A Surface of Pressure and Burden

Chapter 12: A Trial of Levers and Illiteracy

Feyre's next trial honestly made me long for the days of Big Daddy Worm. Early the morning after I met Rhysand, attendant-fae woke us up with loudly blaring music to dress Feyre in the leather outfit he had picked out for her. She barely stopped talking the whole time about how the outfit was way too big, she definitely needed a smaller size, Rhysand should probably measure her again, etc. (I noticed the camera-fae didn't seem very interested in using their magical devices for this little monologue.)

Down the winding passageway, into the overwhelming throne room/dance party again. Amarantha seemed to have redone her look a little bit for this next trial - she had dyed her hair a slightly different shade of bright red, had more eyeshadow, and sat on an even bigger throne. Tamlin was seated next to her like last time, looking forlorn, but there was so sign of his fox-masked friend, Lucien.

"What up, what up, Ranthnatics, it's Trial Two!" Amarantha shouted.

"2 Fae 2 Furious," joked a camera-fae.

"Step Up 2 the Spring Court," quipped another.

"More like Number Two, if you ask me," muttered a third.

"Shut up, you," said Amarantha. "OK now, FeyFey, have you solved my riddle yet?"

Feyre, apparently, didn't deign to make a response.

"Didn't think so, ya dumb bitch," said Amarantha, then laughed. "JK all the way, girlboss! Actually, I'm feeling generous tonight - how about some riddle practice?"

In a rather pathetic retread of the first trial, the floor opened up in front of Feyre and she was lowered down into a huge pit. Instead of a worm, however, this pit contained a big iron cage, which contained Lucien. In the front of the cage were three giant, numbered levers with a carved inscription above them.

"Pull the lever, Feyre!" Amarantha shouted, reading from that ever-present stack of paper. "But make sure it's not the wrong one! Just read the inscription and make your choice." She gave the director-fae a disgusted look. "Really? That's all we're doing? I thought she was going to punch a spider to get to the levers or something."

"Nah, viewers said the giant worm fight was lame, so we're trying to do something more cerebral this round," the director retorted.

"Whatever," said Amarantha. "As there are only three options, I think I gave you an unfair advantage. That is, if you can solve the puzzle in time!"

I gasped as two giant, spike-encrusted grates started lowering from the ceiling towards the trapped Lucien, who gave the audience a terrified look and wrenched at his chains. I remembered the Clare Beddor stunt, however, and told myself this was another staged performance. I desperately hoped this was true, in fact, because -

"Something wrong?" Amarantha smirked as Feyre looked frantic. "Just, like, read the inscription, it's not that hard."

But unfortunately, it was. Because my youngest sister couldn't read.

OK, it wasn't entirely true that she couldn't read at all. She knew the alphabet, and some basic words. You may recall, Reader, that I had tried to write the word "love" on her wall to help her guess the Amarantha's first riddle. She could have sounded that word out, even though it would have taken her forever. But getting through something longer than a word or two - it was a lost cause.

I haven't talked much about my mother in this story. And that's largely because - well - call me superstitious, but I've always heard it's wrong to speak ill of the dead. My mother wasn't exactly the easiest person to get along with, and she'd had some very old-fashioned ideas about girls and how much education they needed. Or should I say, didn't need. Elain and I had always loved reading, however, and I don't regret for a moment the secret stash of books we kept in a box in our treehouse. After Mother died, Dad had his work-related accident, and we fell into poverty, Feyre had wanted to go to the village school with Isaac, before he dropped out to focus on becoming a bard in the local taverns. This is something she's held against me for years now, so I'd like to set the record straight: I never forbid her to go. As if she'd have listened if I had. When she brought it up, I answered the only way I knew how - "with what money, Feyre?" And she clammed up and would never talk about it again.

We were in pure survival mode in those years. I was worried about Feyre's education, when I had mental energy to think about something other than not starving or freezing to death. I did try, once, to help her work on her reading, and the less said about that rage-inducing afternoon the better. Elain lasted much longer at this task than I did, even though Feyre hated admitting someone was better than her at something, and these attempts usually ended with Elain in tears and Feyre stomping off into the barn or the woods.

So, yes - I really hoped Lucien's peril was fake.

Even with that hope, however, the next few minutes were incredibly stressful. In addition to being filled with massive, sharp spikes, the descending grates were also glowing with fiery heat. They moved closer and closer to Lucien's cage as Feyre frantically paced back and forth in front of the three levers. She tried and failed to sound out the first few words of the inscription (it was some other, equally vague riddle about grasshoppers), and gave up in frustration.

Curse that stupid blue wood-faerie to the Night Court and back! If only I could read the inscription for my sister!

"Two is a lucky number," Feyre muttered to herself, "because that is like Tamlin and me—just two people."

I wondered how Isaac Hale was doing these days.

"One has to be bad, a nasty number, because one is like Amarantha - a solitary being."

"Rude," said Amarantha. "I have friends."

"Three is too much - it is three sisters crammed into a tiny cottage, hating each other until they choked on it, until it poisoned them."

Wow.

"Two. It is two. I could gladly, willingly, fanatically believe in a Cauldron and Fate if they would take care of me. I believe in two. Two!" Feyre concluded. What was with the random religious epiphany? The spikes were inches away from the top of the cage!

"Oh my fae, she's so stupid," Amarantha sighed and, just like the first trial, pushed a large red button on the arm of her throne. Feyre was reaching her hand out to the #2 lever and drew it back with a squeak - the level now glowed as sizzling hot as the spikes. I could practically feel it from here.

Feyre gazed at her right hand in amazement. With her left index finger she traced the weird eye-themed temporary tattoo that Rhys and his assistant-fae had given her last night.

"Rhysand," she breathed. "Thank you!"

What the cauldron?

Feyre reached for Lever 1, which Amarantha heated up again with the red button. Finally, obviously, she pulled Lever 3. The horrible spikes retreated back up into the ceiling and Lucien practically sobbed with relief.

"That's it?" Someone in the audience asked.

"What happened?" Asked someone else. "I couldn't see the inscription from here."

"Short and sweet tonight, people!" shouted Amarantha. "Now get out of here and go get ready for the afterparty!"

Feyre stared at her hand in wonder all the way back to her room.