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She’s won most of them and taken a close second place in the other two. It’s obvious who the forerunner is.
My future queen’s victories continue through the final few trials. By the time we reach the last—for Creaden, the godlen most concerned with leadership and authority—applause carries through the crowd whenever Petra’s name is mentioned.
It’s been a long morning, but the faces taking in the spectacle glow with avid anticipation.
The purple-robed cleric guides three smooth wooden towers forward and assembles a trio of his devouts at the base of each. He points to the seat fixed to the top of each tower, shining a golden yellow above the whirls of violet and midnight blue on the base. “You will each work together with your underlings to reach your throne. You will be judged by more than just speed.”
Before he can give the order to begin, a tingle of magic courses over my skin. My head twitches toward it, but an instant later, another current touches me, and another—as if spells are being cast from all around the platform.
Next to me, Sulla stiffens. “What in the realms is that?”
I swivel, trying to navigate the swarm of impressions. “There’s magic coming from all over the place,” I say for our companions’ benefit. “None of it very strong… Nothing’s actually happening yet…”
Sulla’s eyes widen. “It’s a distraction. They know we picked up on their previous attempts, so they’re trying to overwhelm us rather than being sneaky about it.”
Casimir speaks up in a low voice. “Lothar looks as if he’s preparing for something. He’s walking around the far side of the platform like he means to go right around the back.”
“We have to—” Stavros cuts himself off with a hiss of breath. “I got a glimpse—someone’s going to appear at the front of the stage out of nowhere. They must be using concealment magic like your charm, Ivy.”
“Do you know which direction they’re coming from?” I ask.
He shakes his head in a jerk.
If it’s a matter of physically getting in an attacker’s way, I’m far more equipped for that duty than my older companion.
I set my jaw. “They’ll be coming for Petra. I’ll just have to get in their way.”
I bolt across the front of the platform, dodging the cleric and staying clear of the towers set several paces back from the edge.
No one reacts; no one can see me through the charm’s magic. They’re all gaping at the spectacle of three candidates trying to assemble their human helpers into some kind of ladder to get them up the tower.
Word of an impending threat must be passing through the guards and the daimon both, because the rows of them in front of me stir warily, a few drawing their weapons. Rheave has jumped down to join his fellow captured spirit creatures, his gaze darting around us. But they obviously can’t make out the would-be attacker any more clearly than I can.
I station myself directly in front of Petra’s tower and narrow my focus onto the thrum of magic resonating through the air.
Someone is going to attack. Someone who’s concealed through magic like I am.
I should be able to sense them when they get close, even with the wafting eddies drifting by.
The back of my neck prickles at the thought of Lothar prowling around behind me, but Stavros will have warned the guards to watch for any threatening behavior from him too—and he said the attacker his gift showed him appeared at the front of the stage. I need to stay here.
Grunts and rough breaths carry from the towers behind me. The cleric strolls by, examining the candidates’ progress with a casual air, totally unaware of the potential catastrophe.
Then I feel it: a thicker current of magic streaming almost straight toward me.
It’s passing over the heads of the guards in front of the platform—using flight as well as invisibility to avoid notice. But they can’t avoid me.
I adjust my stance to follow the impression I’m picking up and unsheathe the knife at my hip. My pulse thunders in my ears.
My riven power churns inside me, urging me to blast the intruder right out of the air.
No. I don’t need to pick away at my sanity any more than I already have.
And the less this confrontation distracts from Petra’s likely victory, the better.
The sensation of approaching magic blares louder and then seems to stop, right at the edge of the stage. Without letting myself hesitate, I launch myself at the presence I can feel in front of me.
Our bodies collide, and a woman in a cloak blinks into my view as she heaves herself to the side to avoid toppling off the platform. I clutch her tunic, forcing her to haul me with her.
