Chapter Twenty-Eight
At the entrance to the Conservatory, a small queue had formed made up entirely of my Mastery-year cohort.
My pulse raced as Wilder and I came to a stop at the end of the line.
Anticipation buzzed around our peers like flies on a ripe corpse, and my head pounded so fiercely I worried the top of my skull might erupt from the pressure.
“It’s going to be fine,” Wilder whispered, squeezing my hand.
And it would be. For him.
His grades might have historically hovered just above the median, and the Alchemary research board might have had no respect for his work, but Wilder’s skill—undocumented though it was—would easily get him past this first hurdle.
In fact, I suspected he was better prepared than any of our classmates, by virtue of time spent in the laboratory alone.
To say nothing of how many of those hours had been spent experimenting with medicinal elixirs.
“For those of you just arriving,” a voice called, and I leaned out of the line to see one of the attendants Desmond had mentioned addressing us from her position to the left of the door.
It was his colleague with wide-set eyes and the severe blond bun.
“Mastery students will be admitted promptly at ten in the morning. The trial will be explained, then it will convene, and it will continue until all students have either passed or been rendered unable to compete. That is expected to take no more than two hours.”
Yoslyn Savva shuddered, directly ahead of me in the queue.
“What time is it?” Cressa Baxter asked from two spaces ahead of me. Keryth and Lennox were at the very front of the line, with Pryce’s still-blue head right behind them.
“Quarter till.” Yoslyn pointed behind us, at the Seminary clock tower.
A couple more students fell in behind Wilder, and as we waited, nerves simmering, feet shuffling, a cluster of staff and faculty members arrived. Desmond was among them.
They gave their names to the attendants and were admitted into the building one at a time, and as their number trailed down the steps, forming a line parallel to ours but longer, I could practically feel Desmond’s gaze on the back of my head.
As his line shortened, he stepped even with me briefly, and when he turned to offer a devastatingly formal nod both to me and to Wilder, it took every fiber of self-control I possessed to keep from reaching out. To keep my fingers from trailing down the sleeve of his staff cape to curl between his.
It seemed ruthlessly unfair that I could not touch him now.
Two hours ago I’d woken in his bed, then stormed out. But the instinct remained.
The line moved again, and he stepped ahead of me. Maybe he could feel my gaze now. But he did not turn.
The Alchemary amphitheater was at the very back of the Conservatory, accessible only by walking through the entire Panacea wing and past the infirmary. We marched the length of the building like ducklings following their mother, a role played by the researcher with the blond bun.
At the end of the main hall of the Panacea wing, she opened a tall, thick set of double doors and led us into a huge chamber like nothing I’d never seen.
I was certain of that, even with more than two years of my life missing.
We entered the space at the top row of seating tiers, in an aisle that led down past six flights of bench seating into a venue that had been dug deep into the ground beneath the Conservatory.
Most of the benches were already occupied by staff researchers and faculty, as well as alumni who’d been invited to observe the trial.
The centerpiece of the amphitheater was a stone-floored circular chamber, set up with twelve workstations and a substantial supply cupboard. Those I had expected, based on the very concept of the trial.
But I had not expected the glass wall surrounding the entire center chamber.
At least ten feet high, it was comprised of the largest individual panes of glass I’d ever seen, each half as tall as I was, affixed to the others with thin lead frames.
The effect was like a transparent honeycomb.
Spectators would be able to observe the trial without being affected by anything that transpired inside the arena itself.
Though I could not imagine that the Black Trial—the administration of individual doses of poison—presented much threat to the spectators.
My hands clenched around the strap of my satchel as I followed Yoslyn down the broad, steep steps, watching my own feet to make sure I didn’t trip and send all of my classmates careening to the gallery.
At the floor level, I followed Yoslyn as our line of student competitors curved in front of the lowest level of seating, facing into the glass arena, to the right of the aisle.
A second line of twelve individuals curved to the left of the aisle, each holding a journal, a quill, and an inkwell.
These would be the official observers: volunteers from among the staff researchers, each assigned to one of the trial participants and tasked with recording that student’s every movement.
Desmond had been among their ranks the year before.
The blond attendant stepped forward and opened a glass-paned door into the arena, then gestured for the observers to go in.
When they had set up their quills, inkwells, and stools, each at one of the twelve workstations, we were allowed to file in, in reverse order, beginning with the last student in line.
Wilder was the third to step into the arena, and I was the fourth, my heart racing, with Yoslyn behind me. He wound up at the workstation to my right, and she was directly in front of me.
My observer, as it happened, was another of Desmond’s colleagues: the man with a bald head and a receding chin.
When we’d all taken up our positions, the Bluehelm marched into the arena, formal, gold-trimmed robes swishing, and addressed us in a commanding voice, her hands clasped at her back, her dark-eyed gaze shifting from face to face, pale skin practically gleaming in the glow of at least a hundred torches.
“Welcome to the Black Trial, the first in a series of four competitions that comprise a hallowed yet pragmatic Alchemary tradition.” Her voice echoed around the arena in a formal cadence.
“Every Mastery-year cohort for more than a century has been where you now stand: in this same arena, facing a very similar test, awash in same trepidation and excitement likely racing through your veins at this very moment. I want you all to know that regardless of the outcome, it is quite an accomplishment to have made it this far.”
Her focus seemed to snag on me for a moment, and my pulse spiked painfully.
“The Black Trial symbolizes spiritual death,” the Bluehelm continued. “By enduring and overcoming the symbolic alchemical steps of purification and decomposition, you will shed your old ways of thinking so that you can take the next step on your journey toward a higher state of being.”
She paused, her hands sliding down the long, gold-trimmed lapels of her robe, as if out of habit.
“In a moment, each of you will ingest a poison administered by your official observer. Each poison is identical, brewed all in the same batch by a panel of your professors, using an officially approved formula. You must drink every drop, and only once you have will you be released to the supply cupboard.”
No one dared speak, but a tense sort of restlessness worked its way around the arena as feet shuffled against the stone floor and stances shifted uncomfortably.
“At that point,” the Bluehelm said, “you will have access to all of the available supplies and equipment, though no student will be allowed to take anything from another.”
That likely wouldn’t be necessary anyway because the cupboard held plenty of every ingredient I could imagine, as well as a collection of surplus equipment, in case something broke in mid-trial.
“Students must each identify the poison administered, then formulate, produce, and consume an antidote. Those who manage all of that in time to nullify the poison before it does irreparable harm will be considered to have passed the Black Trial.”
More anxious fidgeting erupted among my classmates.
“Those who fail to find and consume an antidote in time to avoid irreparable harm, and those who do not survive the poison, will fail the trial.”
What she did not mention, though we were all well aware of it, was the likelihood that one of us would die this day. Or that even those who survived but failed would be expelled from the Alchemary, severed from the power and prestige of the academy.
Like my mother.
“You may not help one another, nor are you allowed to observe and replicate another student’s technique or formula. Are there any questions?” The Bluehelm’s voice echoed eerily around us.
There were none.
She wished us all luck, then exited the arena to take her position in the first row of spectator seating. The best view in the venue.
An attendant pulled the door closed behind her and stood in front of it. To make sure no one tried to enter? Or that no one tried to leave?
A wave of nausea washed over me as the Bluehelm lifted her arm into the air. All of the official observers turned toward her, silent and attentive. When she lowered her arm, they each reached into a pocket of their cape and withdrew a narrow, corked vial.
My observer offered me his vial, and I took it with trembling fingers, staring at the pale, almost colorless fluid it held.
From my right, something crashed with a high-pitched shattering sound, followed by an anguished cry.
Kornell had dropped his vial, spilling his poison across the stone floor. His observer fixed him with a pitying look, then escorted him out of the arena, through the door the attendant opened for them.
Just like that, his time at the Alchemary was over.
I tightened my grip on my own vial, my heart slamming against my sternum.