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To my dismay, whispers of agreement ripple through the other adepts. They are almost inaudible over the violent winds, but I hear them anyway. Even Koby nods his head. It’s all I can do not to glare at him for hanging me along with everyone else. If I do, I will reveal how much this trial terrifies me. They will all think me weak. And I refuse to ever again be weak.
Because the cost of weakness is death.
Eliya is the only adept who doesn’t fervently nod her agreement.Unlike the others, she isn’t thinking of how my going first benefits her. She clenches her jaw and doesn’t even try to hide the glare she flashes Kaely.
“Adept Ashbourne,” Archmage Gidston says to me, “would you like to go first?”
Since she has asked, I suppose I could decline. But that would mean admitting my fear. And maybe she would interpret my refusal as forfeiting this trial.
That’s a risk I cannot take.
I paint the most courageous expression I can muster on my face and hope that it convinces me as much as everyone else.
I can do this.
I am the Grandmage’s daughter, and a descendant of Nolderan’s most powerful family. My heritage must count for something.
And, as Archmage Gidston said, this trial is arguably easy. All I need to do is hold the feather, jump off the tower, and ignore the instinct to save myself from falling with my magic.
I suck in a breath and say, “Of course I would love to, Archmage Gidston. I’m honored that Kaely would request for me to go first.”
I must appear calm. Or Kaely will know how much she’s riled me.
“Excellent,” Lorette says, holding the feather out to me. She gestures for me to come forth.
Eliya squeezes my hand and whispers, “Good luck!”
I return her gesture with a thin smile and start over to Archmage Gidston. When I reach her, I take the feather from her grasp.
The feather itself is unremarkable. I hold it high and examine it with great care, but I detect no magic within the feather—just the residue from when she summoned it.
I’m not certain how an ordinary feather will ensure my survival, but I can only cling to it and maintain my faith in this trial.
“Are you ready to begin?” Archmage Gidston asks.
My gaze drifts beyond the feather to the city below. Soon I will be plummeting toward those cobalt rooftops and pointed spires. My stomach tangles into a thick knot.
I don’t look at Archmage Gidston as I nod. The gesture is stiffer than I expect, and I hope no one can see the tension in my neck and shoulders.
“Then you must now jump from the tower,” she says. “And do not, under any circumstances, release the feather.”
The moisture drains from my mouth at the warning, and my throat is left parched. All I can imagine is the quail feather slipping from my grasp and leaving me to tumble to my death.
I’m glad my back is to all the other adepts. I’m certain the blood has drained from my face, casting me a sickly pale shade. I keep my attention fixed on the city beneath, so that Archmage Gidston can’t see the true extent of my horror.
My fingers grip the quail feather. Faith. I just need to have faith that Archmage Gidston won’t let me die, that the feather won’t slip from my fingers. As long as I keep hold of it, I won’t fall to my death.
I hope.
“And if you are having any second thoughts—”
Knowing that I’ve delayed long enough, I don’t let Archmage Gidston finish. Before she can ask me whether I’d like to forfeit the trial, I throw myself off the tower.
The winds are quick to embrace me. They slam into my cheeks. The cobalt rooftops and deadly spires rush toward me. My gut clenches. I think I might be screaming into the wind. But they roar so loudly that they drown out my voice.
A sudden gust shoves me to the right. The impact catches me off-guard, and the quail feather almost slips from my grasp. I clutch it with all the force I can. My survival depends on it.
The wind spins me over and over as I tumble through the air. A painful ache fills my ears from the changing pressure.
