Chapter 20 Make the Claim
Make the Claim
Sascia can tell they’re nearing their destination when the air begins to vibrate with the collective buzz of a big crowd.
For the past hour, the elves have been leading her through a maze of abandoned tunnels.
Behind her, Nugau is a solemn presence. He hasn’t spoken another word to her during the trek, but she has caught his eyes on her, there and gone the instant she looks back, as though he is studying her just as intently as she studies him.
They come to a stop before a double door.
The horned elf (Ktren, Sascia has learned) slips past the rest of them and disappears through it, leaving a husky laugh in their wake.
Without speaking, the white-haired elf (Lady Thalla, she introduced herself as) falls behind Sascia, and Nugau steps forward to take the lead.
Before stepping through, he takes a moment to gather himself, schooling his features into a frigid indifference.
Soft blue light casts silken shadows on the crumbling subway station that opens before them.
Rungs of twisted metal support a collapsed ceiling fifty feet high.
Rusty skeletons of subway cars lie on their sides around the perimeter of the vast cavern.
Rubble has been piled in the corners, creating an open floor at the center.
There are elves everywhere.
Lounging on the overturned cars, perched on benches and dismantled seats, hanging from swings made of vines.
They number in the thousands, of different skin tones and facial features and body types, but all dressed in onyx leathers and carrying blades on their hips, backs, or arms. Some have horns that slope between serpentine locks.
Others sport tails or extra-long limbs or scales that cover them from head to toe.
A few have the velvet-smooth wings of a bat.
At the far end of the cavern, a majestic elf is sitting on a throne of interlocked roots and vines.
A flowing black gown falls over their shoulders, accentuating their narrow waist and drifting into puffs of smoke around their ankles.
Their angular face seems chiseled out of pale porcelain to show off a pair of striking violet eyes.
A crown of onyx shards laced with silver crests the curls that drape over their chest and spill onto the ground at their feet.
The Darkprints on their cheeks are a feminine blue.
Sascia knows who stands before her: the Queen.
On the Queen’s left stands Ktren, bent at the waist and whispering furiously into their regent’s ear.
As Nugau leads their small procession down the clear space of the cavern, the Queen’s eyes cut to them.
When Ktren has finished talking, she twirls a hand at a guard, who draws an elegant crystal sword from its scabbard.
Sascia stops walking. That sword—it’s for her, isn’t it? Without a word spoken, without a single chance given, they’re going to kill her. Her feet shuffle back, but Thalla is already there, her small frame a wall of armor.
Sensing danger, Mooch drifts out of her hood. Sascia quickly tucks it back against her chest, but the crowd has noticed.
A chorus of hisses rushes through the room.
It does not quite sound like human hatred, but there’s no other way to describe it; all around her, the crowd has gone wild and furious.
They bare their teeth and flare their wings and spew a single word in their language—then, from one of them, in English:
“Thief!”
The Queen’s attention has shifted to Mooch.
She leans eagerly forward and speaks a soft command, at which Nugau obediently approaches Sascia.
Her hands come up on instinct, flat against Nugau’s breastplate.
Over his shoulder, she can see the Queen’s soldier advance toward her.
Their sword is drawn, glimmering where it catches the light.
Palpitations choke Sascia’s throat. “What—”
“The itka are sacred to us.” Nugau is so close his whisper shifts her hair. “My kin don’t believe it came to you willingly. They believe you stole it and trapped it. The Queen is ordering you to release the itka to her. If you don’t, she will not hesitate to use violence.”
“I didn’t steal it or trap it,” Sascia breathes. “Mooch comes and goes as it pleases—”
“Prove it, then. Release the itka to the Queen.”
Sascia looks down at where she’s holding Mooch against her chest. The Queen won’t harm it, not if the itka are considered gods, but it still takes a lot of willpower to pry her fingers open.
Liberated, Mooch instantly drifts into the air.
Across the cave, the Queen stands and unfolds her palm.
But Mooch doesn’t fly to her; instead, it leisurely twirls about and lands back on Sascia’s hands.
“Now’s not the time to play favorites,” Sascia whispers. “Go.”
As if to spite her, Mooch settles deeper into her palm and begins pulsing contently, like a purring cat.
The Queen lowers her hand, her ire betrayed only in the sneering reaction of a select group of elves gathered around her dais. Her councilors, perhaps; they’re all strapped with jeweled scabbards and fancier armor. The guard begins to advance once more.
It can’t end like this. Sascia was supposed to have another chance. To make the right choices this time. To stop the war. She jumped into the goddamn Maw—for what? A swift death in the bowels of the city, unseen and unremarkable?
The guard is almost there, their arms swinging back to land the blow.
A sound echoes through the cave, flesh against metal. Thump, thump, thump.
Nugau stands tall at Sascia’s side, his fist thumping his breastplate. He shifts his chin and whispers, for her ears alone, “This is the only thing I’ll ever do for you, human. Try not to waste it.”
“Nugau,” Thalla hisses behind Sascia’s shoulder.
But the prince does not heed his friend’s unspoken objection. He steps forward, placing himself between the guard and Sascia, and begins speaking in the language of the elves.
“What is happening?” Sascia whispers. “What is he doing?”
For a few seconds, it seems as if Thalla will not reply.
Then, when Nugau is done, Thalla explains, quiet and hurried and filled with dread.
“He is making a Thistha Ren. A Heart Claim. Under our law, it is the highest form of judgment—and the only thing that can save your life. When a Claim is made, it has to be proven through a trial. Right now, he is making a Claim on your behalf: That the itka protects you and you protect it. That it showed you the way out of our darkness. The Queen has no choice but to test the truth of your Claim.”
A despotic silence falls upon the room, heavy and absolute.
The violet beads of the Queen’s eyes are locked on Sascia and Nugau.
Slowly, deliberately, her lips split back to reveal long, blackened fangs.
A hiss echoes down the chamber, raising the hairs on Sascia’s arms. Black gathers at the fingertips of the Queen’s left hand, like the crackling of electricity before the inevitable lightning strike.
Her arm shoots out. Tendrils of Dark explode from her clawed fingers.
Sascia braces herself—but she is not the target.
Nugau drops to his knees, held there by a grip of darkness around his nape. His eyes are wide, his arms braced against the marble. Horrible, strangled gasps sputter from his mouth.
Sascia has little time to react—the Queen is addressing her, which Thalla translates in swift, panicked bursts.
“Under our law and tradition, a Heart Claim must be tested in a Heart Trial. If you pass the Trial, you will have proven your Claim true. If you fail, you and the prince will suffer whatever sentence I see fit.”
Sharp murmurs flow through the cavern, the elves sharing in their queen’s displeasure.
Through trembling lips, Nugau whispers, “Thalla. Orran. Help the human.”
As though summoned out of thin air, a new elf, big and winged, steps out of the shadows on Sascia’s left.
With practiced speed, Thalla removes her breastplate and chain mail and the other elf, Orran, places them over Sascia’s head, strapping her in tight.
Then, just as quickly, they both fold back into the shadows.
The gravity of the situation suddenly crushes into Sascia, as terrifying and unwelcome as the black metal on her shoulders. They have armed her for battle.
Around her, thousands of elves perch at the edge of their seats, brimming with bloodthirst and anticipation. With a flick of the Queen’s free hand, a curtain of darkness rushes over the grooves of the stone floor and coalesces in the middle of the cavern.
The dais and the elves’ resting spots catapult to a staggering height, while the floor of the cavern plummets.
Behind Sascia, concrete ripples and Darkflora shudders.
The earth splits and morphs into a tangle of sharp turns, dead ends, and convoluted passageways that stretch to the other end of the cave.
A labyrinth.
Sascia’s mind flashes back to last night in her bedroom. I can help you, she had told Nugau. Oh, but you do, little gnat, Nugau had said. Or you try to. A brave Ariadne in a labyrinth of terrors, clever and strong. But war is cleverer still. Violence is stronger still. You fail. We all fail.
Sascia refuses to fail. Her eyes skid over the alleyways, trying to memorize some course to the single opening across the room, but the thunderous strike of a gong chimes through the air, drawing her attention back to the dais, now perched twenty feet above her.
The Queen is gazing down at her and Nugau, the two of them separated from the rest, like sheep headed to the slaughter. Her grip of darkness still holds the prince bent over the ground. Strain and ache groove his face in deep lines. Yet when she speaks, he is obliged to translate.
“My son Claims you are a friend of the itka,” Nugau breathes. “That the itka guided your way out of the Dark. So here is your Trial, human: a labyrinth. You have until the third strike of the gong to prove my son’s Claim and find your way out.”
Then, without warning or preamble, the Queen swats the air.
A beam of Dark shoots across the arena.
It knocks Sascia straight in the chest—she goes flying over the edge and into the Labyrinth.