by Frost Kay
“Well it’s not like anyone else is helping them out, are they?” Tempest retorted. “Somebody’s got to help them.” If she hadn’t stepped in, she doubted someone would have taken it upon themselves to help the wee one.
“You know, I agree with you, Tempest,” Aleks said gently.
“Then have Madrid tell the king to funnel more money into the orphanages.”
“Tempest—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted, sighing heavily. “Now is not the time. Well it will be the time once I’m made a Hound.” She’d lucked out as a child, being born to the Madrid line. If she hadn’t, well… life would’ve turned out very differently for her. The orphanages were a joke. They were workhouses for little ones who had no one to protect them. Even thinking about it made her feel sick.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face because the healer squeezed her hand once, before diverting his attention to Tomas and began to clean his wound. “I do not doubt that. You will do a lot of much-needed good once you’re sworn in.”
Tempest loved that Aleks had never once doubted her. The number of days and nights she’d spent inside his room as a child, feverish and sick and hallucinating, had brought them close together. Sometimes, Tempest had imagined her own father was sitting beside the healer, watching over her as she fought the latest sickness she’d contracted. Other times, Tempest believed that Aleks himself was her father—his hair was an identical shade of periwinkle to hers.
On more than one occasion, Tempest had almost asked him if she was his daughter.
Almost.
But Tempest was scared of the truth—Hounds were not allowed to hide their children in obscure cottages in the middle of a forest, away from Dotae. To do so was treason. If Aleks really was Tempest’s father then she had to believe that he’d had good reason to hide her—so she stayed silent, content with the fact that she had amazing uncles to look after her. They’d all had a hand in raising her.
“Right, off with you,” he said, waving for Tempest to leave the tent. “I’ll look after—”
“Tomas,” she supplied, smiling at the boy.
“Tomas.” He arched an eyebrow at Temp. “I hope that I don’t see you in here again today!”
Tempest laughed. Of course, Aleks wouldn’t want her to get injured, though, in all likelihood, she would. No one came out unscathed from their Trial.
“I shall endeavor to be careful,” she said, remembering that she had told Juniper the same thing.
Aleks stepped closer and kissed the top of her head. “Fight well.”
She nodded and winked at Tomas before she left the tent. Tempest edged around the screaming crowd and jogged down two flights of stairs, her belly a riot of nerves. The chants and stamps upon the wooden floor of the stands vibrated through her feet, and the sounds from the brass trumpets of the royal band rung in her ears. The scent of warm, sweet, and spicy pastries, roasted nuts, and salted meat perfumed the air. Her bare arms prickled as thousands of pairs of eyes roamed over her as she stepped into the arena. It felt as if everybody in the royal city of Dotae was here to see her succeed... or—for some of them, at least—see her fail.
I won’t fail.
In the very center of the arena stood a platform upon which Madrid, the head Hound, was standing. Waiting for her. But Tempest knew she had to kneel before the king first, so she turned to face the royal stand at the northernmost point of the arena.
She bowed deeply, her long braids almost touching the ground. “Your Grace,” she called out, as loud as she could make her voice. Tempest was pleased that her voice did not tremble, but her legs felt as though they’d turned to jelly.
King Destin seemed barely interested enough to acknowledge her presence. He side-eyed her from his throne, looking younger than his forty years. He was wrapped in a sumptuous, fur-lined coat of ruby red to keep out the chill of the day. He didn’t speak a word, merely waving a hand toward Tempest to indicate that she could begin the Trial.
She huffed, relieved that he didn’t say a word about her alterations to the outfit he’d gifted her. Tempest marched toward the raised platform, her stride sure as she locked eyes with Madrid. He was a tall, icy man, who rarely raised his voice or visibly lost his temper. But when he grew completely still… that was when one knew they were in trouble. Tempest respected him greatly, though she was understandably rather intimidated by him. The man was a legend.
“Welcome, Tempest,” he said quietly when she stepped onto the platform and bowed slightly. And then, in a much louder, booming voice, he addressed the crowd. “Welcome one and all to the most auspicious of Trials—our first female Hound trainee!”
The crowd thundered their approval as Madrid once more turned to face Tempest.
“Now, the first part of the Trial is to test your observation skills.”
A pre-emptive shiver of adrenaline ran right through Tempest as she waited to hear what her first task would be. She eyed the covered table to her right. What horrors were hidden under the decorative cloth?
Madrid held out his arms, pulling her attention back to the Hound master. “Somewhere in the crowd there is a small child with a jade dagger strapped to their…”
She blinked. It couldn’t be that easy.
“Do you mean this one?” Tempest asked without thinking, pulling out said dagger from the sheath on her thigh. She dropped to her knee, proffering it to Madrid.
He frowned at the blade in suspicion. “Where did you get that?”
“From a little boy I spotted about ten minutes ago,” Tempest explained. “He seemed lost and nervous, and he cut his hand on the dagger. He didn’t know what to do, so I helped him and took the dagger off his hands.” Her lips pursed. “It seemed odd that a wee one would possess such a fine weapon.”
Madrid seemed torn between bemusement and respect. But then he nodded, acknowledging that Tempest had passed the first round.
She hid her displeasure, schooling her face into a blank mask. It was wrong to use children. Tempest hated the fact a confused, scared little boy had been used as part of her Trial, especially because he’d hurt himself. If she came out victorious at the end of the day, Tempest swore that she’d speak to Madrid about it.
“A keen sense of those around you and the ability to earn a stranger’s trust are vital skills for a Hound,” Madrid said, addressing the crowd as well as Tempest. “The fact that you passed the first round without even being aware of it is testament to your skills in such areas. However—” His face was grave as he stared at Tempest. “I do not think you will pass the next test so easily.”
Oh, Dotae be good, what’s next?
Tempest managed to keep her expression neutral, despite her nerves and anger.
Calm down. Anger is a distraction you cannot afford.
The next section would be brutal. She had seen a handful of Hound Trials over the past few years, and not a single champion had passed. Each and every time the tests were different. It was impossible to prepare for one’s own Trial simply by watching what champions of bygone days had done.
Tempest rolled her neck and ignored the cool wind whipping her decorative cape and loosely braided hair around her face. She was on her own.
“The next test will examine your knowledge of poisons,” the head Hound said, indicating a covered table that stood on the platform alongside them.
Damn.
He yanked the cloth off the table, exposing three bottles of liquid all various shades of blue. Their stoppers were ornate and intricately carved with designs of leaves and flowers.
All around, the volume of the crowd swelled, everyone presumably wondering what on earth was going to happen next.
The vicious grin that crossed Madrid’s face was anything but pleasant. “You have five minutes to work out which of these is deadly, which of these will send you to sleep, and which of these does nothing at all. How you determine which is which is entirely up to you.”
Double damn.
Tempest gulped. She w
as good with poisons when not put on the spot. Aleks had drilled her on their identifying properties over and over again, yet she still struggled. She wasn’t the best out of the trainees—that was, in truth, Levka—but she was still better than most. But never had she been faced with identifying such things in front of a gigantic crowd.
She kept herself from biting her lip, not wanting to give away her fear. Now was not the time to show fear. She needed to show courage.
It would have been easier if she’d fought someone first.
She crossed the platform over to the table to investigate the bottles and her brow furrowed in concentration. Tempest curled her shaking fingers into fists and inhaled deeply five times, completely aware of the crowd’s attention as she employed the calming tactic Dima had taught her as a child.
Stop thinking about them. Focus on your task.
Tempest shut out all sounds around her and squinted at the liquids. All three were of a similar viscosity. All three were translucent. She unstopped them and carefully inhaled the way she’d been taught to. Her lips pursed. All three smelled a little bitter.
Wonderful. They were near-identical. No one said becoming a Hound would be easy.
“Two minutes down,” Madrid said, startling Tempest.
Twisting her hands together, she stared at the bottles as if they might have suddenly changed their appearance.
Think, you fool. Think. There is a clue here. If it isn’t the liquid itself, then—
Her gaze narrowed on the bottles. She picked the vials up, one after the other, inspecting their beautifully carved stoppers. She recognized the flowers on two of them, but not the third, but it was all she needed to work out what they were.
She held up the second bottle for the crowd to see. “This is the poison,” she announced. “Blue bottle is nightshade. It’s full of atropine and solanine. Incredibly poisonous. The third bottle is dyed blue using bluebells, but it is harmless. I do not recognize the first bottle, so it must be the sleeping agent.”
“Are you certain?” the Hound master asked.
“I am.”
He waved a hand at the third bottle still clutched in her hand. “Test it.”
Although Tempest knew she was right, it was harder than she expected to tip the bottle to her lips and drink the liquid. She swallowed the bitter draught and stared impassively at Madrid, not backing down from his challenge.
Madrid’s stone expression melted into a grin that was anything but vicious this time. It was ecstatic and tinged with the smallest touch of pride.
“The first one does not come from a plant,” he explained, “so the flowers depicted on the stopper are fictional. Well done, Tempest.”
Some of the tension in her shoulders melted away. She’d done it. She’d passed the second test. And she wasn’t going to die. A hysterical laugh threatened to burst from her chest, but she swallowed it down.
The crowd rose to their feet and screamed, but Madrid held up a hand to quieten them. In the space of a moment, they were silent. So silent it was eerie.
“Now, you might be thinking you’re glad we’re onto the fighting round of the trial,” he told Tempest. “But something tells me you won’t be so happy when you see who your opponent is.”
Tempest stilled. Madrid’s face was serious once more, and there was something about the way he kept glancing at the king that told her that, perhaps, the head Hound himself was not so happy with who had been chosen as her opponent, either. But King Destin nodded his head and smirked down at Temp, his gaze pointedly staring at her braided hair.
So he had noticed her outfit modification. It hadn’t been smart to go against his wishes but being dead seemed like a worse alternative. She swallowed hard and studied Madrid, who in turn nodded at a pair of soldiers guarding a set of heavy wooden doors.
“Bring out the lion.”
“The lion?” Tempest whispered; her words lost beneath the uproar of the fervent, delighted crowd.
Her mind scrambled to latch onto any knowledge she had of the beast. Never in the history of the Trials, had any would-be Hound faced a lion. The beasts were bloodthirsty creatures who knew how to rip through a battalion of soldiers with ease. Maxim’s scar on his face flashed through her mind. Her uncle rarely spoke about his old wound, but he’d warned her to run the other way if she discovered any sign of a lion.
She took a step toward Madrid and spoke in an undertone, panic rising in her throat like bile as she stuttered out, “Tell me this isn’t true—why am I facing—”
“Hush, Tempest,” he muttered back to her, careful to hide the fact that the two of them were talking. “This was not my decision. Just keep a level head, think on your feet, and you’ll be fine.”
Tempest felt anything but level-headed. A finger of dread ran down her spine as the wooden doors rattled and shook in front of her. She could hear the beginnings of a growl, low and rough and angry.
Wicked Hell. They sentenced me to death.
Tempest steeled herself as Madrid lifted the table, along with its three bottles, out of the fighting ring. She slowly pulled her sword from its scabbard and braced herself for the demon that would soon be unleashed upon her.
Nobody would be around to help her. If Tempest failed, then it wouldn’t be the healer’s tent she would be visiting—it would be her grave. The solider retreated into the stands as the doors containing the lion finally swung open, leaving Tempest as the only person standing on the dirt-covered platform facing one of the realm’s deadliest creatures, besides the ever-elusive ice dragons.
Her gaze flickered to the king. For one moment, they locked eyes. Hers was accusing, his smug.
The bastard.
He didn’t want a woman to succeed. She clenched her jaw and concentrated on the task at hand. All thoughts fled her as Tempest caught sight of a jaw full of snapping teeth.
Bloody hell. The monster was more enormous and terrifying than she’d anticipated. The lion would bat her sword from her hand like a cat playing with string.
“A spear!” she cried, locking eyes with the soldiers. “Give me your spear!”
One of them acted as if he had not heard her, and Tempest hated him for it. But the other one—younger than his partner, handsome, blue-eyed and sandy-haired—tossed his double-ended spear into the arena, and Tempest skittered across the ring to retrieve it just as the lion prowled from its cage. Quickly, she sheathed her sword and clasped the spear in her shaking hands.
The beast was huge, with a thick mane the color of King Destin’s hair protecting its neck. A male, then, she concluded as he crept toward Tempest, each of his movements sinuous. His sharp, feline eyes flitted from her face to her spear, as if trying to decide which part of her was the biggest threat. Tempest kept her stance wide, holding herself low to the ground should she have to roll away to escape the lion’s snapping teeth.
She scrutinized the beast. He was clearly not a native lion since his coloring was too red. In fact, Tempest had seen these ones depicted only in books, and Aleks used to tell her stories of his travels in the exotic south when he was training as a healer. There were rust lions there, Tempest knew. Lots of them.
Tempest appraised the lion and tried not to let the majestic creature distract her. She’d only ever heard of the fable creatures in stories and lessons designed to teach children never to wander into the forests alone—but she doubted many people in Heimserya had seen one before. In the past, the kingdom was altogether too cold for the creatures. Too windy. Too snowy. But over time, the lions had adapted, their fur turning a snowy white to blend in with their surroundings.
Virtually impossible to detect until they set upon you.
A snap of its tail was all the warning she received before the lion lunged forward, swatting at Tempest with a paw that was larger than her head. She’d been right to stay low to the ground; with a simple shift in weight from one foot to the other, she rolled away with half a second to spare, aiming her spear at the lion’s paw in the process, to force him t
o withdraw. The creature retreated, clearly reassessing the risk Tempest posed to him.
Sweat beaded on her brow as she got a good look at the lion’s side. Her lips thinned at the sight of his ribs sticking out from beneath his fur. They’d starved him. Rage ignited in her gut. A simple spear wouldn’t keep him down. She’d have to fight dirty.
Or die trying.
It truly wasn’t fair. A starving lion was different from a man.
They really do mean to kill me.
Tempest shuffled a step to her left and spun the double-ended spear in front of her to keep the lion momentarily at bay. She risked a glance at the king, who despite his earlier disinterest was now watching Tempest—and the lion—like a hawk. Was the man really going to take his dislike of female Hounds so far that Tempest would have to die for it?
“I think not,” she muttered through gritted teeth, though her own words were swallowed by the roaring lion and deafening crowd.
But Tempest had never been quiet. She’d never been soft-spoken, meek, or demure. If the lion wanted to roar at her then she would roar at him.
“Come and get me!” she bellowed at the beast as she twirled her borrowed spear before flinging it toward him.
The lion just barely avoided the weapon, but Tempest had expected that. All she’d needed was his momentary distraction—a long enough pause for her to pull her mother’s bow from her back and nock an arrow. She sent it flying into the lion’s flank.
He yowled as she struck true, and Tempest darted forward to collect her spear once more. But just as she turned to deliver a second blow, the lion knocked her to the ground. Her bow skittered across the ground just out of reach.
She screamed as he raked his claws across her bare back. Searing pain caused her eyes to water, and Tempest barely had enough time to roll onto her abused back and brace the spear in front of her, keeping the lion’s teeth at bay. He gnashed and growled around the wooden shaft, intent on breaking it to pieces.
The wood groaned and her arms trembled as she fought to keep the beast from tearing her apart.
I don’t have the strength for this.