I shoot her a worried look and she nods. “It’s ticking incrementally with the clock. Twisting. It twisted with each spin of the room, and now it ticks with the clock. Is the window ticking, too?”
Is it? I turn back to the window, trying to choose a spot on a cloud to measure by and …
“I think so,” I say eventually, throat hoarse. The words do not want to leave me. “I think the whole room is ticking with that clock.”
“Then it is a safe guess that in ten hours the wall will move, that massive demon in the ceiling will drop out of his trap, and the door will face the sea,” she says.
“There will be a pause,” I say, grimacing at the wall. “Even if the entire side of the inner room is open, and the door slowly traverses it tick by tick, we will need to exit through the door to the trial well before it hits the corner and moves to face the sea.”
“Yes.” Her eyes track where my finger is pointing.
“And we do not know when in that time frame the demon will drop from the ceiling.”
“We don’t,” she confirms as we both look upward and let the horror of that thought sink in. “But we always meant to cast it out. And we cannot do that until it is out of the cage.”
“Either way, we must play this out until it happens. We can’t avoid it.”
“Sir Coriand!” Owalan shouts suddenly, spinning away from us and darting back down the echoing marble hall. I suppose he needs to pass on that information immediately. His anxiety radiates off him like heat from a cherry-red stove. This would frazzle anyone’s nerves. And he was highly strung from the start. Does that mean he is innocent?
I am surprised when a warm palm finds mine. Startled enough that I shoot Victoriana a bemused glance. Her expression is firm and sincere but perhaps she has realized along with me that we are likely in our last hours. Perhaps she wants only to touch another human, to make the most of these last hours.
“Does this count as affection?” she asks lightly.
I squeeze her palm, certain she will pull away when I reply but wanting whatever few moments she will grant.
“Is it meant as such?”
“Yes.”
“Then it counts.”
She slides her palm away as I predicted, frowns spitefully at the demon in the roof, and strides forward, hands meeting on the hilt of her naked blade. At least her disappointment propels her to action. Mine merely sits like lead within my belly.
We join the others outside the door to the last trial. I am a strange combination of reluctance and determination. The last time I felt this was when I was lined up for the Battle of the Radiant Hills. There’d been little fighting for my aspect. Our healing arts had been more useful on the whole, but before men were wounded and dying and calling for us, we’d made a solid charge, wheeled, and made a second. And it was before that first charge that I felt exactly as I do now. I can almost hear the scream of the horses again and smell how the mud scent changed from fecund to copper laced.
This is surely the last trial, for there are no more hidden walls, no more doors waiting to be unlocked, or rooms waiting to be delved into. Across from us, the clock ticks ominously and the cups there seem to glow brighter, but here where the remaining paladins have assembled, shadows have piled high and unnatural, ballooning up from those who once claimed to be holy — a ragged claim now, too thin to hold up under even the most cursory of scrutiny. The Vagabond’s clothing looks to be in better repair than the righteousness of my brothers.
I study them with a new sharpness. Time is running out and therefore the time to act is running out with it. How then shall I judge?
Sir Coriand stands across the entrance with an amiable look on his face. He is sipping tea, using both hands, as if to highlight his harmlessness. This, from a man who likely pushed a brother to his death. My throat twists at the thought, but again, I have no evidence.
“Friends,” he says with a gentle, twinkling smile. “Brothers … and sister.”
There’s an ironic twist to that last word. I suppose he has decided he will be the required speech-giver.
My eyes find Hefertus’s across the group and he squints a question at me. Likely, he’s heard rumors from Owalan about the Vagabond. I meet his eyes steadily. I wouldn’t expect him to jeopardize himself for my sake. That’s why I bear him no ill will for leaving me unconscious and on my own in the last trial. Hefertus is innocent of murder. He’s not the one I must seek and destroy.
“Our last trial is upon us,” Sir Coriand says. “When it is complete, all riddles will be answered, all doors unlocked, all truths laid bare.”
He is far too eager, as if he is savoring this moment. We are silent. What is there to say? None of us has a choice in what comes next.
I am not surprised at all when Victoriana breaks the silence. Her eyes lock onto Sir Coriand. She looks for all the world like her violent dog.
“As a paladin of the Creator God, you are forsworn against lies. I bid you speak now the truth.” Her words are soft, but they are soft like a blade sliding through the ribs. Interesting. She will try to draw out a confession. I do not think it will work.
Sir Coriand turns his predatory eyes to her. He no longer looks as if he is simply enjoying a tea. He looks like my schoolmaster once did just before he beat me with his rule stick until I could not see out of my left eye. I was not particularly gifted with numbers.
My hand drifts to the hilt of my sword.
