“But you were one of the only ones with all the items. Abel, you got seventh—that’s still quite high. And Barclay! You got—”
But Barclay had already spotted his name. He should be thrilled, he knew. Relieved. But instead, a knot twisted in his stomach.
“?‘Second’?”Abel read, too loudly. “The proctors must really like you, Barclay.”
“He was attacked,” Viola said flatly. “And he was the only other student with all the items.”
But the damage was done. The other students reading the scores turned to glare at Barclay.
“He’s some sort of cheat, isn’t he?”
“Hedoeshave a Mythic class Beast.”
“Still, Tadg deserved better than third.”
Viola narrowed her eyes at Abel. “Now you’ve done it,” she snapped, ignoring Abel as he stammered apologies and leading Barclay out of the cloud of scorn.
But while the others returned to the Ironwood Inn to discuss the day’s exam, Barclay made up some excuse and headed straight for the grove with Root. He needed to think about what had happened out in the Woods between him and Root, because something had definitely changed.
Sure enough, when he summoned wind, the pine cone soared right off the stump.
Barclay gave a triumphant holler. Root barked, as though telling him,That’s it! You’ve done it!
His chest swelling with pride, Barclay knelt and stroked Root along his back. Root’s tail wagged appreciatively.
“I understand it now. What you’ve been trying to tell me,” Barclay breathed. “You bonded with me because we’re the same. We’re both alone. And fast, and smart, and wild. And we could…”
In an instant, his exhilaration drained out of him. Allhe could picture were his parents—and there was a worse memory, one Barclay never dared to think about. The way the ground had shaken with each mighty footstep. The way the fallen beams had trapped him, and he hadn’t been able to see. But he could hear. The roar of Gravaldor. The sound of his father screaming. The silence of his mother, who had never answered him.
Barclay couldn’t want to be Root’s Keeper. He couldn’t want anything to do with Beasts.
“No,” he murmured to himself. “I’m still going home.”
He returned Root to his Mark, left the clearing, and in the next week that passed until the third exam, he didn’t visit again.
NINETEEN
Despite being injured, Barclay did everything he could to prepare for the third and final exam. He took notes on whatever Viola told him. He drank all sorts of questionable Lore tonics—from Scaromilk to Mendijuice—to heal his shoulder and restore his strength.
But under no circumstance did he practice Lore. It didn’t matter that he and Root had saved each other in the Woods or that Root had chosen Barclay, the orphan no one else wanted. It didn’t matter that Barclay got a sick, guilty feeling in his stomach whenever he thought of Root cooped up in his Mark. It didn’t matter that Lore felt natural, freeing, and not at all terrible. Barclay had decided. He would perform the best he could, and then he would go home. No matter what.
The snow from the blizzard had melted within the week.For the third exam, Erhart gathered the two hundred students and sixty-two Masters in a park in Sycomore’s center, the only spot in town where the trees had been cleared away, with nothing to block the sunshine. A number of spectators had joined as well. They sat on wooden chairs and quilts along the dead grass. Some even sold food and drinks—the air smelled sweetly of pear cider.
A large chalk rectangle had been drawn on the field.
“Soren Reiker and I will be the proctors of the final exam,” Erhart declared, and Barclay stiffened as Soren joined Erhart in the front the crowd. Tucked beneath his arm, Soren carried a wicker basket. “The last exam of the Exhibition is simple. It is also the longest of all the exams, and it will take the entire week.”
Barclay’s heart pounded, trying to imagine what sort of test could take so long. Would they ask them to cross the Woods to Dullshire and back? To go searching once again for something rare and powerful, with even more dangers to face? Knowing Soren, he’d likely concocted something horrible.
“In this basket,” Soren explained, “are two hundred slips of paper with each of your names. When your name is drawn, you will face another randomly selected student in a battle of power and skill. The objective is to be the first to capture your opponent’s flag, which ties around your arm.”
He held up two black strips of fraying fabric.
“The match will also finish if either Keeper or Beast areunable to continue, if one of the Keepers surrenders, or if either Keeper steps out-of-bounds. You may win by any means necessary.”
A buzz of excitement swept across the crowd, with more than one mention of Dooling and champions—Abel loudest among them. The conversations quieted quickly as Erhart drew two pieces of parchment from Soren’s basket.
“Fergus Maciver! Ethel Zader!”
