The Gauntlet

by Megan Shepherd

  The puzzle was over. She had won.

  “Cassian,” she breathed as she rolled over onto her knees, “never try to kill me again, okay?”

  A look of horror crossed his face. He shook his head vigorously. “I thought you were an Axion. It was him, he was here.”

  “It was the Gauntlet,” she said, still fighting for breath. “One of its illusions. It made you think I was someone else so you’d fight me.”

  He took a quick step forward, thought better of it, and stopped. “I would never fight you.”

  “I know.” She looked up at him. “And so does the stock algorithm. It had to disguise me or else you’d never have willingly been my opponent. Willa said this was the trick of the third round: the puzzles become personal.” She rubbed her aching wrists.

  He knelt down to her level. “I’m sorry.”

  He pulled her into an embrace. She stiffened. Afraid of hurting him more, afraid to be hurt. But then she felt his warmth. He wasn’t holding himself at a distance anymore. She then melted into him and wrapped her arms around him too. She breathed in his scent. He was a small flame of warmth in the cold room, kindling her hope.

  Her love.

  There was still a chance for them. A spark. One that would never fade.

  “The door’s open,” she whispered. “We can go to puzzle eleven.”

  But his arms around her didn’t release. “Not yet. Not after this. I don’t dare continue, knowing what the Gauntlet is capable of making me do.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” she insisted. “The storm could tear everything apart at any second. And everyone outside could be getting slaughtered by the Axion.”

  He pulled back far enough to look into her eyes. “I’m afraid.”

  She touched her hand to his cheek. This close, she could see all those little details that made him so real—the bump in his nose, the wrinkles on the sides of his eyes, a small scar by his hairline. Even if she didn’t know that humans and Kindred were related, hadn’t she always felt it?

  “We’ll do this together,” she said softly.

  He covered her hand with his, and she felt a rush of strength. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his cheek. With the red light bathing them, she couldn’t see the blood on his clothes or the dried blood from her nosebleeds. She could almost pretend that everything was okay.

  “All right,” he said at last. “But whatever happens, know that I love you.”

  She took his hand. Kissed his knuckles. “I do.”

  Together, they crossed through the doorway.

  39

  Cora

  CORA DRIFTED TO A stop as soon as they entered the next chamber, puzzle eleven. It wasn’t a bare cube this time. Her lips parted—it was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen. It was a ballroom like from a fairy tale, with gleaming marble floors and a three-tiered chandelier casting a warm glow over stained-glass windows and ornate molding. Soft instrumental music played from some unseen musicians. She pressed a hand over her mouth, overwhelmed with surprise. But then the door closed behind them, and she spun. There was only a wall, as if the door had never existed.

  “Cora,” Cassian said. “Your clothes.”

  She looked down to find that the Gauntlet had worked its illusions again. Instead of the sweat-stained black Gauntleteer uniform, she now wore a sweeping crystal gown that reflected the twinkling lights in rainbow colors. She ran her hands down her sides, feeling each individual crystal sewn into the heavy fabric, wondering how something that didn’t exist at all could feel so real.

  “Your clothes, too,” she said, nodding at Cassian. His bloody uniform had vanished. He now wore a crisp black suit, all signs of the dirt caking his skin gone, and it stole her breath to see him like this, dressed so shockingly humanly.

  He gently touched her hair, which was swept up on top of her head in an elaborate braid. “I didn’t know the stock algorithm was capable of such complex illusions.”

  “I guess if everyone knew,” she said, “then the Gauntlet wouldn’t be a challenge. The stock algorithm has been keeping secrets even from its creators.”

  The room suddenly jarred, and for a second the illusions flickered. The music dropped out, and Cora and Cassian were standing in a bare chamber, both bloody and beaten and barefoot, and then just as suddenly the beautiful illusion flickered back on.

  “What . . . what was that?” Cora gasped.

  “Not part of the puzzle,” Cassian said cautiously, looking up at the sparkling chandelier. “The storm outside, I think. It’s interfering with the illusions themselves.”

  Cora turned toward the walls. “Then we have to solve this as quickly as we can. There’s already been an intellectual and physical puzzle this round, so this one has to either be moral or perceptive.” Her nerves started to prickle at the prospect of a perceptive puzzle. How could she solve it without her abilities? As much as she felt humanity’s strengths humming within her, the paragon burst couldn’t help her when it came to psychic abilities, not since she’d broken that part of her brain.

  Cassian was silent. When she turned toward him, she gaped.

  He had multiplied.

  She blinked, not certain she was seeing correctly. There were six of him now, standing right where he’d been standing, dressed in identical black suits, of identical heights, and with identical buzzed hair. They were lined up three in the front and three in the back, standing perfectly still.

  She took an involuntary step backward. “Cassian?”

  All six turned their heads. She took another step back, unnerved by the sight of them. Her heart started pounding so loudly it almost drowned out the sound of the music, except the melody suddenly swelled louder. As if on cue, the six Cassians started walking. No, Cora realized, not walking. Waltzing. They strode around the room in time with the music, arms extended around imaginary partners, dancing far more gracefully than the real Cassian ever had. Cora stood in their midst, speechless.

  What kind of a bizarre test was this?

  She watched them spinning, feeling dizzy herself. Creating an illusion of a beautiful ball gown was one thing, but could the Gauntlet really make Cassian dance like that? Why didn’t the real Cassian just stop dancing and tell her which one he was? Was the real Cassian even here anymore?

  Then she remembered how in the last puzzle, no matter what she had said, the Gauntlet changed her words to different ones. This had to be a similar trick—the real Cassian must be trying to tell her who he was, but the stock algorithm was preventing him.

  She took a step toward the closest Cassian, but he was moving fast. His face was eerily blank, and she pulled her hand back.

  “There’s only you,” an unseen voice sang to the accompanying music. “In all the world, there’s only you. I’d know you blind.”

  The voice kept repeating the same lyrics over and over until Cora thought she’d go mad. She pressed her hands to her ears. So this was the puzzle: figure out the real Cassian.

  More sweat broke out on her forehead. This was the puzzle she’d most been dreading. A perceptive one. Whenever other Gauntleteers made it to this puzzle, it must have been a simple task of closing one’s eyes, reaching out with one’s mind, searching through all the decoys for the real one, and picking him. Days ago, it might have been easy for her too, even with the Gauntlet’s illusions. Her mind and Cassian’s used to find each other so easily, even from far away. But now, when she closed her eyes and tried to extend her thoughts, there was nothing.

  Only pain.

  She doubled over as an ache pulsed in the back of her head. It hurt so badly that her vision went black and she had to crouch to the ground before she passed out. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to clear her mind. At last, the pain started to ease.

  She opened her eyes and let out a sob.

  It was useless. Her perceptive abilities were gone. The dancing Cassians all looked identical, swirling to the looped music. The room suddenly rocked again, and she shrieked and steadied herself on
the floor. The music fluctuated, but the illusions didn’t give out this time. None of the Cassians’ suits became a blood-soaked uniform. She stood, wiping off her hands shakily on her dress.

  The storm didn’t care about her perceptive abilities. It was coming regardless.

  And so was the war.

  She took a deep breath and then ran alongside the first of the Cassians. She took hold of his extended hand and slid her torso between his other hand and his chest, trying to match his quick steps. As soon as she was in his arms, he looked down at her and smiled as if some spell had been broken, and her heart leaped. Had she found the real Cassian? But the smile remained on his face for an eerily long time, and her hopes began to sink. No, this Cassian was just acting however the Gauntlet wanted him to.

  “Cassian,” she said, searching his eyes for some clue that might tell her if he was the real one, “tell me about the necklace you gave me once. The charm.”

  “The dog,” he said, holding her close as they spun faster and faster. “To remind you of a dog you had at home. Sadie. You told me once you couldn’t sleep without her.”

  Cora’s heart flickered with hope. She fought the urge to prod him for more information about her own past that she didn’t remember. What else had she told him about her family, her life there?

  But this might not even be Cassian at all.

  She let go of him, stepping back out of his arms. He didn’t stop dancing as his face returned to a static mask of normalcy. With a mixture of apprehension and distrust, she watched him dance away, then slid into the arms of the second one.

  He smiled down at her in an identical way as the last one.

  “Cora,” he said tenderly.

  She wanted to trust that loving look in his eyes, but she didn’t let herself be influenced. “Tell me about the necklace you first gave me,” she repeated.

  “It was a charm of a dog,” he answered on cue. “To help you sleep at night.”

  She let go of this one too, stepping back into the center of the room. Different wording, but the same answer. If she asked the other four, she’d doubtless get the same response.

  A heavy jolt shook the room. She tossed a look up at the chandelier, whose crystals all trembled wildly. A sound rumbled beneath the music, like twisting metal. Something was happening just outside this chamber. Something was tearing it apart, either the storm or the Axion.

  She ran to the third Cassian, wasting no time. She rested her hand on his left arm as they danced and squeezed the place on his biceps where he was wounded, hard. But the dancing Cassian didn’t flinch. She let go of him and ran to the fourth, squeezing his arm, and he didn’t react either. She ran to the fifth, but he too showed no reaction when she squeezed his arm.

  She watched the last one, the sixth. If this one flinched, then it was the real Cassian. She moved into his arms, meeting his eyes. There was warmth there. Every inch of him was identical to the Cassian she knew. She moved her hand slowly down his biceps.

  Squeezed.

  He didn’t flinch. He smiled at her as blandly as the others had.

  She cursed and pushed him away, but he returned seamlessly to the dance. She raked her nails through her hair, pacing. Think, think . . . If she couldn’t tell them apart by their wounded arm, and she couldn’t tell by asking them questions, how was she supposed to figure out which one was him?

  That’s the point, she reminded herself. It isn’t about deduction. It’s about being psychic.

  The room shook again and she balled her fists, pacing in the opposite direction from the dancers. They passed her in flashes, each one giving her an identical smile. Bile rose in her stomach. Solving the puzzle was impossible if she couldn’t use her mind.

  But . . .

  She stopped pacing abruptly.

  Maybe she could use her heart.

  The idea took hold of her. The Kindred thought that perceptive abilities were about training one’s mind to perform feats of telepathy and telekinesis, but intuition was perceptive too. Cora had always been especially intuitive, which was one of the reasons Cassian had first picked her. In those moments when she’d felt true intuition—like the time she knew Lucky was lying to her—she had felt it not in her mind, but in her heart.

  Maybe humans were different from Kindred and the other intelligent species. Maybe this was one of her race’s unique gifts: that they could be perceptive using their feelings, not just their thoughts.

  She watched the dancing Cassians with renewed attention. Studying each one not with her mind, but with her heart. Instead of looking for any visual differences or trying to make them guess riddles, she just observed. Just felt.

  She let her heart guide her—feeling her heartbeats in her core, waiting for some sign, some skipped pulse, some flood of warmth, that would lead her to the right one.

  The music faltered again. For a few terrifying seconds, she heard the squeal of something metal close by being ripped apart. The floor beneath her started to rumble.

  She looked among the Cassians quickly.

  She had to pick one—now.

  40

  Leon

  “QUICK,” MALI SAID TO Leon. “Hand me that electrical cord.”

  Leon squinted in the direction she pointed. Almost all the lights in the central vestibule had shattered, casting everything in semidarkness. He found the black wire she was talking about a few feet away, flopping like a snake on the metal floor, shooting out sparks.

  “Leon, hurry!”

  They were hidden away deep in the corner of the Gauntlet’s smallest control compartments, one of the few rooms that hadn’t yet been destroyed. The Axion who had assumed Anya’s identity lay on the floor beside Mali, still wearing Anya’s clothes. His hands were bound with wire. His sharp eyes threw hateful glares between Mali and Leon. Gray blood oozed from cuts Mali had made on his arms.

  “It’s sparking,” Leon said, eyeing the wire as though it would bite.

  “Well, use something else to pick it up.” Mali glanced impatiently toward the door. The sound of fighting continued in the central vestibule, though it had shrunk to just a few yells and clanks of metal. The Axion had all but won. When they did—any moment now—they’d come looking for any hidden survivors, like Leon and Mali, and the prisoner they were currently preparing to torture.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and snatched up a ripped piece of jumpsuit from a dead Mosca and used it to grab hold of the wire. He held it at arm’s length, grimacing, and passed it off to Mali.

  “Tell us where Anya is,” Mali threatened the Axion. “Or we go from the knife to the wire.”

  The Axion narrowed his eyes. “Even if I told you, you would never be able to reach her. You know as well as I do what is happening beyond that door. That is the sound of my people defeating yours. You’ll be taken prisoner if you’re fortunate, killed if you aren’t. There will be no rescue for your friend.”

  A crash of thunder rumbled through the room, shaking the walls. Something cracked in the ceiling, and Leon tossed his head up just as a flood of frigid rainwater burst through the ceiling tiles and drenched him.

  “Bloody hell!” he yelled.

  “Shh,” Mali hissed, jerking her head toward the door. “They can’t know we’re in here. Make sure no one’s coming.”

  Ice water dripped down the back of Leon’s neck. He gritted his teeth against the cold, wiping water from his eyes and off his clothes. He went to the door, keeping watch.

  Behind him, Mali kept threatening the Axion. “You haven’t won yet. This battle goes beyond that vestibule out there. Cora’s still running the Gauntlet. There’s still hope.” She held up the wire. “Hope for us, that is. Not much for you unless you start talking.” She lowered the wire to the side of his head. The closer she held the wire, the more the gray veins in the Axion’s face stood out, as though drawn to the electricity.

  Leon grimaced, watching. Mali could be a holy terror. And he loved it.

  “Tell me where Anya is,” Mali said. �
�Now.”

  Leon looked through the doorway, checking to see if the coast was clear. Three Axion were fighting with Serassi by the dais. The rest of the Axion were capturing wounded prisoners—a few Kindred soldiers, a tall Gatherer with silver blood trickling down her arm, Mosca with broken shielding, leading them to a back room. One of the Axion slammed a fist into Serassi’s chest, hard. Leon flinched. It sounded as though something had cracked.

  Leon muttered a curse and turned back to Mali. “Screw it. You’re doing a good job, sweetheart, but we don’t have time for this.” He grabbed the wire from her hand and shoved it straight into the Axion’s face.

  The Axion started screaming.

  “Leon!” Mali warned. “Keep him quiet!”

  “Too late for that,” Leon said, jerking his head toward the fight outside. “They’ve nearly won out there.” He shoved the wire into the Axion’s gaunt cheek. “Tell us!”

  “Leon . . . ,” Mali warned, looking toward the door. He could just make out the sound of heavy boots headed their way. The Axion’s screams had given them away. He shoved the wire harder against the man’s face, his heart thudding in his chest. This had to work. He had to do this, for Mali. . . .

  “Theta!” the Axion screamed.

  Leon dropped the wire. At the same time, dozens of Axion grabbed him, pulling him backward. They’d gotten Mali, too.

  “Let her go!” Leon went irate at the sight of their hands on her. He tried to fight off the ones holding him, but Mali shook her head.

  “Don’t. There are too many. It’s over.”

  The Axion soldiers pulled them into wreckage of the central vestibule. Leon’s stomach clenched at the sight of so many dead bodies. Many he didn’t recognize except for their clothes, Kindred and Mosca and Gatherers who had been loyal to them. And then there was Ironmage, dead in the puddle of electrified water. And the scraps of shielding that were all that remained of Bonebreak.