13. Eradin
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ERADIN
Screaming began not long after the pair had flown inside the canyon’s mouth.
It started human, terror in a familiar register, then climbed higher, shredding into something that didn’t sound like it came from a throat anymore.
The crowd watched on their viewing screen that was thankfully pointed away from us. Or should I be thankful? If I could watch, I’d know what was coming, assuming the magic didn’t change the course for each entrant.
Then the shrieks stopped. The silence after was worse.
An official raised his hand. “Man dead.”
My knees tried to fold. I locked them, but my hands kept reaching for something to grip that wasn’t there. The sunburned man. The one who’d nodded at me in the courtyard. He’d had kind eyes and callused hands that said he knew what work felt like.
Gone.
I tried not to think about it, tried not to picture what this place might do to a body. But I kept imagining his family getting word. Would anyone count his breaths the way I counted Tolross’s?
The gray-haired woman and her dragon swooped back into the arena from the left canyon opening.
The beast landed hard on the stones, stumbling before catching itself.
The woman slid forward, nearly toppling over the front of the dragon.
She caught herself and lurched back into the saddle before sliding to the ground, her face bloodless, her eyes spiked wide with panic.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, then regretted it when I saw the trial mark, the black stripe a reminder that I’d volunteered for this.
Around me, the remaining riders shifted on their feet. Marda rolled her shoulders like she was preparing for a street brawl. The blonde woman had paled enough the veins beneath her skin showed starkly.
Another pair was called. Marda mounted easily, all tight angles and harder edges. Her dragon launched before the horn finished sounding.
I made myself watch. Made myself see what was coming.
They disappeared into the canyon’s mouth. The crowd leaned forward as one.
This race remained silent. No screaming and no announcer notifying us of a death.
Both emerged minutes later.
Two more pairs were called. Two more cleared.
The official pointed at me and the wiry man. “Go.”
I hurried toward Lykor. The wiry man fell into step beside me, close enough the sourness of his breath hit my sinuses.
“Stay out of my way,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Or I’ll make sure you fall.”
My pulse spiked. He meant it. I could see it in his eyes, the same desperation I’d been drowning in for weeks.
I didn’t answer. Anything I said would give him a target.
The horn blast shoved me forward. My boots scraped stone as I reached Lykor’s side. How many feet to his back? How far would I fall?
No time. The wiry man was already mounted, already checking his reins.
I hauled myself up, my boots scrabbling against scales. The saddle leather creaked when I reached it and settled. My thighs burned already. Lykor moved beneath me, and I nearly pitched sideways before catching the horn.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Another horn blast and Lykor leaped up, his wings snapping out to catch the wind.
The ground dropped away and my belly went with it. Wind slammed into us from the side, shoving us toward the arena wall. Lykor banked hard, his wings straining, and I clamped my knees tighter, my hands death-gripping the reins.
The canyon opening gaped, and Lykor plunged through the gap, dragging me along with him. My stomach stayed behind in the arena.
The walls pressed in around us, too fast, too close.
I couldn’t get air past my teeth. Every instinct I owned screamed to let go, to curl into a ball, to make myself small enough this couldn’t touch me.
But small wouldn’t save me here.
Desert floor stretched below us, studded with stone spikes jutting up, teeth waiting to catch us.
Jagged limestone walls rose on either side, close enough I could’ve reached out and scraped my knuckles raw.
Crumbling pillars climbed toward the sky, some still connected by weathered arches that might collapse with one touch.
An obstacle course made of stone and wind and death.
Lykor’s wings beat unevenly, one working well, the other faltering. His breath came in short bursts, smoke-sweet-ash laced with fear.
The wind hit us again, a fist from below that shoved us upward. My spine compressed, and the saddle horn punched into my gut. I gasped, tasting blood where I’d bitten my tongue.
A downdraft slammed us sideways. Lykor’s wing clipped stone, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his body into mine.
I started humming. The tune barely made it past my throat, drowned by wind and the thunder of his wings, but I kept going. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Hum, breathe. Hum, breathe.
The tune threaded between us, barely audible, but Lykor heard it. His ears twitched back, and his wild fury settled into something steady. I hadn’t earned his trust, but maybe he remembered, somewhere deep in his brittle bones, what it felt like to be soothed instead of controlled.
My airway narrowed to a pinprick. My mother’s gift was working when my own hands couldn’t. For the first time since she’d died, I was grateful she’d taught me this. Even if she’d never live to know it had saved me.
If it saved me.
The reins burned my palms. Every dragon flinch transmitted itself through the leather, the way the throat latch dug into the soft tissue under his jaw.
The fire maze claims more than the canyon. Fenian’s words, a warning I hadn’t understood until now.
The runes magicked into Lykor’s tack sent shocks through me and dug into his jaw with every move. His spine. His chest under his breastplate.
He was fighting the tack as much as the wind.
The elite controlled their dragons with magic and metal and pain. But I wasn’t them.
I loosened my grip on the reins, leaving them slack in my hands. Lykor’s head lifted, freed from the constant pressure. For one wingbeat, I thought I’d killed us both.
Then his flight smoothed. His wings fell into rhythm as he wove between pillars instead of fighting to get around them. He banked left, passing a crumbling arch, then right to avoid a spike reaching up from below.
I thought we’d make it until the wiry man’s dragon slammed into Lykor’s flank.
The impact rocked through my bones. Lykor shrieked, his wings flaring.
Down became sideways. My weight shifted. The saddle tilted. My feet kicked at nothing, stirrups gone, and I was falling—
No.
I snapped my hand around the horn. The leather bit into my palms, but I held on, scrabbling against scales worn too smooth. Lykor bucked. The world spun. My body cracked against the saddle’s back edge and white fire shot up my spine.
Grinning, the man yanked the reins hard, bringing his dragon around for another hit.
His dragon’s wing clipped a pillar.
Stone shattered, pieces hitting his dragon’s neck hard. The beast’s wing folded, tearing at the joint. The dragon roared with pain, the sound punching through my lungs.
They tumbled.
The man’s scream followed them down until stone teeth caught him, spearing up through his chest. He struggled for a moment before slumping.
The riderless dragon shot past me on a jagged course, its wings beating frantically, blood trailing behind it in dark ribbons.
Lykor flinched away from the blood trail.
I stroked his neck. “Steady. I’ve got you.”
How could I protect him when I could barely hold on?
The man had made the wrong choice, and I’d come close to dying on stone myself. I’d almost died before reading Tolross’s poem.
Lykor pushed forward, his breathing uneven, his wings straining. The far edge of the canyon appeared, sunlight cutting through shadows.
We cleared the gap and plunged into the arena.
Lykor landed hard on the stone floor, his legs buckling before he caught himself.
He dropped to the ground, his sides heaving.
I slid from the saddle. Or tried to. My legs had stopped taking orders.
They folded underneath me and the ground came up fast, slamming into my knees and palms, sand grinding into my flesh.
My teeth rattled. My vision swam.
Breathe. Count. Stay conscious.
Marda stood off to the side, looking bored. The blonde woman had slumped on the ground and was staring at nothing.
I tried to stand, but my body informed me we were staying down. My side screamed where I’d hit the saddle. The red lines across my palms had opened, blood filling the cracks.
As I struggled to rise, a handler in dusty livery strode toward me, his face twisted in a sneer that mirrored the snide comments from the viewing boxes. He didn’t offer a hand for support; he reached down and snared my upper arm, his fingers digging into the skin with a force that made me flinch.
“On your feet, stable girl,” he barked.
A crack echoed off the stone floor, the sound of a static discharge. The handler let out a yelp and recoiled. He stumbled back, cradling his hand, glaring at me.
He pivoted and scurried across the arena, disappearing through the opening leading to the stands.
I lifted my head.
Prince Fenian stood in the front row of the royal viewing box, his hands braced on the rail, scowling at the entrance below. His gray eyes flickered to me and held.
He didn’t look away, and neither did I.
Something passed between us. It wasn’t pity. I would’ve hated that. Respect, maybe. Or the horror of watching someone choose this knowing what it cost.
He looked like a man watching a disaster he couldn’t stop.
His jaw tightened, that tell I’d learned to read.
Heat landed in my cheeks. I was covered in sand and speckled with blood and my own terror, and he was looking at me like I was—
I dragged my gaze away before I could finish the thought and pushed myself to my feet, wavering. A short time ago, I was plummeting toward stone teeth. My body hadn’t caught up to the fact that I wasn’t falling anymore.
An official’s voice cut through the noise. “Six riders remain. You will now be taken to the second trial.”
Priestesses flowed into the arena, surrounding us and our dragons.
Lykor’s sides heaved, his breathing coming too fast. I stroked his leg, and the heat in my palms flared, what little magic I possessed trying to give him something I wasn’t sure I had.
“One more,” I whispered. “Just one more left, and you can rest.”
I’d survived the canyon.
I’d do my best to survive what came next.
And in the next trial, six of us would become fewer.