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CHAPTER

Sixty-Five

T WO THINGS WERE KNOWN . The Dragon Trial took place within the Imperial Temple. Those who took part were altered by it. The rest was mystery.

Over the past fifteen centuries, the vast majority of Festivals had ended with a clear winner. Only five had involved a tie. Contenders dreaded this outcome with good reason. No one knew what happened during a Dragon Trial, but the after-effects were well documented. In total, seventeen warriors had stepped through the doors of the temple, seeking the throne. Some had crawled back out on their knees, sobbing. Others smiled, their eyes holding secrets. One Fox contender didn’t come back at all. The Dragons handed his ashes over without apology or explanation.

Twenty-four years ago, Andren Valit and Bersun Stour had faced a Dragon Trial. Bersun had emerged grim-faced but resolute, and announced himself the victor.

Andren came out, laughing hysterically.

Dusk. An orange and purple sky. The insects were out, flurries of them. The air was fresh after the storm, the world washed clean. On the banks of the canal, servants lit torches in anticipation of the dark. They stopped in their work to watch as Ruko and Neema sailed past on a boat painted sea-green and silver. The prow was a Dragon’s head, serpentine. The boat-team rowed hard, dragging the Imperial Temple closer. The storm had ripped patches of gold from its dome, but its white marble walls and stained-glass windows were intact.

Ruko spent the journey deep in thought, staring into the water. His savaged right arm was wrapped in bandages from wrist to elbow, but something else preoccupied him. Neema had seen him arguing with his abbess on the jetty, moments before he embarked. Whatever they were quarrelling about, Rivenna was left unmoved.

“We had a deal, Ruko. I swore a binding oath.”

“But if I win—”

“You had better,” she snapped, and stalked off.

As for Neema’s contingent, having avoided her for the duration of the Festival, suddenly they were back, and wishing her luck. The Dragon Trial was notoriously unpredictable. Neema could win. She could be the next ruler of Orrun. The first Raven empress since Yasthala the Great.

Kindry, though, had taken her to one side. He was wearing his Lord Eternal sash again, and plucked at it anxiously as they talked.

“Neema, you must be very proud of yourself. What an achievement—remarkable. Astonishing. But have a little think, my dear. Are you sure you’re capable of leading an empire? Perhaps you might feel more comfortable serving Ruko? Well—just have a little think.”

Neema did have a little think. Just a light daydream, as the boat pulled away, of what she might do to Lord Kindry Rok, if she came to power. Sol had suggestions.

—No, I’m going to be a forgiving empress, Sol.

Not too forgiving, Neema.

—Is it wrong to take the throne just to annoy Kindry?

No, Neema, petty grudges are an excellent spur to action. Part of my magnificent role as the Solitary Raven is to be a source of constant irritation to the Flock. A contented Raven is an indolent Raven. Were it not for me…

He burbled on, but Neema’s thoughts had turned elsewhere. Cain had failed to turn up for the Trial. Abbot Fort had sent a message to every Fox on the island to fan out and find him—not realising they were really hunting the First Guardian itself. But the Fox had gone to ground.

Neema lifted her silver pendant from under her tunic and touched it to her lips. She was afraid Cain might never surface again—that he was trapped for ever in some unreachable pocket of existence, while the Fox enjoyed its freedom.

The rowers lifted their oars as they arrived at the temple steps. Neema and Ruko stepped out together and the boat set off again. They looked at each other. Whatever happened next would for ever bind them together. Contenders of the Dragon Trial. One of only nineteen, in all of Orrun’s history.

“May the Eight protect us,” Neema said.

“And remain Hidden,” Ruko murmured.

“Contenders.” Jadu was waiting for them at the top of the steps, in front of the carved wooden entrance doors. A small, unmistakeably regal presence, wrapped in her ocean-green cloak of imperial silk. She lowered the hood. The Dragon’s eye emerald, set in its silver diadem, glinted in the centre of her forehead. Her long, rose-gold hair was tied in a soft plait.

“The Dragon greets you,” she said, her quiet voice snaking down the steps.

She did not ask where Cain was. He would come or he would not.

When they reached the top step, she touched her wooden staff lightly to the ground, a signal for them to stop. Close up, Neema thought her pale, ageless face looked tired and worn. Grief, perhaps, at the loss of the Visitor. Did Dragons feel grief? Jadu’s light-amber eyes gave nothing away.

“Know this and be warned,” she said, “none leaves this Trial unmarked. Tiger contender. Will you enter?”

“I will,” Ruko replied, without hesitation.

Jadu shifted her gaze to Neema. “Raven contender. Will you enter?”

Neema took a breath. She knew what the Dragon Trial had taken from its survivors. She had read the histories. Of the sixteen who had initially survived the Trial, three had later taken their own lives. Another two were irrevocably broken, spending the remainder of their days tended by the Grey Penitents.

“Contender Kraa,” Jadu prompted.

Neema bowed her head. “I will enter.” Bersun had recovered from the experience. The true emperor. Like her, he had not wanted the throne, but he had done his duty. He had come out shocked, but unscathed. Let him be her inspiration.

Jadu turned to face the doors. She waved a hand, and they swung open.

The temple was deserted. As they stepped inside, Neema prepared herself for the familiar heavy dose of incense. It was gone, replaced with a sharp, lifting scent of sea-salt and driftwood, and fresh seaweed. From the eight sides of the hall, members of the Dragon contingent materialised from the shadows, holding tapers for the candles.

“A moment of reflection before we begin,” Jadu said. “This I counsel, but you may do as you will.” She led them around the edge of the vast, domed space towards the individual Guardian chapels. As they passed the first octagonal door they heard sounds from within—clattering and smashing, as if a wild animal had been let loose inside.

Jadu opened the door.

Cain—the Fox—was ransacking the altar. It had healed the injuries Cain had suffered in his fight with Ruko, but its red fur ( hair! ) was still matted with blood, its face streaked with it. The eyepatch was—miraculously—still in place.

“Flowers,” it snarled, strewing them on the ground. “Incense. Candles. What need have I of such things? Where is the food, where is my food?” It tore open a wooden box, only to find a stream of bronze and silver tiles. It threw the box at the wall, shattering it, then clambered over the benches.

“Greetings Fox contender,” Jadu said. “I see you broke through our perimeter spell.”

“Did I?” The Fox walked along the back of the bench and dropped down neatly in front of her. Nose to nose, an inch apart. Jadu did not flinch. “Oh, hello, you are interesting,” it said, snuffling behind her ear. “Old, much older than you appear.”

The Dragon’s eye gleamed on Jadu’s forehead, fire bright.

The Fox drew back, as if burned. For the Dragon was ever watching, even as it slept, and the Fox was not where it should be.

“The Trial begins shortly,” Jadu said, and closed the chapel door behind her.

Ruko had walked off on his own. Whatever was happening to Cain—drugs, a breakdown, some perverse Fox strategy—he would not let it distract him.

Neema followed Jadu to the Raven chapel. Not being a believer, she had visited it only once before, when she first arrived on the island. It was as she remembered—the stained-glass image of the Raven in flight, the glossy indigo candles, the ornate ebony altar. The faithful had stuffed devotional messages in a black glass jar etched with feathers. Even at prayer, Ravens couldn’t help producing paperwork.

Jadu folded her hands together, in a way that put Neema in mind of Yasila. “You have brought a guest with you, Contender Kraa.”

On Neema’s sixth rib, Sol stopped preening himself, and looked alert.

Jadu gestured to the altar. “Perhaps it could wait for you here, among its offerings. The Trial involves spells that would be… unpleasant , for one of its nature.”

Neema opened her mouth, to ask about Cain.

Jadu tapped her staff. “Fragments are one thing. Guardians are another. The Fox will act as it must.”

So she knew. She saw.

“Do you have any advice, Servant? How I might prepare for the Trial? How I might protect myself?”

Jadu gave a distant smile. “Ravens and their questions,” she murmured, and left.

The contenders stood facing a wall at the back of the temple. The Dragon contingent gathered behind them in their sea-green cloaks and gowns. One of them had drawn an eternal eight on the wall in thick white paint. With her calligrapher’s eye, Neema could tell it had been made with one sweeping stroke, fluid and graceful.

The Fox was weaving from side to side, shoulders rolling as it traced the symbol’s shape. Jadu handed it a bowl of tea. “You are first,” she said.

“I am First,” the Fox agreed. It drank the tea down in one and tossed the bowl over its shoulder. A member of the contingent caught it, deftly.

Jadu pressed the heel of her hand on the Fox’s forehead. “Walk the Eternal Path, Fox contender. See what you must see.”

She stepped to the side. The Dragon contingent began to chant softly, a song of yearning and hope, of journeys beyond the horizon, a leap into the unknown…

The Fox made a small, surprised sound. And then it walked straight through the wall, and vanished.

Neema waited for Sol to say something, then remembered—he was back in the chapel, sorting through the shiny, pretty things scattered on the altar. Her mind felt weirdly empty without him.

“No, no.” First came the voice, and then the Fox, walking back through the wall. Its breezy tone sounded forced, and its eye had turned a bright, alarmed yellow. “No thank you, I shall not be doing that.”

“Contender, do you withdraw?” Jadu asked.

“Things to do, places to be,” the Fox said without breaking its stride. “Good day my friends, good day.”

They listened as its walk turned into a run, a panicked sprint to the exit. The doors clanged open and slammed shut, the sound bouncing off the walls. Then silence.

Ruko gave a small, satisfied sniff. Cain was out. The throne was in reach.

Jadu presented Neema with her bowl of tea. Rose, with a bitter scent beneath. Dragonscale oil. Neema looked down, and saw her reflection in its surface. No one leaves the Trial unchanged.

The Fox had run away. The Fox had left.

Ruko, sensing her anxiety, said, “There is no shame in withdrawing, Contender Kraa. You have honoured the Raven with your performance. There will always be a High place for you in my court.”

Neema looked at him. “How generous of you, Contender Valit,” she said, and drank the tea.

Ruko winced at his own tactical error, and gave her a respectful nod. The first time he had acknowledged her as a true contender.

Jadu pressed her hand to Neema’s forehead. “Walk the Eternal Path, Raven contender. See what you must see.”

The chanting began again: the Dragon contingent at her back, weaving their spell. She could feel it coalescing around her, thickening the air. The eternal eight symbol on the wall began to move like a serpent, coiling and writhing. Luring her in. Come close. Closer . The song spoke to a yearning in her soul for knowledge. For answers. Neema. So much for you to learn. So much we can show you. Take the path and you shall see…

The wall was gone. In its place—a sheet of white-gold fire. The air shimmered with its heat. The chanting at her back pushed her forwards. The Dragonscale urged her on.

She stepped inside the flame.

Pain, as she had never known it. The fire ripped through her, consuming her. Burning her alive… And then she was through. She looked at her hands, her arms, touched her hair. Unmarked. Intact.

She stands upon a path. The service path below her old room, solid and familiar. Ordinary. A straggle of weeds, silver puddles. It is dark but the moon lights her way, full and bright. She is carrying a pack on her back—her gift from the Bear Trial. It feels heavy.

Something tilts inside her. Vertigo.

She understands that this is the service path as she will see it, later tonight. The full moon, the puddles from today’s storm. Her clothes unchanged. This is her future. Her close future. She will be standing here soon, like this.

Walk the Eternal Path. See what you must see.

The fire roared up in front of her. She stepped into it, and this time it held her there, trapped within its cruel, scorching embrace, and she could feel herself travelling, time passing at unnatural speed, as she burned, and blazed…

And she is on a narrow ridge, patches of ice. Crisp mountain air on a bright winter morning. A pale sun rising. Her body aches but she feels strong, stronger than she is now. She lifts her eyes to the path ahead. Scarlet flags mark a steep climb to the summit. At the top, carved from the mountain, a vast grey fortress, handsome and forbidding.

Anat-garra. The Bear monastery.

Another turn through the fire, brief but intense.

Evening, in the great feasting hall. Row upon row of Bear warriors stand in grim attention. She is dressed in black, short winter cloak pushed back over her shoulders. Snow builds high on the windowsills. Neema has never seen snow, but her future self has grown accustomed to it. It is no more than a backdrop to this moment.

Ahead of her, at the far end of the hall, is a carved wooden seat, set upon a dais. A hooded figure stands waiting for her there. As she walks down the centre aisle, past the ranks of Bear warriors, she feels a tight pressure about her head, and realises she is wearing the amethyst diadem as a crown.

She is close to the dais when a figure appears from nowhere, blocking her path…

The fire rose up again. Weeks, months roared past. She burned, writhing in white-hot agony, but she did not stop. More, show me more… Show me more than you should…

At last the fire died, the pain stopped.

A forest, grey and desolate. No birdsong, no breeze to move the branches. Everything still. A thin, poor light struggles through the dense canopy, and the air is hazy.

This vision is different. Neema has no weight, no form, she is here but not here. A sense of dread envelops her as she understands that she has gone beyond the Trial, beyond what is safe. Against her will, she drifts like a ghost through the trees, dragged by some unknown force until she reaches a clearing, and finds that the day—such as it was—has turned to night.

A tall black woman lies on her back in the middle of the clearing. Her future self. She is alone, caught in a fever that looks to have raged for days, by the state of her. Trapped in her delirium, she talks to herself through cracked lips, words Neema cannot hear.

There is a chain around her leg, fixing her to the ground. A square of paper attached to her chest, over her heart. And though the paper is damp with sweat, the ink does not bleed, because this is Raven’s Wing ink.

An Order of Exile, with her name upon it. Written in her own hand, stitched into her own skin.

She has exiled herself . Why the Eight would she do that?

The woman she will become stirs and opens her eyes. She sees Neema through her fever dream, an apparition from the past. With great effort, she holds out her hand and speaks one word. “Dolrun.”

The poisoned forest.

She sinks back, exhales with the effort. It has taken the last of her strength to force that one word from her throat.

She is dying. Neema is watching herself die.

Her mind, her body recoil. No more of this.

“No more!” she shouts, with all her strength.

An eternal eight spun before her in the air, bright as sunlight. Her way home. Her way back. She fled the grey, cursed forest towards it, and through it.

She was back in the temple, the Dragons chanting in the candlelight. She fell to the ground, sobbing with relief but also a shrinking horror. She didn’t even notice when Ruko went through the wall.

She dragged herself to her feet. Jadu watched her with a veiled expression.

Neema’s mouth was dry, she needed water. She cast about her.

“Be still,” Jadu commanded.

After a long wait, Ruko returned. Whatever he’d seen of his path, it had pleased him. He looked restored, eyes shining.

“What did you see?” she asked him.

Jadu hissed. “Quiet.”

The Dragons ended their chant, drawing their haunting harmonies together into a final, held note. One of the contingent stepped to the wall, and traced the eternal eight with his hand. The symbol faded, and was gone.

Jadu placed her hand on Neema’s head and bowed her down to the ground, muttering a new spell under her breath. Neema felt something sharp spreading across her scalp, then tightening, like a net of wire.

Jadu moved to Ruko and did the same, lowering the Tiger warrior to his knees. Neema put a surreptitious hand to her head, searching for the wire. The sensation of a net remained, but there was nothing there that she could feel.

“This advice I give you, contenders,” Jadu said. “Once this Trial is over, do not dwell upon what you have seen, or it will claim you.” When she was sure they understood, she continued. “One question I have, for each of you. You shall answer, yes or no. You will not lie.” She turned to Neema. “Contender Kraa. Did you see yourself upon the throne?”

Neema thought of her vision in the Bear monastery—the raised dais, the ranks of warriors. She wanted to explain what she had seen, but as she tried, the wire net began to burn, as if it were embedding itself in her scalp.

“Did you see yourself upon the throne, contender?” Jadu pressed.

“No. But I—” White hot pain sliced through her skull. She cried out, clutching her head.

Jadu turned to Ruko. “Contender Valit. Did you see yourself upon the throne?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have won the Trial. It is done.”

No words of congratulation for Ruko from the Servant of the Dragon, or her contingent. As one, they lifted their hoods and streamed off down the central aisle, like the tide going out.

Ruko and Neema found themselves alone, kneeling side by side on the hard stone floor. The temple vast and empty, its dome high above them. No crowds, no witnesses to the victory, no sound of protest or of celebration.

Ruko started to speak, then gasped in pain. She realised—he was trying to share his visions with her.

She wanted to say—“It hurts, doesn’t it?” But even that was enough for the searing, white-hot net to descend. Testing the spell’s boundaries, she found no way through, only pain. They could never speak of it, not even to each other. But they both knew they were changed by the experience, and why. This much they could share, without words, when they looked at each other.

Ruko got to his feet, and offered her his hand. She knew this was his way of honouring that connection. Gracious in victory. She couldn’t take it.

She lowered her forehead to the floor as it finally hit her. The enormity of her failure. The horror of what was coming. Ruko would take the throne. The Eight would Return, and all would be destroyed.

She got to her feet without his aid.

Ruko smothered his disappointment. “I understand your concern,” he said, awkwardly. “You think I will undermine all that you have worked for. The monastery reforms—I can be persuaded. People forget I lived as a Commoner for eight years…”

Neema shook her head. Where to start? Was it even worth trying to explain to him? Whatever he said now, however much he had promised himself that he would be a benevolent ruler—she had seen the Raven’s vision.

“Words will not convince you,” Ruko said. “Perhaps, in time, my actions will.” And then, hesitant, “I hope you will remain here at court. You would be a great asset—”

Neema gave a hollow laugh, and shook her head.

Ruko folded his arms. “I could compel you.”

“Ahh,” Neema said, and laughed again, without humour. “There it is.” The tyrant just under the skin. She called out, silently.—Sol?

A beat of wings, as a large raven made a circuit of the hall, before landing on her shoulder. It gave a hopeful gurgle, lifting up an onyx ring in one claw.

“No,” she said. “I’m not empress.”

The bird looked disappointed.

“May I have my present anyway?” she asked, holding out her hand.

The bird took the ring in its beak, and swallowed it.

“Sol, this is Ruko Valit, emperor-in-waiting. Ruko, this is Sol, a fragment of the Raven.”

Sol gave an ugly rattle, and fluffed out his hackles.

Ruko made a respectful Raven salute, which did not appease Sol in the slightest. “This explains much. I sensed before that you were protected.”

“The Raven came to me as we fought on the platform.” Neema did not realise, but as she invoked the Second Guardian, the subtle gleams shone brighter in her hair, strands of indigo and deepest blue.

Ruko saw it, and caught his breath.

“It showed me a vision. One I can speak of. I saw you on the throne, laughing.” She hesitated, struggling to speak the words. “I saw the Return of the Eight.”

Ruko drew back. “I would never…”

“I saw it, Ruko. Just as Yasthala did. The Raven’s Dream. Only she stopped it, and I didn’t. I failed.” Neema covered her face, desolate.

“Neema,” Ruko said, hesitant, “whatever you saw, whatever you think of me… I swear to you now, upon my soul. I will never provoke a Return. Think. If I really was destined to end the world, why would the Eight let me win?” He gestured around him. “In their own temple? Is that not a sign of their favour—”

“I was supposed to kill you.”

Ruko gave her a gentle, patronising smile.

“You think I couldn’t do it, with the Raven’s help?”

His smile faded.

“I came this close,” Neema said, stepping into him. “The Raven wanted you dead, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill you.” A thought struck her. “We could still change it. We could walk out there now and say I won the Trial. Who’s to know? The Dragons won’t care—”

Neema! Sol slowed time, enough for her to see the flaring anger in Ruko’s eyes, his hands clenching into fists. She shrank back, out of range.

“You would steal the throne from me?” he snarled.

“Not steal it—” She stopped to catch Sol, who had slid from her shoulder. He’d used up all his strength to warn her, and lay in a daze, cradled against her chest.

Ruko’s anger faded to cold amusement at the sight. Pathetic. “ You would steal the throne from me.”

“I saw the Eight, Ruko. Pouring down from the sky into the throne room. You have to believe me—”

“I do believe you. The Raven came to you on the platform, and offered you the chance to save the world. And you were too weak to do what was necessary.”

Neema stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’re saying… I should have killed you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a simple calculation. One life for millions. But you lacked the courage to act, and now the whole world is at risk. And you ask me to hand you the throne?” He laughed at the idea. “You are not fit to rule.”

As he talked, Neema saw how comfortable he was, speaking like this. When he had tried to reach out in friendship, he had seemed awkward and vulnerable. Now he was the Tiger Warrior again—the golden statue she had met at the opening ceremony. “You spared my life too, Ruko,” she reminded him. “You saved Tala. You helped Benna escape. This armour you wear, I know it protects you. But it also weighs you down. I’m not going to apologise for saving your life. I still think it was the right decision.” She cradled Sol closer. “But at least… if you must take the throne, then take it with your eyes open. Don’t let Rivenna or the emperor or anyone else tell you that you have to be hard and ruthless to rule because it’s not true. And underneath all that armour… I think you know that too.”

She moved to walk away, shielding Sol.

“Where are you going?” he asked, to her back.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” She could do no more; she was as exhausted as the bird in her arms. Defeated, she trailed down the aisle. When she reached the temple doors she opened them, just a crack, and slid out into the night.

So this is victory, Ruko thought.

Rivenna arrived soon after, weeping with joy. Ruko had never seen his Guardian-mother cry before—he wasn’t aware she could. “The throne is ours!” she sobbed. “The throne is ours!” The Tiger contingent followed in her wake, and then the rest—Lord Clarion and Lady Harmony, Kindry Rok. Havoc in his white and gold admiral’s uniform, clutching a celebratory bottle of wine. A squad of Imperial Hounds, here to ensure the safety of the emperor-to-be. A medley of courtiers in their brightly coloured sashes, patting him on the back, promising their loyalty.

“Where are the others?” he asked Havoc, meaning—the other contenders.

“Who cares?” Havoc swigged from his bottle of wine. It was from the Talaka vineyard.

“Have you seen Tala?”

“Ruko…” Rivenna had joined them. “Enjoy your moment.”

He rounded on her. “Where is she?”

Havoc, catching the mood, melted away.

“If you’ve hurt her…” Ruko said, darkly.

Rivenna’s smile never faltered. “The emperor plans a reception in your honour tonight. You will see your friend there.” She patted his chest. The poison ring directly over his heart. “Let us not fall out, Ruko. Emperor Ruko ,” she whispered, because he was not crowned yet. “Ruler of Orrun. Just think what we will do together.”

Ruko gazed at her hand until she removed it. “Neema Kraa thinks I will provoke a Return.”

Finally, the smile faltered.

She was still sifting for the best response when Ruko added, “I’m going to offer her the position of High Justice. If she’ll take it.”

“Well,” Rivenna said, the smile returning. “Let’s talk about that tomorrow.”