AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My shoulders are starting to ache from the tension I’m holding in them. My gaze keeps flitting over the crowd, stretching ever farther as more and more spectators arrive from beyond the city.
Then the red-robed cleric for Sabrelle strides onto the platform, and my stomach knots. Her challenge is what the largest portion of our construction efforts went into, and it offers plenty of danger of its own.
Several workers push the apparatus fully together with a rasp of wood against wood. A few devouts to Sabrelle step forward and add their magic, making the wheel of blades spin and the fragmented bridge ripple where it looms high above our heads. The streaks of crimson Casimir had the builders add give the impression of lurking brutality.
The cleric sweeps her hand toward the massive structure. “Each of the candidates will complete this course of physical challenges. Sabrelle wishes to see bravery, physical might, and logistical strategy in a ruler. Any candidate who fails to complete the course will be disqualified.”
Lothar breaks in with a loud demand. “The princess should go first. She’s had the advantage of seeing the course built—the other candidates should have the advantage of watching her handle it.”
I scowl. The truth is that Petra avoided the construction area and insisted she not be told any details of the trials ahead of time—she has no more idea how to handle the various obstacles than the other candidates seeing it now do.
But we have no simple way of proving that to the audience.
Before I can think of a solid argument to offer, Petra bobs her head in acceptance. “I’ll go first.”
She steps toward the starting ramp with its tiny, irregular handholds. It’s hard to keep my attention on the crowd while she’s about to face a series of death-defying perils.
I scan the swarm of figures beyond the platform until my vision blurs. The cleric announces the start of the challenge. Petra’s feet thud up the wooden surface.
And Stavros lets out a grunt of warning. “Something’s going to happen in less than a minute to startle Petra and make her stumble. The way everyone reacts, I think it’s a loud sound. I couldn’t see where it’ll come from.”
He leaps to the side of the stage to pass specific instructions on to the guards. Dozens push into the crowd, but I can already tell there’s no way they’ll be able to check everyone in the matter of seconds we have.
I risk slipping out of our alcove too, hurrying to the front of the platform in my invisible state. My gaze sweeps over the crowd again, squinting toward the farther reaches?—
There. A woman some twenty bodies back from the front lines is raising a slim, metallic object to her lips—a kind of instrument?
I don’t have time to point the guards to her. I tap into the trickle of magic between me and the sacrificial accomplices and let it launch my power.
The clasp on my cloak expands, and the neck of the horn squashes inward, just as the woman blows. A squeak of a sound reaches my ears, so faint I might not have made it out if I hadn’t been listening so hard.
I squeeze the windpipe even tighter for good measure.
Stavros has spotted her now. As he calls to the guards to point her out for arrest, I duck back into the shelter with no one the wiser.
In the midst of our panic, Petra has scrambled across half of the course. When I let myself glance up at her, I can see the military training she insisted on enduring at the college has paid off.
She leaps across the disjointed boards of the bridge so fast their jerking motions don’t make her more than wobble. She pauses for just a second to judge the speed of the whirling blades and then dashes forward, ducking and weaving between them.
A gasp of pain reaches my ears, and I wince, yanking my gaze to the crowd again. But I don’t think that was sabotage, only the difficulty of the course.
When Petra finally squeezes through the snare of ropes to emerge at the far end, a scratch on her upper arm is dribbling blood.
“Two minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” the cleric announces. “Second candidate!”
Despite his advantage of having witnessed a run-through and his muscular strength, the soldier seems to find the nimbler areas difficult to navigate. He struggles through the ropes and arrives with a time only slightly faster than Petra’s.
The noblewoman has to pause several times out of caution and takes more than four minutes.
The count hurtles into the course with an arrogant air, which proves to be over-confidence. Halfway across the bridge, he slips, fumbles, and falls between the slats.
He hits the platform with a crunch of broken bone and a pained cry. The workers and a healer who was standing by rush over.
From the way his limbs are twisted, I think he’s broken his leg.
The cleric of Sabrelle appears totally unconcerned. “The fourth candidate is eliminated from the trials.”
The audience doesn’t seem bothered either. With each trial that ends with Petra showing her prowess, the cheers for her get louder.
