Chapter 39
Ivy
It seems the count Lothar chose is quite clever himself. He bests Petra’s speed at unraveling the puzzle box, though only by a matter of seconds.
That isn’t anywhere near enough to shake her confidence. She tackles the next two trials with the same cool determination she’s brought to the previous.
And without any significant interference from the scourge sorcerers. Sulla upends one more figure who tries to aim a spell toward the stage, and then there’s nothing further.
My shoulders are starting to ache from the tension I’m holding in them. My gaze keeps flitting over the crowd, stretching ever farther as more and more spectators arrive from beyond the city.
Then the red-robed cleric for Sabrelle strides onto the platform, and my stomach knots. Her challenge is what the largest portion of our construction efforts went into, and it offers plenty of danger of its own.
Several workers push the apparatus fully together with a rasp of wood against wood. A few devouts to Sabrelle step forward and add their magic, making the wheel of blades spin and the fragmented bridge ripple where it looms high above our heads. The streaks of crimson Casimir had the builders add give the impression of lurking brutality.
The cleric sweeps her hand toward the massive structure. “Each of the candidates will complete this course of physical challenges. Sabrelle wishes to see bravery, physical might, and logistical strategy in a ruler. Any candidate who fails to complete the course will be disqualified.”
Lothar breaks in with a loud demand. “The princess should go first. She’s had the advantage of seeing the course built—the other candidates should have the advantage of watching her handle it.”
I scowl. The truth is that Petra avoided the construction area and insisted she not be told any details of the trials ahead of time—she has no more idea how to handle the various obstacles than the other candidates seeing it now do.
But we have no simple way of proving that to the audience.
Before I can think of a solid argument to offer, Petra bobs her head in acceptance. “I’ll go first.”
She steps toward the starting ramp with its tiny, irregular handholds. It’s hard to keep my attention on the crowd while she’s about to face a series of death-defying perils.
I scan the swarm of figures beyond the platform until my vision blurs. The cleric announces the start of the challenge. Petra’s feet thud up the wooden surface.
And Stavros lets out a grunt of warning. “Something’s going to happen in less than a minute to startle Petra and make her stumble. The way everyone reacts, I think it’s a loud sound. I couldn’t see where it’ll come from.”
He leaps to the side of the stage to pass specific instructions on to the guards. Dozens push into the crowd, but I can already tell there’s no way they’ll be able to check everyone in the matter of seconds we have.
I risk slipping out of our alcove too, hurrying to the front of the platform in my invisible state. My gaze sweeps over the crowd again, squinting toward the farther reaches?—
There. A woman some twenty bodies back from the front lines is raising a slim, metallic object to her lips—a kind of instrument?
I don’t have time to point the guards to her. I tap into the trickle of magic between me and the sacrificial accomplices and let it launch my power.
The clasp on my cloak expands, and the neck of the horn squashes inward, just as the woman blows. A squeak of a sound reaches my ears, so faint I might not have made it out if I hadn’t been listening so hard.
I squeeze the windpipe even tighter for good measure.
Stavros has spotted her now. As he calls to the guards to point her out for arrest, I duck back into the shelter with no one the wiser.
In the midst of our panic, Petra has scrambled across half of the course. When I let myself glance up at her, I can see the military training she insisted on enduring at the college has paid off.
She leaps across the disjointed boards of the bridge so fast their jerking motions don’t make her more than wobble. She pauses for just a second to judge the speed of the whirling blades and then dashes forward, ducking and weaving between them.
A gasp of pain reaches my ears, and I wince, yanking my gaze to the crowd again. But I don’t think that was sabotage, only the difficulty of the course.
When Petra finally squeezes through the snare of ropes to emerge at the far end, a scratch on her upper arm is dribbling blood.
“Two minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” the cleric announces. “Second candidate!”
Despite his advantage of having witnessed a run-through and his muscular strength, the soldier seems to find the nimbler areas difficult to navigate. He struggles through the ropes and arrives with a time only slightly faster than Petra’s.
The noblewoman has to pause several times out of caution and takes more than four minutes.
The count hurtles into the course with an arrogant air, which proves to be over-confidence. Halfway across the bridge, he slips, fumbles, and falls between the slats.
He hits the platform with a crunch of broken bone and a pained cry. The workers and a healer who was standing by rush over.
From the way his limbs are twisted, I think he’s broken his leg.
The cleric of Sabrelle appears totally unconcerned. “The fourth candidate is eliminated from the trials.”
The audience doesn’t seem bothered either. With each trial that ends with Petra showing her prowess, the cheers for her get louder.
She’s won most of them and taken a close second place in the other two. It’s obvious who the forerunner is.
My future queen’s victories continue through the final few trials. By the time we reach the last—for Creaden, the godlen most concerned with leadership and authority—applause carries through the crowd whenever Petra’s name is mentioned.
It’s been a long morning, but the faces taking in the spectacle glow with avid anticipation.
The purple-robed cleric guides three smooth wooden towers forward and assembles a trio of his devouts at the base of each. He points to the seat fixed to the top of each tower, shining a golden yellow above the whirls of violet and midnight blue on the base. “You will each work together with your underlings to reach your throne. You will be judged by more than just speed.”
Before he can give the order to begin, a tingle of magic courses over my skin. My head twitches toward it, but an instant later, another current touches me, and another—as if spells are being cast from all around the platform.
Next to me, Sulla stiffens. “What in the realms is that?”
I swivel, trying to navigate the swarm of impressions. “There’s magic coming from all over the place,” I say for our companions’ benefit. “None of it very strong… Nothing’s actually happening yet…”
Sulla’s eyes widen. “It’s a distraction. They know we picked up on their previous attempts, so they’re trying to overwhelm us rather than being sneaky about it.”
Casimir speaks up in a low voice. “Lothar looks as if he’s preparing for something. He’s walking around the far side of the platform like he means to go right around the back.”
“We have to—” Stavros cuts himself off with a hiss of breath. “I got a glimpse—someone’s going to appear at the front of the stage out of nowhere. They must be using concealment magic like your charm, Ivy.”
“Do you know which direction they’re coming from?” I ask.
He shakes his head in a jerk.
If it’s a matter of physically getting in an attacker’s way, I’m far more equipped for that duty than my older companion.
I set my jaw. “They’ll be coming for Petra. I’ll just have to get in their way.”
I bolt across the front of the platform, dodging the cleric and staying clear of the towers set several paces back from the edge.
No one reacts; no one can see me through the charm’s magic. They’re all gaping at the spectacle of three candidates trying to assemble their human helpers into some kind of ladder to get them up the tower.
Word of an impending threat must be passing through the guards and the daimon both, because the rows of them in front of me stir warily, a few drawing their weapons. Rheave has jumped down to join his fellow captured spirit creatures, his gaze darting around us. But they obviously can’t make out the would-be attacker any more clearly than I can.
I station myself directly in front of Petra’s tower and narrow my focus onto the thrum of magic resonating through the air.
Someone is going to attack. Someone who’s concealed through magic like I am.
I should be able to sense them when they get close, even with the wafting eddies drifting by.
The back of my neck prickles at the thought of Lothar prowling around behind me, but Stavros will have warned the guards to watch for any threatening behavior from him too—and he said the attacker his gift showed him appeared at the front of the stage. I need to stay here.
Grunts and rough breaths carry from the towers behind me. The cleric strolls by, examining the candidates’ progress with a casual air, totally unaware of the potential catastrophe.
Then I feel it: a thicker current of magic streaming almost straight toward me.
It’s passing over the heads of the guards in front of the platform—using flight as well as invisibility to avoid notice. But they can’t avoid me.
I adjust my stance to follow the impression I’m picking up and unsheathe the knife at my hip. My pulse thunders in my ears.
My riven power churns inside me, urging me to blast the intruder right out of the air.
No. I don’t need to pick away at my sanity any more than I already have.
And the less this confrontation distracts from Petra’s likely victory, the better.
The sensation of approaching magic blares louder and then seems to stop, right at the edge of the stage. Without letting myself hesitate, I launch myself at the presence I can feel in front of me.
Our bodies collide, and a woman in a cloak blinks into my view as she heaves herself to the side to avoid toppling off the platform. I clutch her tunic, forcing her to haul me with her.
She curses and lashes out with a blade of her own. I manage to jerk my head out of the way and wrench my hand up to try to force her surrender with my knife at her throat.
At the last second, she squirms partly out from under me. As I lunge after her, she swipes out with her knife again. Her boot slams into my gut when I dodge.
I reel backward, and a chorus of gasps rises up from the audience. When I glance around, most of the onlookers are staring at me rather than the trial.
My hand darts to my neck and finds nothing. The attacker must have snapped the chain holding my charm with one of those slashes I dodged.
She’s still invisible, but the hum of the magic wafts off her. There’s no time to worry about my exposure. I throw myself in the direction she’s scrambling.
I collide with her hard enough to knock a grunt from her lungs. We tumble over again, my elbow jarring against the platform floor.
A cry rings out behind me. I yank my head around just in time to see a blaze of magic hurtling straight toward me—and Sulla sprinting out across the stage.
She flings herself right in front of the searing projectile with a burst of her own magic. I don’t know why she didn’t try to deflect it from farther away—maybe she didn’t trust her focus when she’s never used her magic in combat or on this scale before.
The blaze rams into her. Her body crumples, spasming as it hits the floor.
A cry of my own lodges in my throat. But I can’t run over to help her, because the would-be assassin is flailing at me like a wild cat.
I’m too distracted, and my opponent’s dagger catches me across the jaw. A stinging line opens up in my flesh.
I shove her backward, driving her between two of the towers.
I have to get her away from Petra. Away from view. Stop this assault from becoming a total disaster.
The woman is clearly skilled in combat, but she didn’t get the training I did on the streets. I dodge her next kick and dive in low, knocking her off her feet again. Rolling to the side, I jab my elbow into her nose.
My magic writhes alongside my limbs, rattling against my hold. I just need to subdue her—the guards will want to question her—if she can reveal that she isn’t acting alone, we’ll have proof to call for Lothar’s arrest…
An urgent yell blares from the back of the platform. In the second I glance up, the woman seizes the opening. She stabs her blade straight at my neck.
My body reacts on instinct. I flinch, and my hand is already swinging.
Driving my own blade into her heart.
Her body sags, her knife only nicking my throat. Bitterness taints the relief that sweeps through me, but I don’t have time to think about that.
Because the next thing I hear is Stavros’s voice, taut and angry. “Ivy, we need you here.”
When I step away from the body, the woman I just killed fades before my eyes. Whatever magic she had on her, it must require some kind of trigger to remove it.
The only evidence of her existence right now is the blood slowly staining the floorboards as it seeps far enough away from her slumped form.
I look up and realize several guards and a few daimon have gathered nearby, all of them braced and ready to leap in.
“She had a dagger—she was heading for Petra,” I say quickly. “I stopped her.”
Stavros’s voice carries from farther back, in the shadows of the arching obstacle course. “Good. Now we need to deal with this traitor.”
As I push myself forward, Casimir’s soothing tones reach my ears from the front of the stage. He’s speaking to the audience. “Our guards are dealing with the security problem. We’ll ensure any threat to the candidates is subdued.”
I have no idea how my sudden appearance and the confusing fight the onlookers witnessed has affected the trial, but that can’t even be my second priority right now. As I hurry over, I’m already saying, “Sulla was hit by some kind of magic. She looked badly hurt. We’ll need a healer?—”
One of the guards interjects. “A couple of Elox dedicats have already gone over to see if there’s anything they can do for her.”
His tone doesn’t give me any clue as to whether she was still even alive. I swallow thickly and then stall in my tracks at the sight of the man at the other end of Stavros’s sword.
The former general has Lothar partly cornered against the underside of the arch. Three armed men form a semi-circle behind the leader of the Order, but they’re on our side, their own weapons braced to come to bear if he makes a sudden move. A few more of our soldiers flank Stavros.
Everyone’s expressions are stony, but none so much as Stavros’s. “Take the magic off the attacker we all know you sent,” he snarls. “Let’s see what we find.”
Lothar glares back at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were sneaking around back here for some vile purpose. It’s obviously all connected.”
The former advisor doesn’t stir. He’s got an excellent bluffing face, I’ll give him that.
I guess he’d have to for him to have fooled King Konram and the king before him all those years.
Footsteps creak across the platform. Tinom joins us with a sigh. “I should be able to do it. Where is this attacker?”
I point to the spot where the blood stain is spreading. He wrinkles his nose but bends down and spreads his hands.
My heart thuds a few times more, and then the cloaked woman materializes before our eyes.
“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” Lothar announces.
Stavros lets out a scoffing sound. “You can barely see her now with that hood up. Someone pull it back.”
I killed her, so I figure that really should be my job. I crouch down and tug away the swath of fabric that shaded the woman’s head.
Then all I can do is stare.
Light blond hair spills around the woman’s pale face, turned slightly reddish with the sort of tint that I’ve seen from the juice dyes the outer-warders sometimes use. She’s taller than me but nearly as thin, with a narrow face and a knob of a chin much like mine.
She’s hardly my twin, but the similarities send a shiver down my spine.
Stavros’s jaw works. I don’t think the details are lost on him either.
It’s Alek who puts the pieces together completely. I hadn’t heard the scholar approaching, but his taut voice lifts from a few paces away where he’s gazing down at the figure.
“After she murdered Petra, you were going to say it was Ivy attacking. That the riven sorcerer had turned on the princess who’d allied with her.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, I can see the horrific beauty of the plan. Lothar could have eliminated Petra while displacing any hint of blame from himself and his scourge sorcerers.
Of course the audience would have been all too eager to believe that a monstrous riven could have behaved so abominably. I heard the way they talked when we were setting up last night.
My magic flails to be let out at him, but I keep it tightly contained and fold my arms over my chest. “What were you doing skulking around back here at the same time?”
Stavros scowls. “One of our people found a knife in his pocket. Maybe he was going to jump in and take down the assassin to reinforce the absurd idea that he’s the hero in this scenario.”
Lothar scoffs. “All I hear is a lot of blathering. You can’t prove any part of this incredible story. Now let me return to my place so I can oversee the end of the trials.”
As if we want him setting so much as his eyes on Petra after he’s attempted this scheme. We still don’t even know what his magic is capable of.
I stalk closer and prod his armless side with a swift finger. Maybe I can provoke some kind of reaction out of him. “This seems like a much better place for you. Or we can send you over to sit with your sacrificial accomplices, since you all gave up so much.”
I let sarcasm taint my last words, but Lothar’s face twitches as if he’s restrained a flinch. I pause.
Why would that specific statement bother him more than the accusations we’ve tossed around?
Not the slightest hint of magic drifts off him even when I’m standing this close. That doesn’t mean anything much—I can only pick up on threads of energy being cast out.
But it occurs to me that in all the time I was around Lothar, even when he had me under his control in close quarters, I’ve never felt even a trace of magic coming from him. Never seen him make use of the theoretically impressive gift he should have.
A suspicion trickles through my thoughts that I can’t shake.
I ease even closer, studying Lothar’s face. “Do you even have a gift, or did you give that arm away for nothing?”
Tinom sputters a disbelieving laugh, but Lothar tenses at the same time. Enough to take me from suspicious to sure.
I whirl toward Tinom, who worked more closely with the former magic advisor than anyone else still living. “In all the years you were colleagues, did you ever see him use his gift? Did he ever say exactly what it is?”
Tinom halts, and his forehead furrows. “It was something to do with potions…”
Stavros’s eyebrows rise. “Potions don’t need a gift for a person to make them right, only knowledge of the ingredients and processes. Were any of his potions things no one could have made without some kind of magical intervention?”
“This is absurd,” Lothar snaps.
Tinom ignores him, his gaze gone distant in thought before it sharpens on the other man. “You know, I can’t think of any specifically that fit that criteria. I always took it for granted—but I can’t say I wasn’t wrong.”
My stomach twists. How awful must Lothar’s intentions have been all the way back when he was a twelve-year-old boy for his chosen godlen to reject a sacrifice so huge?
How awful would he have felt? How much more would his sense of morality have soured after such an immense and permanent rejection?
“Prove it, then,” I say in a terse voice that barely sounds like my own. “Tell us what your gift is and use it in front of us. There must be something you could direct it at.”
Lothar lifts his head to look down his nose at us. “I shouldn’t have to honor that ridiculous request with a response.”
Tinom shakes his head, some of the color drained from his face. “All those years… You lied to the king about everything about who you are. That job never should have been yours in the first place.”
“The job never should have been Hessild’s,” Lothar growls with a sudden flash of his eyes as he mentions the woman he had murdered. The woman who was once the chief magic advisor. “What was so wonderful about her power? What amazing things had she done? She and her whole family of snakes—the position should have been my father’s back in his day, but the Melchioreks always liked the Korinyas best—they fawned over them, they were nice.”
He bites off the last word with an acidic edge and then a clamping of his lips. But he’s already said enough.
Tinom chokes out a laugh. “You let bitterness infect you, and it cost you the gift you could have gained. At least Hessild honestly had magic.”
“I worked harder than you can possibly imagine for everything I’ve gained.”
“Yes,” I retort. “You’ve lied and manipulated children and murdered all kinds of people including the man you swore to serve. And you try to call me a monster.”
He spins toward me, his face reddening. “Why should a no one like you have limitless power because of some fluke of fate? You never even had to sacrifice.”
Anger flares in my chest alongside a lash of my magic. “You have no idea what I’ve lost. I never asked to be riven.”
Now his hostility toward me makes even more sense. It wasn’t just the standard hatred of the riven but bone-deep, venomous jealousy.
Tinom nudges me backward to step between us, his face hardened into a solemn mask. “None of this matters. No matter who wins the trials, you’re going to be arrested. This psychotic charade is over.”
Alek glances toward the front of the platform. “And it’s going to be Petra who wins. The final cleric just gave her his approval. All those people you tried to sway to your sick cause are rejoicing.”
The cheers and whoops of celebration filter past the jumble of equipment to reach our ears. I don’t doubt that Alek is right, even if I couldn’t see the declaration myself.
Petra has proven herself again and again—not just to be a strong, steady ruler, but to care about ensuring every person she rules over feels like a valued part of the kingdom.
Lothar will have made all the same observations I have. He was counting on Petra being dead and no longer an option, not on her actual failure.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows she’d be a better ruler than anyone he could put forth. He simply doesn’t care as long as the Melchioreks fall.
A strangled sound escapes him, and he barrels forward faster than I’d have expected a man of his size could move. With his single hand, he snatches the small crossbow one of the guards was carrying and whips it under his arm to brace it so he can fire.
Fire the loaded bolt at Petra where she’s standing at the front of the stage, unaware.
Stavros hurtles after him even faster. A guttural “No” bursts from his lips, and he heaves his sword through Lothar’s back.
Lothar staggers, the crossbow slipping from his grasp. “Fucking pompous prick,” he spits out with a gurgle of blood.
Stavros bears his teeth. “It’s nothing less than the vengeance my king deserved.”
He moves to yank out the blade—and perhaps stab the man a few more times, which I certainly would not object to—but Lothar manages to hurl himself a couple of steps farther. He grasps the edge of one of the discarded puzzle boxes and shoves it aside while heaving himself forward.
Out into view of the audience with a sword jutting from his back.