He’d stayed away from them near Maerleth Tainn, and so would he do now. The last thing he needed was to be exposed, and even if he wasn’t, there was no telling what might happen when he came face to face with one.
The scents he couldn’t identify had to be Immortals. Many of them. Dangerous Immortals.
Rielle would pass the second trial. She had to.
He made his way down the echoing, dark halls of the lower level, following the scent of musty, stale air to a padlocked door. After checking for any nearby people, he broke the lock and slipped in.
It was a long, black corridor, tight, carrying the odor of mold, dust, and damp. He shut the door softly behind him and tread the path northwest, stretching the limits of his hearing as he crept along.
Muffled voices faded in and out of audibility above him, through a dense layer of stone. Words of missions and operations, and sure-footed strides.
He was beneath the Hensar.
That meant the Archives were not far. He moved along, palming the uneven stone walls, listening further. The Hensar, as far as he could tell, occupied on the first level, while the Archives delved deep into the lower levels of the castle.
Footsteps neared, and he sidled along the black wall, passing by a door, and kept going around a corner. The footsteps—two sets—approached the door.
“…have the keys, so make sure you bring her the documents she asked for,” one voice said, a woman’s.
“I will. I’m having them pulled tonight, and I’ll pick them up in a few days.” The jingle of keys. “Once he gets them, he’ll have to fight for the throne, right time or not.”
Take the throne. Father.
“That’s the plan.” A silence. “You’ll be meeting her in the inner courtyard an hour before the third trial, and she’ll review the documents before sending them out.”
“All right. I’m off to watch the trial.”
A laugh. “It’ll be a bloodbath.”
“Just as planned.” A smug lilt.
Brennan suppressed a growl. Rielle’s suspicions had been right. The Grand Divinus was trying to get rid of her.
I won’t let it happen. Even if he had to bodily remove her from the trials, Rielle wouldn’t come to harm, not while he drew breath.
The door creaked shut, and the keys jingled before a lock turned, then another door, another lock, and a padlock.
One set of footsteps faded away behind the doors, while the other went back.
The way he had come.
This man had keys, keys to the Archives by the sound of it, and with one quick swipe, those keys could be in his hands. He could be in the Archives tonight, and find evidence of the sen’a trade, the attack on Laurentine ten years ago, the regicide…
The footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing distant.
But the day of the third trial, this man—by what the two had discussed—would be bringing evidence that would compel Father to fight for the throne. Blackmail.
Blackmail I can steal.
The footsteps continued, departed, more and more distant…
If he let this man go, he could stake out the inner courtyard the day of the third trial, catch him as he arrived with the documents, then track down all the originals. Destroy them and anyone who knew about them. Protect Father, and the family, from being compelled to commit further treason.
But the Archives…
No, there were lives on the line. His family’s lives, soon to include Rielle’s. He wouldn’t destroy the chance to secure them just to prove the Divinity was as villainous as it seemed.
Besides, even if he took the keys to the Archives, there was no certainty he’d be able to find what he was looking for. There had to be thousands, perhaps millions of records to go through. How would he even know where to look?
A faraway door opened, the footsteps faded behind it.
He crept back around the corner to the door, and then found the padlock. Even before his hand closed around it, he knew he wouldn’t break it. If he did, the infiltration would be discovered, and these two mages’ plan might be changed for the sake of security.
No, he wouldn’t be getting into the Archives tonight, or perhaps ever. And he’d tell Rielle. Her good fortune was that she’d get to live with it, unlike Father if he was compelled to further treason, and with the lives of Father, Mother, and perhaps even his sisters on the line, Rielle would forgive him. She’d have to.
The day of the third trial, he’d be in the inner courtyard, waiting. And stamp out every last trail of evidence if it was the last thing he did.
For the family.
But the woman had called the trial today a bloodbath. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Hold on, Rielle. I’m coming.
He headed back to the arena.
Chapter 44
Rielle shifted on her feet, eyeing the other candidates around her in the small, dusty underground chamber.
“How are we supposed to fight cuffed with arcanir?” Luca demanded, holding up his wrist to the Grand Divinus.
“Why don’t you just wait for someone else to do the fighting, then take whatever they win?” Cadan Bexley, the Pryndonian master, remarked, adjusting his specs.
Luca scrunched his face and mocked him.
“Any mage can use his magic to defeat an enemy,” the Grand Divinus said, her voice loud, resonant. “But a magister must be more. A magister is no mere mage, but the best of all mages. And this trial is designed to test resourcefulness.” She met the gaze of each candidate in turn. “If any of you is not up to the task, leave now.”
The double doors to the arena were all the more intimidating now, and she palmed Thorn’s pommel anxiously.
Ariana spun a dark curl around her finger, while Mac Carra looked around smugly, tapping his massive blade’s crossguard. Had he known about this somehow? Or was it really just a reaction to Farrad’s challenge? And Ariana, she had a hilt of some kind, too. What did it do?
Tariq seemed to be mumbling to himself, while Cadan chewed a fingernail. Luca stood with his hands at his sides, at the ready.
It was Telva who stepped forward, tinkering with her thick bun of black hair. “No magic?” She shook her head, and looked to the other mages for support. “This is suicide… I have a daughter.”
Telva was perhaps the sanest one here.
Can I slay a basilisk without my magic? She palmed Thorn’s pommel. An arcanir sword. A hand mirror. An arcanir ring. A mermaid scale in a locket around her neck. And everything but her magic. Could she do it?
For Laurentine. For Emaurria.
She could do this. She could.
The Grand Divinus gestured to the exit, and Telva stood at attention, bowed, and then turned toward the exit. Good luck, Telva mouthed, her keen brown eyes intense, on her way to the door.
“Leave Number Three locked,” the Grand Divinus said to a Divine Guard, who acknowledged and then passed on her order.
So there would be no third battle. They must have a numerical order, then.
“Anyone else?” the Grand Divinus asked matter-of-factly.
No one else so much as shifted.
The Grand Divinus motioned to the double doors ahead of them, the ones secured closed with an arcanir portcullis and massive bolt. The Divine Guard unbolted them.
“Proceed,” the Grand Divinus said.
So it was Number One’s turn. Rielle lifted her chin. What number would she be?
“All of you.”
All? At the same time?
She and the remaining candidates exchanged looks. Surprised looks. So no one had predicted this.
Mac Carra sauntered into the arena, shouldering his blade, and with a deep breath, she followed with everyone else. Someone sidled up next to her, tall and lean—Luca Iagar.
“Are you sure you don’t want to quit?” he asked, arching a black brow. “Maybe you want to leave and go back to kissing your man?”
She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you should focus on yourself.”
He smirked. “Just looking out for a lady’s wellbeing.”
She sighed. “I’ll look out for my own wellbeing, thanks.”
Once all six of them entered the arena, the doors shut behind them, the portcullis clanked down, and the bolt scraped closed.
“No turning back now,” Luca crooned, unbuttoning his long coat. He swept it open, revealing a multitude of throwing knives strapped to his body.
Not just a healer.
The witches of old, during the Dark Age of Magic, had prepared themselves for arcanir, before the Order of Terra had taken such monopolistic control of it. Witches had been trained in martial arts, had carried recondite artifacts like enchanted staves and weapons. They had planned for arcanir and developed their own contingencies.
But few of today’s mages did. Few paladins tampered with the Divinity, and few besides paladins had arcanir.
These candidates, however, weren’t average mages. They’d made it here because they were special, had talents, skills, or knowledge beyond most mages.
Except me.
What was she doing here? Did she belong here with Luca, who seemed skilled with knives? Or Mac Carra, who could wield a blade? Ariana, with her… hilt? No doubt Cadan and Tariq had their own skills besides magic.
So why am I here?
Perhaps it really was just to die. Perhaps it really was the Grand Divinus implementing a deadly solution to an unfortunately surviving problem.
She took a deep breath. Regardless of the reason, she had no plans to die. The Grand Divinus would be sorely disappointed.
The walls of the arena rattled, puffing dust.
No, not walls—doors.
Doors ringed the entire arena, with numerals over them. She read each one, stopped at three.
Number Three.
The Immortal beasts were to emerge from behind these doors, all at the same time.
Fanfare preceded the Grand Divinus as she raised her arms behind the repulsion shield cast by seven Divine Guards. “Welcome to the second of the Magister Trials,” she announced. “Tonight’s survivors will move on to the third trial three days from now.”
The resonance of her voice echoed throughout the arena, and Rielle searched the stands through the spell’s blur for Brennan.
No, he would have slipped away to break into the Archives. He, too, risked his life tonight. Please be safe, my love.
Perhaps with all the Divine Guard present here, there would be fewer for him to face tonight.
Her look lingered on the stands as she imagined what he’d face tonight, still wishing to see his face now, before this nightmare, for what could be the last time.
Instead, it was the sapphire of Jon’s overcoat that she found, his gaze intent upon her, brows drawn together, hand on Faithkeeper’s pommel. Her fingers twitched, and his body was rigid beneath her touch months ago, at Donati’s resonance den, after he’d thrashed Feliciano, the tautness of violence still holding dominion over him.
It was there now.
His eyes searched the repulsion shield, and his grip firmed on Faithkeeper.
No.
Jon, no. Don’t.
Even if her life were at stake, he couldn’t do what he seemed to be contemplating now. He’d lose any hope of help for Emaurria, and his reputation.
His head snapped to the side, where Olivia had her arm looped through his. She said something to him, and he shook his head vehemently.
Do what you must, Olivia. Keep him there.
“…Iagar, and Master Ariana Orsa. Each beast has been conditioned to target the candidate bearing its token. All beasts must be defeated to end the trial, and the first three to defeat their beasts will advance to the final trial.”
The first three?
Even if they all defeated their beasts, all six of them, only three would advance?
“That’s not fair,” Ariana grumbled under her breath next to her. “Not fair at all.”
“…test their resourcefulness, and the speed that is required to act in the moment, when lives hang in the balance…” the Grand Divinus continued. It seemed she could explain away any atrocity and make it sound practical.
“What is that?” Rielle whispered, nodding toward Ariana’s hilt.
Ariana beamed, running her fingers over it. “This? This is, um, a spellblade,” she said brightly. “If the bearer is a mage, it draws from his or her anima to form a blade.”
Magic turned into a blade? The hilt had to be recondite. Even with the arcanir cuffs, it would work. “So a pyromancer makes a fire blade, a lucent makes a light blade—”
“Precisely,” Ariana said with a grin.
She wrinkled her nose. “What does a healer make?”
“A healing blade.”
“A cantor?”
“A singing blade?”
Rielle raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“That was a joke.” Ariana bit her lip. “It would make a, um, sound blade. A swing would hit as fast as you can hear something, and it could penetrate, well, anything you can hear through. It’s actually quite powerful.”
Well, then. Hopefully she’d never run into a cantor with a spellblade.
“…to begin,” the Grand Divinus said, facing the arena.
“Good luck,” Ariana whispered to her.
“You, too,” Rielle whispered back. She stiffened, just like all the other candidates in the arena.
A great rumbling rippled through the ground, and all around the arena, doors lowered slowly.
Giant fingers slipped through the gap of Number Two’s door. A thud hit another, then again, and again.
Claws peeked through another gap, and before all the doors were open, a winding serpent with membranous wings poured into the arena, its toothy maw open and large as a man.
A wyvern.
Ariana drew the hilt and pressed a thumb to the crossguard, where blood beaded and flowed—and a massive blade of light emerged, a foot wide and six feet long. She slashed it in the direction of the monster, and a beam of white-hot light flashed across the arena and severed part of its tail before it could dart.
Seven reptilian heads entered through another door—a hydra. And a feathered beast the size of a horse—a griffin.
A giant finally broke through its door, looming a daunting twenty feet tall.
Rielle kept her back to the empty part of the arena, retreating to the safety of the closed door to Number Three.
A black wolf the size of a human sprinted out of Number Six and raced behind the giant. A werewolf.
Like—like Brennan.
That’s no beast.
But then her eyes found the last doorway, open but shadowed, and what lingered there had not yet emerged. Number One.
Don’t look.
She kept her gaze low, on the ground before the door, only occasionally glancing at the chaos unfolding in the arena.
Ariana had severed the wyvern’s tail and one wing. It spat a dark liquid that she dodged.
It hit Tariq in the back.
Flames burst from behind him, engulfing his shoulders, and he screamed, throwing off his coat as the griffin swooped down. And then he was in the air, clutched in its talons, and reaching for one of many bundles on his belt. He threw it toward the griffin’s beak.
A powder glittered overhead.
The griffin froze, its wings holding air for a moment before it plummeted to the ground, Tariq in its grasp.
From the shadowy doorway burst a massive, low lizard, launching its sleek body toward her. The basilisk.
With all the numbered bays empty, she ran along the secure edge of the arena, drawing Thorn, while the basilisk sprang after her.
Divine’s flaming fire, the thing was fast.
Ariana darted toward Mac Carra as he battled the hydra and tucked a dark-green scale into his belt. He spun, swinging his sword, as she rolled away.
The wyvern leapt for Mac Carra.
Ariana brought down the spellblade, severing
its massive head with a beam of light. She swept an exaggerated bow to Mac Carra and, grinning, backed up toward the wall.
Each beast has been conditioned to target the candidate bearing its token.
Quick thinking on Ariana’s part.
The basilisk closed in, its spiked tail taunting behind it.
That’s how it’ll strike.
Rielle ducked as the basilisk’s tail thudded into the wall next to her, its spikes buried deep. It pulled them free with difficulty.
One. She rolled away. Two. Three. Four.
She faced it, looking just above its head, waiting for the tail again.
Another strike, and she leapt aside as it dug into the wall again.
One. Two. Three.
The basilisk yanked its tail free. One to three seconds was what she’d have.
She sidled along the wall until the spiked tail targeted her again—
Something sprang from a dark doorway, and heavy liquid hit her arm. What the—
With Thorn over her head, she dropped to the ground, one of the spikes burying a corner of her coat in the wall.
With a swing upward, she buried Thorn halfway through the tail. An eerie, sharp cry echoed through the arena.
Thorn was sharp and arcanir cut through basilisk scales, but they were too hardy, and the swing hadn’t been strong enough.
For all her yanking, she couldn’t pull it out.
The tail shook and drew free—she had to release the blade—and then she was dragged along the dusty ground. By the corner of her coat.
No, no, no. She grabbed at it, but no blade, no magic—
She was up in the air, ten feet, fifteen feet off the ground, when the fabric began to tear—
The ground came rushing back in a painful thud that knocked the wind out of her. The mirror, had it fallen? Was it—
“Favrielle!” a woman shouted, and metal slid toward her face.
She caught it as the basilisk leapt over her. The soft spot. Jon’s words.
She rolled out from under the claw and beneath its head, her palm around the hilt, her thumb over a sharp point that drew blood—
An inferno burst from the hilt and upward, through the beast’s soft hide beneath its jaw and up through its skull. It shrieked, those claws scratching toward her.
Court of Shadows Page 38
