CHAPTER 32
t’s been nearly a month since the assassination attempt, and I’ve been haunted by something other than the Dream Stalker—anxiety aboutI
the Culling.
And right now, it all begins.
Two weeks of trials, tests, and sleeplessness. Success and failure. Life and death. All options are on the table.
Even though I’m just a spectator today, my body is tense.
Summer clouds slide over the sun, and the humid breeze kisses my skin.
The stone benches of Camelot’s ancient arena, Knight Riding Court, are packed. Once, this was the site of deadly jousting matches. Bashed skulls, pierced helmets, severed limbs—let’s hope the first round of the trial by combat isn’t quite so violent as it was in Arthur’s day.
Out of all four trials I will face, the only one I’m not worried about is the written test tomorrow—I’ve got that nailed. But the other three scare the shit out of me. In just a few days, I have to pass something called the “shadow trial,” which is a total mystery that changes year to year. Then, my own combat trial here in the arena, one week from today. And finally, the magic trial, where I have to prove my Sentinel abilities. The ones I still haven’t fully mastered.
But it’s not just me who’s worried. I sense the tension in the air concerning what’s about to unfold.
I take a deep breath. Lightning spears the sky, and a few people around me jump. I pull my jacket snugly around me. Thunder rumbles, and a light
rain spatters against my face.
As much as I hate it, the rainy weather reminds me of sleeping in Raphael’s bed with the rain pattering on the window. Hugging myself tightly, I glance back at him sitting behind me. His pale eyes are focused straight ahead, and I’m not sure he even realizes I’m here. Since the night of the assassin attack, he’s been nothing but formal and guarded. His old emotional restraint has returned. Perhaps he only lets down his guard when the alcohol is flowing.
I turn to the arena, my skin prickling with the apprehension thickening the air. Are any of us really prepared for this? Across the sandy tiltyard, the three trial judges wait in an elevated, covered pavilion. They sit in large wooden chairs that might as well be thrones—Viviane, Wrythe, and Amon, garbed in long, embroidered robes of blue and silver that remind me of Merlin. Wrythe sits in the middle, his golden torc flashing as another bolt lights the sky.
In just a few minutes, two cadets will battle one another, and their performance will help determine the torc they earn in the end. Will they become knights with gold or silver torcs? Squires with brass or copper? Or will they fail so miserably they’ll get tin—meaning they’re culled?
“Gods, I can hardly breathe,” Serana mutters by my side.
The rain starts to pick up, dampening my hair and jacket.
“I’ve given up on breathing altogether,” Darius says. He may be having a panic attack, but the man’s silver eyeliner is impeccable. “My trial by combat is tomorrow. Have you heard that sometimes people die?”
My stomach clenches. “I’m sure not very often,” I say. “They’re not going to want to kill their graduating class.”
Right?
We stare ahead at the arena. Slowly, the first two cadets march in. There’s Horatio—Tarquin’s pink-cheeked lapdog—and Nolan, Darius’s crush. Both of them are ridiculously tall, their shirts wet with rain. Horatio carries an enormous sword, its blade dulled. Nolan has a rapier in one hand, a stiletto in the other. His long brown hair drapes down his broad back.
“Smash him, Horatio,” Tarquin yells from the crowd.
“Go on, Nolan!” Darius shouts. “You’ve got this!” He turns to us, muttering, “Gods, he’s hot.”
Cheers erupt through the crowd until Wrythe stands and raises his hand.
“Wait for the command to begin!”
Silence settles. My heart is thudding, almost as if I’m standing in the trial
ring myself.
Wrythe seems to be drawing out the waiting, and a nervous hush settles over the arena. The long, silent wait feels excruciating, and my chest muscles tighten.
I can almost imagine myself out there on the dirt, facing off against one of the better-trained cadets. Waiting for the moment when a sword might pierce my gut, an experience I have no desire to repeat.
As I hug myself in the rain, Tana’s warning about the trials still rings in my mind. Death hunts you. During the trials, the darkness will start to envelop you. If you don’t survive, we all die.
The rain is pounding down now, turning the arena into mud. Without waiting for the command to start, Nolan lunges, his rapier poking Horatio’s shoulder. The crowd starts roaring, and I realize I’m screaming as well, cheering for Nolan. His attack was sharp, seizing the element of surprise.
Horatio wasn’t expecting that.
I have a good feeling about Nolan today.
“Begin!” Viviane shouts, even though they’ve already started.
MI-13 spies aren’t honorable. We fight dirty, and we take pride in it.
Better to be cunning and alive. I suspect Nolan will actually earn a point for attacking before the trial formally began.
Horatio swings, and Nolan barely dodges, rolling aside in the mud. I expected Horatio to take a second to recover, since his sword is huge and cumbersome. But when Nolan thrusts again, Horatio easily parries him with his blade, then swings and hits Nolan’s foot. With a sinking feeling, I realize that Horatio is much stronger and faster than he appears. He can easily handle that enormous hunk of metal, swinging it as if it weighs nothing. Godsdamn it.
Nolan now seems more cautious, eyeing Horatio carefully. He jumps back as Horatio swings again, then rolls to avoid another swing. He’s buying
time. Trying to exhaust his opponent.
“Come on, Nolan!” Darius cheers.
I glance across the yard at the judges. Their faces are impassive and show nothing. The only sign of emotion is the tightness in Viviane’s lips. I recognize that expression from the hours upon hours I’ve spent with her in training. And I already know what she’s thinking. Nolan won’t be able to exhaust Horatio. She’s frustrated with his decisions.
Horatio looks like a lumbering idiot, but he’s tireless. He can spar for
hours. I’ve seen him do it. Nolan should know that. He should have paid attention. When possible, we’re expected to know everything we can about an opponent, and in this case, that includes the other cadets.
Sure enough, Horatio keeps swinging, not even breaking a sweat. His swings seem clumsy, but I can see his footwork, his poise. He’s trying to fool Nolan, make him think that he’s a mindless brute. Horatio, I think, is much cleverer than he lets on.
Nolan finally parries one of Horatio’s swings, then, with an elegant twist, thrusts forward with his stiletto. Horatio stumbles back.
“Yes! Go Nolan!” Serana screams.
“No…” I mutter. “Don’t fall for it—”
But he does. Emboldened by Horatio’s stumble, he moves forward, thrusting directly at Horatio’s unprotected chest. Horatio’s sword blocks it.
Quick as lightning, Horatio tears Nolan’s rapier from his hand, sending it flying. Another swing smashes into Nolan’s arm.
The blade is dull, but it’s still heavy, and Nolan screams in pain, an agonized, animal screech, and I wonder how badly that arm is broken.
Tarquin and his friends are now the ones cheering, wild with victory.
Darius, Tana, and I can only watch in silence. I glance at the judges, wondering when they’ll call an end to it. Quite clearly, Nolan can no longer fight.
From what I can tell, Viviane and Amon seem to be arguing with Wrythe.
From here, I have no clue what they’re saying.
Nolan’s arm is hanging limply by his side. All he has is his stiletto, held in his left hand. His non-dominant hand.
If he could, this would be the time to surrender, but surrendering in a trial of combat means failure. The worst thing an undercover agent can do is surrender because if the Fey take us prisoner, they will torture us until they’ve extracted every last bit of damaging information from our minds. An agent is expected to fight to the death. Or in this case, until the judges call it.
Which they aren’t. They could, but they don’t seem to want to.
Wrythe stands with his arms folded, shaking his head. Viviane is screaming at him, red-faced. Maybe she wants to call it.
And then Horatio goes for Nolan. Not just one swing, but a series of punishing lashes, swiftly and expertly delivered. Hitting his chest, his leg, his broken arm. Nolan stumbles back and collapses.
Wrythe finally nods, and Viviane turns toward the combatants.
And Horatio smashes his heavy blade into Nolan’s head.
Viviane stares, stone-faced.
Darius leaps up and runs through the crowd, trying to get to his friend.
The tower’s doctor is already there, kneeling by Nolan, trying to heal him.
But there’s too much blood, and Nolan’s eyes are gazing sightlessly at the sky. Horatio stares down at him, his face expressionless.
“Oh, gods,” Serana mumbles.
And now the doctor shakes his head, and Darius stands over his friend’s body, crying.
“He just killed him,” I say. “Nolan was done. It was obvious. There was no reason to do it. He quite clearly could have won the trial without the final blow.”
Serana stares straight ahead. “They should have stopped the fight.”
“Viviane and Amon wanted to,” I say. “Wrythe didn’t agree. What’s the point of allowing cadets to die?”
“There’s no point,” Serana says. “But it happens. It’s brutal, but Horatio demonstrated that he fights well. He’ll get high marks for this trial.”
Wrythe slaps Horatio on the shoulder, and Horatio has a tiny smile on his ruddy face.
When Tana told me the darkness was coming for me during the trials, I had imagined another assassination attempt.
I hadn’t really pictured dying at the hands of a fellow cadet.
