The stairs were old, worn smooth by centuries of feet, and the mist that clung to the hillside made them slick beneath his shoes. Martin climbed slowly at first, picking his way carefully, and then faster, as though speed might make up for what he lacked. Around him, the other children were doing the same—some hurrying, some falling back, all of them driven by the same desperate hope.
He did not look down. He did not look back. He kept his eyes on the steps ahead, on the mist that swallowed everything beyond a few yards, and he climbed.
The first hour was not difficult. He had walked the hills around his village since he was small, and his legs were strong. But the stairs were not like the hills. They were steeper, and the air grew thinner the higher he went, and the mist pressed against him like something alive.
Around him, other children began to falter. A boy younger than him sat down on the steps, his face wet with tears, and Martin stepped around him without stopping. A girl he had spoken to only briefly turned and began to descend, her shoulders shaking, and Martin did not call out to her. He kept climbing.
The second hour was harder. His legs burned, and his lungs ached with each breath. The mist was thicker now, so thick he could barely see the steps in front of him, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his own breathing, the scrape of his shoes on stone.
He thought of his father, sitting in the yard with his pipe, the lines in his face softening when he spoke of Martin's future. He thought of his mother, her hands trembling as she packed his bundle. He thought of Thomas, giving up his own son's place so that Martin could have a chance.
He climbed.
On the third hour, he began to lose count of the steps. The stairs stretched on, endless, the mist pressing against him from all sides, and he could not tell how far he had come or how far he had yet to go. His legs were numb. His hands, when he touched the stones for balance, were bleeding.
He stopped for the first time. He leaned against the stone wall that rose on one side of the stairs and tried to catch his breath. His chest was tight, his lungs raw, and there was a ringing in his ears that would not stop.
You can go back, something whispered. It's not too late. You can go back, and your father will understand, and your mother will make bread, and you can sit on the path at the edge of the village and dream of the world beyond the hills.
He pushed himself away from the wall and climbed.
The day passed. He did not know how long he climbed—hours, perhaps, or days. The mist did not lift, and the stairs did not end, and somewhere behind him, other children were falling away, one by one, their footsteps fading into the silence.
He did not think about them. He did not think about anything but the next step, and the next, and the next.
His hands were raw, his knees torn, his shoes worn through. He pulled himself upward on hands and knees, and when he could not pull himself any further, he crawled.
The mist was thinner now, or perhaps that was his imagination. He could see the steps ahead of him more clearly, and the wall that rose beside them, and—above him, somewhere above him—a light.
He crawled toward the light.
On the second day, a man appeared on the path ahead of him. He was not old, but neither was he young, and his face held something that might have been pity. He was dressed in the dark robes of the chapter, and he stood on the steps as though he had been waiting there for a very long time.
"Boy," he said. "What is your name?"
Martin could not speak. His lips were cracked, his throat raw, and the words would not come.
"You have climbed further than most," the man said. "But the summit is still far. There is no shame in turning back."
Martin did not answer. He pulled himself up another step, and another, his hands leaving smears of blood on the worn stones.
The man watched him for a long moment. Then he knelt beside Martin, and his face was no longer pitying.
"I have seen few with such will," he said.
He reached out and touched Martin's forehead. For an instant, Martin felt something pass between them—a warmth, a spark, a light that seemed to come from somewhere far beyond the mist and the stairs and the silent stone walls. It was there, and then it was gone, and the man was standing again, looking down at him.
"Go on," the man said. "The summit is not far now."
He was gone before Martin could speak, swallowed by the mist, and Martin was alone again on the stairs.
He climbed.
The third morning came with light. The mist parted, and Martin saw the summit for the first time—a flat stone platform, ringed by pillars that had once held statues, and above it, the tower of the chapter house, close enough now to see the carving on the stones, the worn figures of saints and angels that lined its walls.
He crawled toward it. His hands would not hold. His arms would not lift. He pulled himself forward on his elbows, his knees scraping against the stone, and he did not stop.
He was ten steps away when the light began to fade. He was five steps away when the darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He was one step away when the world went gray, and then black, and then nothing.
He woke in a stone room, lying on a cot, his hands bandaged, his knees wrapped in clean linen. The light that came through the narrow window was the soft light of evening, and the room was quiet, save for the breathing of a boy who sat on the cot beside him.
"You made it," the boy said. "Almost. They carried you the last part."
Martin turned his head. The boy was young, his age perhaps, with dark hair and eyes that were kind. "Did I pass?" Martin asked. His voice was a whisper.
The boy shrugged. "They haven't decided. They kept the ones who finished. There's one more test."
They were led to the test that afternoon. The children who had finished the climb—seven of them, out of the dozen who had started—walked through the chapter house in silence, past closed doors and shuttered windows, into a hall that stretched the length of the building. The walls were lined with swords, old swords, their blades dark with age, their hilts wrapped in leather that had worn smooth. The air was heavy, and the silence pressed against Martin's ears.
The old man from the courtyard was there, standing at the far end of the hall, his hands folded before him. He looked at them without expression.
"The final trial," he said. "If you can enter, you may stay."
One by one, the children walked toward the hall. Each of them stopped at the threshold, held back by something Martin could not see—a wall, a weight, a presence that pressed against them and would not let them pass.
Gregory went first. He reached the threshold and stopped, his face white, his hands raised as though to push against something. He did not move. The old man watched, and after a moment, he shook his head. Gregory stepped back, his shoulders slumped.
Another child tried, and another. Some of them took a single step into the hall before the weight pushed them back. One of them—the girl with red hair—made it three steps, her face set, her teeth clenched, before she staggered and fell.
Martin was the seventh. He walked toward the threshold, and for a moment, the air pressed against him like a wall. He pushed. The wall gave, just a little, and he stepped through.
The old man's eyebrows rose. "Farther," he said.
Martin took another step. The pressure grew, but he kept moving—one step, then another, until he was more than halfway to the nearest sword.
And then, without warning, the wall surged against him. He was thrown back, stumbling across the threshold, his ears ringing.
The old man watched him in silence. After a long moment, he turned away.
"Fail," he said.
Martin stood in the empty hall and did not weep. He had given everything, and it had not been enough. The swords on the walls seemed to watch him, their blades dark, their edges waiting. He thought of his father's face when he had said, If they don't take you, you come home.
He walked out of the hall, down the long corridor, past the closed doors and the shuttered windows, into the courtyard where Thomas was waiting. His uncle did not speak. He put his hand on Martin's shoulder, the same weight, the same pressure, and led him toward the gate.
Behind them, the chapter house rose against the sky, its tower hidden in the clouds, its walls gray and silent. Martin did not look back.