CHAPTER 14

It’s chaos in front of the arena. Guards desperately try to push everyone into a line, but the charge of people is too great to be contained and presses forward like a river. I marvel at the size of the building. Whoever built it, it conforms to the Godtouched vision of the world. Grandiose. Overpowering. It dwarfs all other buildings in the city except Black Sword keep, which is built like a dark dagger thrust into the heart of the cityscape, its spires aiming up at the sky, visible from any point in the city.

At the crowded entrance, Godtouched stream past burly doormen in Black Sword colors while common folk get pushed back. Some dare to argue, but most meekly accept their luck, turn around, and make for less exclusive diversions. They do well: I spot one of the louder complainers being picked up bodily by a doorman and dragged into a side room on the arena. That quieted the crowd a bit.

Medrein shows one of the doormen the token Rev gave us. The man, red in the face from yelling, sweaty from pushing back against the crowd, nods to him and lets us pass.

“Challenger token!” he yells.

All the other guard move aside, and we are allowed to walk into the curved tunnels of the arena’s bowels. Well-dressed Godtouched mill all around us, saluting friends, clinking cups, and laughing loudly while attendants run from side to side carrying trays.

“Was it like this in your Challenger days?” I ask Medrein.

“No,” he says in a low rumble. “There were celebrations when nobles tried their luck, or when a previous Champion went back into a Crucible. I was alone. A priest wished me well. I don’t think he was very hopeful.”

“Champions went back into the dungeons?”

“Many did. As they grew in power, so did their previous limits crumble away, and so they came to crave a true trial again. And none was truer than the Challenge. Some never stopped wanting that, no matter how many times they proved their mettle.”

I can hear the resistance in his voice, the reluctance he feels at stepping in these halls. His hands flex at his side and his steps are heavy and clipped. His anger builds like a growing storm as we pass into the arena proper, the tunnel opening up, the sun bearing down on us again.

Inside, the place seems even larger, with rows upon rows of seats arranged in an oval. In the center of the arena is rough and sandy ground. Up on a tribune, a number of important Godtouched look down at the crowd with varying levels of interest. The buzz of excited conversation dances around us as we go down the steps in search of a seat.

“What happened to them?” I ask. “The ones that went many times?”

Medrein shrugs.

“The same that happened to all of us. We went into hiding or we faced the Godtouched, with predictable results. Obrein was said to have gone four times through the Challenge. Didn’t save him.”

“Dark Lord Obrein? I thought Champions were heroes.”

At that, Medrein just barks a curt laugh.

“Is this where the Funnel will take place?” I ask to change the subject.

With that someone else bursts out laughing before Medrein can answer. I turn to find a man, clearly a normal person, judging from his paunch and bow-legged walk, shaking his head in mirth. Without realizing, I seem to have developed a keen sense of humor.

“’Is this where the Funnel will take place?’ Oh dear me, dear me,” the man says, turning back. “Listen: the boy asked if the Challenge was happening here!”

Behind the happy man there are a gaggle of people gawking at everything they see. Not Godtouched: people. Some are dressed in ill-matching finery, but others, young and scrawny, have nothing but rags to their name. They’re all amused at my ignorance.

“But no, no, no, mhmm,” the man turns back to me, his face all lines and creases. “Here is where Lord Obrein – may the gods piss fire onto his eternal soul – liked to feed tax-dodgers to his pets. Convenient spot, what with all the seating. It’s had renovations, of course,” he waves a hand all around himself, like a proud homeowner showing guests around. “But as for the Funnel, you’ll be wanting to look there.”

He points to a side of the oval, and there I find a blank wall in front of a small landing jutting out of the sand. At the same time, his bow-legs tremble, and the man bumps into me with another peal of laughter and many apologies. I get the feeling he’s had more than his fill already, but before I can help stead him he bows, bobbing up and down like an overactive magpie.

“Enjoy the festivities, young master, much health to your poor hand and even better luck to your favorite CHallenger,” the little man gives a final hasty little bow and turns to follow his dispersing entourage when Medrein’s hand claps on his shoulder.

The man tenses under the weight. What passes across his face isn’t curiosity or fear, but a specific sort of viciousness. When he looks up at Medrein, even I can feel the tension in the air.

“I think,” my father says softly. “That you’re forgetting something.”

The man’s expression is a trapped animal’s. Even his teeth are bared, and I’d bet a shiny coin that the hand he thrust into his coat is wrapped around a dagger’s handle. No one around us seems to notice the altercation except the man’s party, who jostle each other, pointing, approaching.

“And what might that be, pray?” the man asks.

“My son’s medicine, which you so kindly picked up,” Medrein answers in the same level voice. “Saved us the worry and having to make a ruckus, bothering the guards and all these nice Godtouched. It could have ruined a very profitable day.”

The man locks his eyes on Medrein. For a moment, neither of the two moves, and then the man’s vicious expression breaks into creases and smiles, his legs untense and he bobs merrily as his hand comes out from under his coat holding the vial of red liquid.

“Thank you, sir, for reminding this poor old head of mine. What a sorry misunderstanding that would have been!” He presses the vial into my good right hand with a reassuring squeeze. “Here you go, my lad, hoping it will do you well. And now I really must go. Happy festivities to you both!”

The man turns and walks a few steps up the stairs before turning and bowing.

“And if you’re ever in need, come to Ready Roderick’s in Dove Lane. A good day!”

Medrein watches the man bob away followed by his ragged troupe before turning and resuming his search for seats without a word. I allow myself to breathe out. Fear and excitement wane, replaced with curiosity.

“How did you see that?”

“I didn’t,” Medrein rumbles. “I just assumed. Thieves are an unavoidable part of life in the city. Some you have to beat down, others you can reason with.”

“And that was you reasoning with him?”

“Your friend Roderick is here to make a profit off the pockets of Godtouched, not some boy who wandered in from the countryside,” Medrein says as he points to a couple of seats close to the railing and the sand. “I have no doubt he would have slit your throat if he’d found you in a dark lane, but today he’s got bigger fish to fry.”

“And what would you have done—”

“Enough, Malco,” he says, taking a seat and crossing his arms as if to stop them from doing something rash. “We’re here for your sister. Focus on that.”

“All right. I get it. Story time is over. But if you won’t tell me anything else, then at least tell me what this is.”

I open my hand a fraction, revealing the ruby potion. Medrein looks down at it and frowns.

“How would I know?”

“I saw how you looked at it when Rev passed it to me.”

“Curiosity. All I know about potions lore is that the ones you find out in the wild are often best left alone. You can ask your mother about it when we get back.”

I dangle the vial between two fingers. I had joked it could be worth thirty gold pieces, but I’d picked an absurd number. What else can thirty gold pieces buy? Ten workers for a year? A sizeable piece of land? Magic items? To pay that much for some red swill would be, as Medrein put it, ‘Godtouched insanity’. But the alarm on Kalos’ voice when he’d seen the potion in my hands was unmistakable, just like Roderick’s regretful expression when he gave it back. This was valuable, even if not that valuable.

So, which is it? Useful, or dangerous? Or both?

A fanfare. I look around the arena and find it full. Conversation has dwindled to a low hum that the trumpets drown out. And down in the landing area in front of the strangely positioned blank wall, a man has appeared. I lean forward in my seat.

It’s Valkas, the leader of the Black Sword guild. His armor trails its customary flakes, like ash carried by the wind. His smile is just as white, just as winning as when I saw him last with Katha in his arms.

He’s talking, his voice magically amplified. Friends, neighbors, citizens, that sort of thing. I squeeze the vial tight in my hand. My thumb moves to the cork of its own volition and stops there. I force myself to relax. It’s almost time and I’ve come to the realization that I have no plan, only an objective, a need.

After a short speech, Valkas steps aside and people begin streaming in from several entrances in the walls surrounding the sand. Cheers erupt from the audience as they recognize their favorites, or just because the time has come to cheer. The Challengers make their way to the little landing area and cluster there, looking up at us.

They’re a heterogeneous group, clad in Black Sword colors, uniforms of a sort, like the ones the guards wore. But these people do not look like soldiers. Mostly, they look scared, out of their depth, faces too white under the sun. From the way their heads turn, it’s a safe bet nearly all of them are searching for their families and friends in the audience.

The audience claps and whistles as they call out for their favorites. The ones making the most noise are Godtouched, easy to spot in their garish colors and strange clothing. But I also see clusters of perfectly still people, looking grimly on as, I assume, their friends and children are paraded for others to gawk at. These look like common folk.

Medrein is one of them. His hands are locked in a tight grip around his knees and his eyes are fixed at a point in the crowd. I follow his gazer and find Rev with her short copper hair shining in the sun. She’s off to the side, standing very still and staring into the crowd. She isn’t crying like some others I can see. The only movement she allows herself is to shake her head, stop, then do it again. Over and over again.

I frantically search the crowd for Katha. Her pale-blonde hair, her brilliant green eyes, I try to spot them among the red and black, but there are many contestants. Gods, how many are they? How many can possibly fit in the dungeon?

But there is no dungeon. No door that I can see, no tunnel. Will they transport them? My heart is hammering, not just because of what’s about to happen to Katha and Rev, but because I can’t see a way to join them without drawing attention to myself.

And if send caution to the wind and simply make a run for it… It’s a quick dash from my seat to the railings. I’ll have to step on a few heads, dodge the guards that patrol the pathway in front of it, jump down. It’ll hurt, but that’s fine. I only need to find out how they’re getting into the dungeon. Perhaps there’s a hidden door, or…

Valkas claps. The crowd goes silent and focuses on him as he steps again to the center of the raised dais.

“It’s time,” he says, raising his hands. “You’ve seen your Challengers. Brave men and women, and yet… Powerless. See them go in as such and come out heroes. Let the Dungeon Challenge begin!”

There is a pause after his words. The crowd devolves into cheering and noise, and then the world drowns in color also when the empty wall behind the contestants dissolves into bright green mist. A gasp courses through the audience and the Challengers step back from the mist. If finding Katha was difficult before, now it’s impossible. Everything is a sickly green. I have trouble even keeping an eye on Rev.

“Forward!” Valkas yells, his voice drowning out all other sounds. “Into glory!”

But the Challengers hesitate, looking around, waiting for someone else to take the first step. The moment stretches, strains against its leash, until it’s going on for too long. Valkas breathes in…

A figure runs in before he can say anything. It’s Rev. She runs into the mist and, just like that, she’s gone. Medrein starts next to me, a violent spurt of action he can barely contain.

“And the first Challenger is off!” Valkas pivots. “Who’s brave enough to follow?”

And like an avalanche, the crowd of contestants breaks, and, in ones, twos, and threes, runs for the green mist. Soon enough they become a current that vanishes before our eyes as the audience chants their support.

I steady myself. Breathe in. Now or never.

Medrein rests his hand on my shoulder.

No.

“Listen to me, boy,” he says. “If you’re going, you’re going now.”

I look at him, fear and shock standing in the way of understanding his words.

“What?”

“Well? Are you going? Are you staying?” In his eyes a mad light dances. “I cannot protect you forever. But with the Fool as my witness, I can damn well get you into that dungeon. Do you want this?”

I nod, eyes wide, just as fear threatens to drown me.

“Then go!”

I jump. I feel Medrein move to my side as I run on top of the descending seats, stepping on people, causing a commotion that fails to be heard over the shouts and the whistling.

I reach the railing first, landing right next to a guard. He curses, lunges to grab me, but I step back and evade him. His short sword comes off its scabbard as he barks orders I can’ hear. The sand lies to my left, too far down to jump safely. I know I will get hurt. I also know I have to do it before the Challengers – a dwindling mass – all vanish, or risk the portal closing behind them.

The guard strikes out with his off hand, catching hold of my shirt. I fight his grasp for a moment, pulling and yelling. The audience closest to me shouts out, and I can’t tell if in encouragement or cajoling. With a yank, I’m pulled up, dangling from his closed hand, my kicks and punches ignored. He calls out for more guards. I feel my chances slipping away, unable to break free with my injured hand.

And then the hold on my clothes releases. I fall to the ground and the world lurches for a moment. The guard writhes in someone else’s grasp. Medrein. With a flick of his hand, he throws him over the railing. The crowd screams louder, drawing away from us.

The thrill spreads through the crowd like wildfire. More guards are coming, running down steps and around the railing, pushing people from their path, and Godtouched too are getting up to see what the commotion is all about.

“How’s your hand?” Medrein asks.

“Healing,” I say.

He nods. “It will have to do.”

He pulls me up to my feet. Down below, I see Valkas looking up, maybe searching the crowd in puzzlement to find out why his guards are falling off the railings. This moment won’t last long. Looking into Medrein’s steady eyes, the lack of the costumary anger in them, I wonder if he had a plan after all, or if seeing Rev walk into the dungeon just pushed him too far. I wonder if he just doesn’t care what happens to me, and I realize it’s indifferent.

“Focus, son,” Medrein says.

He crouches down to my level, his eyes fixed on mine.

“I can’t follow her,” he says. “It has to be you.”

I’m trying to make sense of what he says.

“You’ll need to be alert, always. Your brawn won’t be as important as your brain when you’re inside.”

“All right,” I say.

“Go in,” he says. “Live as you must live. Are you sure you want this?”

It will comes crashing down. I have my father’s blessing. I nod.

Immediately, he stands and pulls me up by my good arm, then lowers me down past the railing. He leans down as far as he can. Doubt courses through my mind as I look up into his eyes, at the approaching guards, at the shouting, frothing crowd. Am I sure? Can I do this?

He lets go.

My whole body lurches as I fall. I do my best to shape the descent, and hit something soft before I topple to the ground, trying to protect my mangled hand. I realize the soft thing is the guard.

I run.

The Challengers are all gone. The green mist hangs in the air, purposeless. Maybe it will vanish, or maybe it will stay this way forever, until everyone I love is dead. I pick up speed.

“Focus!” Medrein yells. I hear him grunt and turn my head. Up on the railing, I see my father, tall and broad as a bear. Bearing down on him is a multitude of guards and Godtouched wanting to join in on the fun.

“Do not give in!” he roars again. I dash. I hear curses and violence. It doesn’t matter. My feet pound the sand and then rock and I make it up the dais. Valkas notices me, his mouth curled into a question, his attention divided between the stands and me. It doesn’t matter. I’m too close. “Do not trust them!” Medrein bellows.

“And don’t drink the damn thing!” That’s the last thing I hear as I jump through the portal. The vial is closed in my hand, half forgotten.

I enter the dungeon.