Mara glanced at Petra, whose skin had gone pale and shiny, and then at the other girls. Their faces told her everything: eyes glassy, lips tight and thin, every line of their bodies taut. Someone retched; someone else stumbled and let out a soft, startled sob. Greening magic, Mara knew, could disorient you if you weren’t used to it. And not everyone came from Anointed families, as she did; not everyone could afford to hire wayfarers and travel through greenways as often and as simply as others used roads of stone and dirt.
And then there was the matter of her blood. Her father’s voice echoed through her memory, strong and dear.You are a sentinel, like me. We are warriors, Mara. We are hunters. We do not feel pain as others do. We do not become afraid as others do. But that doesn’t mean we cannot be hurt, and it doesn’t mean we should not sometimes fear.
He had told Mara that long ago, when she was four years old and had begun to train with him out on the grounds at Ivyhill—racing deerin the game park, smashing boulders with quick kicks of her small, booted feet, plunging into the ice-cold lake to see who could hold their breath longer. At the time, Mara hadn’t understood what he’d meant. She had only wanted to run faster, run farther, break more rocks, dive twenty, eighty, two hundred more times. And anyway, how could someone not be afraid but also feel fear?
But she had said, “Yes, Father,” as patiently as she could manage, waiting breathlessly for him to suggest something else: let’s climb a mountain, let’s race to the top of that tree and then jump down, let’s run all the way to the capital and back.
Now, though, Mara understood. She wasn’t afraid of what was happening, not like the other girls were. Their breathing came in terrified little bursts; hers was steady. They stumbled; she didn’t. They looked sick; she had never felt stronger. Her heart pounded as anyone’s would in the face of such uncertainty, but she didn’t panic. As she sucked down the silver air and allowed yet another greenway to tug her past the watchful older Roses, Mara felt, for the first time since arriving at Rosewarren, like her old self, a strong and clear-eyed girl, and not a pile of sadness trying feebly to hold on to its bones.
But then everything fell quiet. The Mist was gone; the ground was dark sand. Unfamiliar stars spangled the sky. The air was sharp and cold on Mara’s skin, and on her tongue was the taste of silver coins. Then the tang of bright purple fruit. Then the gritty smoke of charred meat. With each breath came a new flavor, a new seduction of taste and aroma.
Old Country magic, Mara guessed, feeling a little wild. It tasted better than she would have thought.
Nearby, other girls were getting sick and crying. Petra’s hand was cold, her breath thin. Mara shuddered, feeling chills of bliss all over, like she’d just sunk into a steaming-hot bath. Her muscles, neglected for so long, seemed to lengthen inside her like jungle cats stretchingawake, ready to prowl. She fought not to smile; she didn’t want Petra to think she was laughing at her for being afraid.
Overhead beamed a full moon, the path of its reflection glimmering across a black lake. A long wooden pier jutted out into the water; a raft bobbed alongside it. Scattered across the beach were stones and branches, driftwood, rusty hatchets, frayed ropes, broken staffs. Mara’s skin tingled.Weapons.Not far from the tree line roared a bonfire, and around the bonfire, masked figures carrying spears paused in their revels to stare at them. Horrible noises rattled beyond the fire, beastly and furious. A rattle of metal, a jangle of chains. Mara squinted past the flames. Cages?
And at the shore, where the water lapped at the earth, stood a figure Mara had never seen before but would know anywhere. The whispered tales about her skittered across the continent of Gallinor like spiders. She was a pale woman with dark hair, wearing a black gown with a high collar and square shoulders, and she stood as still and tall as a pine.
The Warden.The woman who oversaw the priory, who had ruled Gallinor’s Order of the Rose for decades upon decades. Ageless, ruthless, secretive. Feared. Adored.
Mara’s breath grew quick. Her arms and face turned hot, then cold.
We do not become afraid as others do. But that doesn’t mean we should not sometimes fear.
And shedidfeel fear in that moment. She felt it like she could feel the shape of her own body. But while the other girls gasped and startled or even turned to run away, Mara was quiet and watchful. Her fear kept her sharp. In this strange place, with Old Country magic washing over her like waves, she felt ready to run, to fight, to climb mountains, or even bring them crashing down. The Mara of earlier that night—despairing in her little cot, aching for home—felt like a bad dream.
Mara watched the Warden’s eyes rake over all of them and land on her.
The Warden smiled.At me, Mara thought, readiness charging through her veins like lightning.She’s smiling at me.
Then, with a voice like black stone worn smooth by a thousand rivers, the Warden said, “Welcome, little ones, to your night of trials. If you survive, you will be formally initiated into the Order of the Rose, and your placement will determine your rank, your duties, your room assignment. If you do not survive,” she added gravely, “know that your sacrifice is not in vain. Everything we do, even these trials, is in the service of the Order and our queen.”
Shock made the fine hairs on Mara’s nape stand up. Death? That was not in the stories she’d been told. As far as she knew, the Warden was strict but not cruel. The trials were rigorous but not fatal. She crouched slightly; her muscles coiled, ready to spring. Petra began to cry quietly. Another girl wailed, “Survive? But we thought—”
The Warden raised her arms, cutting her off. “It’s time to begin.”
At her words a shudder of magic bolted through the air, swift and cold. The cage doors beyond the fire clanged open, and monsters tore free of their chains—five hulking chimaera, mottled with scales. Out of the lake burst a great watery fist.A water titan?Mara thought frantically.
The figures around the fire leapt across the beach, spears in hand, feet bare, hair streaming from under their masks.Are they Roses?Mara wondered.Or fae from the deep Olden forests, or figments, with their powers of illusion?The other girls were losing their minds—bolting away, screaming, throwing shaky magic at their attackers.
Mara took quick stock of her fellow recruits, remembering Petra’s introductions from the barracks. There were three beguilers, who could work spells; one beholder, who could see through masking spells, like glamours, to the truth that lay beneath. A silvertongue, good withlanguages. A vissera, who could gather information and even glimpse shades of the future by reading animal remains. None of them were Anointed, and the remaining five were mere humans who could work no magic at all, including Petra, who was swift and clever but now looked as helpless as a lamb.
Mara spared a single angry thought for how unfair this seemed, how outmatched they were, and then bolted into action. She darted across the beach to the two nearest weapons—a hatchet and a stone the size of her head—and brought them back to the group in five seconds flat. Her muscles were mighty storms, her feet fast as falcons. The other girls gaped at her. Someone pointed over Mara’s shoulder and shrieked, “Chimaera!”
Mara whirled around on her heel and flung the stone as hard as she could. It crashed into the chest of a rearing chimaera—a small thing, but ferocious. Feline, scaly, with a nasty mouth of fangs. With a horrible crack like lightning, the creature fell, its chest caved in, its ribs broken.
Smiling grimly, Mara shoved the hatchet into the hands of a brown-skinned girl with wide dark eyes and then turned to Petra.
“Take the other humans out onto that pier,” she ordered. “Get on the raft and go out as far into the middle of the lake as you can.”
“But the titan!” one of the girls protested, her face streaked with tears. A gurgling roar answered from the lake.
“It’ll ignore you if you’re boring enough,” said one of the other girls—the vissera. She was maybe twelve years old, with a pale, square jaw, bright eyes, and a lean body built for running. “Titans don’t like working for anyone, no matter how much they’re paid for it.”
Impressed, Mara nodded. “And we’ll distract it, draw its attention. Now, go!”
Petra hurried the others away, throwing one quick glance at Mara over her shoulder.
