Chapter 60: Sixty
The arena roars to live, their encourage and excitement deafening.
I am strapped to the bone, once again, wrapped in skin tight light blue leather, standing atop a podium along with six others and as I peer into the crystals zeroing in on each of our faces, to the people’s utmost delight, I feel a nauseating churn in my stomach.
I don’t even want to be here.
The rest raise their hands and chins, waving. And every now and then, the people take their names, changing with a crippling madness. Surprisingly, I hear mine. I just wished I had it in me to smile at them. Or acknowledge it. Or share even the tiniest modicum of their faith.
Because I didn’t have any zeal in me to win. Exhausted is all I am.
The arena has been shifted, for the lack of a better word. The last time, we’d gone through the doors on the left side of the arena. Now, we stand before the doors on the right, and I wonder just what sick form of torture they have laying in wait for us behind those doors.
The crystal flashes, changing the imagery to the podium where the royals seat. Margot is whispering something into Wyatt’s ears. Serenya, Lilith’s mother, is once again, stoned, her eyes half-closed, head lolling. I’d never seen the woman lucid for one day since I arrived here. An entire section sits empty, House Ashwynd’s show of displeasure and rebellion, after Cairn and Morrigan’s deaths. The seat at the council has remained empty for weeks and I wonder just how long they’re willing to test Lucien until he responds.
It is as though thinking about him brings his image to life and he flashes on the screen. I tell myself I have no interest in seeing his face, but my eyes draw up immediately at the booming cheers.
He’s drinking again.
Worry splinters through my heart, but other than the goblet in his grasp, you wouldn’t have known he was wasted. His eyes are vivid, his smile dashing, and his clothes impeccable as always.
"He’ll be fine," Evadne says beside me.
I look ahead. "I’m not worried."
"Uh-huh."
I say nothing.
"Lyra--"
That high-pitched silence falls over the arena and the tension spikes as the elder steps forward in his billowing garments of red sweeping the grounds before him.
Raising his hands with great flourish, he addresses the crowd. "Denizens of Ebonheart, behold the Final Selection! By Thandric’s will, a queen shall rise. By the King’s hand, our future is bound. Glory to Thandric! Glory to the Crown!"
The crowd erupts, their chant rising like thunder, and when silence finally falls, the Elder’s gaze sweeps over us, heavy and solemn.
"The Queen must be able to make hard decisions on behalf of the empire in the absence of the King. She must be capable of commanding under pressure. She must yet, be able to work with the Council for the sake of the empire. And when the end is near, she must be able to sacrifice what she loves the most to protect what matters. This final crucible is a test of wisdom, trust, sacrifice and will."
He gestures toward the black stone doors behind him. "Beyond these gates lies the crypt of Guinevere Draemont, First of Her Name. There, her crown awaits, and with it, the throne."
A wild pulse pounds in my temples as that sure voice carries over the full arena, hushing the upswell of chanting. "The rules follow as thus: Only one path leads to the crypt. The plunging bridge. However, the bridge will bear only the weight of six. Any more or less, and all will perish. Decide who amongst you will not make the crossing or none of you will."
Already, seven of us cast furtive glances at each other. No one would blindly let anyone push them off. And how could we come to such a decision if none of us trusts the other?
"Within the crypt," the Elder continues."The crown rests beneath the waters of time and will rise only when four hands hold the ancient sigils. A fifth must dive in to claim it. And the sixth must hold the door against the flood. Fail to act as one, and all shall drown as quickly."
Act as one. They might as well be asking us to bring back Queen Aurelia from the After.
Evadne begins laughing. "Rotting fuckers. We’re all going to die."
"When the crown is claimed, the trial does not end." The Elder folds his hands. "The water will rise. The chamber will fall. And when you emerge into the moonlight, the true contest begins. From the moment the crown leaves the tomb until the midnight bell tolls, any contender may claim it. Fight for it. Trick for it. Guard it. The one who holds it when the final bell rings shall be named Queen."
He exhales deeply at last, the white beard around his chin swaying lightly with the breeze. "The hands that hold the doors against the flood may be granted immunity in the final contest. They will not be slain or harmed, because they shall not participate in the fight for the crown. Though, their given immunity may be transferred to another, in exchange for a chance at participating," he says finally, accompanied by the oohs and ahs of the audience.
Evadne yawns, stretching like a cat. "No chance I could sneak away for a quick nap and return when you’re all done?"
"We have until midnight. Not sure you can run if the only existent path is the one that leads to the crypt," Altheira mutters from beside Evadne.
"The only way back from the crypt is the same bridge, then?" I ask.
Altheira turns light grey eyes to me and I find them searching through me, as if trying to glean if she can trust me or not. But we both know how silly that would be. "I suppose so."
"Just how long is this bridge?" Eva groans, yawning again, in the same moment the woman on the farthest edge, the Solmire heir, raises a hand, face paler than snow, eyes listless like she sees something we do not. I guess she has. House Solmire possesses divinity. They commune with the gods, see and hear things others do not.
"I wish to withdraw from the Selection."
Silence descends over the arena and every head whips her way. The crystal casts the image of Lady Veyra, who sits, white eyes staring at nothing. If she is bothered by her daughter’s declaration, she doesn’t show. The rest of the eerie house, all clad in varying shades of white, without jewelry or colour seem of the same disposition as her, still and quiet and undisturbed.
The Elder’s face takes on a scary look. "There are no withdrawals in this stage." And like that, he dismisses her completely. "Come forward, contenders!"
And just like that, we are ushered forward into our impending doom and misery, bloodthirsty roars following step after step. Nausea cramps my insides and sweat breaks on my skin despite the chill in the air. My ears rings and my breaths thud as come to a halt before the gigantic black doors that rise all the way to the heavens.
"By Thandric’s will, let the final stage begin!"
When Evadne grabs my wrist as the doors begin to creak, I don’t protest, and by the next minute, I am grateful for her presence beside, because my knees have weakened.
The chasm yawns before us. The Plunging Bridge stretches across it, the longest, narrowest thing I’ve ever seen, held together by fraying ropes and splintered planks. The fog below is so thick I can’t see the bottom. Maybe there is no bottom.
"Gods above..." Soraya whispers.
It extends far beyond eyes can see and our lips parting as the wicked looking thing sways left and right to even the slightest wind.
I don’t understand how it could even hold the weight of one person.
And yet, before we begin, we must make the decision. It looms above us, precious seconds bleeding away as we try to decipher who we can trust with this truth, lest we risk being shoved off ourselves. We trade wary, appraising glances.
But then, a low furious snarl cuts through the silence behind us. "Move, bitch."
And it feels like a touch on the back by some dark god as six of us stare in each other’s eyes. We do not need to speak. We all know who we want gone, selfish as the reason may be.
Lilith.