At the floor level, I followed Yoslyn as our line of student competitors curved in front of the lowest level of seating, facing into the glass arena, to the right of the aisle. A second line of twelve individuals curved to the left of the aisle, each holding a journal, a quill, and an inkwell. These would be the official observers: volunteers from among the staff researchers, each assigned to one of the trial participants and tasked with recording that student’s every movement.
Desmond had been among their ranks the year before.
The blond attendant stepped forward and opened a glass-paned door into the arena, then gestured for the observers to go in. When they had set up their quills, inkwells, and stools, each at one of the twelve workstations, we were allowed to file in, in reverse order, beginning with the last student in line.
Wilder was the third to step into the arena, and I was the fourth, my heart racing, with Yoslyn behind me. He wound up at the workstation to my right, and she was directly in front of me.
My observer, as it happened, was another of Desmond’s colleagues: the man with a bald head and a receding chin.
When we’d all taken up our positions, the Bluehelm marched into the arena, formal, gold-trimmed robes swishing, and addressed us in a commanding voice, her hands clasped at her back, her dark-eyed gaze shifting from face to face, pale skin practically gleaming in the glow of at least a hundred torches.
“Welcome to the Black Trial, the first in a series of four competitions that comprise a hallowed yet pragmatic Alchemary tradition.” Her voice echoed around the arena in a formal cadence. “Every Mastery-year cohort for more than a century has been where you now stand: in this same arena, facing a very similar test, awash in same trepidation and excitement likely racing through your veins at this very moment. I want you all to know that regardless of the outcome, it is quite an accomplishment to have made it this far.”
Her focus seemed to snag on me for a moment, and my pulse spiked painfully.
“The Black Trial symbolizes spiritual death,” the Bluehelm continued. “By enduring and overcoming the symbolic alchemical steps of purification and decomposition, you will shed your old ways of thinking so that you can take the next step on your journey toward a higher state of being.”
She paused, her hands sliding down the long, gold-trimmed lapels of her robe, as if out of habit. “In a moment, each of you will ingest a poison administered by your official observer. Each poison is identical, brewed all in the same batch by a panel of your professors, using an officially approved formula. You must drink every drop, and only once you have will you be released to the supply cupboard.”
No one dared speak, but a tense sort of restlessness worked its way around the arena as feet shuffled against the stone floor and stances shifted uncomfortably.
“At that point,” the Bluehelm said, “you will have access to all of the available supplies and equipment, though no student will be allowed to take anything from another.”
That likely wouldn’t be necessary anyway because the cupboard held plenty of every ingredient I could imagine, as well as a collection of surplus equipment, in case something broke in mid-trial.
“Students must each identify the poison administered, then formulate, produce, and consume an antidote. Those who manage all of that in time to nullify the poison before it does irreparable harm will be considered to have passed the Black Trial.”
More anxious fidgeting erupted among my classmates.
“Those who fail to find and consume an antidote in time to avoid irreparable harm, and those who do not survive the poison, will fail the trial.”
What she did not mention, though we were all well aware of it, was the likelihood that one of us would die this day. Or that even those who survived but failed would be expelled from the Alchemary, severed from the power and prestige of the academy.
Like my mother.
“You may not help one another, nor are you allowed to observe and replicate another student’s technique or formula. Are there any questions?” The Bluehelm’s voice echoed eerily around us.
There were none.
She wished us all luck, then exited the arena to take her position in the first row of spectator seating. The best view in the venue.
An attendant pulled the door closed behind her and stood in front of it. To make sure no one tried to enter? Or that no one tried to leave?
A wave of nausea washed over me as the Bluehelm lifted her arm into the air. All of the official observers turned toward her, silent and attentive. When she lowered her arm, they each reached into a pocket of their cape and withdrew a narrow, corked vial.
My observer offered me his vial, and I took it with trembling fingers, staring at the pale, almost colorless fluid it held.
From my right, something crashed with a high-pitched shattering sound, followed by an anguished cry.
Kornell had dropped his vial, spilling his poison across the stone floor. His observer fixed him with a pitying look, then escorted him out of the arena, through the door the attendant opened for them.
Just like that, his time at the Alchemary was over.
I tightened my grip on my own vial, my heart slamming against my sternum.
At the front of the room, with a touch of bravado, Lennox tilted his head back and swallowed his poison in one gulp. He shoved the empty vial at his observer, then raced toward the cupboard, dark curls flopping as he ran, clearly eager to get first choice of the equipment and supplies.
Keryth was right behind him.
