Page 33 of A Pact of Blood

Marclinus rubs his hands together. “I think it’s an excellent idea, then.”

His advisors’ expressions still range from skeptical to outright uncomfortable, but they don’t raise any further argument. I avoid looking toward any of the princes along the edges of the carriage, not wanting to see what they make of my decision.

It’s meant to be a simple test, merely symbolic. Whatever Marclinus’s additional knowledge is, surely the rite can’t bethatdifficult without it?

The crowd’s clamoring of anticipation intensifies as our procession reaches the crest of the hill. The imperial carriage comes to a stop right outside the main temple doors.

Cleric Nellia is waiting on the front steps, her deep green robe fluttering around her slim frame with the unruly wind. She motions us along a route that’s been prepared with a strip of green silk.

As we follow the path around the silken side of the temple, Marclinus murmurs to the cleric in quiet conference. From the flick of her gaze to me, I assume he’s mentioning my intent. It looks as if she asks a couple of questions, but her ultimate answer must satisfy my husband. He glances back at me with a subtle nod and a pleased smile.

We come around the temple’s last rambling tower and find ourselves at the edge of a vast hollow holding a structure of smooth beige stone.

The polished stone walls we peer down at form an immense square filled with many more identical walls. They bend around each other, intersect, and split apart seemingly at random, like a twisted house of tiny, warped rooms that’s missing its roof.

Estera’s maze.

At the bottom of the slope before us, a flight of stairs leads up to the top of the nearest wall. Another set of stairs stands at the opposite end of the structure, just before a small marble dais festooned with green ribbons and gold figurines of Estera’s favored animals and plants.

Ah. For this maze, we don’t walk between the walls. We walk on top of them.

The structure must loom at least ten feet above the floor of the hollow. It’s a good thing the walls look wide enough that balance shouldn’t be too big a concern.

The soldiers who escorted us have formed a ring around the hollow on a ridge a few feet down the slope. The growing audience gathering around the edges gazes over their heads at the maze.

At another rumble of thunder, Cleric Nellia glances up at the sky. “I suspect we will see some rain.”

Marclinus taps his finger against the scar on his lips and peers over his shoulder. “I suppose I could ask my gifted foster brother to send off the clouds…”

That’s right. I’ve never seen Bastien use his gift with air for that purpose before, so I’d almost forgotten the story he’s given the rest of court. Everyone else believes he can only summon or disperse rainclouds.

I resist the urge to hug myself against the damp wind. How much strain does it put on the prince of Cotea to propel a heap of heavy clouds away with the wind?

Before I can decide whether it’s safe to speak up in favor of sparing the man who just defended my life, my husband shakes his head with a definitive air. “But the weather may very well be the gods’ will. An additional challenge for both of us.”

He shoots his sharp smirk at me again.

I square my shoulders. “Indeed.”

Cleric Nellia doesn’t argue with Marclinus’s assessment. Without further comment, she escorts him down the slope to the base of the first set of stairs.

There, she swivels to take in the spectators all around the maze. An amplification charm lifts her voice over the murmurs of anticipation. “A ruler can only be as strong as their strategy and insight. His Imperial Majesty will now complete Estera’s rite by navigating her blessed maze and then welcome the approval of our godlen of wisdom!”

Applause breaks out through the watching crowd. Marclinus raises his hand to them in acknowledgment and strides up the steps with total confidence.

At the top of the first wall, there’s only one direction he can turn. He walks along that first stretch with his head high, his golden crown blending into the slightly paler curls of hishair. I trace his course, preparing to make the same journey myself in a matter of minutes.

He’s just made his first turn toward the middle of the maze when I realize the rite is more complicated than I assumed.

With a grating sound that reverberates through the hollow, most of the walls within the outer square slide and rotate. Old paths disappear; new ones open up.

Figures throughout the audience let out awed gasps. How many of them will have gotten to see this spectacle of magic nearly three decades ago when Tarquin carried it out?

How often does the maze change while the rite is going on? How many different configurations are possible?

How do you manage to stay standing if the wall you’re on shifts beneath you?

There must be a trick to it—the extra knowledge Marclinus mentioned. He pauses until the walls have settled, steps onto a new route, and waits again when other walls spin around him. After a couple more iterations, it’s clear he somehow knows how to always step onto a portion of the maze that’ll remain still beneath him, even if that wall jerked or pivoted every other time.

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