Page 9 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
—See, Phoebe, Rhea is nervous too, even though she’s the best and will surely be chosen. It’s natural to feel like you’re about to pee yourself.
I nearly sputter a maniacal laugh. Instead, I manage to deepen my smile. Phoebe faces the front again.
Another voice pierces my mind, Silas’s. —These motherfuckers aren’t going to keep me out. Tomorrow, I’ll be on a dragon’s back, shouting to the heavens how motherfucking magnificent I am.
My throat gets clogged with another sputter of delirious laughter. I’m done for. I’ll never be chosen. They’ll not only discover I’m a Dual, but a Weaver to boot, and all my years of work will be for naught.
5
Rhea
We exit the narrow passage and spill into a large circular chamber. There’s a fountain in the middle. It’s shallow, reflecting the light from the torches affixed to the wall. Chains hang from the ceiling, draping over the walls and fountain like curtains.
My hair continues to swirl, strands whipping my face. Small but sharp air currents jump between my fingers, and more thoughts spill into my mind.
—I don’t like this place.
—What the fuck are those chains for?
—Goddess, I don’t think I’m going to make it.
The torches dance, hissing in dark whispers that threaten pain. The water in the fountain begins moving, swirling and pushing against the edge of the pool. The chains rattle. Wind rustles everyone’s hair, and the stone beneath my feet seems to move, dizzying me.
—What the fuck is happening?
—Heratrix, don’t let me fail.
STOP!
The voices quiet down, but my brown robe whips around my body and my hair blows straight up, my wind power still out of control. Lucretia Shadowspark’s green eyes have turned white, light dancing inside them. She’s a Bolt, a lightning elemental. Her fists are tight as electricity crackles over her knuckles.
It’s this place. It has to be. Something here is making our elemental gifts come to the surface and run wild.
Focusing on my ability, I apply pressure and curb its intensity as much as I can. The wind whipping my robe and dancing between my fingers dies down, reduced to an occasional jet of air too unruly to tamp down. Phoebe’s features scrunch together as she does the same. Her red hair settles down. We exchange wary glances.
The torches on the other side of the poolwhoosh, growing in size, a sign that some of the fire elementals aren’t able to control themselves. Heat fills the room, quickly turning it into an oven. A tentacle of water climbs out of the fountain and undulates ominously as if scenting the air, searching for someone to drown. More torches flare, and now I’m sure the floor is shaking.
I glance around, searching my mates’ faces. Many seem in command, but there are others whose expressions betray their panic. They’re unable to keep their powers in check.
Sweat trickles down my forehead. The groan and rattle of the chains—under the power of the Forges, metal elementals—grate on my nerves, threatening to unravel my flimsy control. Phoebe clamps her hands over her ears, hunching her shoulders.
“Make it stop,” Silas hisses in a barely audible breath.
Some of the chains twist and melt, molten metal dripping to the pool and hissing as it hits the water.
Justine Steelgaze, my fiercest competitor in tactics lessons, falls to her knees and claws at the stone floor. Percival Cloudshear clutches his head, keening as he slowly folds down to hug his knees. Roderick Oceanborn rushes into the fountain and slaps the water column, splashing the candidates who stand nearby. More people lose it, and soon pandemonium reigns.
I’m breathing hard, chest visibly rising and falling. I’m doing all I can not to lose it too, wondering about the purpose of the test. Does controlling our powers mean we’re strong? Or does it mean our gifts are weak?
Wyrm’s rot! Is it a trick? What do I do?
I glance over at the Commander and Primes, trying to figure it out, but they stand impassive, apparently willing to let us go insane.
My legs tremble. The floor shakes. I’m at the verge of falling to my knees when a group of Claws files in through the tunnel, and they begin removing candidates from the chamber. They take away those who scream or lie on the floor. Two and sometimes three Claws are needed to restrain them and drag them out.
My gaze follows Justine Steelgaze as the Claws haul her out, feet dragging behind her, head lulling. I watch the Claws closely, begging they don’t come for me. One by one, our numbers and the chaos dwindle. When it’s all said and done, of the original one hundred candidates, only about half remain. I check my competition and notice that Gilbert Drifttown is still here. I’ve never liked the bastard. He shouldn’t even be here.
My feet feel steadier on the floor, even if I still perceive slight tremors. The chains tingle softly. The water in the pool swirls passively. Everyone’s hair stands on end, but the static electricity that saturates the chamber is no more than a nuisance. All those left have a good handle on their abilities.
