Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  She keeps him off-balance with it, Mia noted. He’s ten years her senior. Twice her size. A warrior of a hundred battles, champion of the magni, and the poor bastard doesn’t even know which way to look when she walks into the room.

  “So,” Leona said, leaning back and sipping from her cup. “You have thoughts. Ones most pressing that simply must be shared.”

  Arkades nodded, his embarrassment evaporating as talk turned to the collegium.

  “Matilius, Mi Dona.”

  “What of him?”

  “His sale to Caito—”

  “Was a necessity,” she interrupted. “The purse at Blackbridge was not enough to cover expenses this month. Our creditors press, and they will have their coin.”

  “But Caito . . . ,” Arkades began. “Pandemonium is no place for a man to die.”

  Leona downed her cup with one swallow.

  “Matilius was not a man,” she said, pouring another. “He was a slave.”

  “You do not truly believe that, Mi Dona.”

  Arkades stared at the younger woman across the table. Mia could see a moment’s softness in her stare, replaced quickly with iron.

  “Do I not?” she asked.

  “Matilius was gladiatii,” Arkades said. “He won glory and honor for this collegium. For you, Dona. He was not our finest blade, true, but he served you with all he had.”

  “It was not enough. I have mouths aplenty and they all cost money. Our debts mount with every turn and my purse is all but empty.”

  “And how came that to be, I wonder?” Executus scowled. “When you spend a living fortune on a single recruit?”

  “Ah,” Leona sighed. “We come to the rub quickly this time.”

  “For the thousand silver pieces you paid for that girl, you could have fed this collegium for the rest of the year!”

  Mia’s ears pricked up at her mention, eyes narrowing.

  “Did you watch her at Blackbridge?” Leona asked. “Did you see the way she ignited the crowd?”

  “We have Furian for that!” Arkades all but shouted, rising from his chair. “The Unfallen is this collegium’s champion! That slip can’t even lift a damn shield!”

  “Then we fight her Caravaggio style. Twin blades. No shield. The crowd will adore it, and her. A girl her size, gutting men twice as big? And looking the way she does? Four Daughters, the crowd won’t be able to see for the swelling of their cocks.”

  Arkades sighed, pushing his knuckles into his eyes.

  “When you started this collegium, Dona, you asked for my aid.”

  “I did.” Leona toyed with the neckline of her robe. “And I am ever grateful for it.”

  “So with all respect, my counsel must carry weight. I have known you since you were a child. I know you grew up around the venatus. But there is a world of difference between watching from the boxes, and running a collegium.”

  Leona’s eyes and voice turned cold. “Think you, I do not know that?”

  “I think you wish to spite your father.”

  Leona’s eyes narrowed, her lips thin. “You overstep, Executus.”

  Arkades raised a hand in supplication at Leona’s outrage. “Daughters know, I remember how he treated you and your mother. And your rage has no lack of merit. But I fear outbidding him on that girl so steeply proves your mind is clouded on matters of familia. Mine is clear. I fought for years on the sand, trained your father’s gladiatii years after that. And I tell you now, that girl is no champion. She has a fox’s cunning, but she’s not half the gladiatii Furian is. There will come a time when guile and wit won’t serve her. When it’s only she, and a sword, and a man she has to kill.”

  Arkades leaned on the table, staring into Leona’s eyes.

  “And she. Will. Fail.”

  Mia’s stomach sank to hear Arkades talk so. She thought she’d impressed him with her showing at Blackbridge, but the man seemed utterly blind to her merits.

  Leona’s eyes fell and Arkades remembered himself, sat back in his chair with an apologetic grunt. The dona downed the rest of her wine, stared into the empty goblet for endless minutes. When she spoke, her voice was so soft Mia almost couldn’t hear.

  “Perhaps it was ill advised, spending such a sum. But I . . . I didn’t want to see him win again. Mother warned me when I was a little girl. ‘Never stand against your father,’ she told me. ‘He always wins.’”

  She looked up at her executus, eyes bright with fury.

  “But not this time,” she spat. “Never again. I want him on his knees. I want him to look up into my eyes and know it was me who put him there. I want to drink his suffering like the finest wine.” She hurled the bottle into the wall just beside Mia’s head, shattering it into a thousand splinters. “Not this fucking slop.”

  She hung her head and sighed.

  “Even selling Matilius, we owe another dozen creditors.”

  “ . . . How much?”

  “Much. And the points accrue by the turn.” Leona curled a fist, knuckles turning white. “Daughters, if only Marcus hadn’t died. Another few years on a justicus’s stipend, I’d have had enough to do this properly. If I find the ones who took him from me . . .”

  “It matters not,” Arkades said. “We can pay whatever is owed with the coin we make from the Crow’s sale. And from there, we will drive Furian all the way to the magni. We have three venatus between now and truelight, three laurels to win a qualifying berth. You will have your victory, Dona,” Arkades vowed. “If you let me give it to you. Have faith in me. As I have faith in you.”

  Mia looked at the pair of them, each alone, and then together. Leona’s robe, the brazen sexuality, the way she used her body to put Arkades off guard—it made a kind of sense, knowing she’d grown up in the home of a domineering father.

  But Arkades . . .

  The fire in his eyes. The fervor in his voice when he made his vow. He was champion of the most brutal competition the Republic had devised. Ten years her senior. Separated by the barrier between the wealthy born and former property.

  And yet . . .

  Mia shook her head. Five minutes with them alone and she knew exactly why Arkades had left Leonides and come to serve his wayward daughter.

  The poor fool’s actually in love with her.

  Leona placed her empty goblet on the table and sighed.

  I wonder if she knows?

  “You are my executus,” the dona said. “I know you gave up much to come here. And I would see that faith rewarded.”

  Leona toyed with the lip of her cup, nodded, as if to herself.

  “I will heed your counsel. We will fight the Crow at the venatus in Stormwatch at month’s end. Not the Ultima, we have our champion for that. Some minor bout, so as not to damage her. With good fortune, she’ll comport herself in fashion fine enough to regain some measure of the cost we paid for her.”

  Mia’s stomach dropped into her boots.

  Black Mother . . .

  “You will sell her, then?” Arkades asked.

  Leona looked to the tapestry on the wall. The goddess of fire, sword in hand, shield raised and wreathed in flame.

  “Unless she proves herself Tsana made flesh?”

  Leona heaved a sigh.

  “Very well. I will sell her.”

  Arkades nodded, Leona pouring herself another glass.

  “Now, if you are well satisfied?” she asked.

  The executus grunted apology, stood slow. With a deep bow to his dona, the man limped from the room, his walking stick and iron leg beating a tired retreat down the stone stairs. Leona sat alone, swallowing deep from her cup, clouded eyes fixed on some nothing only she could see. Running idle fingers across her collarbone, down the pale skin of her throat. Taking another draft and licking her lips.

  Mia stood silent in the shadows, watching close. Trying to ponder this woman, a way to sway her mind. If she could fashion some way for Furian to lose favor, poison him before a bout, perhaps? If Mia could raise herself in the dona’s esteem . . .
/>
  One thing was certain—she could not be sold.

  Leona chewed her lip, blinking as she woke from her reverie. She looked to the open door, stilled herself as if listening, The hour was late, the villa was quiet. Finishing her wine, Leona stood, gathered her robe about herself and, almost on tiptoe, quietly stole out into the corridor.

  Mia frowned, narrowed her eyes.

  Leona was mistress of this place.

  Why creep about like a thief in her own house?

  Mia slipped from behind the curtain and crept to the doorway, silent as death. Peering beyond the frame, she saw Leona at the stairs leading down to the third level. She ducked out of sight as the dona looked about, then stole quickly downward.

  “ . . . perhaps we have risked enough this eve, mia . . .”

  Ignoring the shadowcat’s warning, Mia followed on whisper-soft feet. Moving like a shadow, she followed Leona down to the third, then second level. Here the dona paused, waiting for Captain Gannicus and another houseguard to walk past, murmuring among themselves. When the guards were gone, Leona crept on, Mia following like a wraith until she reached the first floor.

  Mia watched from the stair above as the dona peered about, listening in the still for the guards. Sneaking out from the stairwell, Leona crept to a single wooden door at the far end of the corridor. Out of sight. Out of earshot.

  Ah. It makes a kind of sense now.

  The tirade at dinner. The insistence that their domina’s will alone was what mattered, despite the sale of Matilius. The fervor in his eyes when he spoke of his mistress, his devotion to these walls.

  Furian.

  Leona reached into a pocket for an iron key, unlocked the door. The Unfallen was waiting on the other side, long dark hair framing his beautiful face, the smile that curled his lips as he saw his mistress. With one last glance the way she’d come, Leona threw her arms around Furian’s neck, dragged him down into a hungry kiss. And stepping inside, the dona of the house shut the door behind her.

  “ . . . interesting . . . ,” came a cool whisper at her ear.

  “Aye.” Mia scowled in reply. “But just once, I’d like to look about and find my life was a little less interesting.”

  “ . . . o, what fun would that be . . . ?”

  Mia raised the knuckles to the shadowcat. Mister Kindly only chuckled in reply. And without another sound, the pair stole off into the shadows they so loved.

  16: honey

  Wsssshhthunk.

  The arrow struck the strawman, close to his heart.

  Wsssshhthunk.

  Another struck closer than the first.

  Wsssshhthunk.

  A third struck the target, right in its featureless face.

  Mia lowered her bow, the fingers on her right hand throbbing.

  “Fine work,” Bryn said beside her. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  “Read about it in a book,” Mia growled. “When I was done fucking your father.”

  The Vaanian girl chuckled, lifting her own bow and drawing back the string.

  “Rough nevernight, little Crow?”

  Mia set her bow aside, wincing at the pain. “I’ve had better.”

  “Not with my poor old da, I’ll wager,” Bryn grinned.

  The blonde let half a dozen arrows fly in quick succession. Three punched through the strawman’s heart, two into its throat, the last in its head.

  “Maw’s teeth . . . ,” Mia breathed.

  “You should see her shoot with her good hand,” Byern said, walking past the pair with a bunch of leather tackle slung over his shoulder.

  “Ah, that’d just be showing off,” Bryn replied.

  The twins had left Crow’s Nest early that morning, just as they did every second turn. Per Executus’s command, Mia had accompanied them, trailing behind like a dog with no bone. Arkades limped with them to the gates of the keep, Mia trying to keep the scowl from her face as she remembered how the man had spoken about her the nevernight before. Arkades had made no mention of her impending sale, the sword hanging over her head. It wasn’t as if he were offering a chance to prove herself, no. It was clear Executus simply wanted her gone.

  It stung her pride, truth told. More than it should have. Mia didn’t know why she wanted his approval. But in the intervening hours, hurt pride had turned to burning rage. She didn’t have time to waste anymore—being sold to another master was a risk she simply couldn’t take. She needed to prove herself. Not to Arkades, but to Dona Leona.

  The fact that she was bedding Furian aside, Mia suspected the dona still saw some measure of value in her. Mia had ignited the audience at Blackbridge, and the crowd’s reaction had set some small ember of respect burning in Leona’s breast. Mia need needed a way to coax that spark into flame.

  The venatus at Stormwatch would decide her future, in this collegium, and in the arena. Her plan to murder Duomo and Scaeva hung in the balance.

  She’d no idea, yet, how to tip the scales.

  Mia, Bryn and Byern had been escorted by four of Dona Leona’s house guards, into the rough scrubland behind Crow’s Nest. After half a mile, they’d reached an oblong track, perhaps a mile long, marked in the ochre sand with flat stones. A stable stood to one side, and Byern marched inside with his harness and tackle while Bryn loosed quiver after quiver of arrows into the three strawmen targets.

  The houseguards stood in the shade, paying no mind. Mia realized how easy it would be for Bryn and Byern to escape—a few arrows into each guard’s chest, two horses, and the pair would be dust on the horizon. But, even if they somehow made their way in the Republic with brands on their cheeks, the twins would be condemning every other gladiatii in Leona’s stable to execution in the arena.

  She had to hand it to the administratii—the heartless bastards knew their trade.

  Mia’s fingers were bruising badly, and it hurt to hold the bow for long, so she mostly contented herself watching Bryn’s form. The girl could shoot blind, left-handed as well as right. After emptying another quiver, she took off her boots, clutched her bow between her toes. And, in what might have been the most astonishing display of dexterity Mia had ever witnessed, slowly stood on her hands, arched her spine and loosed a shot with her feet, skewering the strawman in the heart.

  “Speaking of showing off . . . ,” Mia said.

  Bryn curled smoothly over and stood, brushing the dust off her palms.

  “It’s child’s play when you and the targets aren’t moving,” she shrugged. Turning to the stable, she called to her brother. “’Byss and blood, Byern, are you rigging those horses or asking them to marry you?”

  “I’ve asked before, they both said no,” came the reply.

  “Well, they have excellent taste.”

  Bryn’s twin emerged from the stable, carrying a great shield and leading a pair of horses harnessed to a long, sleek chariot. The beasts were white as clouds, muscles carved in marble. Despite herself, Mia felt a small pang at the sight of them, thinking of her own stallion, Bastard. After he’d rescued her from near death in the Ashkahi desert, Mia had set him free rather than lock him up in the Red Church stable. She hoped he was wandering somewhere pleasant, siring as many of his own bastards as he could.

  She missed him.

  She missed a lot about that time, truth told . . .

  “Sister Crow,” Byern waved to the horses with a flourish, “meet Briar and Rose.”

  Mia studied the pair pulling Byern’s chariot. Like every horse she’d ever met, the beasts were skittish around her, so she gave them a wide berth. The fact that she called the only horse who’d ever tolerated her “Bastard” spoke to her feeling about the beasts in general, but she knew a fine specimen when she saw it.

  “They’re mares,” Mia noted. “Most equillai I’ve seen run stallions.”

  “Most equillai you’ve seen are idiots,” Byern replied.

  His sister nodded. “Stallions think with their cocks. Mares know how to keep their heads in a crisis. As with horses, so
with humans, eh, brother mine?”

  Byern raised a finger in warning. “Respect your elders, pup.”

  “You’re two minutes older than me, Byern.”

  “Two minutes and fourteen seconds. Now, are you coming or no?”

  “Stand out in the center,” Bryn directed Mia, nodding at the dusty track. “When I give the word, you let fly with the best you have.”

  “ . . . You want me to shoot you?” Mia asked, eyebrow raised.

  Bryn laughed aloud. “I want you to try. And remember to breathe.”

  With that, the Vaanian jumped into the chariot beside her brother. With a snap of the reins and a wink to Mia (met with a punch in the arm from his sister), Byern led the horses onto the track.

  The chariot was two-wheeled, broad and deep enough to allow the siblings to trade sides. It was red, trimmed in gold paint, carved with the falcon of the Remus Collegium. The great shield Byern carried was also painted with a red falcon, and its edges were crenelated like the walls of a fortified keep.

  Mia walked until she stood in the island of ochre dirt, surrounded by the oblong track. Strawman targets were arranged in a single row down the middle of the island, to Mia’s left and right. At a real venatus, those strawmen would be real men—murderers and rapists set to be executed e equillai before the adoring crowd.1

  Mia watched as the twins tore around the track, faster and faster. Bryn’s topknot whipped in the wind behind her, Byern’s bronze skin gleaming in the sunslight.

  “Ready?” Bryn called to Mia.

  “Aye,” the girl replied.

  “Let fly, little Crow!”

  Mia sighed, drew a bead on Byern’s chest. She tracked the chariot, breathing slow as Bryn had instructed despite the ache in her wounded fingers. And as the pair wheeled around the corner, she loosed a shot right at the handsome Vaanian’s chest.

  Byern raised his shield, blocked the shot easily. Firing through the crenelation in the raised shield, Bryn loosed four shots, two of which struck the dirt at Mia’s sandals, the other two striking the strawman closest to her.