26. Drusilla #2
Despite the first trial having been a one-on-one fight, she feels more alone now. She tries not to think about the layers of hard stone cutting her off from the people she swore to protect.
A strong, muffled voice booms above them.
The crowd cheers soon after, leading to the sound of metallic clanking filling the underground room. The first rays of sunlight peek through the widening gap in the ceiling, bringing with them the jubilant cheers of the spectators. They grow so loud, Dru can barely think.
She draws in a few deep breaths, not having realized how shallow they’d become. As the ceiling continues to separate, she shakes out her shoulders and arms, readying herself for what she knows how to do best: survive.
Finally, the ceiling halts. Given the size of the maze needed to fit all ninety-nine participants, the opening doesn’ t reach all the way across, leaving her and her fellow fodder unseen by the crowd until they step inside.
Two drum beats sound.
“Participants,” Venatus Magister Blaise booms. Dru squints into the sun to find him tucked safely inside the balcony high above them.
“For this trial, you must answer the first riddle correctly in order for the door to your section of the maze to open. Once inside, you will face a number of riddles as well as physical challenges, all of which have been placed in the maze by myself and Gamemaster Ettore.”
The Durevolian gamemaster steps forward. “Today, you will learn that glory is about more than brawn, for knowledge is everlasting. The riddles have been chosen by us so that both Durevolian and Phaedran perspectives would be represented and provide an equal challenge for all competitors.”
He takes a beat, letting the applause die down. “The purpose of the trial is simple: live. Quickness will not benefit you. Take your time, think through your answers, keep your wits about you, and you will survive.”
A single drum beat, and Blaise’s voice returns.
“Here is the first riddle: I can run but not walk. I have sound but can’t talk. I have a bed but can’t sleep.”
I suppose they had to give us an easy one to get everyone inside their death maze.
“A river,” she tells her door, lowering her voice so the other participants nearby can’t hear her. But no one else chose to be quiet, and since the narrow hallway is like an echo chamber, the answer slings around her from every direction.
A section of the wall in front of her lowers until the sound of all the doors moving thunders, the ground rumbling slightly beneath her.
This is it. She takes a breath and steps inside.
On the gamemaster’s suggestion, she doesn’t run in like the other competitors on either side of her. She refuses to panic, even when the door settles back into place behind her with a groan, shutting her in between carved stone walls.
The dirt path before her narrows, and she pulls in her shoulders, nervous there won’t be much room to defend herself against the physical challenges.
At least the top of the maze is open. Although it’s only so the spectators above them can watch them like rats in the sewers, cheering for their demise.
The sun beats down on her neck and arms, and dirt clings to her legs.
She wipes away the dampness on her forehead born from nerves and the heat of the sun, and steps further in.
Gravel scuffs beneath her sandals as she grips the hilt of the dagger at her hip.
Silences presses in on her, almost worse than the heat and certainly more suffocating.
The wall in front of her forces her to the left. A few more feet, and she’s faced with another turn, anxious to meet her first challenge.
She tries to shut out the sounds around her but can’t. A woman screams from across the maze, while the sound of squelching and gurgling pierces her ears from the other side of the wall. Pausing, she finds blood leaking through the sand beneath the stone in crimson rivulets.
Swallowing, all she can do is hope it doesn’t belong to Marcus or Cato and move on.
Another turn, and she comes face-to-face with a strange man.
He wears a long beige tunic, his dark hair shaved down to his skull.
Scrutinizing his form, he doesn’t appear to have a weapon on him—but neither did the man who attacked Cato in the first trial.
And she can’t risk being wrong in this. Either I’m going to have to fight him or answer another riddle. I can handle both.
Sucking in a breath, she prepares herself for the first challenge the maze has set forth for her.
His voice grates when he speaks. “I have a spine but no bones.”
Riddle it is, then. She relaxes the grip on her dagger, remembering not to rush.
Given the context of bones, her mind immediately thinks of animals. But every creature she conjures up has a spine made of bones. Which means it’s likely not a creature but an object of some kind. But what object has a spine?
She shakes her head—she honestly has no idea.
“A book,” he tells her, before pulling a loaded crossbow from behind his back.
With nowhere to run, she immediately lunges at him.
Lucky for her, he hesitates. Throwing her body at the opposite side of the crossbow, she hurls herself into him.
He lands with a thud, the crossbow tumbling out of his grasp as his head bounces against the packed dirt.
Getting to her knees, she places her ear next to his mouth. Still breathing.
Giving him one last look, she climbs to her feet and moves on, knowing she shouldn’t linger.
A book? She shakes her head. Must be a Phaedran item; she’s never heard of one before.
Heart thumping hard inside her chest, she skirts around another corner, finding a long stretch of the maze before her.
She treads carefully, unsure of what to expect.
If doors can come in and out of the ground, so can people.
And animals. And all assortment of weaponry.
Things that could kill her if she’s not careful.
She unsheathes her dagger, wary of whatever will come for her next.
Around a slim bend, the path widens slightly, and she finds a woman who looks a lot like her standing in her way. She wears a simple green robe that covers nearly all of her skin, her dark hair wild around her heart-shaped face and pink lips.
“I used to be a tree until I traded my roots for routes,” she says, her voice small and gentle.
Finally, a riddle the Faithless taught me.
“A map.”
When the woman doesn’t move, Dru grips her dagger again, anticipation setting her blood aflame.
Without warning, the riddle-teller lashes out, aiming a dagger at Dru’s heart.
She leaps to the side, barely grazing the wall as she catches the woman’s wrist holding the blade.
She struggles in Dru’s grip and drops the dagger, tearing at Dru’s iron grasp with her other hand.
Dropping her own blade, Dru holds the space below the woman’s elbow, bringing up her knee and snapping the bone.
The woman cries out. Falling to her knees, she grasps her arm in pain. Dru took care that the bone wouldn’t break through the skin, but she had to incapacitate her somehow.
“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” Dru tells her.
The woman looks up at her, tears streaming down her face. “I wish you would have. You don’t know what they’ll do to me now that I’ve failed.”
Failed to what, kill me? Who wants me—or, rather, Sabina—dead? Dru wants to ask her, but it’s likely another trick more than it is the truth. It does her no good to linger.
She moves on without looking back, leaving the woman to whatever fate awaits her.
At the end of the bend, she comes to a half-wall. After examining it for a moment, she reaches up to lift herself over—when bronze spikes shoot up through the stone. One of the points slices into her finger before she can pull it away; she hisses. Can nothing be easy?
A man’s voice, appearing to come from inside the thick wall, speaks. “It is my property and belongs to me, but others use it more often.”
Stellae . It makes sense the riddles would get harder the closer she gets to the end, but this is impossible.
Take your time , she reminds herself again.
Clear your mind. What’s something that belongs to this man but others use it?
No, not this man in particular—any person.
Otherwise, he would’ve shown his face so she could know who he is.
Therefore, this thing that’s his property must be something everyone has as well.
She goes through every body part shared among peoples, but none of them is used more often by others.
What is mine, but other people use it more?
Then, it comes to her. She grins, unable to help herself. “Your name. ”
At her response, the spikes retract back inside, though the half-wall remains.
What are the chances the spikes will come back?
Given the odds haven’t been in her favor so far, more than likely.
She backs up to allow herself room and takes a run at it.
Using the sturdy stone wall beside her, she plants a foot on it and vaults over, landing solidly on the other side.
The spikes fly up again the moment her feet clear.
Despite the desperate urge to run, she treads carefully, ignoring her finger pulsing from where the spike sliced her open. Her other senses have dulled to the point she’s successfully blocked out most of the sounds from the other competitors.
The maze directs her around another corner.
The path narrows again, and she finds the stone wall to her left painted with black letters, a sentence written in Phaedran.
She imagines the purpose of that is more about making the quote readable for all, rather than claiming this as an Imperium riddle: most Durevolians can speak, read, and write in Phaedran, but not the other way around.
Some of the paint drips down onto the packed dirt from the words: I am not alive, but I grow; I do not have lungs, but I need air; I do not have a mouth, but water kills me.