Page 97 of A Pact of Blood

I study the tower, picking out the even darker splotchesof handholds here and there, before returning my attention to Marclinus as the cleric fastens the harness around his chest.

She beckons forward a young man who’s a few inches shorter than Marclinus and likely a good fifty pounds lighter, given his slender body. He must have been chosen as a volunteer ahead of time, selected on the assumption that he wouldn’t put too much strain on the emperor.

The harness connects him to Marclinus’s back with just a few feet between them. Every step Marclinus makes, the other man will need to follow quickly behind to ensure he’s not dragged—or pulling his emperor off-balance.

The man stands tall, proud to be part of this spectacle. Marclinus aims a grin over his shoulder. When he sets off for the tower, brandishing his banner in one hand, his civilian partner falls into step behind him.

Applause and whoops of encouragement peal out from the spectators. When Marclinus reaches the obelisk, he makes a show of kicking one of the lower footholds. The dark rock crumbles away at the impact.

Marclinus shakes his head dramatically and reaches for a higher hold that stays solid.

So that’s the challenge—leading another person through the climb where some of the holds won’t, well, hold.

It wouldn’t be too painful to stumble back to the bottom while you’re still close to the base, but if you lost your grip even halfway up? That’d make for quite the fall.

From close to the very top, it might be fatal.

As Marclinus clambers upward, his volunteer citizen scrambles after him, grasping every foothold the moment Marclinus has departed it, sticking as close at the emperor’s heels as he can. He has to—the straps are nearly pulled taut.

One slip from either of them could bring them both tumbling to the ground.

Marclinus’s personal guards draw close around the base of the obelisk. He has four with him today, two keeping an eye on their master while the others scan the crowd for any sign of hostile intent.

They’re far enough away from me that Lorenzo must judge it safe to project his illusionary voice. It slides into my head with its reassuring resonance.

“You just focus on getting up that tower, Rell. I’ll be reminding the crowd how fantastic you are.”

He’s been using his powers here the way he promised he would too, then: sending out illusionary voices as if fellow citizens are speaking up with my praises, to encourage the rest of them to do the same.

But none of it matters if I don’t prove I deserve their praise.

As Marclinus climbs higher, the crowd falls into a hush of anticipation. He keeps reaching steadily upward without any sign of hesitation or flagging. Not a single hold breaks in his grasp.

As if he knows exactly what path to take. Which no doubt he does.

Is there something about the holds that distinguishes the solid ones from the fragile, or was he simply given a pattern to memorize?

I’ve tried to keep track, but it’s increasingly difficult the higher up he gets.

At the top of the obelisk, Marclinus lifts the banner and brandishes it triumphantly to a renewed wave of cheers. He fits its handle into a spot at the top of the structure.

One of the temple’s devouts has climbed a set of narrow steps cut into the opposite side of the obelisk. He shows Marclinus and his companion how to ease around to that side, and they descend to even more applause. As the clericgives Marclinus her official blessing, he lifts both hands high in the air, soaking up his people’s adoration.

For a few seconds, I’m afraid he’s obstructed my intentions after all and I’ll be left standing here aimlessly. But the cleric returns to my side of the obelisk, carrying a second banner. The devout trots behind her with the harness he’s peeled off my husband.

The cleric smiles at me coolly and pitches her voice across the crowd. “Our empress would also like to earn Creaden’s approval and show her worth as a ruler. Who here will accept her leadership and take the climb with her guidance?”

My heightened gaze sweeps over the crowd beyond the ring of guards. I catch a flicker of a hand moving down a chest in the gesture of the divinities, and another making a warding gesture. Foreheads furrow and mouths twist.

A thick baritone calls out from somewhere behind me. “I trust our empress!”

The middle-aged man who emerges from the throng stands nearly half a foot taller than me and a fair bit wider as well. Watching him approach, I can’t help wondering if Marclinus had someone prod him to volunteer so I’d face the additional challenge of leading someone who could drag me down the tower that much easier.

It doesn’t matter. He’s here; he’s offering his faith in me. I have to offer him the same in return.

My guards look him over and evaluate him as harmless. The devout fixes the harness over my dress. I restrain a cringe at the tightening of the leather straps around my torso.

It feels like a cage, however flexible.

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