Page 90 of The Ordeals
‘Yes?’ she says, her bright, serene smile, limned with … light. With soft, glowing light. The soft gleam of magic. Of illusion or a masquier’s wielding. Then she reaches inside her robe, drawing out a tiny bottle, no bigger than my thumb. ‘Drink this, my dear one. Drink this and take my hand. Walk with me, back to our life together.’
I look at it, this glass bottle, tiny and vicious, glinting a pale, milky blue. I know what it is. I know what this Ordeal offers. A way out, an escape route. A chance to give in.
Unconditional love, it’s my greatest desire. It’s what I seek, over and over, the scraps of it only just staving off the knife edge of hunger. Without Dolly, I was hollow, an unloved husk. I would giveanything,everythingto keep that. That shining pearl of love she gave me, that pale orb in the endless night of my childhood. ‘I will if you will,’ she says quietly and those words,herwords are a clanging bell. Those words are about strength, about continuing, about fighting on – not about giving up. She never, ever wanted me to give up.
I release a taut breath, and finally reach out, drawing my arms around her to hug her one last time. I know this isn’t her. I know I’m stretching out a moment of borrowed time … but I don’t want to let her go. Not again. The ache builds in my chest, squeezing every breath and it feels like it did that night when we buried her. Like a hole has formed in my centre, and however much I want to feel whole again, I never will. ‘I love you, Dolly. You were everything. Everything.’ Then I close my fingers over hers, around that small bottle of poison before drawing my arms around her. ‘But the real you wouldn’t want this for me. It’s not my time yet.’
‘I love you too. Stay—’ She gasps and the illusion cracks, shattering in my arms. And I know I’ve passed the second part of the final Ordeal.
I wipe tears away from my face as the bitterness of reliving that loss leaves me bereft all over again. Then I stumble to the front door, just as the hallway is devoured. I wrench the door open and step past the threshold just before Alabaster House disappears entirely. I don’t notice the gleam of magic until it’s too late. Pitching forwards, unable to twist and stop myself, I fall into a different reality, a different place entirely. Granite flies up to meet me and I thud to the ground, bones barking in protest. I blink, telling myself to get up, tomove.
Curling my knees under myself, I push up to stand and stumble slightly, finding my knees are cut and bloodied, my hands not much better. In fact, my entire body is a mass of bleeding cuts, and behind me, a mirror. An alchemist-made mirror.
There are many of them, all lined up, more hopefuls falling through. More portals, like the one I just threw myself through. I look around, finding a seated crowd gazing back. Sitting on huge granite steps, carved into a cliff face, stretching up and up, a strange mist clinging to the air, damp and eerie, as though swirling with past ghosts.
And on the other side, the sea. Churning and grey under a sullen sky. A hundred sets of eyes watching, waiting. This has to be the arena Professor Grant mentioned. Now this is the third, the final and greatest test of my wielding.
Initiation.
I gaze at the space before me, the arc of smooth granite floor, the steps to my left, rising like a tide, cut into a cliff where the crowd sits, and the sea gushing over the rocks far below to my right. A show, then. The hopefuls’ final part of this Ordeal is to put on some kind of show.
‘You made it,’ Alden’s voice laden with relief says and I turn to him. I sag, exhaustion and dizziness consuming me. ‘Sophia, you’re hurt. How?’
‘A monster, a cold one found me.’ I show him my wrist, wincing as the pain pulses. ‘Fion probably let it in. It drained me, and I don’t know how much it took. I don’t know how much magic I have left.’
Alden’s face is a mask of horror as he cradles my arm, looking at the marks the monster left. ‘Fion? Oh gods. It’s happening again. It’s really happening.’
There’s a clap like thunder and we look to the crowd. Sitting in the front row, flanked by the faculty is Professor Grant with Caroline Ivey beside her. ‘Welcome, hopefuls, to the arena. Congratulations on making it this far. This is your Initiation, the final test. Remember, only twenty of you will make it.’
Chapter 32
Initiation
Ilook around, counting the number of hopefuls left. There are twenty-five of us. Which means that five of us standing here are not going to make it out. I rake the faces quickly, finding Tessa and Greg. When I see Knox as well, limping towards us, I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. All five of us have made it through alive to this moment. Even Frances is here, wheezing and bleeding, her blonde curls dishevelled and matted, but still alive.
Fion, of course, is absent.
‘Initiation is the final step, when your magic, the raw power inside you, will carry you through to becoming a scholar.’ Professor Grant’s clipped tones fill the space, echoing off those huge granite steps and sweeping out to sea. No one moves, no one speaks, and my pulse shrieks in my ears like a dying scream.
‘Professors, if you will …’ I snap back to Professor Grant as the rest of the faculty raise their hands around her. The granite ground beneath our feet trembles. Alden and I step back as a pillar shoots into the air, then another and another … all at different levels, and atop them, a shimmering tear in the mist.
‘There are twenty alchemist-made portals. When one of you steps through one, it will seal up behind that hopeful, closing that opportunity to succeed.’
‘It doesn’t look so bad …’ I say softly as Alden’s grip loosensfrom around my arm, his hand finding mine. I cling to him, heart thundering in my chest.
‘There might be more to this,’ he replies.
And then the arena tumbles into writhing chaos, flames dancing between vines, gargoyles materialising to settle before some of the portals atop those pillars and platforms, vicious claws clicking on stone. There are shadows, sweeping slowly, as though prowling like predatory wraiths, and I shudder, taking an unconscious step backwards. Glittering ice forms between the raging flames at the base of the pillars, and vines curl venomously, deadly and dark, as though one step could be fatal.
This assault course, of sorts, is far worse than the one in the courtyard of the Crucible. Far more deadly. Unsurpassable, unless of course your magic is true and strong. To discern the real from the unreal, to unweave the magic cladding this arena would be a task in itself, a task none of us have time for, I realise, as a hopeful bolts for the nearest portal.
I watch, heart in my throat as Betram races for a raised platform, blasting back vines that snake for him, dodging a shadowy wraith that shifts his way, before scrambling desperately up the pillar and leaping for the portal. But it blasts him onto his back. He twitches once, twice and then falls still.
‘Andthatis why your magic must be powerful enough,’ Professor Grant says, motioning for two scholars to retrieve Betram’s still form. ‘Professor Hess has created a web of portals that react to raw power, that only submit to magic. To your magic. If the magic in your veins is not potent enough, then you will not be able to step through a portal. You will fail.’
I take a steadying breath, steeling myself for this. The final test.
‘Bona fortuna, hopefuls,’ she says. ‘I shall enjoy welcoming all who succeed.’
