Chapter 23

I’m led to the western wing of the palace, then down a cavernous hall that echoes our steps and seems to go on forever, finally ending at an enormous pair of rough stone doors. Just before we reach them, Kolden ushers me through a side door and down a thin coil of stairs that spit us out into a long, dusty room that’s doused in powdery light and the musty scent of old things.

Floor to ceiling windows line one entire wall, perfect frames for the world outside that showcases a blue stone bridge stretching across the angry bay, rising from the base of Cainon’s palace. The bridge feeds into the city; a cluster of irregular-sized buildings that are big and small, tall and short, all hewn from the same Bahari blue stone. All kept in the tight embrace of a lofty wall sketched around the edge of it, keeping it herded against the rocky shore.

“Is that Parith?” I ask, as I gobble up the details through wide eyes.

“It is. This way, Mistress.”

I rip my gaze from the view and follow Kolden through the room, weaving between stacks of books and tables overburdened with clear jars—each packed with different … things.

Ears … fingers … teeth … fluffy little paws. There’s even a small sprite suspended in rosy liquid, wings frayed and black hair a motionless swirl around her face.

I look away and realize with a start I’m walking across a shaggy animal pelt twice the size of my bed in Stony Stem and an alarming shade of gray.

I quicken my pace, suddenly thankful for the boots I’m wearing.

We come to a wall at the end of the room that’s littered with so many mismatched clocks it’s hard to see the stone beneath, all tick-tick-ticking away as Kolden raps his knuckles against a smooth, wooden door.

We wait in silence, his sturdy stare pinned forward.

He’s short, built like a brick, and there’s a casual confidence in the way he holds himself that suggests he knows precisely how to wield that half-spear strapped to his back.

“Any advice?”

He doesn’t even look at me as he says, “None that I can give.”

“Worth a shot,” I mutter, and I swear the corner of his mouth kicks up before the door creaks inward and he steps inside the room, shutting me out.

Well.

I frown, looking around, turning my attention to a large sketchbook laying open on a table. I flip through its moth-eaten pages, unable to decipher the scrawled notes written along the edges in a different language, but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying the illustrations of various animals and creatures scratched across the parchment.

The door creaks again, and I drop the page, spinning.

Gasping.

My chest thumps so hard every beat feels like another stone lumped upon it, threatening to collapse my ribs from the crushing weight.

The figure standing in the open doorway looks to have just stepped off the wall in Whispers. I see no skin. No features. No feet.

All I see is the robe—the same gray robe I’ve seen so many times.

Toomany times.

A meek sound boils in the back of my throat.

Get out of the way, kid. Mercy is not preserved for those who stand against the stones.

The memory strikes like a blade to the back of my knees, hand shooting out to steady myself against the table in a feeble attempt to quell this deep-seated swirl whisking me up inside.

“The future High Mistress, I presume?”

His abrasive voice only strengthens my belief that this man spawned straight from my nightmares. I almost expect him to push his hood back and reveal a bald, shiny head; for me to look down and see a blood-stained axe hanging from his hand.

Drip.

Drip.

The insides of my cheeks tingle, the space under my tongue pooling with the evidence of my cramping guts.

My foot begins to slide back—

Kolden steps past the man, wearing a frown that bolts me in place, looking between us both. “Orlaith, this is Elder Creed.” A pause, then, “He’s going to lead you to The Bowl so you can begin practice for the trial.”

Though the Elder’s face is hidden within the shadow of his hood, I can feel the reckoning sweep of his eyes up and down my body.

Is he seeing the slithering sizzle tucked beneath my skin?

Is he seeing just how unworthy I am?

Elder Creed connects his hands, scooped sleeves overlapping as his head tilts to the side. “Is she … mute?”

His voice is a thorn in my chest. Like he’s blistered and boiled beneath that hood, speaking to me from beyond the grave I put him in.

Murderer.

“Orlaith? Are you okay?”

I can’t bring myself to answer Kolden. Can’t bring myself to breathe or even blink. All I want to do is stand right here until Elder Creed disappears back through that door.

Kolden’s frown deepens, and he steps closer, his hand brushing against my elbow as concern shadows his eyes.

A sharp breath cuts into me at the touch, and I rip my stare away, looking to the floor.

Pull it together, Orlaith. He’s not the same man.

“I’m fine,” I rasp, clearing my throat. “Apologies. Please, lead the way.”

* * *

The stone doors look big enough to take a chunk from the moon, bracketed by sconces that cast gold light and airy shadows across their rough surface. Armored guards flanking either side crank twin levers in perfect synchrony, making deep clunks vibrate through the floor and up my legs as the doors begin to shift—spewing a stormy tumult from between the widening crack like the howls of a caged tempest.

Frowning, I peek back at Kolden.

“Just the ocean,” he says. “The arena’s partially underground. The sound beats down from above.”

Oh.

I follow Elder Creed through the doorway, taking in the sphere-shaped amphitheater, so huge I could imagine a sun rising and setting across its vast ceiling. A crown of holes are punched through the lofty roof, stamping the moon’s full cycle around the arena like an illuminated halo—the main source of light meant to drag the eye to one place only: a central stage with a pool scooped into the floor, round and wide as Stony Stem.

The Bowl.

My heart sits in my throat as Elder Creed guides us down the wide stairway lit by flaming bowls of oil, feeling my body grow heavier with each step.

There is nothing I like about this place.

Nothing.

I’m following a living relic of the night I lost everything, descending hundreds of steps past rows of empty seats waiting to be filled, heading for a stage girdling a basin of water that glistens just like the one I almost drowned in.

A handful of my nightmares, starring the worst of them all.

Me.

I shake off the noxious thoughts, tightening my fists and hardening my heart.

Get the job done.

Get the ships.

We step onto the arena floor etched with a sea of scripture, the words small and packed together.

I look down the steep blue sides of The Bowl half-filled with eerily still water, inky and foreboding in the confines of its dark surrounds. An arched beam saddles the pool, and hung from the highest point is a rope with a small, golden bell attached to the end, almost brushing the water’s surface.

Illuminated by the dull beams of light reflecting the day outside, my gaze is drawn to the tall, clear, cylindrical tanks sitting on stone plinths around the rim of The Bowl. Each contains a different sort of living creature, swirling, crawling, flitting …

Inspecting each, I move from one to the next while Elder Creed watches me from The Bowl’s edge.

“Jellyfish,” he says as I pass a creature pulsing through its watery cage like a pellucid heart. “Electric eels ... piranha ... turtle …”

I pause by one, mesmerized by its writhing inhabitant. Eight slithering tentacles paw at the glass while a big, eclipsed eye stares at me.

Intome.

The creature suckers onto the side like a splat of white paint.

“Octopus,” I whisper, flattening my hand on the cool glass in the center of its star-like shape.

Flinching, it shifts from sea-foam white to jet black in the blink of an eye, as though my hand dropped paint upon the thirsty canvas of its skin. It shoves off the glass, spitting vines of ink that muddy the water, contorting into a tangle of texture amongst the murk.

“Which are you most drawn to?” Elder Creed asks, his voice a scathing drawl.

I whip my hand back. “None of them.”

“You have to pick one.”

I don’t like this game. It feels like a trap.

I point to a lichen-covered stone. “That.”

“The rockfish?” He tilts his head. “Clothed in constant camouflage?”

Shit me.

Exasperated, I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Can we get started? It’s been a long day. I want to get this over with.”

A pause, then he waves a clothed arm toward the bowl. “Get in, then.”

“I’m sorry, you want me to climb in?”

“Yes,” he states. “The trial imitates the swell of beings that spilled from Mount Ether at the dawn of time. Only once you manage to climb back out on your own have the Gods found you worthy of this coupling. A task you must complete before the people of Parith on the morning of your ceremony.”

I look at the water, remembering the last time I was submerged in a pool such as this—choking on life-altering memories I’ll never be able to scrape away. “This is—”

“What?”

Ridiculous.

“Nothing,” I mutter, kicking off my boots and unpinning the heavy cloak from around my throat, lumping it on the ground. I look down at myself, indicating my attire with a sweep of my hand. “What about ...?”

“The tailor will come by your room and take your measurements for the proper apparel. If you’d like to wait until—”

“No,” I snip. “It’s fine. So I just … climb in and climb back out again?”

“Correct. On your own.”

I work my healing shoulder into a deep stretch. “That’s it?”

“Yes. Should you fail, bat the bell, and I’ll throw a rope ladder into The Bowl which you can use to climb back out. You can practice all you want, but if you cannot complete the task on the morning of your coupling, you are not worthy of this great privilege that has been bestowed upon you.”

Seems a bit harsh. Perhaps I should shove him in there and see how he fares. Or Cainon.

I’d like to see that.

I edge close, sit my ass on the side, and study the water that looks like a pool of ink, heart kicking against my ribs …

Not Puddles.

A different pool.

Swallowing the lump rising in my throat, I drag a shuddering breath and shove off, sliding down the glassy slope. I plunge into the warm water, engulfed in a body-temperature gulp.

The deeper I sink, the more it feels like my ribs are caving in …

Is this my last breath?

Is something about to snag me from below—refuse to let me go until I relive that night again? Until I hear my mother’s bloodcurdling scream? See my brother’s blank eyes staring at the wall? Feel my skin split to make way for ropes of wrath spilling from that place of hurt deep inside my chest?

White-hot dread severs my internal reins …

I flail.

Panic.

Bubbles pour from my mouth, released with a squeal muffled by water that feels too thick. Too hot. Punching above the surface, I gulp sweet breath, heart hammering as I wade in place, frantically scanning my surroundings.

Not Puddles. It’s not Puddles.

The edges are too high. Too smooth and polished and blue.

It doesn’t smell the same.

Not Puddles.

“Is everything alright?”

My gaze catches on Elder Creed looking down on me from the edge of The Bowl.

“Perfectly fine,” I sputter, choosing a target to focus on—the glass aquariums looking like crowning spires from down here in the center of it all. Eyes fixed on the slithering eels, I kick like mad, propelling myself forward and up, flinging my arm skyward, fingers stretched toward The Bowl’s rim.

I slam against the buffed side, clawing, feet scrambling for purchase.

I slide, swallowing water as I dunk below the surface.

Kicking hard, I rise back up, choking and spluttering, spearing my gaze on those eels again.

Growling through gritted teeth, I wade further back, giving myself a decent runup before I rock my body forward, dig my head into the water, and swim like I’ve never swum before—frantically kicking my legs and churning my arms. I propel up the wall, flick my arm up, slap it against the smooth side, and slide straight back into the warm pit of failure.

Over and over I lunge and fall, lunge and fall, until I’m gasping, head thrown back, treading water that feels like it’s boiling me alive. Picturing the Gods dangling those ships above my head, watching me leap and leap and leap—

Laughing at me.

* * *

The waning light from above barely illuminates the pool’s lip anymore—so, so far away.

Unreachable.

I look at the bell dangling on the end of the rope, a sob bubbling up as I wade toward it, heave my arm up, and bat it with my hand, then stop kicking altogether and just ...

Sink.

Entomb myself in the still like that little sunken sprite.

It’s almost peaceful.

I’m pulled from my stupor by a splashing disturbance above, and I use my remaining scrap of energy to kick up and snatch the rope ladder floating on the surface—the pads of my fingers withered like dried flower buds.

The bell continues to sway back and forth, tolling my defeat.

Another sob, and I lug my heavy body through the water, reaching the side of the pool before climbing the ladder with quaking hands and legs that barely hold my leaden weight. Pulling myself over the rim, I crawl forward, drop my head, and vomit across the stone.

Boots thud into my line of view, pausing just before my swelling puddle of spew.

Lips trembling, I look up the line of gray pants to a broad figure I recognize, gaze shifting to Cainon’s outstretched hand.

“You gave it your best shot,” he says, and there’s a softness to his words. “Nobody’s ever gotten it on their first try. Time to eat and rest. You can practice more tomorrow.”

I take his hand, but don’t look into his eyes. I’m too afraid I’ll see a nod to the thoughts plaguing my own mind …

Not worthy.