A Trial of Sorcerers: Book One Kova, Elise (classic romance novels .TXT) 📖

across another void. They crossed over and under each other, making no one clear path available. She paced back and forth at the edge, carefully selecting her route. Before setting out, Eira crouched down, unlacing her boots.

“What’s she doing now?” someone above her asked.

Eira couldn’t hear the answer. She wondered if someone responded with, getting better balance. She wanted full movement of her feet on the lines.

One foot after the next, Eira shuffled along the thin line she’d selected, keeping it in the arches of her feet. She carefully placed her foot and then shifted her weight. Her progress was agonizingly slow. But she could use two other lines for balance until about halfway.

A gust of wind burst out of nowhere and Eira let out a startled cry as she doubled over the line she’d been using for support. Her balance tipped and she spun.

The crowd cheered as another gust of wind tried to rip her from the lines. Of course it wasn’t going to be as easy as walking across some rope. The Windwalkers loved playing on their slacklines. This was their doing.

No, this was one man’s doing. She’d bet anything Cullen was behind this. Somehow, his magic buffeting against her felt familiar already. She’d only been forced to watch her brother admire him for years. It made sense she could pick him out of a crowd. Moreover, the empress certainly wasn’t behind this magic and no other Windwalker was strong enough to make these gusts. No one else would toy with her like this.

Eira cursed Cullen under her breath as she struggled to find her grip. She swung like a tunic on the drying line. Pumping her feet, Eira struggled to get them back on the first line. No matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t find any stability.

Her arms were going to give out soon. Sweat dripped off her face. The white lines were stained red from her bloodied hands.

He was going to blast her again. Eira made herself look as vulnerable as possible—she had one last, crazy attempt. The moment he acted, she used Cullen’s winds against him. Expending a monumental amount of her nearly depleted energy, Eira used the wind to help her hoist her feet up. She locked her heels over the line, hanging upside-down.

Hand over hand, she dragged herself along the line. Blood rushed to her head, roaring in her ears as loudly as the wind. But Eira just focused on the platform that grew closer and closer.

She was almost there. One more—

A burst of wind, stronger than all the others, tore her hand from the line. It was as though he’d targeted just her grip. Eira let out a cry. Her legs weren’t strong enough. She was going to fall.

Pressing her feet against each other, line between them, Eira made a clumsy lunge for the platform. A gust pushed her sideways. Her shoulder smacked the wood. Eira grabbed for something—anything. But there was nothing.

With a cry of determination, she raised her fist in the air, as if cursing every last person who had ever told her no, who had ever dared to hold her back, and slammed it toward the platform. Ice spread up from her hand and down in a three-pointed spear. It sank into the wood with a satisfying thud. Grabbing the spear—no, it was a trident—with both hands, Eira pulled herself onto the final platform.

She rolled onto her back with a groan that was drowned out by the jubilant cries of the crowd.

14

Two hands hoisted her up. Eira blinked, the shadowed face cut against the sunlight coming into focus.

“Auntie?” Eira croaked. Why was her voice so tired? Had she been screaming more than she thought? The sudden image of herself shouting and screaming through the course mortified her.

“You were astounding!” Gwen praised as she slipped Eira’s arm over her shoulders. If her aunt had been a sorcerer, Eira had always envisioned she would be a Groundbreaker. She was sturdy, stubborn, and secure. Everything Eira needed right now. “Come on, let’s get you to the recovery room.”

“I want nothing more,” Eira mumbled, shuffling off the platform and back into the palace. It wasn’t until the sunlight left her shoulders that she tried to look back and see what expression Ferro wore. But by then, it was too late. All Eira could catch a glimpse of was her name on the board—she’d passed.

Gwen helped her along the short walk to a stately office that had been repurposed for clerics tending to candidates. A sheet was laid out on a leather sofa where Eira was placed. A kind and sage-looking old man inspected her injuries, expressing relief that they weren’t too severe. He tried to make small talk about how he’d seen her working in the West Clinic and was impressed that she was such a fierce candidate while he mixed her a potion and spread salve over her hands, but Eira wasn’t up for talking.

Her mind was reeling. She’d done it. It had taken every ounce of strength from a well she didn’t even know she could tap into. And she’d been the very last name above the line. But her name was above the line; she’d made it through.

A muffled argument on the other side of the door brought Eira back to the present. She blinked, several times, the room coming back into focus. At some point the cleric must have stepped out. She thought she vaguely remembered him mumbling something about drinking her draught and then resting. A warm mug of fortifying broth was cradled in her hands and Eira took a long sip, leeching the strength from it.

“…no circumstances can she know.” That’s Father, Eira realized.

“You are being ridiculous.” Gwen’s whisper was, as usual, not very quiet. Eira could hear every word through the door. But her father’s soft reply had Eira standing and padding softly over to the room’s entrance, pressing her ear against the wood to hear better.

“This is not your