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CHAPTER

Sixty

I N THE WINTER OF 517, pirates attacked the island. Twenty-five servants, soldiers and courtiers were killed in the raid. Six more lives were lost when the Imperial Library caught fire.

Within a month, ministers had drawn up plans for a new perimeter wall, with watchtowers at each corner. As the walls rose up, so did the dissenting voices. The island was a palace, not a prison. The walls were too high, too ugly, they blocked the light and trapped the heat. And how effective were they, anyway? They didn’t extend around the Garden at the Edge of the World—consecutive rulers vetoed that plan, they didn’t want Hounds peering into their private grounds, they didn’t want the view spoiled. Instead, the middle section of the eastern wall was lowered, and integrated into the back of the eighth palace, and had no walkways or viewing stations for patrols.

Construction took forty years. By the time it was finished, no one was happy. Those who had never wanted the wall still didn’t want the wall. Those who had wanted the wall said it wasn’t the wall they’d been promised. And then there was the huge cost and effort of maintaining it. Twelve Ox teams working full-time, making inspections and repairs on a rolling schedule.

The obvious solution was to pull it down, but no one could face that. The arguments about building it had been bad enough. Now they had to argue about destroying it? So here it was, a thousand years later, looming up everywhere and costing a fortune.

On the outside of the wall, ten feet below the parapet, ran a continuous narrow stone ledge, used for maintenance work.

“You will run it twice, anti-clockwise,” Hol Vabras said. “Fastest time wins.” He had arranged the Seventh Trial himself. Cheap, simple and guaranteed to give a clear result.

They were gathered in the south-east watchtower—Vabras, the contenders and members of Shal’s contingent. Through the lookout windows, ominous black storm clouds gathered in the thudding heat.

“The start times will be staggered. Contender Talaka, as you are sitting fourth, you will go first.”

Tala glanced anxiously out of the window. For a second, Neema thought the Ox contender’s fear of heights would get the better of her, but she squared her shoulders, and followed Vabras out to the parapet. Her rivals joined her, Shal hanging back.

“You can do this,” Tala muttered to herself, adjusting her headband. A nervous tic. She peered over the parapet. “Eight.” She drew back.

Neema did the same. Looked, cursed, drew back. Beyond the ledge lay a fifty-foot drop to the base of the wall. Beyond that, if you happened to miss the rock, a further fifty-foot drop to the sea.

Even Ruko was concerned. “High Commander. Should we not wait for the storm to pass?”

“We have a schedule,” Vabras said.

Cain, meanwhile, was triumphant. He couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do more than run along a narrow stone ledge with a hundred-foot death drop in the middle of a lightning storm. This Trial wasn’t just designed for him, it was a metaphor for his whole life . “Are we allowed to jump over each other?”

“No!” the others shouted, horrified. Even Shal, who was not taking part.

“You may pass however you wish,” Vabras said, and took out his pocket watch. “Ox contender,” he prompted.

Tala sat astride the parapet, gathering her nerve. Then before she could do something sensible like change her mind, she swung herself over and dropped down on to the ledge. With her stomach pressed to the wall, she crab-walked a few paces. Her heel slipped. “ Fuck. The edge is worn. It’s like glass.” Steeling herself, she turned to face forward and set off again. “That was a bad section,” she called back. “I’ll be fine. Eight! ” Her foot had slipped again. She didn’t talk after that.

Five minutes later, it was Neema’s turn. She used Tala’s method to swing herself down on to the ledge. Then she made the mistake of looking down. The rocks, the sea. Gulls circling far below. She breathed deeply, forehead to the wall.

On the other side of the parapet, Ruko and Cain were drawing lots. They were sitting joint first, with twenty-seven points each. If Neema didn’t press on now, one of them would be right at her back, trying to pass. She set off, as fast as she dared.

The storm clouds billowed, and darkened.

Ruko won the lot, and chose to go last. “Interesting,” Cain said, and scissored over the parapet on to the ledge.

“It’s not time yet,” Vabras frowned.

Cain ran off then ran back again, bounced up and down to warm up. “I’m thinking about your strategy,” he said to Ruko. “You can’t outrun me. I’m way faster, and more agile.” He balanced on one leg, stretching his quads as the world dangled below him. “So you’re planning to follow in my wake, right?” He changed leg. “I come first, you come second. Then you beat me in our fight, and win the Festival by one point.” He lowered his foot. “Very neat, very sensible.”

Ruko rested his arms on the parapet, and said nothing.

“But.” Cain held up a finger. “What if I offer Neema a piggyback? A-ha, didn’t think of that, did you? Leftfield. I come first, she comes second… Then you’re trailing me by two points. Even if you win the fight, which let’s face it you probably will, we’ll be even. A tie. And we know what that means.”

An eighth Trial. The Dragon Trial.

Nobody wanted that.

“You may not give piggybacks,” Vabras said.

Cain pointed at him. “You are making up the rules as you go along.” He jogged off, then jogged back again. “Is it time yet?”

“No.”

“There’s a whole stretch ahead where you can’t see us,” Cain said, gesturing further along the east wall. “I could give her a piggyback and you’d never know. You’d never know. ”

“Or I could kick you over the edge,” Ruko said.

“True,” Cain conceded. “True. But you’ll have to catch me first.”

“Go,” Vabras said, and Cain went.

It took him less than a minute to catch up with Neema. She had found her pace—slow but steady. This was going to take her about three and a half hours, she reckoned. Assuming she didn’t die. She thought she might recite the epic poem Empress Am in the Desert, Lost for the first go round, to keep her rhythm.

She heard scuffling, and coughing. “I’m trying not to startle you,” Cain said.

“Thanks,” she said, and kept to the same pace.

“If you look down to your right, there’s a wonderful view of the Garden at the Edge of the World.”

“Yes, I’m not going to do that.”

“If it’s all right with you,” Cain said, “I’m going to give you a piggyback.”

“It is not all right with me.”

“Don’t worry, they can’t see us.”

“That’s not why I’m worried.”

They trudged on at Neema’s pace.

“You said you trusted me yesterday,” Cain complained, to her back. “Which was sweet. And I know, I know—I said you shouldn’t. But that was then. I’ve slept on it, and—”

A large raven swooped down from nowhere and landed with a soft plat on the parapet between them. It glared at Cain, first with one beady brown eye, and then the other. It did not like what it saw with either.

“Is that…” Cain trailed away.

Last night, the audience had voted Neema five points for her performance. And then, collectively, they had decided that they had not witnessed fragments of the Raven screeching her name above their heads. No, they had absolutely not seen that. What they had seen was a flock of tame ravens, that Neema must have somehow trained in secret. That had to be it. Denial.

Cain knew better. He’d seen a book turn into a bird. Into this bird, if he was not mistaken.

“His name’s Sol. Try to ignore him. Go away,” she said, to the raven.

The raven made a mournful sound, and kept following them.

“No, I’m not letting you back in,” Neema said. And then, “You know why.”

“It’s talking to you?” Cain asked.

She stopped, and looked back. “You can’t hear him? Lucky you,” she muttered.

They walked on. Neema and Sol were clearly having a silent argument.

“I feel excluded,” Cain said.

“Sorry. He says you’re dangerous, because you’re not fully in control of yourself. You feel as though you are, but that’s only because you slept on it.”

“But that’s my point, I feel much better today—”

Neema stopped to explain. “The Fox is always awake when you’re asleep, Cain. But now it’s also partially awake when you are.”

“Because I’m aware of it.”

“Exactly. So it gets stronger, and you get weaker. It’s telling you you’re fine, so you don’t fight it. But you’re not fine. You can’t trust yourself, because it’s not you you’re trusting. It’s the Fox.” They moved on again.

“Well,” Cain said, absorbing all this. “That’s insanely unnerving.”

The raven gurgled softly.

“Sol says that’s a good sign,” Neema said over her shoulder. “The more unsettled you are the better. If you’re complacent, the Fox will take over completely. You have to find a new balance, a new accord, before you fall asleep again.”

“How do I do that?”

“He doesn’t know. This has never happened before. I think you should apologise to Cain,” she said to Sol, who was still strutting along the wall above their heads. There was a pause. “Because it’s your fault, you wretched thing,” she snapped. “Cain only knows about the Fox because you told him. So: apologise.”

A half-hearted caw from the raven.

“Properly, Sol.”

“It’s not really an apology if you have to ask for it,” Cain said. “If you crouch down, I’ll jump over you. Look, there’s a rope hook there you can hold on to.”

He leapt over her and landed neatly. For a moment, they stood with their backs pressed to the wall, looking out over the Garden at the Edge of the World to the ocean beyond. As they’d been talking, the black storm clouds had drifted nearer, casting the world in an eerie half-light.

Cain reached for Neema’s hand. The first time they had touched since their fight on the platform. It felt good. It always felt good.

Cain leaned forward to kiss her.

A memory of yellow eyes, sharp white teeth. A blade.

She drew back. “Sorry.”

He sighed in understanding, and frustration. “May I point out that you had a fragment of the Raven in your chest when we…”

Sol heaved, violently, and coughed up a gristled pellet.

“He insists I tell you,” Neema said, “that he hid in a dead tree for the entire, disgusting time.”

“Good,” Cain said. “I have no idea what that means, but good.” And with that, he took off again, sprinting.

Neema caught up with Tala at the north-west watchtower. The Oxwoman was clinging to the sill, her back pressed hard against the window. Behind her, through the glass, the watchtower Hounds went about their work, pretending not to notice. As Neema approached Tala cursed, but didn’t move.

“Are you all right?” Neema asked, awkwardly. They hadn’t spoken since the Bear Trial.

The sky flickered.

“I’ll be fine,” Tala said, more to herself than to Neema. “I just…

I need a moment. Go around me.” She flattened herself against the window. The ledge was wider here at the base of the watchtower—there was just enough room.

With her back to the drop, Neema inched her way past. A stone rattled and tilted under her foot. Face to face, they shared a look of horror.

“It’s loose,” Neema said.

Thunder boomed across the sky.

Neema jerked in shock. The stone wobbled again. She made her way around Tala, holding her breath. “This one too,” she said, testing the next stone with her foot. “This whole section.”

Another flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder. Fat raindrops splatted on the ledge.

“Tala,” Neema warned. It wasn’t safe.

Tala nodded tightly. Slowly, she inched her way around the watchtower. From here, they could see the problem. The mortar between the stones had degraded and cracked. In some places it was lost completely.

A Hound was patrolling on the battlement above. They called up to her, to send a warning back to the others.

Neema set off again. Sol flew ahead, wheeling and turning, watching the storm, watching the others. She had to admit—grudgingly—he had his uses. Ruko wasn’t far behind Tala, walking barefoot, trusting the grip of his toes.

Neema was finishing her first circuit when the storm landed. Thunder rolled across the sky, deep and heavy enough that she could feel it rumbling through her body. The sky turned black.

And then the rain hit—sheeting rain, drenching her in seconds, streaming into her eyes and sluicing off the ledge like a waterfall.

She pressed on until she reached the south-east watchtower. First circuit complete. Inside, they had lit the lanterns, and were now busy building a fire. She banged on the glass until Vabras came over. “This is madness,” she shouted. She could barely hear herself over the rain.

He opened the window. “Are you withdrawing from the Trial?”

She stared at him, miserable. She couldn’t give up now. If she did, she would be handing Ruko the throne. A fork of lightning pierced the sky, illuminating them both—Vabras safe and warm in the watchtower, Neema soaked and terrified.

“Are you withdrawing?” he asked again. He stepped back, to let her through the window.

She wiped the rain from her face. “No. No. I’ll keep going.”

Fifteen minutes later, Cain completed his second circuit. He waved away the Hounds offering to help him over the parapet, and hoisted himself up, before heading straight into the watchtower. He crossed to the fire and pulled off his tunic. “How are they doing?” he asked Shal.

“Well, they’re not enjoying themselves,” Shal said. The Hound contender always wore his uniform well, but now it looked like a taunt—how smart and dry and well turned out he was, while everyone else was suffering in the storm.

Cain peeled off his trousers. Someone handed him a towel. “Times?”

“First circuit Ruko was next fastest, then Neema.”

“Close?”

Shal looked at him. Shook his head.

Cain threw on some fresh clothes provided by Shal’s contingent, and wrapped himself in a blanket.

Shal had crossed back to the window. The rain hammered down. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled. “This is my fault,” he said. “I’ve been praying for rain for days. Eight. Never seen a storm like it. Is it the same, do you think? Or worse?”

“The same,” Vabras said from his desk. He was working as he waited—reports, invoices. He unsealed another scroll.

Cain poured two glasses of whisky and joined Shal at the window. “I think it’s worse,” he muttered.

Half an hour passed. An hour. The rain didn’t stop. It steamed up the windows, battered against the glass. Then finally, finally, someone went past, shoulder clamped to the window.

“Who was that? Was that Neema?” Cain was out the door, up on to the parapet. Shal followed him, and then Vabras. The rain was impossible, they wiped it from their faces and they were still half blind.

A hand appeared, gripping the parapet, and then another.

“Neema,” Cain shouted. He dragged her up, Shal helping. Vabras to the rear, noting the time.

Shal and Cain half carried her to the fire. She was shaking so hard, they couldn’t understand what she was saying. “Others…?” she managed, through chattering teeth.

“They’re still out there,” Shal told her. “Don’t worry, you know how tough they are. They’ll be right behind you.”

Cain took over, helping her undress, grabbing towels and blankets. “We need to get you warm.” He hugged her. “You’re fine, you’re safe.”

Vabras was back at his desk, signing something. Shal stood over him. “I’ll go out and look for them.”

“You’ll stay here.”

“High Commander—”

“That’s an order, Contender Worthy,” Vabras murmured.

Shal gritted his teeth, and headed back to the fire. Someone had brought Neema a cup of hot chocolate, splashed with whisky. She cradled it.

“They won’t be long,” Cain said.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. The storm began to move on, the air freshened. They waited.

There was a tap at the window. Perched on the sill was a large black bird, with a hooked beak. It tapped again, impatient.

“Sol,” Neema said. She ran to the window and unlatched it. “Have you seen them? What’s going on?”

“Is she talking to the bird?” Shal said, but Cain was already following Neema to the window.

Sol hopped inside, shaking the storm from his feathers. Neema listened intently. “No!” she said. She turned to the room, her face frozen in shock.

“What is it?” Cain asked.

She found her voice. “The north-west tower.” She rounded on Vabras, furious. “I told you it wasn’t safe.”

“The ledge collapsed?” Cain said.

“Not just the ledge.” Neema was shaking with anger. “The tower. The whole watchtower is gone.”