Page 144 of Storm of Shadows
I rise up on my tiptoes in an attempt to see over the heads in front of me.
I can just make out the quietest of the Princes, strolling across to the tall fence. He looks neither scared nor relaxed. Not even buzzed. He walks calmly, ignoring all the eyes on him.
One of the gruesome twins steps out to meet him and leads him to a door in the fence. He says a few words to him but none of it is discernible over the distance. Then the whistle sounds, the door swings open and Thorne steps through.
Immediately the door slams behind him, offering no glimpse of what lies beyond and the voice calls out the name of the next student to face the trial.
Beaufort Lincoln.
Several people actually slap Beaufort on the back as he strides past, or wish him luck. There’s even a trickle of applause from the stand.
He reaches the fence and a moment later he disappears through the door, the voice calling up Dray next.
The last of the Princes milks his moment of limelight for all its worth, waving to the crowd and receiving some whoops of encouragement and even a cry of, “Go for it, Dray!”
But it doesn’t last long, then he’s gone and the next shadow weaver is called forward. It seems they’ll be going before us, not hanging around in the cold to stew in their own thoughts. I can’t help feeling that this must be an advantage.
As more and more students disappear behind the fence, sounds begin to travel towards us. Screams and screeches, thuds and cracks. Once or twice we even see the flash of magic up in the sky. I study the faces of the spectators seated in the stands. From their angle they can see behind the fence and observe what is happening. There are some definite winces; once or twice some of the spectators even cover their eyes with their hands. But there are other spectators whooping with delight, bouncing up and down in their seats with excitement, even laughing.
I watch as the first of the Iron Quarter kids set off, Fly among them. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer for him. Next it’s the Granite kids. Clare looks petrified when her name is called and I send her all the good luck vibes I can muster. And then it’s just us Slate kids left waiting.
Of course, Stanley is billed to go first, and he turns to us all, hands on hips, giant smirk on his face. There’s still a blue tinge to his left eye and a scab under his right, but that beating obviously didn’t knock the obnoxiousness out of him.
“Good luck, losers. You’re going to need it.” His eyes find me and he mouths, “Especially you.”
I flick my gaze away from him and don’t give him the benefit of a reaction. I don’t even watch as he jogs towards the fence when his name is called.
Soon enough, I’m the last one left out there in the holding pen and I can feel eyes from the spectators flicking from the action to me. There’s some murmuring in the crowd. I have really failed at this disappearing act. Last girl standing. I bet, just like me, they’re all wondering why. Or maybe they think I’m going to be utterly awful and therefore a good source of entertainment.
I glare back at them and several actually jolt and turn to look away. All but one.
Professor Fox Tudor.
Those rust-colored eyes of his glow over the distance and I swear I can almost feel the cool lick of his shadow magic against my skin. Then he nods. The tiniest of gestures. Something private that I think is meant just for me. A gesture of encouragement.
Does it work? I’m not sure. I still feel pretty petrified as my name is called and I walk towards that door.
One half of the gruesome twins barks orders at me, but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of my heart thumping in my ears. And then the whistle pierces through my skull, the door opens and I step through.
Chapter Sixty-One
Thorne
I step through the doorway and into a maze, tall rambling hedgerows blocking my view and my path.
Immediately, I sense danger. It is nothing I can see. Nothing I can hear. But I do feel it right in the core of my body.
Beneath my feet the earth is hard and solid and above me the sky has changed – full of angry clouds, thunder and lightning crashing between them. It means little light filters down towards me. I look up and behind me, searching for the stand full of spectators but the hedges are too tall – formed from a tangle of brambles and vines.
I look down at my hands and carefully remove the leather gloves. Then I close my eyes and let my shadow magic race from my fingertips, it skids and swerves ahead of me through the maze, round corners and bends, through and past the dead-ends, searching for whatever this maze hides, seeking out the danger. There are several obstacles, both organic and inorganic, that block the path. My magic scorches easily through them all, driving deeper into the heart of the maze, halting when itreaches the center. My magic doesn’t recognize what lies there, but it is neither threat nor reward. I think it is simply the end.
I sigh in annoyance. This was easy. Too damn easy. Not a challenge at all.
I set off at a steady pace. The shadows have cleared a path for me and now all I need to do is follow it.
As I walk, I think of the girl. How hard will she find this? How dangerous?
The traps laid out were nothing for my magic. But for a girl without any? Without even brute strength to aid her?
