Chapter 60
Chapter Sixty
B riony
I knock on Fly’s door. He skipped breakfast this morning, saying he was too nervous to eat. I wish I’d done the same, that way I could have missed that awkward encounter with Dray.
Fly steps out onto the landing and shuts his door behind him.
“Looking dapper today,” I tell him, taking in the way he’s styled his tracksuit and combed his hair this morning.
“Cupcake, if I’m going to die today, then I’m going to at least die looking good.”
“You’re not going to die, Fly,” I say, although I’m sure the nerves are apparent in my voice. “Trials aren’t meant to be deadly, remember? They’re meant to fish us out before we are actually killed,” I say, parroting something we’ve read and heard thousands of times, even if I don’t believe it, even if it was those fears that led me straight into Beaufort’s arms last night. “They try their best to keep casualties to a minimum.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re right. Both of us are going to ace this trial. I was a little skeptical when you dragged that scrawny little thing to our lunch table–”
“Do you mean Clare?” I ask.
He nods. “But it was genius. All the studying up on different trials actually makes me feel like we stand a chance – not just of surviving unhurt, but of actually coming out of it with some points.”
“And Clare is also, you know, fun to be around and a good friend.”
“That too,” he says, winking at me. “I have a feeling we’re all going to end up old friends together in Granite Quarter.”
I smile back, although I know his cheer this morning is an act. I can feel his hand shaking in mine.
We meet Clare outside her tower. She’s looking as nervous as I feel, a tissue pressed to her nostrils because she has another nose bleed.
“Remember,” Clare says as we walk along together, “if you meet a pool of water do not wade into it, and if you find anything that looks like nightshade, pocket it.”
“We know,” Fly says, “we went over this already.”
She nods, then sniffs and presses the tissue more firmly to her nose. “And if your path is blocked by green fire, it may look and feel hot but you can cross unharmed. It won’t burn you.”
“Yep, we went over that too,” I say, squeezing her arm. “Are you okay, Clare?”
She sighs. “Not really. No offense, Briony, but I really don’t want to end up in Slate.”
“None taken,” I tell her. “And you won’t. You know more than anyone. You’re going to be fine.” I hand her some clean tissue from my own pocket. “Come on. Let’s hurry up. We might be able to see something and, I don’t know, that could be helpful.”
The others nod and we pick up the pace, jogging across the campus to the far field where we’ve been instructed to gather for the trial this morning. It’s funny – I’m about to face something incredibly dangerous. And yet – despite my nerves, that argument with Beaufort and all those tears this morning – I don’t feel half as downbeat, half as miserable, as I did that day I arrived at the academy. Three weeks have passed and, despite the attempts on my life, the breaking of my nose and the situation with the Princes, I realize things are not all bad. In fact, I feel pretty damn good. I have a feeling that’s down to the two friends I have walking with me. I’d forgotten how good it is to have a friend, to have someone on your side, and all of a sudden a wave of panic hits me.
I stop dead in my tracks.
“What’s wrong?” Clare asks, fiddling with the material she’s tied around the back of her head to keep her glasses fixed firmly to her face.
I reach out and take her hand in my right and Fly’s in my left.
“You will be careful, won’t you? Don’t do anything stupid or … I couldn’t bear to lose either of you.”
“You’re not going to get rid of me that easily, Cupcake. I don’t know, you may be weird as hell with very bad fashion sense, but I kinda like you.”
Clare chuckles, causing more blood to trickle from her nose, but my face remains deadly serious.
“Promise me,” I whisper.
Fly squeezes my hand again.
“I promise.”
“Me too,” Clare says, inhaling and then nodding.
It seems we aren’t the only ones that had the bright idea of arriving at the trial site early. Half the students, excluding the shadow weavers, are already here milling about and talking to one another quietly. They aren’t the only ones. All the faculty staff are here including the gruesome twosome, Madame Bardin, and Professor Tudor – plus a collection of other adults, all dressed in their finery. I assume they must be representatives from the different Quarters because among them, is our very own director dragged all the way from Slate Quarter, looking a lot less confident than he usually does and dressed in a suit that is worn and drab. To think, he always used to look so well dressed to me before.
However, what we can’t see is the trial site itself. A large fence has been erected, blocking our view of the fields, the moorland and the forest beyond. To one side, a stand has also been built with rows of seating. The chairs at the front are padded and large, the ones further up the stand plain old benches. Some of the adults are already seated.
“What are all those people from the Quarters doing here?” I ask the other two.
“It’s part of the rules,” Clare whispers to me. “There has to be representatives from all the Quarters here to oversee the trials – to ensure they’re fair and to help decide how points are awarded.”
I snort. “I don’t see why they’d bother.”
“Because sometimes – very rarely mind you,” Clare says with sarcasm, “there are kids who are good academically and physically and could reasonably be placed in Iron or Granite. Sometimes both Quarters want them. There needs to be a way of deciding.”
“And sometimes,” Fly says, staring off towards the stands, “kids do well in these trials but the Quarters don’t want them anyway because they don’t meet the ideal, they don’t fit in. There has to be a way to make it fair.”
“Fair,” I snort, “nothing about this is fair.”
Clare shushes me and even Fly looks a little uncomfortable with that remark, especially when the Empress herself appears in a swirl of mist in the next moment, accompanied by her troop of guards and a flurry of trumpets. Madame Bardin hurries off to meet her and I peer up at the clock tower. Fifteen minutes until this ordeal begins.
More and more of the students trickle in from the campus but it’s not until the Empress and Madame Bardin are standing waiting on a stage that’s been erected right in front of the giant fence, and the large clock is about to strike ten, that the shadow weaver students come strolling out onto the field. They aren’t wearing their black tracksuits and I realize no one actually instructed us to wear our uniforms today. Instead, they’re dressed in the clothes many were wearing the day we arrived: bright colorful outfits that make them look more like gods than young adults who have only just passed through puberty.
Instinctively, I search for Beaufort, Dray and Thorne among the group, finding them leading the pack. Beaufort has purpose engrained across his brow, his gaze focused right ahead. Dray bounces along on his toes, lazy grin on his face as he chews his gum, gaze flicking everywhere. And Thorne has the usual blank expression he always wears as if this day is like any other.
Dray’s eyes find me among the crowd but today I’m not rewarded with my usual wink or the usual smile that makes me think he’d like to devour me for dinner. No, his gaze doesn’t linger on me at all, simply passes over me as if I’m of no interest at all. I should be pleased with that. It suggests that perhaps those three men have finally gotten the message. But to my surprise, disappointment sparks in my belly instead. Really? Do I actually care?
I don’t have time to analyze this strange response, though, because Madame is clapping her hands, the sound magically amplified, and drawing everyone’s attention away from the shadow weavers and to the stage.
“Welcome, Empress.” The Empress inclines her head ever so slightly. She’s dressed in another beautiful gown – this one the color of the sky on a cloudless day, the crown once again woven into her hair and decorated with small blue flowers. “Welcome distinguished guests from across the realm.” She points out towards the people who have now taken their seats in the stands. “And welcome students to the first real Firestone Academy trial of the year. Before we begin, I will remind you of the rules.”
“Where’s the Head teacher?” I whisper to Fly and Clare. “You’d think he’d at least show up for this.”
Fly shrugs and Clare places her finger to her lips.
“Students will complete the trial set for them alone and without assistance. You may not collaborate or help other students. Doing so will see you severely punished.
“You will enter the trial site one at a time and you will have sixty minutes to complete the trial. You may take no objects or devices into the trial site. The judges,” she points out to the observers sitting in the front row of the stands – two spaces remaining – one I assume for the Empress and one for Madame, “will award points for your performance under the categories of magic, physical abilities, and mental aptitude. At the end of your time at the academy, when all the trials have been completed, your points will be totaled and will determine to which Quarter of the realm you will be sent.”
There’s some murmuring among the students. This isn’t new news – we all know that is how things supposedly work – and yet to hear it spoken by Madame Bardin right before this trial makes it all real. The first night had been something minor – the points up for grabs minimal. This is it. The real deal. Our destinies start here.
“The order by which students will enter the trial site has been set.” She waves her hand and a large list of names appears pinned to the fence in front of us. At the very top: Thorne Cadieux.
“I think you’re right at the bottom,” Fly whispers to me, squinting towards the list.
“Figures,” I say, “of course, they’d have us Slate kids going out last.”
“No, I mean right at the bottom. I think you’re last.”
“Seriously?” I say. “Do they think I am that awful?”
“The order might not have anything to do with ability. It may be determined by some other factor,” Clare says.
I look at her cynically. “Then why are the Princes top of the list?”
I peer through the crowd towards them, trying to determine if the order has rattled them. It seems strange to me that Beaufort isn’t going first. Then again, maybe I understand less about the three shadow weavers than I thought.
“When your name is called, you will step forward. I wish every student the best of luck. Through trials to truth. ” She smiles that strange smile. “And now, Her Majesty the Empress will address you.”
There is loud applause from the crowd in the stands.
The Empress takes Madame Bardin’s place. Her eyes scan over us students just like they did the day we arrived at the academy.
“Young and loyal subjects of the realm. We come here today to observe your talents and your skills. This is your opportunity to show the realm the very best of yourself. Go forth and do me proud. By trial and truth, your Quarter calls! ”
More loud applause erupts once she finishes speaking and for a second time her gaze sweeps across the students. This time her gaze lingers for just a fraction of time on the Princes and then, to my utter astonishment, me. Her eyes are a dark gray, like stormy skies, and I swear, even from this distance, I feel her magic tingle against my skin. I don’t break the eye contact, but soon her penetrating gaze is moving on, across the students, leaving me just as bewildered as I did that day out there on the platform when Beaufort captivated me with a similar stare.
Fly knocks me out of it, though, nudging me hard in the ribs.
“Come on,” he says, “we have to wait over there.”
I follow him over to a roped-off section of grass where we’ve been told we must wait. There are separate areas for the kids from Iron, Granite and Slate. I hug both Fly and Clare goodbye and go stand with the kids from my own Quarter.
It isn’t exactly comfortable – forty of us crammed onto a tiny section of grass. There’s not enough space to sit and even if there were, the ground is too hard and too cold. Which makes it even more infuriating that the shadow weavers have been given a large section with comfortable-looking chairs. Not that many of them are choosing to use them. They’re all pacing, or jumping up and down on the spot, some stretching out. It’s a sharp contrast to our group where most people are either praying to the stars or rocking backward and forward in semi-comatose states.
“Thorne Cadieux,” a loud voice booms across the grounds.
I rise up on my tiptoes in an attempt to see over the heads in front of me.
I can just make out the quietest of the Princes, strolling across to the tall fence. He looks neither scared nor relaxed. Not even buzzed. He walks calmly, ignoring all the eyes on him.
One of the gruesome twins steps out to meet him and leads him to a door in the fence. He says a few words to him but none of it is discernible over the distance. Then the whistle sounds, the door swings open and Thorne steps through.
Immediately the door slams behind him, offering no glimpse of what lies beyond and the voice calls out the name of the next student to face the trial.
Beaufort Lincoln.
Several people actually slap Beaufort on the back as he strides past, or wish him luck. There’s even a trickle of applause from the stand.
He reaches the fence and a moment later he disappears through the door, the voice calling up Dray next.
The last of the Princes milks his moment of limelight for all its worth, waving to the crowd and receiving some whoops of encouragement and even a cry of, “Go for it, Dray!”
But it doesn’t last long, then he’s gone and the next shadow weaver is called forward. It seems they’ll be going before us, not hanging around in the cold to stew in their own thoughts. I can’t help feeling that this must be an advantage.
As more and more students disappear behind the fence, sounds begin to travel towards us. Screams and screeches, thuds and cracks. Once or twice we even see the flash of magic up in the sky. I study the faces of the spectators seated in the stands. From their angle they can see behind the fence and observe what is happening. There are some definite winces; once or twice some of the spectators even cover their eyes with their hands. But there are other spectators whooping with delight, bouncing up and down in their seats with excitement, even laughing.
I watch as the first of the Iron Quarter kids set off, Fly among them. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer for him. Next it’s the Granite kids. Clare looks petrified when her name is called and I send her all the good luck vibes I can muster. And then it’s just us Slate kids left waiting.
Of course, Stanley is billed to go first, and he turns to us all, hands on hips, giant smirk on his face. There’s still a blue tinge to his left eye and a scab under his right, but that beating obviously didn’t knock the obnoxiousness out of him.
“Good luck, losers. You’re going to need it.” His eyes find me and he mouths, “Especially you.”
I flick my gaze away from him and don’t give him the benefit of a reaction. I don’t even watch as he jogs towards the fence when his name is called.
Soon enough, I’m the last one left out there in the holding pen and I can feel eyes from the spectators flicking from the action to me. There’s some murmuring in the crowd. I have really failed at this disappearing act. Last girl standing. I bet, just like me, they’re all wondering why. Or maybe they think I’m going to be utterly awful and therefore a good source of entertainment.
I glare back at them and several actually jolt and turn to look away. All but one.
Professor Fox Tudor.
Those rust-colored eyes of his glow over the distance and I swear I can almost feel the cool lick of his shadow magic against my skin. Then he nods. The tiniest of gestures. Something private that I think is meant just for me. A gesture of encouragement.
Does it work? I’m not sure. I still feel pretty petrified as my name is called and I walk towards that door.
One half of the gruesome twins barks orders at me, but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of my heart thumping in my ears. And then the whistle pierces through my skull, the door opens and I step through.