Ithel saunters away and crouches in the shade of a nearby statuesque angel, twirling a knife in his hand. “That’s as may be. But you made it without relying on your Windwalker abilities to save you. And you didn’t fall. I call that progress.”
“Yes, I survived, but barely!” Helena huffs, dizziness overtaking her as she attempts to sit up. “I hardly think my performance was worth bragging about.”
“Barely alive still counts, so quit complaining.” Ithel jerks himself away from the angel, leaning over Helena’s body to examine the blood stains trailing down her arms. “Show me your hands,” he instructs, carefully inspecting her wounds even as he ignores her vulgar gesture. “And your feet?” Ithel dodges her foot as she kicks, catching her ankle and wrenching it up toward his face.
“Easy!” Helena wails as her overworked muscles scream at the mistreatment. Her knee quivers as the tendons holding her kneecap in place threaten to snap in their fatigue. “Please! Let go.”
Ithel hardly seems to notice her pain as he exclaims, “Not bad for a first try! These wounds will form hard calluses. Soft hands and feet would not keep you alive in this challenge anyway. Keep going like this, and you might make it through the tunnel successfully after all.” He drops her foot like it’s a weight too heavy to be carried.
“What’s in the tunnel?” Helena asks with a moan as she finally sits up, her spine creaking as a wave of nausea and shock overtakes her. I could have died just now! If I’d let go, I’m sure I would have. The cold reality washes over her nerves as bile rises in her throat. “How am I supposed to survive if I don’t know what I am fighting? No one ever talks about what’s actually in the tunnel.”
“That’s because no one knows. Those that have attempted the challenge have never survived long enough to spill its secrets,” Ithel admits as he hoists her off the ground, dropping his hold on her tiny waist as soon as her feet are stable. “The few people out there who were there when the tunnel was constructed are not allowed to speak of its secrets. They are spelled into silence; revealing the contents of the tunnel is a death sentence for them. So, we must prepare you for everything imaginable.”
“Why not just float out using my powers?” Helena suggests hopefully as she moves into the shadows along the wall, wincing as her blisters squish on the marble. Cursing the pain, she struggles to walk, waving off a couple of doctors who attempt to treat her wounds. “I’ll be fine. Don’t use your energies on me,” Helena mutters as guilt pangs rise in her stomach. The faces of the slaves who’d already saved her life float through her thoughts, slowly shifting into piles of sand just like their bodies had done. How many more must die for me? How much more can I endure before I go mad?
“Make all this death mean something, Helena, and it will be worth their sacrifices,” Ithel whispers gently, backing away from her side. Not to be deterred, the medical team swarms around her, slipping into her mind and forcing her body to heal despite her wishes.
Relief brings fresh tears to Helena’s eyes when none of these people die. Though they appear to be extremely fatigued and ashen faced, all of them are able to walk away from her side. “Thank you,” she croaks as they go to rest in the infirmary, wordlessly slipping into the sick beds that line the walls. Sighing, Helena turns to Ithel and whispers, “How did you know I was thinking about the ones that sacrificed for me?”
“I recognize that sadness in your eyes. As to using your Windwalker abilities, I suspect you will not be able to compel the magic once you’re in the tunnel. You will have to rely on your own strength and wits to survive.” Ithel smirks as he retorts, “Though from what I know about you, your wits won’t help you much.”
Helena’s arms are too weak and jelly-like in their movements to strike Ithel for his insolence. Choosing to ignore the jibe, she asks, “Well, climbing I can do, so now what?” Helena stretches her muscles, the feel of her healthy skin a delight under her fingertips. For so long, she’s been nothing more than a waif of the Déchets’ prison. Stroking her smooth, shiny hair, Helena savors the sensations of being clean, well-fed, and hale once more.
Ithel’s mouth forms a thin line as he holds his knife toward her chest. “Believe it or not, that climb was an easy one. But what if Alaric has your hands broken or your feet burdened with heavy chains around your ankles? What if you are stabbed or shot with an iron arrow, so the wound does not stop bleeding? What if you are given a hallucinogen? No, Helena, you are not even done with climbing.” He lunges over her before she can react, his blade sliding easily through her palms and the pads of her fingertips. While she stares at him in stunned silence, Ithel shoves her to the ground. Sitting on her legs, he makes quick work of her feet with his knife, slicing each one at least five times below the now hardened calluses and the fleshy parts of her toes. “Now, go back down to the ground floor and do this again, Helena. And I want you up here even faster!”
“You son of a—”
“Let’s see if your Windwalker magic still works, too,” Ithel interrupts as he drops her over the side of the rampart.
Helena cries out, her body flipping in a freefall state as panic overwhelms her senses. Seconds pass like hours as she tries to
