Page 55 of From the Myths of Kings

“No,” Saoirse found herself saying before she could bite her tongue. “No, leave him out of this.” She twisted in her chains and tried to meet Sloane’s shame-filled eyes. “Please, ask your father to spare Tezrus from this madness.” Sloane’s crimson-painted lips parted for a moment. “Please?” Saoirse’s begging was interrupted by a swift punch to her stomach. She doubled over in pain.

“Saoirse!” came Rook’s choked voice from somewhere further down the prison block.

The underguard who held the chain linked to her shackled wrists didn’t give her any time to cradle her bruised stomach as he roared, “Move along! Do not question the will of the king!”

Saoirse wanted to retort, but she knew it would only earn her more bruises. She would do herself and her companions no favors by entering Grivur’s games battered and sore. So she silenced her tongue and instead focused her anger on the armored back of the underguard in front of her, trying to burn through his leathers with the heat of her gaze.

As she was jostled down the prison block, she was struck with an onslaught of memories from the Stone Circle. The irony of being surrounded by countless barred cells was not lost on her. The labyrinth of cages that unfolded underneath the ancient amphitheater was an image that would be scorched into her memory forever. She remembered the alarm that had flared in her chest when she realized what those cages were used for the morning before the first trial. She could almost hear Tournament Ambassador Vangelis’s voice in her ears: “Live animals and other creatures have been contained here throughout the centuries.” This time, they were the beasts being forced to take part in the cruel games of a feckless king, dragged along in chains like animals on leashes for a monarch’s twisted sense of justice.

As they reached the prison block’s exit, Saoirse cast her gaze back to the empty cell block one last time.

“May glory be given,” she whispered to no one.

The black hood Saoirse had come to loathe was forced over her head and darkness enveloped her, more stifling than even the damp walls of her cell.

Her heart thundered against her ribcage. Her own warm, shuddering breaths condensed on her cheeks as the hood smothered her. May glory be given, may glory be given, may glory be given, each beat of her heart echoed.

But there was no crown to be won at the end of this trial. Only a senseless bloodbath.

25

SAOIRSE

The first difference between Grivur’s games and the Tournament Saoirse had faced only weeks ago was the numbing silence. When she’d entered the Stone Circle for each trial, the fanfare and enthusiastic cries of onlookers had nearly deafened her. She’d expected to hear the movement and mumblings of a small crowd gathered around them, whether because they’d been forced to observe the games against their will by Grivur, or because they’d been drawn to the mad spectacle by morbid curiosity. Instead, the air around her was eerily noiseless, as though the sounds of city life in the Under Kingdom had seeped down through the rock and swallowed up by the earth.

“We’re here,” Sloane said from somewhere in front of Saoirse. “Take them down.”

She squinted through the opaque fabric of her hood, trying to see their destination. Before Saoirse had the chance to properly guess where they’d been taken, the group of underguards herded them forward again. “Watch your step,” a guard said in her ear. She almost asked him how she was supposed to watch her step when she was blindfolded, but thought better of it. “The stairs are steep,” he added with a chortle, digging his fingers into her arm. “Don’t fall.”

Saoirse edged her way blindly down the stairs, doing her best not to lean into the underguard’s guiding hand too much. The incline of the stairway was so sharp she nearly slipped. Her hand went out instinctively, one sweat-slicked palm colliding with a stone wall to her right. Her other hand met nothing but air. As her fingers swept along the rough rock wall, she guessed the staircase was cut into the stone itself. The uneven surface didn’t feel like the refined marble of the palace, and the lack of a handrail led her to believe they were not within a building. The air was chilled compared to the moist warmth of the prison block. She’d originally thought their trials might take place in an arena similar to the Stone Circle, but this felt more like a spiral staircase that coiled into the ground. Where were they being led?

After what seemed like an eternity of shuffling down the stairs, the underguards finally removed her hood. Saoirse inhaled deeply as her surroundings sharpened into focus. Her instincts were correct. She found herself standing at the bottom of a hollowed-out pit, surrounded by stone walls stretching high above them. The crude staircase they’d hobbled down was indeed carved into the walls, spiraling downward like a corkscrew.

“Titans,” Neia cursed when her hood was removed. Her pale eyes traced up the sides of the open pit, bright with recognition. “We’re in the Roserock Quarry.”

There were many abandoned quarries throughout the Under Kingdom, whether deserted after their precious materials had been fully depleted and their mines bled dry, or because of some other complication like flooding or a tunnel collapse. Various wooden scaffolding structures latticed up the sidewalls, some dangling in splintered pieces and others still intact. A few frail-looking platforms were connected with ropes and feeble ladders.

Saoirse followed the winding staircase up to the top of the pit, going cold when she saw Tezrus standing at the edge. While she, Neia, Hasana, and Rook had been led down into the bottom of the quarry, Tezrus had remained at the peak with Sloane. He’d been given a purple robe, likely dug up from some dusty corner of the Elder’s temple. She couldn’t imagine how disturbed he felt donning the robes again after fighting so hard to escape the Order’s clutches. In Tournaments past, Elders across Revelore had pined for the privilege of being chosen as the Master of Trials, a time-honored position given to only the most pious and devout followers of the Myths of Old. For Tezrus to be chosen was a blatant mockery, a psychological blow that surely challenged him just as they would be challenged in the depths of the quarry.

Another robed figure came to stand at the edge of the pit. King Grivur gloated down at them, his sallow face engulfed in his fur-trimmed cloak. He raised his arms in celebration, crimson sleeves dripping from his arms like melted vermilion sealing wax. Just like in the Hall of Kings, jewels glinted on every finger.

“Welcome tributes!” Grivur exclaimed gleefully. His voice echoed down the stone cavity. “The day has finally arrived in which you’ll atone for your treachery. I hope you’ve had enough time to prepare!”

Saoirse felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to grab hold of her companions’ hands for strength, but they were still flanked by the underguards and their obsidian-tipped spears. Instead, she settled on locking eyes with Rook, who stood a few feet away from her. Though his eyes were bloodshot and his skin was feverish, his gaze burned with spirit. He gave her a wordless nod.

“Master of Trials, would you kindly do the honor of reminding us why the Tournament exists?” Grivur gave Tezrus a withering look that suggested he would push the old man over the edge of the quarry if he didn’t obey.

In a warbling voice, Tezrus sputtered, “The Tournament is an ancient tradition that originally began as a symbol of Revelore’s unity. The Tournament brought the kingdoms of Revelore together for centuries, held in the Stone Circle each season. When the War of the Age splintered our kingdoms’ unity a hundred years ago, the Order of Elders proposed the Tournament be used as a tool of reconciliation, a compromise that would settle the fires of war. The Tournament was henceforth held every decade, giving each nation the opportunity to win the Crown of Revelore, and in turn, the right to rule Revel?”

“Very good,” Grivur cut him off, irritated. “We don’t need a history lesson.” He turned his focus back down to the pit, a delusional grin splitting his face. “You have all defiled the sacred Tournament and made a mockery of our ancient traditions. You must be reminded that the Tournament keeps the peace. Without it, the flames of conflict would ravage our world. As the last Tournament was so blasphemously interrupted, it must now be concluded here. You shall compete in a series of three trials, the end of which will produce a singular champion. Whichever one of you survives the three trials will be granted freedom. You would do well to kill off your competition before you find a knife lodged in your heart.”

So Grivur thought he could rouse their kingdoms’ histories of political rivalry and provoke them into fighting against one another? He didn’t understand they’d each outgrown the petty rivalries and trivial feuds that had plagued their peoples for the past hundred years. Grivur was going to be quite disappointed, then. The satisfaction of not letting him have the upper hand almost drowned out Saoirse’s terror. Almost.

“Prepare the quarry,” Grivur ordered the underguards.

The soldiers abruptly left the four of them standing in the center of the pit and started climbing back up the stone staircase. Saoirse’s skin pebbled with fear when she realized her wrists were still shackled together. The four of them were linked by a long rope, their manacles looped through a shared cord. They had some freedom of mobility, but they were tied together. One person’s movement would affect them all.

“Do not attempt to escape the quarry. Even your wings won’t do you any good.” Grivur gave Rook a pointed glance. “If you try and fly out, my archers will shoot you down. You’ll be granted freedom from the pit only after you’ve survived the trial.”

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