by Jay Kristoff
Like favored dogs, Mia realized.
Mia’s parents had slaves when she was a little girl—every noble familia in the Republic did. But Mia’s nanny, Caprice, was practically treated like blood, and her father’s majordomo, a Liisian named Andriano Varnese, stayed on to serve the justicus even after he’d purchased his freedom.1
Even on the run for her life as a child, even sworn into the service of the Black Mother, Mia had never really understood what it was to not belong to herself. The thought of it burned her, like the memory of that needle being hammered into her skin. Again and again. The indignity. The shame.
But you cannot win if you do not play.
The Gloryhound dropped anchor in the harbor, and a short row later, Mia stood with her fellow captives on the bustling docks of the cityport beneath Crow’s Nest, known as Crow’s Rest. Her wrists were manacled and chafed, her clothes filthy, her hair a matted mess. Mister Kindly’s absence was a knife wound in her belly, bleeding all the warmth right out of her. She looked down to her shadow, once dark enough for two, even three. Now, no different than any other around her. Fear hovered about her on black wings, and for the first time in years, she had to face it alone.
What if she failed?
What if she wasn’t strong enough?
What if this gambit was just as foolish as Mister Kindly had warned?
“Move!” came the cry, punctuated by the sting of knotted leather on her back.
Gritting her teeth, as was now the custom, Mia did as she was told.
A wagonride later, she was trundling into the courtyard of Crow’s Nest, heart aching inside her chest. The keep seemed so familiar, the sights, the sounds, Black Mother even the smells were unchanged. But decorating the ochre stone of the courtyard walls where the Crow of Corvere once flew, she saw the familia crest of Marcus Remus—a red falcon on a crossed black-and-white field.
I have a decidedly sinking feeling about this . . .
Memories of her childhood were awash in her head, mingled with images of her parents’ end. Her father executed along with General Antonius before a howling mob. Her mother and brother dead in the Philosopher’s Stone. Some part of her had always known this castle was no longer hers, that her home was not her home. But to see that bastard Remus’s colors still on the walls, even after she’d buried him . . . she felt as if the whole world were shifting beneath her feet. A sickness swelled in her belly, greasy and rolling. And still, she had no time to muse on the end of her old familia.
Her new one was waiting for her.
They stood in a row, like legionaries awaiting inspection. Thirteen men and two women, dressed in loincloths and piecemeal leather armor—spaulders, padded shin guards and the like. Sweat-soaked skin gleamed in the light of two burning suns, giving them the look of statues cast in bronze. Men and women who fought on the sands of the venatus, who lived and died to the cheers of a blood-drunk crowd.
Gladiatii.
As Dona Leona climbed down from the wagon, each of them slammed a fist to their chest and roared as one.
“Domina!”
Leona pressed her fingers to her lips, blew them kisses.
“My Falcons,” she smiled. “You look magnificent.”
The executus cracked his whip, barked at Mia and her fellows to get out of the wagon. Sidonius pushed his way out first as usual. Matteo again smiled, motioned she should go before him. Mia climbed down onto the dirt, felt fifteen sets of eyes appraising her every inch. She saw lips curl, eyes narrow in derision. But the gladiatii were as disciplined as any soldier, and none breathed a word in the presence of their mistress.
“I will leave you to introductions, Executus,” Dona Leona said. “I have an appointment with a ledger and a very long, very deep bath.”
“Your whisper, my will,” the big man bowed.
The woman disappeared beneath a tall stone archway and into the keep beyond. Mia’s eyes followed, watching the way she spoke with the servants, the way she moved. The girl was reminded a little of her mother. Leona w—
Crack!
The snap of the executus’s lash caught her full and complete attention.
The big man stood before them, whip in one hand. In the other, he held a handful of ochre earth from the ground at his feet, slowly letting it trickle through his fingers. He looked Mia and the other newcomers in the eye, spoke with a voice like breaking rock.
“What do I hold in my hand?”
Mai saw the ruse right away. Felt it in the hungry eyes of the gladiatii assembled behind the executus. She was new to this game, but not fool enough to fall for—
“Sand, Executus,” said Matteo.
Crack!
The whip flashed across the air between them, left a bleeding welt across Matteo’s chest. The boy staggered, his pretty face twisted in pain. The assembled gladiatii sneered as one.
Mia studied the fighters, assessing each in turn. The eldest couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Each wore the twin interlocking circles of a fighter’s slavemark branded into their cheek. Each was a stunning physical specimen—all hard muscle and gleaming skin. But apart from that, they were each as different as iron and clay.
She saw a Dweymeri woman, with saltlocks so long they almost touched the floor. Her tattoos, which normally marked a Dweymeri’s face, covered her entire body, flowing over her deep brown skin like black waterfalls. A Vaanian girl around Mia’s age stood beside her, blond topknot and bright green eyes. She was barefoot, almost slight compared to her fellows. Mia looked to these women to see if she’d sense some sort of kinship or sympathy, but both stared through her as if she were made of glass.
“What do I hold in my hand?” Executus repeated.
Mia remained silent, that sickness swelling in her belly. She doubted there was a right answer, or that the executus would acknowledge it even if it was given. And she was sure one of the two she’d rode in with were stupid enough to—
“Glory, Executus,” said Sidonius.
Crack!
The assembled gladiatii chuckled as Sidonius dropped to the floor, clutching split and bloody lips. Executus could wield that whip like a Caravaggio fighter wielded a rapier, and he’d gifted the big Itreyan a blow right across his fool mouth.
“You are nothing,” Executus growled. “Unworthy to lick the shit from my boot. What do you know of glory? It is a hymn of sand and steel, woven by the hands of legends and sung by the roaring crowd. Glory is the province of gladiatii. And you?” His lip curled. “You are naught but a common slave.”
Mia turned her eyes back to the line, studying the men behind their smiles.
They were a motley bunch, all of them bears. A handsome blonde caught her attention—he looked so similar to the Vaanian girl, they were almost certainly kin. She saw a huge Dweymeri man, his beard plaited the same as his saltlocks, his beautiful facial tattoos marred by his brand. A burly Liisian with a face like a dropped pie rocked on his heels as if unable to stand still. And standing first in the row, she saw a tall Itreyan man.
Belly turning cold.
Breath catching in her chest.
Long dark hair flowed about his shoulders, framing a face so fine it might’ve been sculpted by the weaver herself. He was fit and hard, but lither than some of his fellows, the whisper of a frightening speed coiled in the taut lines of his arms, the rippling muscle at his abdomen. He wore a thin silver torc about his neck—the only jewelry among the multitude. But when Mia looked into his dark, burning eyes, she felt the illness in her belly swell, innards growling as if she were suddenly, desperately hungry.
I’ve felt this before . . .
When she stood in the presence of Lord Cassius, the Prince of Blades . . .
Executus turned to the assembled warriors, let the sand spill from his fingers.
“Gladiatii,” he asked. “What do I hold in my hand?”
Each man and woman roared as one.
“Our lives, Executus!”
“Your lives.” The man turned back to the newc
omers, hurling his fistful of sand to the ground. “And worthless as they be, one turn they may be sung of as legend.
“I care not what you were before. Beggars or dons, bakers or sugargirls. That life is over. And now, you are less than nothing. But if you watch like bloodhawks and learn what I teach, then one turn, you may stand among the chosen, upon the sands of the venatus. As gladiatii! And then”—he pointed at the bleeding Sidonius with his whip—“then, you may learn the taste of glory, pup. Then you may know the song of your pulse as the crowd roars your name, as they do Furian, the Unfallen, primus of the Venatus Tsana and champion of the Remus Collegium!”
“Furian!” The gladiatii roared as one, raising their fists and turning to the tall Itreyan standing first in the line.
The raven-haired man still stared at Mia, unblinking.
“Gladiatii fear no death!” Executus continued, spittle on his lips. “Gladiatii fear no pain! Gladiatii fear but one thing—the everlasting shame of defeat! Mark my lessons. Know your place. Train until you bleed. For if you bring such shame upon this collegium, upon your domina, I swear by almighty Aa and all four of his holy fucking Daughters, you will rue the turn your mother shit you from her belly.”
He turned to his fighters, fist in the air, scar twisting his face as he roared.
“Sanguii e Gloria!”
“Blood and glory!”
The gladiatii answered as one, thumping their fists against their chests.
All except one.
The champion they called Furian.
The man was looking right at Mia, something akin to fury or lust or something in between in his stare. Her breath came quicker, skin prickling as if she were freezing. Hunger churned inside her, her mouth dry as dust, her thighs aching with want. Mia looked to the ground at his feet, saw his shadow was no darker than the rest. But she knew this feeling, sure as she knew her own name.
And looking into his eyes, she knew he felt it too.
This man is darkin . . .
1 In marrowborn houses and some well-established places of business, it is not uncommon for slaves to be paid for their labor—the notion being, a slave with the ability to buy back their freedom with enough hard work will work fucking hard indeed.The rate of pay is totally unregulated, however, and many slaves earn a pittance. Unscrupulous masters will often charge a slave for their upkeep and deduct the cost from their “earnings,” with the result that a lifetime of labor will not earn back the sum paid for their initial purchase.Unfair? Absolutely. But if the system were fair, it wouldn’t be much of a system, gentlefriends.
7: hungers
A thudding heartbeat. A sea of red. A rush of vertigo, filling her head.
Mia burst from the blood pool, rising to her feet. The hurts in her shoulder and backside were mended, but she still lost her footing, saved only by the two Hands beside her. The pair helped Mia up, holding one arm apiece until they knew she was steady. Mia spat the blood off her tongue, pawed the gore from her eyes with a sigh.
Looking about, she found herself in a triangular pool brimming with blood—identical to the one she’d just left in the Quiet Mountain. The walls were patterned with sorcerii glyphs, and a map of Godsgrave was painted on the wall in blood. The archipelago sprawled across the stone, shattered isles run through with traceries of canals, looking for all the world like a headless giant laid upon its back.
Mia took a deep breath, found her feet, slung her bloody hair over her shoulder.
“Maw’s teeth, I’ll never get used to this,” she croaked.
“Stop whining, Corvere. It beats the britches off traveling by ship.”
Mia’s stomach flipped as she recognized the voice. Turning to the head of the pool, she found a slender redhead staring back at her. The girl was around her age, but taller, sharper. Her eyes were green, twinkling with a feral, hunter’s cunning. Her face was lightly freckled, arms folded inside the voluminous sleeves of a long black robe.
A Hand’s robe.
Mia would recognize her anywhere—the girl who’d been a thorn in her side all throughout her training at the Quiet Mountain. The girl who blamed Mia’s father for the death of her own. The girl who’d vowed to kill her.
“Jessamine,” Mia breathed, climbing out of the pool on unsteady legs.
The redhead inclined her head. “Welcome to the City of Bridges and Bones.”
“You were posted to Godsgrave?” Mia asked. “After initiation?”
“Brilliant observation, Corvere,” the redhead replied. “What gave it away?”
Mia simply stared, the shadows beneath her seething. Jessamine looked her up and down, threw a bundle of linen at Mia’s chest.
“Baths are this way.”
The bundled fabric was a robe, and Mia dragged it around her blood-sodden body, leaving sticky red footprints as she followed Jessamine down a twisting hallway. The temperature was stifling, the stench of iron and gore almost overpowering.
Mia saw the walls and ceiling were made of thousands upon thousands of human bones. Femurs and ribs, spines and skulls, forming a dark maze run thick with shadows—whoever thought to construct the new chapel to Our Lady of Blessed Murder inside Godsgrave’s vast necropolis obviously had a deep appreciation of the value of ambience. Dim light was provided by arkemical globes, held in skeletal hands on the walls. But despite being surrounded by the remains of untold thousands, Mia’s eyes were fixed on the girl in front of her. Spitting the greasy blood off her tongue, she watched Jessamine as if the girl were about to sprout a second head.
After initiation, Mia knew Jessamine had been anointed as a Hand, but she’d been so caught up in her work in Galante that she’d never found out where. It seemed of all cities in the Republic, her old nemesis had been set to work in Godsgrave.
Fucking typical . . .
The hallway ended at a door made entirely of spines, which Jessamine opened with a gentle touch. Mia saw three baths beyond, the air hung faint with ashwood smoke and honeysuckle perfume. Mia scratched at the drying blood on her face, eyes never leaving the redhead’s. Adonai’s cryptic warning echoing in her head. The gravebone blade she kept ever strapped to her forearm was just a flick of the wrist away.
“I’ll be out here.” Jessamine nodded to the baths. “Don’t take too long. The bishop is waiting, and he’s of a darker mood than usual.”
Mia stood her ground, staring into the redhead’s eyes.
“You’re wondering if I’m going to try to drown you, aye?” Jessamine’s lips twisted in a smile. “Put a knife in you as soon as your back is turned?”
“What makes you think I’m going to turn my back, Red?”
Jessamine shook her head, her voice hard and cold.
“There’s still blood between you and me. But the turn I come for you, you won’t be naked in a tub with soap in your eyes. You’ll be wide awake, blade in hand. I promise you that.” Jessamine smiled, ear to ear. “So never fear, Corvere.”
Mia looked to the steaming baths. Down to the shadow at her feet. And then, she smiled back.
“I never do.”
* * *
An hour later, Mia was standing outside the chambers of the bishop of the Godsgrave Chapel. She was dressed in knee-high boots and black leathers, a doublet of crushed black velvet, hair neatly combed. Her father’s gravebone longsword hung at her side, her mother’s stiletto sheathed inside her ruffled sleeve.
The bishop’s chambers were hidden away in a twist of bone tunnels—the chapel’s innards were a labyrinth, and Mia had lost her bearings quickly. If not for Jessamine, she doubted she’d be able to find her way back to the blood pool again, which made her all the warier about being in the girl’s presence.
The chamber door opened silently, and a slender young man stepped out into the shadows of the hall, dressed in dark velvet. His face had woven since last Mia saw him, but he was still too thin, and Mia would recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere. Dark hair, ghost-pale, lips slightly pursed against his toothless gums.
/> “Hush,” Mia smiled.
The boy stopped, looked Mia up and down as if surprised to see her. A small smile curled his lips as he signed to her in Tongueless.
hello
She signed back, hands moving quickly.
you serve here? in godsgrave?
Hush nodded.
eight months
it’s good to see you
is it
we should have a drink
The boy looked at Jessamine, then gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Listen, I hate to break up this heartwarming reunion,” Jess said. “But honestly, I’m about to start weeping at the emotion, and the bishop is waiting.”
Hush nodded, looked to Mia.
mother watch over you
With a small bow, the boy pressed his fingertips together and walked away down the hall, silent as a shadow. Mia watched him go, a touch saddened. She’d been an acolyte with Hush. He’d helped her in her final trials, and in turn, she’d saved his life during the Luminatii attack. But as ever, the strange boy held himself distant.
A killer first, and always.
Jess knocked on the door three times.
“Fucksakes, what?” demanded a haggard voice from within.
Jessamine opened the door, motioned Mia inside. The girl entered the bishop’s chamber, looked about the room. Bone walls were lined with bookshelves, laden with haphazardly stacked paperwork. Sheaves of vellum and scrolls in boxes or simply piled atop one another, hundreds of books stacked without care or scattered across the floor—it looked like a globe of wyrdglass had exploded inside a drunkard’s library. Along one wall was a row of weaponry from all corners of the Republic; a Luminatii sunsteel blade; a Vaanian battleaxe; a double-edged gladius from some gladiatii arena; a rapier of Liisian steel. All gleaming in the low arkemical light.