Chapter 25
25
SAOIRSE
T he first difference between Grivur’s games and the Tournament Saoirse had faced only weeks ago was the numbing silence. When she’d entered the Stone Circle for each trial, the fanfare and enthusiastic cries of onlookers had nearly deafened her. She’d expected to hear the movement and mumblings of a small crowd gathered around them, whether because they’d been forced to observe the games against their will by Grivur, or because they’d been drawn to the mad spectacle by morbid curiosity. Instead, the air around her was eerily noiseless, as though the sounds of city life in the Under Kingdom had seeped down through the rock and swallowed up by the earth.
“We’re here,” Sloane said from somewhere in front of Saoirse. “Take them down.”
She squinted through the opaque fabric of her hood, trying to see their destination. Before Saoirse had the chance to properly guess where they’d been taken, the group of underguards herded them forward again. “Watch your step,” a guard said in her ear. She almost asked him how she was supposed to watch her step when she was blindfolded, but thought better of it. “The stairs are steep,” he added with a chortle, digging his fingers into her arm. “Don’t fall.”
Saoirse edged her way blindly down the stairs, doing her best not to lean into the underguard’s guiding hand too much. The incline of the stairway was so sharp she nearly slipped. Her hand went out instinctively, one sweat-slicked palm colliding with a stone wall to her right. Her other hand met nothing but air. As her fingers swept along the rough rock wall, she guessed the staircase was cut into the stone itself. The uneven surface didn’t feel like the refined marble of the palace, and the lack of a handrail led her to believe they were not within a building. The air was chilled compared to the moist warmth of the prison block. She’d originally thought their trials might take place in an arena similar to the Stone Circle, but this felt more like a spiral staircase that coiled into the ground. Where were they being led?
After what seemed like an eternity of shuffling down the stairs, the underguards finally removed her hood. Saoirse inhaled deeply as her surroundings sharpened into focus. Her instincts were correct. She found herself standing at the bottom of a hollowed-out pit, surrounded by stone walls stretching high above them. The crude staircase they’d hobbled down was indeed carved into the walls, spiraling downward like a corkscrew.
“Titans,” Neia cursed when her hood was removed. Her pale eyes traced up the sides of the open pit, bright with recognition. “We’re in the Roserock Quarry.”
There were many abandoned quarries throughout the Under Kingdom, whether deserted after their precious materials had been fully depleted and their mines bled dry, or because of some other complication like flooding or a tunnel collapse. Various wooden scaffolding structures latticed up the sidewalls, some dangling in splintered pieces and others still intact. A few frail-looking platforms were connected with ropes and feeble ladders.
Saoirse followed the winding staircase up to the top of the pit, going cold when she saw Tezrus standing at the edge. While she, Neia, Hasana, and Rook had been led down into the bottom of the quarry, Tezrus had remained at the peak with Sloane. He’d been given a purple robe, likely dug up from some dusty corner of the Elder’s temple. She couldn’t imagine how disturbed he felt donning the robes again after fighting so hard to escape the Order’s clutches. In Tournaments past, Elders across Revelore had pined for the privilege of being chosen as the Master of Trials, a time-honored position given to only the most pious and devout followers of the Myths of Old. For Tezrus to be chosen was a blatant mockery, a psychological blow that surely challenged him just as they would be challenged in the depths of the quarry.
Another robed figure came to stand at the edge of the pit. King Grivur gloated down at them, his sallow face engulfed in his fur-trimmed cloak. He raised his arms in celebration, crimson sleeves dripping from his arms like melted vermilion sealing wax. Just like in the Hall of Kings, jewels glinted on every finger.
“Welcome tributes!” Grivur exclaimed gleefully. His voice echoed down the stone cavity. “The day has finally arrived in which you’ll atone for your treachery. I hope you’ve had enough time to prepare!”
Saoirse felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to grab hold of her companions’ hands for strength, but they were still flanked by the underguards and their obsidian-tipped spears. Instead, she settled on locking eyes with Rook, who stood a few feet away from her. Though his eyes were bloodshot and his skin was feverish, his gaze burned with spirit. He gave her a wordless nod.
“Master of Trials, would you kindly do the honor of reminding us why the Tournament exists?” Grivur gave Tezrus a withering look that suggested he would push the old man over the edge of the quarry if he didn’t obey.
In a warbling voice, Tezrus sputtered, “The Tournament is an ancient tradition that originally began as a symbol of Revelore’s unity. The Tournament brought the kingdoms of Revelore together for centuries, held in the Stone Circle each season. When the War of the Age splintered our kingdoms’ unity a hundred years ago, the Order of Elders proposed the Tournament be used as a tool of reconciliation, a compromise that would settle the fires of war. The Tournament was henceforth held every decade, giving each nation the opportunity to win the Crown of Revelore, and in turn, the right to rule Revel?”
“Very good,” Grivur cut him off, irritated. “We don’t need a history lesson.” He turned his focus back down to the pit, a delusional grin splitting his face. “You have all defiled the sacred Tournament and made a mockery of our ancient traditions. You must be reminded that the Tournament keeps the peace. Without it, the flames of conflict would ravage our world. As the last Tournament was so blasphemously interrupted, it must now be concluded here. You shall compete in a series of three trials, the end of which will produce a singular champion. Whichever one of you survives the three trials will be granted freedom. You would do well to kill off your competition before you find a knife lodged in your heart.”
So Grivur thought he could rouse their kingdoms’ histories of political rivalry and provoke them into fighting against one another? He didn’t understand they’d each outgrown the petty rivalries and trivial feuds that had plagued their peoples for the past hundred years. Grivur was going to be quite disappointed, then. The satisfaction of not letting him have the upper hand almost drowned out Saoirse’s terror. Almost .
“Prepare the quarry,” Grivur ordered the underguards.
The soldiers abruptly left the four of them standing in the center of the pit and started climbing back up the stone staircase. Saoirse’s skin pebbled with fear when she realized her wrists were still shackled together. The four of them were linked by a long rope, their manacles looped through a shared cord. They had some freedom of mobility, but they were tied together. One person’s movement would affect them all.
“Do not attempt to escape the quarry. Even your wings won’t do you any good.” Grivur gave Rook a pointed glance. “If you try and fly out, my archers will shoot you down. You’ll be granted freedom from the pit only after you’ve survived the trial.”
To Saoirse’s bewilderment, the underguards began slapping their palms and spears against the stone walls. They continued up the stairs, making as much of a racket as they could. The sounds of clanging metal and pounding footsteps reverberated down to the bottom of the pit. Saoirse could practically feel the walls vibrating.
“Hel’s teeth,” Neia hissed. “This isn’t good.”
“What?” Saoirse breathed. “What’s going on?”
“Abandoned quarries are extremely dangerous.” Neia scanned the trembling walls, her eyes practically glowing with panic. “Not just because of the sinkholes, the collapsed tunnels, or the toxic minerals that are sometimes unearthed when they dig too deep. Sometimes, they flood and become deep reservoirs of water. Cavefish thrive in these flooded reservoirs. There’s a certain predator native to the tunnels of the Under Kingdom that prey on these cavefish. They can sense the vibrations in the stone from many leagues away. In this case, we’re the cavefish.”
As the trial’s challenge dawned on Saoirse, she felt her jaw go slack and her heart stutter in her chest.
Wyrms.
The underguards were summoning Wyrms .
“Wyrms can tunnel through the bedrock quite fast. We’ll have a few minutes at most before they’re upon us. When Wyrms detect the vibrations of cavefish in flooded quarries, they burst through the walls and swallow several fish at a time. When they rupture through the walls and find the pit empty of water, they’ll find us as a substitute meal.”
When the underguards had climbed halfway up the staircase, they finally stopped their clamorous riot. A pale-haired woman began descending the stairs, passing the throng of soldiers as they ascended. Larken .
The stone-singer placed her hands on the limestone and began forming a barricade of rock along the steps. Larken frowned down at them, no trace of pleasure or satisfaction on her face as she summoned the stone. A slab of rock expanded from the wall and configured into an impenetrable barrier in the middle of the already perilous staircase. Even if they wanted to escape, they’d be blocked from continuing up the stairs to safety. And if Rook used his wings to carry them out of the pit, he would be shot down. Once she’d arranged the stone obstruction to her liking, Larken stalked back up the stairs, leaving them fully entrapped within the chasm.
“The quarry is not warded against magic,” Hasana breathed, her eyes traveling down from Larken’s barricade to land on Rook. “Lift your tunic. This might be the only time I’ll have to heal you.”
“We need to arm ourselves. We’re completely defenseless,” Neia argued. “Now is not the time to heal the Auran princeling.”
“Now is the time,” Hasana snapped. “He’ll be no use to us half-dead.” Her eyes began shimmering with golden light that swallowed her pupils. Her palms started glowing, her Healing magic flooding her veins. Rook obediently lifted his tunic and bared his stab wound to her.
Saoirse nearly fell to her knees. His injury had grown much, much worse. The tiny threads of black had expanded across his muscled abdomen like rotted roots. Most of his flesh had darkened into a sickly bluish-purple hue, blackened at the center of the wound like a smudge of charcoal. The spiderwebbing veins of poison disappeared beneath his bunched-up tunic, likely crawling up his chest and shoulders. Rook winced in pain as Hasana pressed her glowing hands to his wound.
The walls began to shudder. Loose pieces of rock fell, and sections of the wooden scaffolding collapsed as tremors continued rumbling through the quarry.
“Sounds like two of them,” Neia guessed, her head cocked toward the vibrations. “Hurry up, Princess.”
Hasana’s palms glowed even brighter, her magic sensing the urgency of their situation. Glowing light spilled from her hands like liquid gold and seeped into Rook’s sickly skin. He gritted his teeth in pain, jaw flexing hard as Hasana’s magic raced to combat the source of his infection. Rook had told Saoirse the wound wouldn’t fully heal, but Hasana’s abilities could hold it at bay and ease his pain. Indeed, a few of the dark threads of infection seemed to retreat backward like stitches of embroidery yanked out by a seamstress. Healthy color began to flush Rook’s cheeks and his posture seemed to uncurl under Hasana’s ministrations. Saoirse could practically see her healing ability searing away the inflammation bit by bit as Rook’s energy was restored and his weary gaze became clearer. The festering wound would return with a vengeance, but for now, he finally looked more like himself.
“They’re nearly here!” Neia yelled over the shuddering walls. “Your healing session is over!”
Rook looked worlds improved when Hasana reluctantly removed her palms from his abdomen. Now that the feverish gleam of his gaze had subsided, fresh awareness burned in the depths of his eyes. To Saoirse’s utter shock, he closed the distance between them and caught her hands between his own. A bolt of electricity shot through her body at the touch of his fingers. The words he’d been holding back exploded from him: “Saoirse, I’m so sorry for what happened. I was such a stubborn ass. I was hurting and angry, and I shouldn’t have?”
“Now is not the time,” Neia interrupted. “You can spout off apologies to your lover later. Preferably, while you grovel at her feet. But now we need weapons. Over there!” Before any of them could respond, she hauled them over to a crumbling bit of scaffolding, their connecting rope straining between them.
Any euphoria tingling through Saoirse’s limbs from Rook’s fleeting touch evaporated as the walls of the pit quaked. The peels of unhinged laughter emanating from the top of the quarry were somehow more spine-chilling than the hideous shrieking sound rumbling through the earth. Saoirse stumbled forward as Neia sprinted to the scaffolding, shackles chafing her wrists as the commander dragged them along.
They reached a hazardous-looking ladder and Neia charged up the rungs. Saoirse scrambled after Hasana, feeling Rook clamber up behind her. Though the ladder creaked and buckled under their collective weight, it remained anchored in place by metal rods drilled into the wall.
The first Wyrm exploded from the side of the quarry. Fragments of rock erupted from the wall as the creature hurled itself into the pit. Saoirse made the mistake of looking over her shoulder as the beast burst through the bedrock.
She’d imagined the parasitic creature would be grub-like and soft. But the limbless, writhing Wyrm was armored with scales from head to toe, its thick hide made for tunneling through dense rock like an iron wedge. She’d expected it to have an insect-like jaw, but the sightless creature’s head was more serpentine in nature. Its gaping mouth revealed several rows of spike-like teeth that could easily cut through stone and snap bones in half. Milky eyes were positioned on the top of its head, clearly blind and useless. Saoirse’s blood curdled at the sound of the Wyrm’s frustrated screeching when it landed in a heap at the bottom of the pit. It curled in around itself, its body coiling up like a worm on a fishing hook.
“Saoirse, keep going!”
She tore her gaze from the thrashing Wyrm and found Rook staring up at her from the lower rungs, fear blazing in his eyes. “I’m right behind you!” She hadn’t realized she’d stopped moving. Her fingers felt numb as she forced herself to move. Terror splintered through her as the Wyrm’s bellowing echoed through the pit like tearing sheets of metal.
At last, they reached a rickety wooden platform that trembled on rotting structural beams. Saoirse scrambled over the side, turning to help Rook up the rest of the way. Once he was safely over the ladder, she scanned the abandoned mining equipment littered across the platform. In total, there were two pickaxes, a hammer, a rust-coated shovel with a splintered shaft, and several smaller chisels bent beyond repair.
High above them, Grivur’s insufferable voice whined, “I told you to remove anything that could be used as weapons! They’re not supposed to have a fighting chance!” He sounded as unhappy as a child who’d had their toys taken away, as though he were playing with inanimate objects rather than with lives.
Neia grabbed one pickaxe for herself and thrust the other into Saoirse’s hands. She offered the hammer to Hasana, whose eyes were wide with fear.
“I don’t know how to use that,” she breathed. “I’ve never even held a sword.”
“Well, you’re about to learn,” Neia huffed, shoving it into her hand. She picked up the broken shovel and handed it to Rook, shrugging apologetically. “This is the best we’ve got.”
The second Wyrm burst from the opposite wall, its wriggling body crashing against the rock just under their tottering platform. The walls shuddered with impact and more chips of stone showered down on them. The beams that supported the feeble wood crumbled with the force of the Wyrm’s lunge. The platform’s legs broke apart one by one and dropped like cracked icicles. Saoirse’s stomach dropped with them to the bottom of the pit.
“The ladder!” Neia roared as the scaffolding collapsed from underneath them. Had the ladder not been fixed to the wall with metal rods, it would’ve fallen alongside the platform. Hasana crawled down the ladder after Neia, their shared rope pulling taut.
At the bottom of the pit, the two Wyrms collided in a heap of coiling segments, their lashing movements sending shockwaves through the quarry as they struck the sides violently. Once the shock of burrowing into a dry quarry had worn off and the collapsing scaffolding settled, the beasts would pick up on the frenzy of vibrations from where the four of them flailed on the ladder.
Saoirse was just about to throw herself onto the ladder behind Hasana when the platform gave way from under her feet. She was suddenly weightless, her hands scrambling for a hold on the rungs. She could feel Rook falling behind her, their connecting rope yanking her backward with his weight. They dangled from the cord together, held above the thrashing Wyrms at the bottom of the pit. The metal manacles tore at Saoirse’s wrists as she hung by her arms. She kicked at the wall, trying to find a foothold. The corded threads began unravelling as she and Rook swayed, the rope lodged between a metal rung. Neia swore as their suspended bodies nearly pulled her and Hasana off the ladder.
The rope abruptly snapped, and Saoirse began to freefall. Arms snaked around her as she fell backward through the air, the wind rushing past her. Rook’s breath was hot against her neck as he crushed her against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he breathed. And suddenly, they weren’t falling. Instead, they soared upward. Rook’s powerful wingbeats filled her ears and Saoirse’s stomach fluttered, half from the height and half from his nearness. Saoirse watched as Grivur’s archers drew back their crossbows, training their arrows on Rook in case he attempted to fly out. He was wary not to fly too high, hovering alongside the ladder where Hasana and Neia were braced against the wall. He carefully set Saoirse on the rungs, his hands moving down her waist as she found her footing.
“What’s our next move?” Rook began.
“Shh!” Neia silenced him. The sound of his voice would carry through the rock.
Rook’s fingers regretfully left the small of Saoirse’s back as she wrapped one palm around a free rung to stabilize herself. Fortunately, she still clutched the pickaxe in her other hand. She sucked in a deep lungful of air, trying to keep her wits about her.
With the ruined platform finally settled on the floor of the pit in a heap of splinters, the Wyrms had stopped their flailing. The blind creatures were now eerily still, their lolling heads cocked toward where they held onto the ladder. They could feel every micro vibration with their skin, every small shudder or ripple that echoed through the stone.
“They’ve found us,” Neia whispered.
Before Saoirse could process what was happening, one of the Wyrms shot forward, launching itself at the ladder like a viper striking from under a rock. Its toothy jaw unhinged with a grotesque squelching noise. Hasana screamed as the Wyrm struck the bottom of the ladder just a few rungs shy of Neia’s feet. The beast let out a repulsive, guttural shriek as its mouth met wood and metal.
Neia swiftly used her pickaxe to sever the rope that still hooked her to Hasana. Instead of scrambling away from the creature’s snapping jaws, she jumped from the ladder and landed directly on the Wyrm’s scaled thorax. She started hacking at the beast’s hide with her pickaxe, her teeth gritted as the Wyrm writhed and screeched with shock. Neia got one good tear in its plated skin before it bucked her off, sending her careening toward the bottom of the quarry.
Saoirse almost yelled Neia’s name, but she caught herself before her voice could carry through the air and reveal her location to the closest Wyrm. Neia fell only a few feet away from the second creature, clapping a hand over her mouth as the wind was knocked from her lungs. The second Wyrm lurched toward her, its gaping mouth jerking as though it could taste the vibrations in the air.
Before it could strike Neia, Rook dove for the sightless creature, wielding his broken shovel like a sword. He smashed its milky-white eyes with the makeshift weapon. Though it was already blind, the beast could still feel pain, and its blood-curdling squeal shook the quarry as Rook continued to stab at its useless eyes. Neia scrambled away from its thrashing tail, the echoes of her footsteps drowned out by the Wyrm’s screams.
Below Saoirse, Hasana remained paralyzed on the ladder, her face frozen with terror. The first Wyrm had recovered from Neia’s initial surprise attack. Blood seeped down its side from where the pickaxe had cleaved its scales apart. It focused its attention back to the ladder and let out an eerie hiss. The Wyrm lunged forward again, teeth flashing in the dim light. Hasana shut her eyes and gripped the trembling ladder even harder as the beast jabbed blindly at the wall.
Saoirse had to act. She raced down the rungs, pausing just above Hasana. She pointed down, gesturing for Hasana to climb down the ladder. Despite her terror, she obediently began to descend, her eyes slamming shut once more. Saoirse began hitting the side of the quarry with her pickaxe. She prayed the vibrations would overshadow Hasana’s movements down the ladder.
The Wyrm lunged again, slamming into the wall mere inches above Hasana’s head. Saoirse bit back another scream. The Wyrm recoiled and shook its head, sending shards of stone raining down upon Hasana, who was still painstakingly climbing. Saoirse continued to wedge her pickaxe into the wall, willing the beast to strike at her rather than Hasana. The hideous creature reared back again, this time leveling itself with Saoirse.
Time seemed to slow down, and every second felt like an eternity as the Wyrm readied to strike. Saoirse gripped the hilt of her pickaxe with one hand, turning to face the dreadful beast. And then the Wyrm was lunging forward, moving in slow motion. Its colorless lips tore back to reveal rows of dagger-sharp teeth set into swollen gums. Its jaw unhinged wide enough to fully swallow Saoirse. She could see down its throat, an abyss of quivering pink muscle. When it was only inches away, she thrust the metal pickaxe into the roof of its mouth as hard as she could. She unhooked her feet and dropped down the ladder just as the Wyrm collided with the metal rungs she’d only just been holding onto. The soft flesh of her palms tore as she slid down the rusted ladder. She couldn’t stop the scream that escaped her mouth as her hands burned.
She slammed her feet into the rungs just before colliding with Hasana. Above them, the Wyrm writhed in pain. It had embedded its teeth so firmly into the side of the quarry that it couldn’t detach itself. The Wyrm squealed in its death throes, a bone-chilling cry that almost made Saoirse feel guilty for running her pickaxe through its skull. Almost.
Suddenly its tortured wails went silent. When the Wyrm went limp and gravity took control, its bloated body fell from the wall, a few teeth still lodged into the rock.
“Hold on!” Saoirse ordered. She tucked her head in, wrapping both arms around its rungs and holding herself flush against the ladder. The twitching body of the Wyrm crashed into the ladder, nearly knocking Saoirse from her position. Her palms were on fire, but she refused to let go.
The Wyrm thudded lifelessly at the bottom of the quarry. Saoirse looked down at Hasana, relief washing over her when the Tellusun princess gazed up at her. She’d survived. Her gaze moved beyond Hasana, finding Rook and Neia standing over the corpse of the first Wyrm, their chests heaving.
Hasana and Saoirse scrambled the rest of the way down the ladder, their feet at last finding solid ground. Saoirse shuddered as she passed the two Wyrm corpses, still twitching even in death. There was movement and voices at the top of the quarry, but she didn’t listen. With a ringing in her ears and her heart thundering against her ribs, her entire focus honed in on the three people who stood before her. Perhaps it was just adrenaline or a newfound sense of shared terror, but she felt a rush of affection for each person who’d fought in the trial. She found herself wrapping her arms around Hasana. Rook followed suit, pulling them both into an embrace. Finally, Neia came up behind Saoirse and snaked her arms around them all.
They’d survived the first trial.
Exhaustion crawled across every inch of Saoirse’s body. She had no energy to fight the underguards as they shoved her roughly into the awaiting cell. Her lungs burned, her last dose of titansblood wearing off. She fell to the floor and found the bucket of putrid titansblood. She swallowed the foul concoction, her eyes fluttering closed as it began to take effect.
The image of the Wyrms’ gaping jaws surfaced behind her eyelids. Their cracked, oozing lips tore back to reveal rows of dagger-sharp teeth set into swollen black gums. Her eyes shot open and she sat up quickly. All she could see was the blood staining her clothing, and she suddenly wanted to peel it all off and burn every last scrap of fabric. Nausea roiled in her stomach, and she tried to steady her breathing. They were alive. All four of them. She could live with a little blood on her clothes.
She looked across the cell block at Rook, her tongue burning with questions. He looked as tired as she felt, but he no longer appeared sickly thanks to Hasana’s magic. For now, her magic would hold whatever infection festered from the stab wound at bay. She would give anything to have a moment alone with him. What had he seen on the Isles of Mythos with Aurelia and Sune? How were the Mer relocation efforts going? What had made him beg for her forgiveness in the quarry?
Her attention on Rook was broken as Tezrus was herded into the adjacent cell next to hers. His purple Elder’s robe had been removed. He fled to the corner of the cage, a haunted gleam in his pale eyes. He frantically swept away all the symbols and runes he’d drawn in the dust earlier that day, muttering incoherently to himself. He’d faced his own trial, of sorts. He’d been forced to watch as they fought the Wyrms, paraded like puppets for Grivur to use in his stage production. Even if he hadn’t participated in the actual trial itself, the old man must’ve been terrified for his life standing at the top of the pit next to the mad king.
The underguards filed out of the prison block, leaving Sloane to stand alone before Saoirse’s cell. Her crimson dress pooled at her feet like a mockery of the blood adorning their clothes. Sloane’s pearlescent eyes shone in the dim light like slivers of moonstone. Her mouth parted for a moment before she slammed her painted lips closed. A velvet-sleeved arm shot forward, her hand slipping between the cell bars. She crushed something through the slats and promptly jerked her hand away, hurrying out of the prison block in a flurry of swirling red skirts.
Saoirse eyed the crumpled scrap of parchment warily. Was this a trick? After ensuring all the underguards had gone, she gingerly picked up the parchment and smoothed out the folds. Her eyes went wide as she read the charcoal letters smeared across the cream-colored paper.
You haven’t lost all of your allies. Survive the next two trials. I will help you escape. May glory be given.