UNWORTHY.
“Shutup!” I shout the words in frustration. Slide past another strike, months of training taking over. These things are fast but they’re not inhumanly so; in fact, they’re slower than Tara and Pádraig, and maybe even Conor. Not that it will matter. Even with this sword, I have no idea how to kill something that won’t bleed.
UNWORTHY.
I keep circling, dodging around columns and statues, keeping space and stone between me and my attackers. They’re unhurried, seem content to let this gradual, awkward dance continue indefinitely, which at least allows me the chance to regain a fraction of my composure. Could this be part of the test? Unlikely. If nothing else, the way the word “synchronous’” was screamed—the term my father used for me, last night—suggests that I’m an enemy here.
UNWORTHY.
Oh. And that, too.
I dodge and deflect as one of the silver forms closes again, thinking desperately. They’re being powered by Will, clearly. Does that help me? Rotting gods. Maybe. Keeping Will imbued without ongoing line of sight needs a clear mental connection to the imbued object, a memorisation of its exact form. If that form is altered enough—if it strays too far from the imbuer’s image of it—then the Will is lost. Returned to its owner.
UNWORTHY.
I reverse direction abruptly, slither forward into the restricting water to place the nearest statue between me and its counterpart. My blade flashes. Parried. Again, and again, a flurry of frantic strikes as the second gleaming body moves to gain position. I’m faster and my blade hits silver once, twice. It scores and dents the softer metal. The statue appears unfazed.
I dance back, breathing hard. Not damaged enough, or an ineffective strategy? Gods-damnit. Will shines at my feet, every weapon in the water glimmering with a softer pulse. At some point, surely, these statues would become so broken that the force behind them would be simply rendered impotent. But the number of hits even one would have to take …
It’s not like there’s a choice, though.
I stumble around the blinding throbs of the Aurora Columnae for a minute.UNWORTHY. Three.UNWORTHY. Longer. Mostly out of the water weaving between columns, but then dashing in at irregular intervals too, metal ringing against metal as my blade becomes a hammer. I take what I can, but after the first few strikes, begin focusing on their heads. It’s not just the most distinctive part of them—it should be the easiest to deform.
But it’s also a difficult target, and I’m tiring rapidly, while they do not appear to be. They move no more slowly than they did in the first few seconds of our fight. They’re too heavy to shift, to ram into and throw off-balance.
I’m too many minutes into the awkward cat-and-mouse skirmish when, finally, I land a true hit on the silver head of one of the statues. A solid blow, all my strength behind it. The symbol crumples, interlocking silver lines jamming together and bending in on themselves three layers deep. My arm shivers at the hit and I almost lose the blade before stumbling back, panting my triumph. Half the gods-damned design is caved in.
The statue pauses, and for a heartbreakingly hopeful moment, I’m sure it has frozen in place.
UNWORTHY.
Then it comes again. As if nothing had happened.
I groan, my arm leaden now not just with exhaustion, but with the slow and heavy certainty that’s now crushing me with each passing second and each futile burst of effort. My heart pounds with sick dread.Vek.
I am going to die here.
LXIV
FEAR IS A LACK OF CONTROL, REALISED.
My father told me that, once. Explained that it is not the absence of control itself, but the understanding of it. The true, stomach-churninggraspingof the fact that we have no significant way to affect what comes next in a given situation.
As I retreat, my limbs leaden with exhaustion and lack of hope, my options turn to the desperate. I try rapidly forcing aside the massive stone blocking the exit, to no avail. I try touching the Aurora Columnae again, but nothing happens. I even try hammering at it, quickly finding the metal of my sword does even less damage to the glowing stone than it does to the statues stalking me.
My blade is blunted, now. Still pulsing with Will beneath my grasp as I stumble through the eerily motionless pool.UNWORTHY. I am so tired. Cuts across my torso and arm bleed down onto my hand, drip into the motionless water. I bat away more strikes clumsily, barely staggering away again.UNWORTHY.
And then, as the Will throbs against my hand, I suddenly register that I canfeelit.
A force that, if I want to, I can use.
I don’t know what makes me think it’s possible. Some desperate memory pulled from some obscure text I read in the Academy, I suppose. Maybe just instinct. But I focus on the blade. Set it in my memory, using the same technique we were taught to imbue something.
And I take the Will from it.
There’s a hollow, screeching impression of a scream that makes me stagger, slow, almost lose concentration, but then it’s gone and I feel suddenly sharper. Too late, though. Precious seconds of movement lost to mental disarray. The closest statue jabs with its spear and I slide aside, but before I can dive away, its hand is snaking out, clamping on my shoulder with an impossibly crushing grip.
I cry out my pain as it lifts me from the water one-handed. Reach out and fumble against the symbol of its face. There’s Will inside it too, but this timethere’s a resistance, whatever I managed to do to with the sword failing. The statue’s other hand reaches for my throat.
