Page 77 of City of Stone and Silence

“Not exactly,” he says. “Either of us may abandon the contest at any time, at which point the other will be declared the winner. Otherwise, the challenge ends at sundown. If we both endure that long, then we are clearly both in the Divine Being’s favor.”

Sundown. I glance at the sky. Even with the time spent walking out here, that’s still another four or five hours. Five hours of that. Flurries of snow whip playfully across the ice, licking at the edge of the dome.

“And you’ve done this before?” Meroe says.

“Many times.” I’m not sure if I’m imagining a hint of smugness in Gragant’s poise.

“We just have to … sit there?” I say.

“You are welcome to do whatever you feel brings you closer to perfection and the divine,” he says.

“Right.” I take a deep breath. “Meroe, Zarun, can I speak to you a moment?”

We step away from the monks and put our heads together. Zarun is grinning, like this is all a joke, but Meroe looks worried.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Ideas?”

“If you try to sit out there until sunset, you’re going to die,” Meroe says. “Nobody can do that.”

“It’s common among the monastic orders, supposedly,” Zarun says. “There are always stories of monks spending days on mountaintops or under waterfalls. I never gave it much credit, myself, but…”

I glance at Gragant, with his perfect body and impassive expression.

“He certainly seems confident,” I say.

“You can back out,” Zarun says.

“And prove that his god hates me. Then we’ll never get his help.” I look at Meroe. “Come on. There must be something.”

“You’re allowed to use your Wells, aren’t you?” she says, hesitantly. “Can they keep you warm?”

I’d been hoping for some brilliant diplomatic stratagem that would get me out of this, but that was probably too much to ask for. I look at the snow and shiver. “Maybe. My armor heats up my skin when something hits it, but I don’t know if I could keep that up all day.”

“Where’s an iceling when you need one?” Zarun says.

“The icelings are supposed to make houses out of snow,” Meroe says. “I read that, but I never quite knew what it meant.” She shakes her head. “Maybe you should back out. We can find another way.”

“We can’t. Not soon enough.” Meroe catches my eye, and I smile ruefully. “I know. But this time—”

“Are you ready?” Gragant says.

Meroe bites her lip, but nods. I turn away from them.

“As I’ll ever rotting be,” I mutter.

Gragant steps forward, with Harak just behind him. I square off opposite them, as though we’re going to fight after all. He bows, and I match him. Outside the dome, snow swirls and flurries.

The monk reaches back and unties his robe, unwinding the cloth and folding it neatly. He hands it to Harak, leaving him in just a knotted loincloth. Then—

“You have got to be rotting joking,” I say.

Gragant, naked and apparently without embarrassment—not that he has much to be embarrassed about, I think sourly—hands this last scrap of clothing to his second. He catches my look, and shrugs.

“It is traditional,” he says, which apparently settles the matter.

Fine. Modesty isn’t one of my virtues, and my clothes aren’t heavy enough to make much of a difference. I wriggle out of my vest and trousers, kicking them in Meroe’s direction, then unwind my chest wrap and step out of my underthings. Meroe and Zarun have both seen me naked—not that this stops Zarun from ogling appreciatively, of course—but I can feel the curious look of the monks. I ignore them, focusing on Gragant, whose gaze is appraising rather than prurient. I wonder what I look like to him—boyish, small-breasted, back and thighs crosshatched with old scars, still-healing welts from recent powerburn, and the weird, winding ribbon of blue marks that are the legacy of Meroe’s first, desperate healing.

He gives me a nod of acknowledgement, and turns to face the boundary. I follow suit, my skin already turning to gooseflesh. Harak moves behind us and raises his hand.