.
His eyes, caramel and oak and the soft light spinning through the woods at dusk are painfully full and brimming.
Something twists in my chest and I brush my fingertips against his.
Unless I can trick one of those portals, my fate will be the same as Betram’s; I’m sure of that now.
There is no raw magic fizzing inside me as my mother hoped in that letter to Ezra Darley.
I have even less magic now after being drained. There is no hope.
And I cannot let him see that. Because I know that if I show an inch of the turmoil inside myself to him, he would carry my weight and find a way to sacrifice himself. I cannot let him. So I rip my gaze from his, square my shoulders and say, ‘Best of luck, Locke.’
I catch his slight inhale, I hear him murmur something, low and quiet.
Then before my resolve snaps, before I can become his weakness, I take a few pained steps away.
When I glance back, his eyes are on the arena, features sharp and emotionless, as before.
Good. Let the coldness hone him. Let him make it through.
He has pierced my heart like a burr, something I can’t shake loose.
There are words for this feeling, words for the way I feel about Alden Locke that sing in my mind, like a symphony.
I ache for him; I yearn to offer him the comfort we both need, to make us soft and tangled.
But I cannot. He must be sharp; he must cut like a weapon if he is going to survive this.
I must sever this radiance, this chain between us.
That is the only way I can love him now.
Because now I know two things without a doubt …
I love Alden Locke.
I am going to fail.
I send a wish, a silent hope up to those old gods, not the twisted versions that Fion believed in, not the way the church in Alloway uses them as a form of control, but to the ones of our churches in Kellend, which are becoming forgotten since the Fair Age.
I ask them to ensure I’ll survive this. But with the wounds carved into my flesh, the blood the cold one took, the fight with Fion, I am drained.
Exhausted. My whole being trembles, on the brink of giving up, and all that’s holding me together is knowing that if I falter now, if I fall apart, Alden or Tessa or Greg or Knox will come for me.
And I refuse to put them through that. Or diminish their chances of making it through.
Knox tips his fingers at me in a kind of salute, and takes the first steps.
A few other hopefuls begin testing the edges of the Ordeal, the flames, the vines, skirting those prowling shadows.
After watching Betram, we’re all cautious.
I pull together all I am, all I have left, and split off to the right, angling for a podium near the back.
Screams ripple out from the other hopefuls, but I don’t dare look to see who.
My fingers shake, blood still oozing from the places those thorns dug in, and I’m just so tired.
But as I sweep my gaze over the route I need to take, filled with seeking vines, the shadowy wraiths and gargoyles standing sentinel on many podiums, I lift my right hand in the air, ready to wield.
Even if it’s too little, even if that portal blasts me back, I will try.
I will not fail without knowing I gave everything to succeed.
I step into the arena.
There’s a tumble of vines before me and I pull out my switchblade, gritting my teeth as I scrape together the pieces of myself.
They’re snaking, grasping for my skin, the air growing humid and thick around them.
I twist, slash, twist, cutting away a vine that snaps around my wrist and pulls.
I’m yanked forward, into the heart of green, and gasp as another vine twists around my throat.
Stars gather, stars and smoke as I choke, pulling its snaking trail away from my neck with my fingertips. Air, I need air, I need cool and light—
I roll, eyeing the flame just next to these snaking vines, feel the heat and crackle, the hunger.
And the vines, they shrink away. I shuffle closer to the podium, easing from the grip of the vine around my throat and take a full, gasping breath as it relinquishes its hold.
The fire smoulders and I choke, sweat beading along my hairline.
It’s a fine divide between the twisting vines and the flame, tasting the air, undulating like water.
But I have to get up, I have to inch along that divide.
If I tip one way or the other, I’m dead.
With the portal in sight that I’m aiming for, I continue on.
A choking gasp stills my heart and I whip around, finding another hopeful, Charlotte in the vines at my back.
Her hand is extended, reaching for the edge, reaching for the flame.
But three vines lash out, holding her tight, dragging her back, and then even further back and more appear, curling around her, until she is nothing but a writhing mass of green.
All I see before she disappears, her lungs constricted, chest caving in, is the terrified whites of her eyes.
Shuddering, I keep moving, aiming for the podium with no gargoyle atop it.
All around are screams and shouts, the whistle and shriek of unseen things, and the crackle and roar of flame.
I can barely see any of the others, barely see anything but the flame, and the podium, the shimmering portal above, shooting upwards like a beacon if I just twist and leap.
But the podium is almost impossible to climb, made of what appears to be marble, cold and smooth, no footholds, no way of moving up it if you are not able to manipulate non-living matter.
I glance to the left, finding another podium, smaller, with no portal. And at the base, it’s cracked.
I am nothing but fear and adrenalin now.
That’s all that’s holding me together as I charge for it.
Throwing all my strength, whatever raw magic I have inside me, I sink my shoulder into it and shove .
It groans, wobbling and I grit my teeth, trying again.
A vine lashes out, past the wall of flame, wrapping my ankle but I wrench it back with a hiss and try again.
This time I close my eyes, imagining it falling, imagining it pummelling that podium, creating a bridge—