Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Ivy
It seems the count Lothar chose is quite clever himself. He bests Petra’s speed at unraveling the puzzle box, though only by a matter of seconds.
That isn’t anywhere near enough to shake her confidence. She tackles the next two trials with the same cool determination she’s brought to the previous.
And without any significant interference from the scourge sorcerers. Sulla upends one more figure who tries to aim a spell toward the stage, and then there’s nothing further.
My shoulders are starting to ache from the tension I’m holding in them. My gaze keeps flitting over the crowd, stretching ever farther as more and more spectators arrive from beyond the city.
Then the red-robed cleric for Sabrelle strides onto the platform, and my stomach knots. Her challenge is what the largest portion of our construction efforts went into, and it offers plenty of danger of its own.
Several workers push the apparatus fully together with a rasp of wood against wood.
A few devouts to Sabrelle step forward and add their magic, making the wheel of blades spin and the fragmented bridge ripple where it looms high above our heads.
The streaks of crimson Casimir had the builders add give the impression of lurking brutality.
The cleric sweeps her hand toward the massive structure. “Each of the candidates will complete this course of physical challenges. Sabrelle wishes to see bravery, physical might, and logistical strategy in a ruler. Any candidate who fails to complete the course will be disqualified.”
Lothar breaks in with a loud demand. “The princess should go first. She’s had the advantage of seeing the course built—the other candidates should have the advantage of watching her handle it.”
I scowl. The truth is that Petra avoided the construction area and insisted she not be told any details of the trials ahead of time—she has no more idea how to handle the various obstacles than the other candidates seeing it now do.
But we have no simple way of proving that to the audience.
Before I can think of a solid argument to offer, Petra bobs her head in acceptance. “I’ll go first.”
She steps toward the starting ramp with its tiny, irregular handholds. It’s hard to keep my attention on the crowd while she’s about to face a series of death-defying perils.
I scan the swarm of figures beyond the platform until my vision blurs. The cleric announces the start of the challenge. Petra’s feet thud up the wooden surface.
And Stavros lets out a grunt of warning. “Something’s going to happen in less than a minute to startle Petra and make her stumble. The way everyone reacts, I think it’s a loud sound. I couldn’t see where it’ll come from.”
He leaps to the side of the stage to pass specific instructions on to the guards. Dozens push into the crowd, but I can already tell there’s no way they’ll be able to check everyone in the matter of seconds we have.
I risk slipping out of our alcove too, hurrying to the front of the platform in my invisible state. My gaze sweeps over the crowd again, squinting toward the farther reaches—
There. A woman some twenty bodies back from the front lines is raising a slim, metallic object to her lips—a kind of instrument?
I don’t have time to point the guards to her. I tap into the trickle of magic between me and the sacrificial accomplices and let it launch my power.
The clasp on my cloak expands, and the neck of the horn squashes inward, just as the woman blows. A squeak of a sound reaches my ears, so faint I might not have made it out if I hadn’t been listening so hard.
I squeeze the windpipe even tighter for good measure.
Stavros has spotted her now. As he calls to the guards to point her out for arrest, I duck back into the shelter with no one the wiser.
In the midst of our panic, Petra has scrambled across half of the course. When I let myself glance up at her, I can see the military training she insisted on enduring at the college has paid off.
She leaps across the disjointed boards of the bridge so fast their jerking motions don’t make her more than wobble. She pauses for just a second to judge the speed of the whirling blades and then dashes forward, ducking and weaving between them.
A gasp of pain reaches my ears, and I wince, yanking my gaze to the crowd again. But I don’t think that was sabotage, only the difficulty of the course.
When Petra finally squeezes through the snare of ropes to emerge at the far end, a scratch on her upper arm is dribbling blood.
“Two minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” the cleric announces. “Second candidate!”
Despite his advantage of having witnessed a run-through and his muscular strength, the soldier seems to find the nimbler areas difficult to navigate. He struggles through the ropes and arrives with a time only slightly faster than Petra’s.
The noblewoman has to pause several times out of caution and takes more than four minutes.
The count hurtles into the course with an arrogant air, which proves to be over-confidence. Halfway across the bridge, he slips, fumbles, and falls between the slats.
He hits the platform with a crunch of broken bone and a pained cry. The workers and a healer who was standing by rush over.
From the way his limbs are twisted, I think he’s broken his leg.
The cleric of Sabrelle appears totally unconcerned. “The fourth candidate is eliminated from the trials.”
The audience doesn’t seem bothered either. With each trial that ends with Petra showing her prowess, the cheers for her get louder.
She’s won most of them and taken a close second place in the other two. It’s obvious who the forerunner is.
My future queen’s victories continue through the final few trials. By the time we reach the last—for Creaden, the godlen most concerned with leadership and authority—applause carries through the crowd whenever Petra’s name is mentioned.
It’s been a long morning, but the faces taking in the spectacle glow with avid anticipation.
The purple-robed cleric guides three smooth wooden towers forward and assembles a trio of his devouts at the base of each.
He points to the seat fixed to the top of each tower, shining a golden yellow above the whirls of violet and midnight blue on the base.
“You will each work together with your underlings to reach your throne. You will be judged by more than just speed.”
Before he can give the order to begin, a tingle of magic courses over my skin. My head twitches toward it, but an instant later, another current touches me, and another—as if spells are being cast from all around the platform.
Next to me, Sulla stiffens. “What in the realms is that?”
I swivel, trying to navigate the swarm of impressions. “There’s magic coming from all over the place,” I say for our companions’ benefit. “None of it very strong… Nothing’s actually happening yet…”
Sulla’s eyes widen. “It’s a distraction. They know we picked up on their previous attempts, so they’re trying to overwhelm us rather than being sneaky about it.”
Casimir speaks up in a low voice. “Lothar looks as if he’s preparing for something. He’s walking around the far side of the platform like he means to go right around the back.”
“We have to—” Stavros cuts himself off with a hiss of breath. “I got a glimpse—someone’s going to appear at the front of the stage out of nowhere. They must be using concealment magic like your charm, Ivy.”
“Do you know which direction they’re coming from?” I ask.
He shakes his head in a jerk.
If it’s a matter of physically getting in an attacker’s way, I’m far more equipped for that duty than my older companion.
I set my jaw. “They’ll be coming for Petra. I’ll just have to get in their way.”
I bolt across the front of the platform, dodging the cleric and staying clear of the towers set several paces back from the edge.
No one reacts; no one can see me through the charm’s magic. They’re all gaping at the spectacle of three candidates trying to assemble their human helpers into some kind of ladder to get them up the tower.
Word of an impending threat must be passing through the guards and the daimon both, because the rows of them in front of me stir warily, a few drawing their weapons.
Rheave has jumped down to join his fellow captured spirit creatures, his gaze darting around us.
But they obviously can’t make out the would-be attacker any more clearly than I can.
I station myself directly in front of Petra’s tower and narrow my focus onto the thrum of magic resonating through the air.
Someone is going to attack. Someone who’s concealed through magic like I am.
I should be able to sense them when they get close, even with the wafting eddies drifting by.
The back of my neck prickles at the thought of Lothar prowling around behind me, but Stavros will have warned the guards to watch for any threatening behavior from him too—and he said the attacker his gift showed him appeared at the front of the stage. I need to stay here.
Grunts and rough breaths carry from the towers behind me. The cleric strolls by, examining the candidates’ progress with a casual air, totally unaware of the potential catastrophe.
Then I feel it: a thicker current of magic streaming almost straight toward me.
It’s passing over the heads of the guards in front of the platform—using flight as well as invisibility to avoid notice. But they can’t avoid me.
I adjust my stance to follow the impression I’m picking up and unsheathe the knife at my hip. My pulse thunders in my ears.
My riven power churns inside me, urging me to blast the intruder right out of the air.
No. I don’t need to pick away at my sanity any more than I already have.
And the less this confrontation distracts from Petra’s likely victory, the better.
The sensation of approaching magic blares louder and then seems to stop, right at the edge of the stage. Without letting myself hesitate, I launch myself at the presence I can feel in front of me.