by Jay Kristoff
Mia’s mind was turning, suspicion and excitement entwined in her belly. Being recalled by the Ministry could mean anything. Reassignment. Rebuke. Retribution. She’d served the Black Mother well in the past eight months, but every Shahiid in the Mountain knew she’d failed her final trial, refusing to kill an innocent. The only reason she became a Blade at all was because Lord Cassius had baptized her as he lay dying on the sands of Last Hope. Perhaps the good grace his endorsement had given her had finally run out . . .
Who knew what awaited her when she arrived?
“When do I leave?” Mia asked.
Tenhands lifted her bone needle, looked meaningfully at Mia’s backside.
“As soon as you can walk.”
Mia sighed. No sense fretting on what she couldn’t change. And getting back to the Mountain, she could speak to Chronicler Aelius again, see Naev. Maybe find some of the answers she sought.
“Bend over,” the bishop ordered. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
Mia took the bottle of medicinal goldwine and took a long, deep pull.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
It turns out three men at once was almost more than Mia could handle.
The battle had started well enough. The pit fighters had advanced, spurred on by the jeering crowd and the fact that Mia had thrown her wooden sword into the dirt. The first—a burly Itreyan—had bellowed a war cry and swung his blade at her head. And with a glance, Mia had reached toward the dark at his feet.
Out here in the light of two suns, the shadows were sluggish and heavy. But Mia was stronger now, in herself, in what she was, and she’d been playing this particular trick for years, after all. With a glance, she affixed the big Itreyan’s boots in his own shadow, stopping his charge short. Weaving close as he lost balance, she’d kicked him hard in the knee, punched him square in the throat, and as he toppled backward, she’d pirouetted and caught the sword flying from his hand to the tune of the cheering crowd.
“ . . . you are showing off now . . .” came a whisper in her ear.
“That’s the bloody poin—”
The blow caught her on the back of the head, sent her reeling. She barely managed to turn and block the next flurry, staggering back into a semblance of guard. The remaining Pit fighters—a broad Liisian with a pockmarked face, and a taller Dweymeri with only seven fingers—advanced, giving her no time to catch her breath. She was forced back across the Pit, warm blood dripping down the back of her neck.
Sevenfingers stepped up, swung at her face, throat, chest. Mia countered, locking him up and slipping inside his guard, but Pockface’s sword cracked across her ribs before she could strike, and an elbow sent her sprawling into the dirt.
She kept her grip on her sword, rolling aside as the pair tried to stomp her head in. Scrabbling on the ground, she slung a handful of red sand into Pockface’s eyes, lashed out with her boot and sent Sevenfingers to the ground. Rolling to her feet, she planted her boot in the now-blinded Pockface’s bollocks, hard enough to elicit a groan of sympathy from every man in the crowd. And to their cheers, she smashed her sword hilt into his face, smearing his nose across his cheeks.
“ . . . behind . . .”
She turned, barely blocking a blow that would’ve caved her skull in. The burly Itreyan was back on his feet, chin smeared with vomit and spit. She danced with him in the dust, strike and riposte, weave and flurry. Burlyboy was huge, twice as strong as she. But what Mia lacked in size, she made up for in speed and sheer, bloody ferocity. The Itreyan swung hard, snapping her gladius in half as she blocked. But with a shapeless cry, she danced inside his follow-through, crouched low and smashed her broken sword up beneath his chin. The splintered wood punctured his throat, gouts of blood coating Mia’s hands as Burlyboy fell.
“ . . . left, left . . . !”
Mister Kindly’s whisper brought her around, but too late—a gladius caught her across the shoulder, sent her reeling as the crowd roared. Sevenfingers swung again, struck her in the ribs, Mia gasping in agony. She locked up his swordarm, pulled him close. Smelling sweat, dirty breath, blood. Sevenfingers punched her in the face, once, twice, and with a ragged cry she reached out to the shadows, locking up his feet as she pushed backward with all her strength. With his feet rooted, the man toppled backward, Mia falling on top of him, fingers finding his mouth, slipping inside his cheeks and twisting like fishhooks before ripping outward.
The man screamed as his lips split, the crowd baying. The girl began pounding on his jaw with her fists, once, twice, three times. Hands red. Teeth gritted. Blood in her mouth. Picturing a smiling consul with dark, pretty eyes. A grand cardinal with a beard like a hedgerow and a voice like honey. Their faces pulped as she pounded, again
“ . . . mia . . .”
and again, picturing her mother, her brother, her father, everything she’d lost, everything they’d taken, and this man beneath her just one more enemy, just one more obstacle between her and the turn she’d spit on all their fucking grav—
“ . . . mia . . . !”
She fell still. Drenched in sweat. Breath burning. Covered in warm, sticky red. She could feel Mister Kindly’s chill, mixed with the blood on the back of her neck. The world came back into focus, its volume swelling in her ears. And beneath the thundering pulse and echoes of her past, she heard it. Swelling in her chest and tingling her fingertips.
Applause.
She stood, painted to the elbows in red. The crowd in the bleachers were on their feet, Teardrinker tending a flurry of bids rolling in from the sanguila at the Pit’s edge. Three hundred silver. Three hundred and fifty. Four. And on trembling legs, the girl walked across the Pit and stood before Leonides. She looked her would-be master in the eye, and dropped into a perfect curtsey before him.
“Domini,” she said.
The sanguila regarded her with narrowed eyes. His executus whispered in his ear. And as a storm of butterflies took wing in Mia’s belly, Leonides raised his hand and spoke in a voice that rang across the entire Pit.
“One thousand silver pieces.”
A low murmur rippled across the audience, Mia’s heart thrilling. Such a sum! Truth told, it was an overbid—the man could have probably knocked out most of his fellows with half that. But Mia knew the domini of the Lions of Leonides was fond of theater, and his bid told everyone in the Pit that he was in no mood to haggle.
Leonides wanted her. And so, he would have her. Price be damned.
It had gone perfectly. If Mia fought among the Lions of Leonides, she was almost assured a place in the Venatus Magni. And when the games were we over, when she stood victorious upon the dais—
“One thousand and one,” came a call.
Mia’s belly turned cold. She glanced up to the stands, saw a figure step forward from the crowd. Wrapped in a long cloak despite the heat, pulling back the hood to reveal a young pretty face, long auburn hair, pale Itreyan skin.
A woman.
“ . . . who is that . . . ?”
“No bloody idea,” Mia whispered.
“One thousand and one silver pieces,” the woman repeated.
Mia’s eyes narrowed. She’d never heard of a female sanguila—though there had been a few famous female gladiatii, the stage of the venatus was ever managed by the careful hand of men. Maybe the newcomer was an agent for another domini? A foil from the ledgermen to drive up her price?
Mia looked to Leonides expectantly. Whoever this woman was, the greatest sanguila in the history of the games wasn’t going to be outbid by a single silver coin.
Titus’s face was a mask. Leonides glanced to his executus, back to the newcomer, speaking as if the words soured his mouth.
“This is somewhat childish, don’t you think, my dear?”
The woman’s smile was splashed across her face like poison.
“Childish? Whatever do you mean?”
“I hear tell you have but a handful of coppers to rub together,” Leonides said. “If your intent is to embarras
s the patriis familia of your own House, are there not less expensive ways to do so?”
The woman smiled wider, and Mia’s stomach sank.
“My thanks for your concern,” she said. “But this is just business, Father.”
“ . . . o, dear . . .”
“I have told you before, Leona,” Leonides warned. “The venatus is no place for women. And the sanguila’s box is no place for you.”
“Frightened my Falcons might eclipse your Lions, dear Patriis?”
Leonides scoffed. “One victor’s laurel in a backwater stoush does not a collegium make.”
“You won’t mind if I take the bloody beauty, then?”
Leona glanced at Mia. Leonides also turned to stare. Mia stepped forward, pleas roiling behind her teeth. But Mister Kindly’s whisper held her still.
“ . . . remember who you are. and who you are supposed to be . . .”
The not-cat was right. This was her script, after all, and she had the hardest role to play. If she was to fight on the sands in service to a gladiatii collegium, she could only do so as its property. And property didn’t speak unless spoken to. It certainly didn’t wade into a public pissing contest between father and daughter . . .
Shit.
Mia stared at Sanguila Leonides. Eyes pleading. She’d calculated it so well. She’d fought like a daemon, won the approval of every blood master in the Pit. She was only a single word, a single bid away from entry into the greatest collegium in the Republic. One step closer to Consul Scaeva’s and Cardinal Duomo’s throats. All Leonides need do was speak . . .
“Very well, Leona.”
Leonides feigned a shrug, turning his back on his daughter.
“Take her, then. For all the good she will do you.”
Leona smiled, sharp and bright. Mia’s shoulders sagged. Legionaries marched into the ring, the crook-eyed boy slapping shackles around her wrists. She could’ve run, then. Hidden beneath her cloak of shadows, slipped from the Pit with only dismayed shouts and prayers to the Everseeing in her wake.
But then she’d be right back where she started. It had taken weeks to orchestrate a clandestine trip to Ashkah, the broken caravan, her sale in the Garden. She’d waste weeks more in trying to get sold to a mightier collegium, and with the grand games so close, they were weeks she simply didn’t have to spare.
She’d ended too many lives, risked so much to be here to simply abandon her plan altogether. And though Leona was an unknown factor, Mia still had faith in her own abilities, and no real fear she could fail. Behind her lay only blood and a Mountain full of treachery. Ahead lay the sand of the venatus, and vengeance.
This was her course now. For good or ill, she had to walk it.
The legionaries parted. Mia looked up to see Dona Leona standing before her. This close, she could see the woman was in her early twenties. Bright blue eyes and auburn hair coiled in gentle ringlets, lightly freckled skin. She wore gold jewelry, a ruby wedding band. Beneath her cloak, her gown was cut of soft Liisian silk. Every part of her screamed “wealth,” save her eyes. As Mia risked a glance into those kohled pools of brilliant blue, she could think of only one word to describe them.
Hungry.
“My bloody beauty,” she smiled. “What a pair we shall make.”
Mia hung still, unsure what to say. Leona glanced at the soldiers, annoyance in her gaze. One of the men drew a truncheon, struck Mia across her legs. The girl cried out, fell to her knees. Teeth clenched, bloodstained hands in fists. But she could feel Mister Kindly, prowling cool inside her shadow, his whisper in her ears.
“ . . . who you are, and who you are supposed to be . . .”
And so, she stayed there in the dust, eyes downturned, silent and still.
“I am Dona Leona,” the woman said. “Though you will call me Domina.”
The woman extended her hand. Mia saw a golden ring on Leona’s signet finger—a falcon, wings spread, crowned with a victor’s wreath.
The truncheon cracked across her shoulder blades. Mia gasped in pain.
“Show your respects, slave!” a soldier barked.
Mia stared at that bird of prey in its wreath of gold. Just as proud and fierce and wild as she. And yet here she was, kneeling in the dirt like a whipped kitten.
Patience, she thought.
If Vengeance has a mother, her name is Patience.
Mia drew a deep breath.
Closed her eyes.
“Domina,” she murmured.
And leaning forward, she kissed the ring.
1 Galante proudly boasts the greatest number of churches and temples in all the Republic, besting even Godsgrave in the tally.Before the great Unifier, King Francisco I, conquered the nation, the people of Liis worshiped a holy trinity known as the Father, the Mother, and the Child. But once assimilated by the Itreyan monarchy, worship of the God of Light caught on among the common folk like a fire in a well-stocked brewery.One wily fellow, a merchant named Carlino Grimaldi, decided the best way to distinguish himself in the new world order was to chuck wagonloads of money at the Itreyan church. He built the first cathedral to Aa all of Liis; a towering structure known as Basilica Lumina, right in the heart of Galante. Sculpted of rare purple marble and beautiful stained glass, construction almost bankrupted its patron. However, so impressive was the final result, Galante’s cardinal had Grimaldi appointed as governor of the entire city. Galante nobles were soon falling over themselves to curry favor among Aa’s ministry, and churches to the Everseeing and temples to his four daughters began springing up over Galante like a rash on a sugargirl’s nethers after the navy hits town.Though he was later crucified for tax evasion, Carlino still went down in Liisian history as an Exceptionally Clever Bastard. Even to this turn, to curry favor among men of the cloth in Liis is known as “pulling a Grimaldi.”
2 Tenhands began her career as a thief on the streets of Elai, and even after she became a Blade of the Mother, she never lost her knack for the art of stealth. She was said to move like the dark itself, and was capable of dislocating both shoulders at will, allowing her to squeeze through the tightest of places with little difficulty.Her most infamous Offering was for a senator named Phocas Merinius—a man so astonishingly paranoid about assassination, it was said he kept a retinue of half a dozen guards on hand at his bedside when he made love to his wife. Tenhands reportedly gained access to Phocas’s villa by crawling in through the sewer and up the privy spout—an ingress eight inches wide at best—and lying in wait right there inside the pipe. When poor Phocas heard the call of nature in the middle of the nevernight, he sat down on the privy seat and found both his femoral arteries severed before he could even commence his business.Tenhands reportedly spent the next seven turns in the chapel’s baths trying to wash off the stink.The things we do for our Mothers . . .
3 The Luminatii raids had missed both: the Galante Chapel was only recently constructed, and unbeknownst to the Järnheims, the old Dweym Chapel had been relocated the previous winter, when, due to unusually heavy rains and some dodgy plumbing, its cellar (and thus, its blood pool) had flooded.Instead of refilling the pool, the Ministry decided to build a new structure on higher ground in the cityport of Seawall, and abandoned the ruined one in Farrow. If constructing an entirely new chapel to Our Lady of Blessed Murder, in secret, in the middle of a major metropolis, seems a costly and cumbersome affair, consider the following:Two thousand–odd cubic feet of vitus fills every Church blood pool.There are approximately seven and a half gallons of liquid per cubic foot.The average pig holds approximately one gallon of blood in its body.Do the math, gentlefriends. And ask yourself if you ever want to be filling one of these damn pools twice.
4 It is commonly known among folk who employ hired killers that the Red Church operates under a code of, if not outright honor, then at least conduct, known as the Red Promise. The strictures are thus:Inevitability—no offering undertaken in the history of the Church has ever gone unfulfilled.Sanctity—a current employer of the Church may not be cho
sen as a target of the Church.Secrecy—the Church does not discuss the identity of its employers.Fidelity—a Blade will only serve one employer a time.Hierarchy—all offerings must approved by the Lord/Lady of Blades or Revered Father/Mother.The first three strictures were loosely in place at the Church’s inception, but the strictures of Fidelity and Hierarchy were codified after an infamous event in Church history, told to acolytes as “The Tale of Flavius and Dalia.”Take a pew, gentlefriends.Flavius Apullo was an Itreyan general, who stood among the conspirators who overthrew King Francisco XV and forged the Republic. He went on to become a senator, and as one does, immensely wealthy.The period around the collapse of the Itreyan monarchy was a busy time in the art of professional murder, and authority was being granted to individual bishops of local chapels to accept offerings. Senator Flavius Apullo began fearing assassination around the same time his rivals got serious about bumping him off, and in an embarrassing turn, the Red Church undertook to murder Flavius the very same nevernight as he employed a Church Blade on retainer as his bodyguard.Red faces all round, gentlefriends.In a further cluster of fuckery, the Blade designated for both these offerings was a woman named Dalia. Beautiful, manipulative, and peerless with a punching dagger, Dalia served as Flavius’s bodyguard for three years. In that time, the pair became lovers, and Dalia eliminated a slew of Flavius’s rivals—all save his most vocal opponent, Tiberius the Elder. Tiberius was the senator who’d employed the Church to murder Flavius, and under the Law of Sanctity, he was off limits until said murder was complete. Tiberius, however, was dying of Old Mother Syphilis, and in quite a hurry to see Flavius necked before he shuffled of this mortal coil.The Red Church was on the brink of a political embarrassment that could have ended their reputation.Cleverly, Flavius proposed marriage to Dalia to cement her place at his side—he assumed a fiancée would keep him safer from any would-be assassins than a mere employee. Not so cleverly, he let his patronage with the Red Church lapse the same turn that Dalia accepted his marriage proposal.Dalia stabbed her husband to death on their wedding night. Rumor conflicts whether she wept as she did the deed. She brought Flavius’s head to the sickbed of Tiberius the Elder to prove the contract was fulfilled. And content the Church’s reputation was intact, but more, that Tiberius was no longer a Church employer protected by the Law of Sanctity, Livia raised her punching dagger and saved Old Mother Syphilis the trouble.Rumors about whether she was weeping at the time are quite clear.After this incident, it was decided to write some actual bloody rules about how things would be run around here.