“Life's toil buys pardon or penance. Pay enough and you’ll reach the heavens.”
Perish Tithetaker
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“Are you seeing this?” one boy shouted. “By the Poet’s hand!” another screamed in excitement. Together they drew Airster’s attention from where Callam lay on the arena ground.
What’s going on? he thought. His muscles protested as he pulled himself up on shaky knees. Searching around, he spotted the reason for the commotion and his breath hitched.
Over ten cisterns away, nearer to the middle of the arena, the impossible was occurring. The same ichor that had remained stagnant for so many now reached for the skies. Light caught on the liquid as it climbed upwards and then broke in force and flooded the area’s floor in silver. Blues and golds dotted the grounds where the liquid pooled and reflected the brilliance of the sunny day.
It was equal parts beautiful and unbelievable.
“What score do you give that?” Callam heard someone ask as he limped over for a closer look. “Prodigy…” a girl whispered, taking the words right out of Callam’s mouth. In front of him, a wall of spectators thickened by the second, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes to see the unbound responsible for this feat; he could just make out a young woman in the center of the crowd. Her brown hair whipped back and forth, billowed by the force of her presence.
She wasn’t finished yet. With visible strain the young woman squared her shoulders and pushed her second arm forward to match her first, so that both her palms faced outward toward the cistern. At once the remaining ichor parted down the hundred-foot channel, forming waves that rivaled the swells of a stormy night. More and more liquid crested and crashed over the cistern’s walls until, finally, it lay empty.
A hush fell over the colosseum. Then a howling whoop broke the silence, followed quickly by a frenzied cheer that grew louder and louder as everyone shouted over everyone else in an effort to be heard. “Excuse me,” Callam repeated as he cut through the crowd. He jostled his way forward, elbows and shoulders brushing against him, until he was close enough to recognize the girl at the foot of the cistern. Her delicate features would stand out anywhere.
That’s really her, Callam thought, and tried not to stare at the unbound he’d met earlier. She must have felt his eyes on her, because she turned to face him and flashed him a shy smile. Hidden dimples formed on her bright cheeks. Her pink lips moved, and Callam had the distinct feeling she wanted to say something. She hesitated, then waved instead.
Without thinking, Callam pushed his way closer to her. Suddenly, his path was barred.
“Unbound! This ceremony is no spectacle,” scolded a slim mage with a bony neck—words that might have carried more weight if they held any truth at all. “Back to your cisterns,” she commanded, spreading her arms out to corral them. “The second trial is about to begin.”
“Why hold Binding Day here, then?” Callam asked in disbelief. He would have said more, but the shuffling of the crowd swallowed his protest; the mass of bodies swept him forward as they moved to obey the mage’s directions. By the time Callam regained his bearings and looked over his shoulder, the girl had vanished.
Not long after, Callam was approached by the Scriptor leading group twenty. “Follow me!” he commanded and assumed a brisk pace, the rest of the pod already in tow. “The next trial will challenge you to outmaneuver your peers,” he said while they crossed the arena grounds. “That means you will be in full control of your outcome. For most of you, that’s a godsend.” The mage turned and gave the group a pointed look.
When he turned away, Airster caught Callam’s eye and said arrogantly, “It’s as they say. Some are born to read. Others only to listen.”
“Best you keep your ears clean, then,” Callam quipped back, but it did nothing to disarm the noble boy. Airster had scored highest among their pod in the Trial of Fate and everyone knew it. Many seemed to respect him for it.
Not Callam, though. He’d met drunken sailors less prideful than Airster, and those men thought they’d discovered new land.
They’d been walking less than five minutes when the outlines of several large obstacles sharpened into view; two wooden towers scalable by rope, a chain ladder that hung from a tall post, and a metal beam too thin to safely cross, could all be seen. Shoulder-width logs obscured the rest of the trial, each sticking up thirty feet or more.
“Single file!” the Scriptor shouted as they queued behind two logs that served as the trial’s entrance. “At the start of this maze you will find a clock,” he declared, his voice cutting through several groans. “That’s right. This trial is timed—we will start at 1:00 in the afternoon. Your objective is to finish with the clock showing as few minutes past the hour as possible. You’ll hear a chime every fifteen minutes of real time that passes—that part about real time is important, so take note of it. Should you hear a fourth chime, time’s up and your score is forfeit. Am I understood?”
Several unbound nodded at once.
“Here’s where things get complicated,” the mage continued. “Throughout this trial you will find green and red keys that are used to wind the clock. Red keys advance the clock by five minutes; green ones will rewind it by the same amount. As you can imagine, green keys are the rarer of the two—there are only enough of them for about half of you. Grab a key—”
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“Can we gather more than one key, sir?” interrupted a mousy-haired girl in front of Callam
“Hold your thoughts, unbound,” the Scriptor responded stiffly. “But yes. You may collect multiple keys. To exit the trial, you must insert at least one into the clock. When you are finished inserting as many keys as you’d like, alert me. I will then record the time displayed on the clock as your final score. Now,” he said, “are there any questions?”
Hands shot up all around. The Scriptor pointed to a tall boy on Callam’s left.
“So, uh—will the clock’s face show the actual time, or not?” the teen asked, scratching his head.
“That’s Scriptor or Sir to you, unbound,” the mage scolded him. “And no, the clock’s face will not show the actual time,” he clarified. “It will tick forward with each minute of real time that passes, but will also move forward or backward in accordance to each key’s use. Your goal is to leave with the clock showing as little time past the hour as possible. How much time has actually passed is irrelevant, provided you finish before you hear the fourth chime.”
“I see…” the tall boy said, still seeming lost, then hurriedly added, “Scriptor, sir.”
“Sir, can we work together on this trial?” another boy called out. He wore an overly large tunic with dirty, frayed ends that hinted at a hard life. Callam liked him immediately.
“Outside of bodily harm, anything goes.” the Scriptor responded. “Yes?” he prompted, tilting his chin at Elera, the willowy girl who’d struggled during the first challenge and now had her hand raised.
“Will the clock be reset between contestants, sir?” she asked, her voice steadier then Callam expected—clearly, she’d found her footing.
“No. It will not.”
“So… if the person before us uses a bunch of red keys on the clock…”
“Then you’d better have several green keys in hand, or your score will suffer as well,” the Scriptor confirmed.
“How is that fair?” demanded the rude girl who’d interrupted earlier. “I thought this was the Trial of Wits, not luck.” Several people nodded at her words.
“Those with wit learn to deal with unusual circumstances, unbound. Those without, complain.” Raising a hand, the man quelled any further questions. “Healers are stationed throughout this obstacle course. Call for them, should you hurt yourself.” After glancing at his wristwatch, he yelled out, “You have one hour—time begins now!”
The teens scrambled forward at his words. From behind them, the Scriptor’s voice boomed, “Keep an eye on the clock—the unbound with the worst time will get a penalty in the final trial.”
~~~
Dust kicked up underfoot as Callam sprinted into the maze. Obstacles were his domain, so he hoped to do well here. He weaved through the few teens in front of him, took the lead, and immediately turned to his right. Coming to a stop, he surveyed his surroundings; it would do him no good to waste his energy without a plan.
This was the Trial of Wits, after all.
Should I try for a red key? he thought. If I grab one before everyone else, I might finish quickly enough to beat out any unbound with a green key. Even better, I’ll avoid sabotage.
It hadn’t been lost on Callam that this trial could be fixed. A rich unbound might bribe his way into all the green keys—and a vengeful contestant might collect more red keys than needed, then use them early to mess everyone up.
Glancing around, Callam gave up on the idea of being the first to grab a red key. He was already too late for that—he’d spotted four teens racing down a long, narrow footpath ending at a raised platform with a massive red chest.
That left three other paths, each branching out to different corners of the log maze, and each lined by brown stumps too tall for Callam to see over. A muddy ditch bisected the nearest route and appeared difficult to wade across; several unbound were trying anyway, their shouts of disgust carrying over the distance. Lackwits, Callam thought. Climbing the surrounding stumps is easier. He assumed they’d find green chests down that path, yet was unsure if the route was worth pursuing; it only made sense to go after a green key if it took less than ten minutes longer than the time it took to collect a red one.
Palisades blocked his view of the last two paths. Several unbound had banded together to climb one of the barriers, while other teens kicked and pushed each other in a scramble to get over the other. Callam could only guess the types of keys they’d find—green and red both, probably.
After considering his options, Callam decided to tackle the route with the foul muck—his skills as a climber should help him scale the bordering logs quickly. Before venturing down the path, however, he rushed over to the clock.
The Scriptor had suggested they keep an eye on it. Hints like that were rarely given freely.
To Callam’s surprise, both Elera and Airster were already huddled around the timepiece. They talked among themselves, but something about how they communicated felt off—they spoke in hushed tones and kept glancing over in his direction. Still, they parted as he neared and allowed him to pass without incident. Airster did toss out an unsettling smile, but Elera met Callam’s eye and held it with sincerity.
He was not so easily reassured; he kept his guard up as he hastily inspected the clock.
The timepiece looked like an upright box. Twin pendulums swung back and forth, and a keyhole pierced the glass face, allowing the clock to be wound. Callam’s mouth went dry as he listened to the gears tick off each passing second. He hated this type of clock—the Sisters kept one like it and never tolerated any tardiness. They’d sworn that “scars marked where stubbornness prevailed,” and had done their best to prove it.
One lash for each chime missed, he recalled grimly, his fingers scouring the machine’s body for hidden compartments. He found where the seams in the elmwood met, and pressed, hoping to hear a click. No luck. A rapped knuckle on the clock’s face revealed no secrets either, and Callam’s frustration grew.
He’d lost time for nothing.