Alderin chuckles, a warm, rich sound. “That only goes to show how little you know of dwarves, my dear.” Before I can fully grasp his meaning, the horn sounds again. “Ah!” says the king. “Your champions have arrived.”
He bids me join him, standing at the gallery rail. I’m a little breathless, for the rail is only waist-high, and the plummet is quite dreadful. I draw near to the king and his strong presence almost unconsciously, forgetting all over again for the moment that he is not my friend. The other lords and ladies of Belanor gather as well, each eager to glimpse their own champion and cheer him on to victory.
My heart jolts painfully to my throat when the contestants appear on that little platform below, one after the other. Taigan leads them, of course, as First Champion. A singular beam of funneled sunlight finds him and burnishes his curls to pure gold. He wears a thin white shirt and trousers cinched at the knees, displaying manly calves. He carries no sword or dagger, not for this contest, but his whole body has the look of a carefully honed weapon, shaped over years of labor.
“My nephew has been practicing theHolariethtrial his whole life,” Alderin says, inclining his head to speak into my ear. “His nursemaid read him the legend of the Holari Warriors when he was just five years old, and he ordered the servants to build him a replica course. Over the years, he’s improved upon it, based on whatever scraps of information he could glean. No man in Gorduin can cross it save he himself.” He smiles with pride then catches my eye. “Taigan has been particularly looking forward tothis opening trial. He hopes you will show him your favor should he complete it in good time.”
As though hearing his uncle’s words, Taigan looks up at the balcony, his gaze seeking mine. He offers a salute with one hand. I respond with a thin-lipped smile, valiantly suppressing the bile in my gut.
One by one, the other champions appear. Learned Majestic Rune has tamed his mane, wrapping it in a coiled bun atop his head and securing it with a claw-shaped bone. It makes him look even more chilling than ever. I cannot tell the difference between the Ranger Prince’s garments today and those he wore to the Presentation last night. He looks as rough and ready as ever, but the sight of his limp makes my stomach clench with dread. How is he supposed to cope with the challenges ahead?
Lord Elis is a bundle of nervous energy, jumping from one foot to the next, shaking his arms, rolling his neck. I cannot bear to look at him and turn to Bryon instead. The Ulyon prince somehow wears even less clothing than he did last night. Sunlight gleams on those tattoos, which seem to dance across his bulging muscles.
All this while, I’ve striven to keep from searching for the sixth and final figure…but I can’t help noticing the conspicuous absence of Valtar. I’d thought the king had decided to officially appoint him as champion following Joro’s death. What happened in the meanwhile? Did Alderin, in the wake of one revealed traitor, decide not to trust the intruder prince? I can’t say that I blame him. And when I think about the absolute deadness I’d seen in Valtar’s eyes as he stood over Joro’s slain body, a shudder rolls down my spine.
But why then does my heart feel so heavy as I count the menagain, coming up with only five? And why does it flip with sudden lightness, jumping straight to my throat when suddenly that sixth tall figure appears, stepping through the narrow entrance and drawing abreast of the other champions?
I swallow hard, half-convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me. He seems so unreal…so dark and dreadful and enormous, standing there at the end of the line beside Bryon. He’s possibly the only man in existence not to look positively minuscule beside the massive prince of Ulyon. Despite Bryon’s superior bulk, I wouldn’t necessarily bet against Valtar if it came down to a trial of strength between them. His close-fitting garments emphasize his honed musculature, and I find it difficult to look away from him. He’s like a panther, full of coiled power, ready to spring.
Prince Taigan, at the far end of the line, takes note of Valtar’s arrival. His eyes narrow, filled with such hatred, it makes my breath catch. I’m suddenly more aware than ever of all the pitfalls that lie before these men. But surely there are rules against any unsporting behavior? Surely the champions cannot be permitted to cause one another harm? Still, if a littleaccidentmight be encouraged without inciting divine wrath…
My fingers grip the rail in front of me, squeezing hard.
“Champions,” Alderin calls out, drawing the eyes of the men below up to the gallery where we stand. All eyes save for Valtar’s. His gaze remains firmly fixed on the pit of jagged spikes in front of him, his features hard with calculation.
“You see before you,” the king continues, taking my hand in his, “the symbol of hope for our world. Behold her, in all her beauty, a worthy destiny for he who proves himself before the gods.”
Though every instinct tells me to flinch and pull away, I tryto keep my head up, my shoulders back, as Philippa has been teaching me. Oh my gods, how I hate this!
“Fate has chosen the six of you to participate in the coming trials,” Alderin says, his voice echoing in that vast space. “Like the Six Angels of Neriya, you represent the virtues of true knighthood: strength, courage, will, leadership, honor, and self-sacrifice. You will need each of these virtues to triumph both today and in the trials to come.” He draws a deep breath then, as though bracing himself under the weight of his next words. “He who harbors the least doubt as to his own worthiness will be undone. If that is you—if doubt even now eats like a worm in your heart—stand down now and depart from here, alive, but a champion no more.”
I scan the faces of each man, searching for any sign of faltering. They all look at Alderin, their gazes clear and steady. All save for Valtar, who continues to face straight ahead.
“May the grace of the Ilemanti be upon you, my sons,” Alderin declares, lifting his hand in preparation. “And may he whom the gods favor be made known to us all. Champions—commence.”
With that last word, he drops his hand in a swift, slicing gesture. The six champions leap into action.
11
Rosie
The pillars which emerged among the jagged spikes are flat topped and just broad enough for a man to stand on with both feet planted. Some taller, some shorter, they are arranged so that one cannot step comfortably between them but must make a leap. That leap, which would be impressive indeed for a dwarf, is still treacherous for the long-legged men below me.
At the king’s signal, the champions lunge forward into that pit, each choosing his own route across. It’s broad enough that they need never encounter one another, but I do notice that Learned Majestic Rune follows close on the heels of Elis, studying his route, sometimes deviating from it slightly, but always coming back to it. It’s not a bad strategy, as the two of them are of similar height, and what works for Elis should work equally well for Rune.
All is such a blur of motion, I struggle to follow what happens. My eye naturally wants to go after Valtar, but he crosses thepit so quickly, it makes my head spin. It’s as though he’s somehow been able to miraculously sniff out the easiest route and then simply walks across it in a steady, unhurried, but unfaltering stride. Even Taigan hesitates somewhat, particularly when he must leap from a low pillar to a taller one.
A roar nearly stops my heart. I turn sharply and see Prince Bryon struggling. He seems to have slipped from one pillar, but his powerful arms have caught another. Bit by bit, he hauls himself back up, muscles rippling with strength and strain. The spikes haven’t claimed him, not yet. Blood hammers in my ears. While I don’t know any of these men, certainly not enough to feel any sort of attachment, I cannot bear the idea of any of them losing his life for my sake.
Valtar has reached the far side. In fact, he’s already halfway up what I had believed to be a sheer, glass-smooth wall. How he’s doing it, I cannot guess, but somehow he makes progress, inch by inch. Not quite as swiftly as he crossed the spike pit, but certainly faster than I would have believed possible. I remember again how boldly he’d predicted his own victory over the entire championship when I asked him who he thought might beat Prince Taigan. Apparently, it wasn’t an empty boast. So, if he proves true to his word, will he then become my…husband?
An image of Valtar standing over Joro’s slain body flashes across my mind. The warmth in my blood turns to frost.
Taigan makes it to the end of the pit second and lunges at the wall. He too seems to know some secret to climbing that sheer surface. Perhaps there are finger- or footholds I cannot see from this distance. Regardless, Taigan looks determined not to let Valtar leave him in his dust. He climbs like a spider, a little too reckless to my eye, but gaining fast upon his rival.
Much to my surprise, Prince Warrick is the third across thepit. I can see that his leg wound is already causing him difficulty, and yet he managed to navigate the pit more swiftly than the other three. He stands at the wall, studying it intently, and makes no immediate move to climb. Perhaps the secret is not so straightforward as I initially thought.
“It’s resonance,” Alderin says abruptly. I turn to find him watching me with nearly as much interest as I have been watching the contest. “The wall gives off a peculiar resonance, almost undetectable to the human ear. If a man may still his center enough, even in the midst of stress, he may just detect the correct vibration, which reveals where otherwise-invisible handholds lie. It is a unique challenge.”
