Chapter 10 #2
The king shakes his head, his eyes kind, though his jaw is firm.
“It is not for you to concern yourself with such things, Princess. Fix your mind only on the five trials to come. There is much to be accomplished in a short amount of time. And there are other preparations to be made before you will set out on your quest. Leave all other matters to those who are bound to serve you and prepare you for what lies ahead.”
With this verbal pat on the head, he turns in his seat to look forward as we hurtle on through the dark.
I’m left to twist handfuls of silk skirts into knots, gritting my teeth against any other questions threatening to rise in my throat.
Thankfully, the ride does not last much longer.
The rails level out, and the pulley carts grind to a halt.
Swiftly, guardsmen leap forward to carry scintils before them into the darkness on our left.
They light more orbs as well, and soon a large space is revealed.
Once more, I see polished floors, carved rails, signs of dwarf work and civilization.
Servants appear and set up a refreshments table, and a lone musician takes up position in a quiet nook, filling the echoing air with the sound of lilting strings.
“This way, Princess,” Alderin says, offering his hand again. I rise, step from the cart, and let him lead me to a seat placed near a waist-high stone rail. As I sit, the king turns and claps his hands twice before calling out a harsh dwarfish word: “Marikoth!”
Immediately, the darkness on the other side of the rail illuminates, revealing a vast cavern, far bigger than any I have heretofore seen.
Big enough to swallow the great hall and more than half the palace with room to spare.
It’s wild and craggy, but there’s a strange order to the space that I cannot quite comprehend.
And the light! The light bouncing from stone to stone, gleaming off veins of pulsing meorise, is so bright and golden, I could almost swear it was…
“Sunlight?” I whisper.
Alderin smiles with pleasure at my surprise.
“Look,” he says, pointing to the cavern ceiling far overhead.
From where I sit, I can just discern various points from which the spotlights seem to fall.
“Dwarves care nothing for magic,” the king says, “and refuse to use scintils or any other enchanted means to light their spaces. Here you see an incredible example of dwarfish workmanship in the light funnels: tunnels dug all the way to the surface world. Sunlight shines in, refracts off expertly cut koth crystals, and is reflected from polished black-mirror glass. Impressive, is it not?”
It most certainly is. Living close to Inamaer as I have for the last sixteen years, I’ve become relatively inured to the wonder magic inspires in those who rarely see it. This feat of engineering strikes me as far more tremendous.
“What is this place?” I ask, casting my gaze once more over the cavern, trying to make sense of the pits, crags, stalactites, and shadows where the refracted sunlight cannot quite reach.
“It’s called the Holarieth,” Alderin replies.
“It was a proving ground for young dwarf warriors in ages past. They designed it to challenge their best and brightest, to see who among them was truly worthy of the glory of war. This gallery,” he adds, nodding to indicate the space in which we now sit, “is an observation platform from which the dwarf king might best see and judge the results of the contest. See there?” He points behind me, and I turn in my seat to look back at the wall.
A series of enormous mirrors hang there at various angles.
They are all dark at the moment, reflecting nothing.
“There are more mirrors set across the whole of the cavern below, angled so that, when the time comes, we will be able to observe parts of the trial which cannot be seen from this vantage.”
It sounds too marvelous for belief. Even magic mirrors and seeing pools are murky things at best and cannot always be trusted to reveal what the looker asks to see. I suppose I shall find out soon whether these unmagicked mirrors will work any better.
I turn back to the cavern below, taking in what I can of the scene. I can’t make any sense of it. What sort of trial are the champions meant to perform in this setting?
As though reading my mind, Alderin barks another command.
A horn blows close by, startling me, but the shout on my lips is drowned out in a thunder of grinding gears and mechanisms. To my eye-bulging shock, the cavern below me begins to…
shift. It’s like an earthquake, only so measured and controlled and precise.
The floor opens up, falls away, and a series of precisely carved and perfectly placed stalagmites rise up like teeth.
Hundreds of them, filling the floor below me, save for a small platform just below the gallery.
Another clunk of gears, and flat-topped columns rise from among the spikes—different heights, scattered seemingly at random.
They fill the floor for at least a hundred yards square, ending in a smooth, sheer wall.
Beyond the wall, I cannot see. But when I turn to look at the mirrors again, the nearest one flashes with light, revealing what I suppose must be the second leg of this trial.
I struggle to make sense of it, though the image is clear enough.
It seems as though the ground is full of great, rolling pillars, large enough to pulverize a man if he puts a foot wrong.
The next mirror glows red, the reflection so bright I must let my eyes adjust for some moments before I’m able to discern what I’m seeing: a lava pit. Of course there would be a lava pit. And dangling over that pit, a series of vines, all of which look ready to burn away at any moment.
My eyes open wider and wider, taking in each new image the mirrors reveal, each new peril more deadly than the last. I knew the trials would be difficult, of course.
But I never suspected any of them would hold so many opportunities for men to die gruesome deaths.
Spikes and churning stones and molten lava and who knows what else! It’s all one great jumble of horror.
Finally, I turn to Alderin once more. “This ‘proving ground,’ as you call it…it’s meant for dwarves?”
“Indeed.” The king nods.
“Which means…Well, is it not built on a scale for dwarves then?” I continue, trying not to grasp at hope. “What I mean is, won’t that make it a little easier? For full-sized human men?”
Alderin chuckles, a warm, rich sound. “That only goes to show how little you know of dwarves, my dear.” Before I can fully grasp his meaning, the horn sounds again. “Ah!” says the king. “Your champions have arrived.”
He bids me join him, standing at the gallery rail.
I’m a little breathless, for the rail is only waist-high, and the plummet is quite dreadful.
I draw near to the king and his strong presence almost unconsciously, forgetting all over again for the moment that he is not my friend.
The other lords and ladies of Belanor gather as well, each eager to glimpse their own champion and cheer him on to victory.
My heart jolts painfully to my throat when the contestants appear on that little platform below, one after the other.
Taigan leads them, of course, as First Champion.
A singular beam of funneled sunlight finds him and burnishes his curls to pure gold.
He wears a thin white shirt and trousers cinched at the knees, displaying manly calves.
He carries no sword or dagger, not for this contest, but his whole body has the look of a carefully honed weapon, shaped over years of labor.
“My nephew has been practicing the Holarieth trial his whole life,” Alderin says, inclining his head to speak into my ear.
“His nursemaid read him the legend of the Holari Warriors when he was just five years old, and he ordered the servants to build him a replica course. Over the years, he’s improved upon it, based on whatever scraps of information he could glean.
No man in Gorduin can cross it save he himself.
” He smiles with pride then catches my eye.
“Taigan has been particularly looking forward to this opening trial. He hopes you will show him your favor should he complete it in good time.”
As though hearing his uncle’s words, Taigan looks up at the balcony, his gaze seeking mine. He offers a salute with one hand. I respond with a thin-lipped smile, valiantly suppressing the bile in my gut.
One by one, the other champions appear. Learned Majestic Rune has tamed his mane, wrapping it in a coiled bun atop his head and securing it with a claw-shaped bone.
It makes him look even more chilling than ever.
I cannot tell the difference between the Ranger Prince’s garments today and those he wore to the Presentation last night.
He looks as rough and ready as ever, but the sight of his limp makes my stomach clench with dread.
How is he supposed to cope with the challenges ahead?
Lord Elis is a bundle of nervous energy, jumping from one foot to the next, shaking his arms, rolling his neck.
I cannot bear to look at him and turn to Bryon instead.
The Ulyon prince somehow wears even less clothing than he did last night.
Sunlight gleams on those tattoos, which seem to dance across his bulging muscles.
All this while, I’ve striven to keep from searching for the sixth and final figure…
but I can’t help noticing the conspicuous absence of Valtar.
I’d thought the king had decided to officially appoint him as champion following Joro’s death.
What happened in the meanwhile? Did Alderin, in the wake of one revealed traitor, decide not to trust the intruder prince?
I can’t say that I blame him. And when I think about the absolute deadness I’d seen in Valtar’s eyes as he stood over Joro’s slain body, a shudder rolls down my spine.
But why then does my heart feel so heavy as I count the men again, coming up with only five? And why does it flip with sudden lightness, jumping straight to my throat when suddenly that sixth tall figure appears, stepping through the narrow entrance and drawing abreast of the other champions?
I swallow hard, half-convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me.
He seems so unreal…so dark and dreadful and enormous, standing there at the end of the line beside Bryon.
He’s possibly the only man in existence not to look positively minuscule beside the massive prince of Ulyon.
Despite Bryon’s superior bulk, I wouldn’t necessarily bet against Valtar if it came down to a trial of strength between them.
His close-fitting garments emphasize his honed musculature, and I find it difficult to look away from him.
He’s like a panther, full of coiled power, ready to spring.
Prince Taigan, at the far end of the line, takes note of Valtar’s arrival.
His eyes narrow, filled with such hatred, it makes my breath catch.
I’m suddenly more aware than ever of all the pitfalls that lie before these men.
But surely there are rules against any unsporting behavior?
Surely the champions cannot be permitted to cause one another harm?
Still, if a little accident might be encouraged without inciting divine wrath…
My fingers grip the rail in front of me, squeezing hard.
“Champions,” Alderin calls out, drawing the eyes of the men below up to the gallery where we stand. All eyes save for Valtar’s. His gaze remains firmly fixed on the pit of jagged spikes in front of him, his features hard with calculation.
“You see before you,” the king continues, taking my hand in his, “the symbol of hope for our world. Behold her, in all her beauty, a worthy destiny for he who proves himself before the gods.”
Though every instinct tells me to flinch and pull away, I try to keep my head up, my shoulders back, as Philippa has been teaching me. Oh my gods, how I hate this!
“Fate has chosen the six of you to participate in the coming trials,” Alderin says, his voice echoing in that vast space.
“Like the Six Angels of Neriya, you represent the virtues of true knighthood: strength, courage, will, leadership, honor, and self-sacrifice. You will need each of these virtues to triumph both today and in the trials to come.” He draws a deep breath then, as though bracing himself under the weight of his next words.
“He who harbors the least doubt as to his own worthiness will be undone. If that is you—if doubt even now eats like a worm in your heart—stand down now and depart from here, alive, but a champion no more.”
I scan the faces of each man, searching for any sign of faltering. They all look at Alderin, their gazes clear and steady. All save for Valtar, who continues to face straight ahead.
“May the grace of the Ilemanti be upon you, my sons,” Alderin declares, lifting his hand in preparation. “And may he whom the gods favor be made known to us all. Champions—commence.”
With that last word, he drops his hand in a swift, slicing gesture. The six champions leap into action.