Page 1 of Ironhold, Trial Four

PROLOGUE

I am a little girl again, back in Seatide. I am not a strong, hardened gladiator in the arena, have not fought and killed. I am a small child, my golden hair bouncing atop my head as I play in the home I live in with my mother on the fringes of the village.

This is before. Before the invasion th,e Aetherians declared that Seatide was a part of their ever-expanding territory. Before everything changed. That means it's a long time ago, on the very fringes of my memory, because the empire took over when I was still young. I barely remember things being any different.

I'm playing with adoll, wrapping leaves around the arm, Because I have decided that the doll is hurt and I must help, the way my mother does. The memory shines bright in me, the doll something almost glittering against the sun coming in through the window of our shack. My mother is in the other room, preparing herbs to heal people as I help my doll. That is what she does. She helps people. One day, so will I.

I hear a scream from the other room, high and piercing. It is her voice, but I am not used to hearing my mother like this. Is something wrong? Has she hurt herselfwhile chopping the herbs? Even as a small child, I wonder who is meant to heal the village healerif she is the one who is injured.

Not that she is a real healer. At least that's whata couple of the other village children say when they want to be cruel. They tell me stories of people from the city of Aetheria who can heal people just by touching them, using magic. It sounds incredible. So many things there do. Everything about the city sounds amazing, although my mother says that it is not a good place.

For now, I run through into the other room, leaving my doll behind. MaybeIcan help my mother if she's hurt. I haveseen the things she does, pressing herbs into wounds andsetting broken bones. Yes, I will help her. I have decided it.

But when I get in there she is not hurt, merely standing on a chair, looking more frightened than I have seen her, except perhaps on the daywhen the Aetherians came into Seatide and declared that they were the ones running things now.

I look around for signs of danger. My mother is big and strong, not afraid of anything. They say that we look alike with the same golden hair and blue eyes. I hope I will grow up to be as pretty as her one day. For now, though, she simply looks terrified. That makes me afraid, in turn. Anything that can scare my mother must be bad.

Then I see what has frightened her, and I almost laugh with delight. There are mice on the floor, a whole family of them skittering this way and that, running around as they get into everything. They are so small and fragile-looking that it's impossible to imagine anyone being afraid of them. They’re cute, aren’t they?

“Lyra, come here,” my mother says. “Away from those… things!”

“But they're just mice,” I say, not understanding. Is my mother really that afraid of mice? It seems that she is, because she makes another sound of fear as one of the mice runs up the leg of the chair, and she kicks at it, sending it back. I don't think I've ever seen my mother hurt anything before. I can almost imagine the pain of the mouse, how upset it must be to be sent flying in that moment.

I don't join my mother on top of the chair. Instead, I crouch there among the mice, watching them scurry this way and that, enjoying the sight of them. But I know my mother is not enjoying it. I can tell theydon't understand the effect they're having on her. I know that kind of thing. I can see which of the mice arehappy and which are sad. I can tell that one of them is afraid. They are almost as afraid as my mother.

“Bad mice,” I say, chiding them. “You're scaring my mother.”

They stop and stare at me. I can feel something now, stretched between us like… like a single strand of thread. I assume this is what it's like for everyonewhen they are confronted by so many mice. I don't know any different. Can't my mother feel this?

It's along that thread that all their feelings seem to flow. Many of them are as scared of her as my mother is of them, but they're also hungry and filled with curiosity, the desire to find out what's in this placeand if they can eat it.

“You mustn't eat our things,” I say to them.

Why not? It's less something they say thansomething I simply feel, but I know it's coming from them. I know the micewant to know why they shouldn'thave what they can take from this place.

“Because my mother's afraid of you,” I say to them. “She will squish youif you aren't careful. She will chop you with her big kitchen chopper. She will…” I struggle to imagine more threatsthat a mouse might understand. I have a hard time imagining threats at all. My mother has told me that I must be kind to living creatures, although it seems mice are an exception for her. “You need to run away before she gets you.”

The mice stand there on their hind legs, staring at meas if I am some larger and more important mouse. I know they're listening to me; I know they understand, and I can hear them chittering among themselves. They seem confused that I am talking to them.

“Go,” I say, and now it's as if something pushes down the thread between us, something that holds authority and powerthat I'm not used to. My mother is the one people must listen to, not me.

But now the mice listen to me. They scurry away, heading for the door and out into the village. They leave the house in a stream of white and grey fur, squeaking as they go. They leave and I shut the door after them, pleased that I have persuaded them. I look around to my mother.

“You can come down now,” I say with a hint of pride. “They're all gone.”

“I can see that,” my mother says, stepping down from her perch on the chair. She stares at me with something close to wonder. “Oh my… Lyra. Do you know how special you are?”

CHAPTER ONE

I duck out of the way of a blow, bringing my spear upto slow my opponent’s advance, buying me time. Dust rises around me as I roll, half blinding me.

“Fight fair, Rowan!” I call out, swinging at my weighted chain to try to entangle his legs as he approaches, even though I can’t see him.

We are training in one of the practice halls of Ironhold, working with blunted weapons to avoid injury. But that doesn't stop either of us from using our powers. Those are as much a part of Aetheria’s games as any skill with weapons. The difference is that Rowan can use all of his, his magical gifts being a small amount of control over earth and stone.

Mygifts are restricted by the dampener I am forced to wear around my left wrist, the leather bracelet worked withmagical runes, constraining myability to connect to animals. I can only work a thread of power past it, enough to borrowa fraction of sight from a rat lurking in one corner.

It means I can at least seeRowan coming. Even from that angle, he looks magnificent. He is heavily muscled, taller than I am, with auburn hair falling to his shoulders an vivid green eyes. He is wearing training gear rather than the full armor of the arena, and that means thathis well-defined muscles are on show, since that gear amounts to little more than brief trunks and sandals for him. I get a skirt and halter top as well. The idea is that the less an opponent has to grab onto the better, but I suspect it is also about showing off our bodies to the watching crowds when we fight in the colosseum. So much of it is about the show we put on for the crowds, after all.

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