It certainly is. I wonder how many of the champions knew about it in advance, or if they are all simply expected to figure it out as they go. Either way, Valtar is already at the top of the wall. He looks small from this distance, poised at the brink of that terrible climb, looking down at whatever comes next. I sense no hesitation or worry in his stance. Merely cool and collected interest as he takes in the challenge.
And which challenge is it? I begin to turn to the mirrors on the wall behind me, but Alderin’s hand takes hold of my elbow. “The other contestants,” he says, a low murmur, but with a hint of warning. He tips his head, and I look to see how the courtiers of the other Belanor Kingdoms eye me. Any sign of preference for one of the champions will not sit well with them.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I leave Valtar to his own devices. It’s not as though I truly prefer him to the others in any case, and there’s much of interest to observe below. Both Elis and Rune have reached the far side now. Only Bryon continues to struggle, his great bulk not at all suited to a course built on a dwarfish scale. Rune stands before the wall no more than half aminute, his head tilted a little to one side. Then he surges forward and begins his climb, leaving both Elis and Warrick to stare after him, still struggling to discern the secret of the wall. Rune is not as fast as either Taigan or Valtar, but he makes steady progress.
Taigan reaches the top of the wall. Valtar has already vanished, and Taigan doesn’t hesitate to follow, determined to catch up. Now Alderin turns to the mirrors, eager to track his nephew’s progress. He doesn’t protest when I join him. The mirror glass gleams, reflecting the image of the next challenge: a series of bridges leading at a disastrously steep downward angle from the wall over yet another pit of spikes. By some engineering marvel, the bridges break apart at seemingly random intervals, turn, and reconnect in different configurations with one another. It is a wonder to behold. I cannot believe it is done without magic—surely the dwarves must have derived some power from Lutumor, the Earth God, to make such a thing possible.
I search for Valtar in the mirror. The strange, refracted sunlight dazzles my vision, and I squint, stepping closer. “Careful,” Alderin says. “Do not touch the glass.” Hastily I jump back a pace, and only now does Valtar’s image come into clarity. I spy him just as the bridge he is descending breaks apart underneath him. He falls. I clap a hand to my mouth, trying to stop my heart from escaping. But Valtar turns gracefully in the air, catches the bridge as it pivots, his body swinging naturally along with it. He makes it look so easy, so effortless! Meanwhile, I can’t seem to swallow my heart back down where it’s supposed to be.
Taigan makes his way on another bridge. His movements are less fluid than Valtar’s, a little uncertain. Alderin leans toward me and says, “His mother, my sister, commissioned the best engineers of Gorduin to rig collapsing and turning bridges to mimicthis particular challenge. They were but poor copies of the original. Still, it gave him something to practice.”
An advantage, to be sure. The Learned Majestic appears at the top of the wall now, and Warrick follows quickly behind him. Apparently, his limp didn’t impede his climb once he figured out the knack of it. I wonder how many of them have been researching and practicing variations on this challenge in preparation for the trial. It’s difficult to picture someone like Rune putting together an obstacle course in his temple library back home, but he is keeping up with the best of the contestants. He begins his descent, soon catching up to Taigan.
Valtar has already reached the end of the third challenge. He approaches the next stretch of the course: those awful turning stones set into the floor. There are fifteen of them, all rotating at different speeds. Some fatter, some thinner, lined up with only one narrow slab of solid flooring set in the middle of them. They grind together like massive millstones. One misstep, and a contestant’s bones will be pulverized to dust. Valtar seems to study the stones closely. I can almost feel the gears of his mind turning, finding a rhythm.
Suddenly he springs into action. He’s so quick, so nimble, I can scarcely follow his flow of movement. Progressing in perfect time with the stones, he finds his footing exactly in a moment of pause before leaping to the next. Halfway across, he lands on the still platform, takes a breath or two, then continues. He reaches the far side so quickly, I scarcely have time to be afraid for him.
“Ah, look!” Alderin’s voice draws my attention to where Taigan approaches the turning stones along with both Warrick and Rune, who have reached the end of the bridge challenge simultaneously. Elis is only halfway down the bridges, while Bryon finally appears at the top of the wall. I can’t help feeling sorry forthe big Ulyon prince. He is certainly an impressive specimen but unsuited to this particular form of athleticism. Perhaps the second trial will more aptly showcase his prowess.
I try not to be too obvious as I sidle away from the king’s side and peer into the next mirror. The glowing red glare of molten lava makes me wince. Surely if I was a true dragon, I wouldn’t feel absolute dread in my stomach at the prospect of such heat, would I? Above the roiling pit, many vines waft in the rising vapors. Even as I watch, one falls, sizzling as it burns away to nothing. Are they growing down from the ceiling or merely attached to stalactites? And if that is the case, how long ago were they placed there? Surely the champions can’t be meant to…I press a hand to my mouth, horror lodging like a lump in my throat.
But Valtar, standing on a ledge above that molten lake, looks strangely calm in the mirror glass. Perhaps he really is dracori; they are said to be impervious to fire. Does that mean he could drop into a pit of lava and walk it off after a little swim? Unlikely, but—
He moves so abruptly, I startle. One moment he is standing on that ledge, the next he simply launches himself forward, grabs hold of a vine, and swings out. One outstretched arm catches the next vine, and he switches to it, all in a fluid motion. I cannot imagine the strength it must require to perform such a maneuver, yet he does it a second time before pausing, suspended for some moments to catch a breath. Even from this distant, reflected view, I can see the sweat pouring down his face.
“Steady, boy,” Alderin mutters. I turn to the previous mirror just in time to see Taigan make it to the far end of the turning stones. The prince looks understandably shaken. He bends over, hands on his knees, and draws several breaths before forcing himself upright and pushing strands of gold hair out of his face.
Behind him, Rune and Warrick are beginning their own progress across the turning stones. Elis hangs back. His nervous energy has not yet abated, and he hops from one foot to the next, shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders. His eyes are wide and round, radiating fear. Will he quit the challenge rather than take the risk? I hope so. I hope all of them will simply give up, refuse to participate any further. It’s madness only which has driven them this far.
Prince Warrick achieves the far side of the turning stones with surprising smoothness, despite his bad leg. By the time he reaches the ledge, Taigan still has not set out across the lava pit. Instead, the Gorduin prince is watching Valtar’s progress, studying his technique perhaps. Warrick, by contrast, catches his breath for no more than half a minute before taking hold of a near vine and swinging out above that dreadful heat.
Valtar is almost to the far side. I can hardly bear to look at him, knotted up with fear as I am. I want to turn away from all of it, to cover my face with my hands. But my eyes seem to be under some compulsion spell, and I cannot look away.
The other courtiers have gathered around the mirrors, leaving a little space behind the king and me, but otherwise pressed close together to steal whatever glimpses they can. A sudden gasp ripples through the air as every one of them draws a short breath. Horror takes place right before my eyes. A vine sags, gives. Warrick drops several feet, hands desperately grasping. The vine doesn’t fully snap, but we can all see that it has moments at best. Warrick stretches out his arm for the nearest vine, which is just out of his reach.
I feel as though my heart will burst right through my rib cage. My own muscles seem to strain and stretch right along with his,and all my being fixes on a single, desperate, prayerlike thought:Let him reach it. Let him reach it.
His hand closes around the vine just as the other gives. He hangs suspended, his arms quaking with effort, while the broken vine to which he had trusted his weight plummets and burns. Now what? We can all see there is no vine near enough for him to swing to and progress across. He’s fallen much lower as well, and the heat rising from the pit is oppressive, sapping his strength.
“This is cruel.” I turn to Alderin, gripping his arm with both hands. “Please, help him. Make an end of this!”
The king does not shake off my grip but gently places his hand atop mine. “The gods decide who is worthy,” he says, though his jaw is tight and his face pale.
I stare up at that hard profile. In the week since my arrival at Stromin Palace, I’ve had many feelings regarding King Alderin. I’ve resented him and feared him, admired and revered him. But until this moment, I didn’t think it was possible to hate him.
“What is he doing?” One of the courtiers breaks the stunned silence, and everyone begins to speak above one another. I whirl to the mirror again, eyes rounding with disbelief. Valtar is there—back in the middle of the pit, near to where Warrick hangs. He descends a vine quickly, then uses his own body weight to get it swinging. Any moment, I expect it to break, expect to watch him fall. Instead, he catches another vine and, using his own momentum, swings as near to Warrick as he can, pushing the empty vine toward the trapped prince.
Warrick reaches out, catches hold. He shifts his weight from one vine to the next and swings away. Still perilously low but once more in motion. He has a chance. Great gods spare us all, he has a chance.
A scream erupts in my ears.
It wasn’t from the contestants—they are too far away for us to hear them—but someone behind me, one of the female onlookers. I whirl, heart jumping, and see a lady of the Ulyon entourage collapsing into the arms of her companion. Her mouth is wide open in hysterical shouts, and she reaches out to one of the mirrors, fingers curled, as though to catch at the image there. Reflexively, I turn to look where she looks, my gaze seeking out the mirror reflecting the turning stones.
A flood of ice rushes through my limbs. All the shouts, the screams, the pressure of bodies behind me melt away to nothing. I feel as though I am alone, standing in a dark world, staring at that horrifying sight, which plays out before my tunneled vision.
Prince Bryon missed his step. His foot was caught between two turning stones, and…
King Alderin’s voice speaks again softly, close to my ear: “The gods decide who is worthy.”
