by Jay Kristoff
Leona inclined her head to Arkades, who responded with a stiff, formal bow.
“And yet,” she continued, “there was only one who struck the killing blow against the Exile. Only one whose valor and skill have paved our way to glory.”
Leona looked to Mia.
“Crow, step forward.”
Mia glanced to Bladesinger, but did as she was bid, bowing before her mistress. Leona fixed her in that glittering blue stare.
“Kneel,” she said, curtly.
Mia grit her teeth at the reminder of her station, but did as commanded, wincing at the pain of her broken ribs. Taking care not to snag her bandaged brow, Leona placed the silver laurel on Mia’s head. And reaching inside the folds of her dress, she held out Furian’s silver torc on her open palm. It was slightly melted, the metal discolored from the kiss of Ishkah’s venom.
“This is yours now,” Leona said.
Mia frowned toward the infirmary, looking up into the dona’s eyes.
“If we are to have victory in the magni,” Leona continued, “if the Falcons of Remus are to claim the glory that is rightfully ours, I think it shall be by your hand, no other. But in all truth, regardless of what comes, you have earned this, Crow.”
Leona fixed the torc about the girl’s throat.
“My champion,” she declared proudly.
Sidonius roared, and the other gladiatii followed suit, stamping their feet and pounding their hands together. Mia looked once again to Bladesinger, struck by the injustice. ’Singer and Furian had fought just as hard as she, risked just as much—she’d not have triumphed over Ishkah without them. But only Mia was being named in the glories. Only Mia was being called Champion.
This is what you worked for, she reminded herself.
You only need play the game a few weeks longer.
She bowed her head, her voice soft.
“You honor me, Domina.”
“You honor us, Crow. And you will continue to do so in the City of Bridges and Bones. But you’ll not do it clad in leather scraps and offcuts of steel, no. You fight beneath our banner a champion now. And you should look the part.”
Leona clapped her hands.
“Behold.”
Two of the dona’s houseguards wheeled out a wooden dummy from inside the keep, out onto the verandah. The figure was wearing one of the suits of armor that had stood in the entry hall, but Mia realized it had been refitted to her size.
The iron was almost black, polished to a dark luster. The breastplate was engraved with a soaring falcon, and the greaves and spaulders were also crafted like falcons in flight. The breastplate was trimmed with a pleated skirt and sleeves of plated iron, and a cloak of blood-red feathers was draped about its shoulders. The helm was fashioned in the likeness of the warrior goddess Tsana, her expression fierce and merciless. Twin blades were sheathed at its belt; Liisian steel, by the look. A double-edged gladius and a long razored dagger, ideally suited for fighting Caravaggio style.
It was one of the finest suits of armor Mia had ever seen, sure and true. But it must have cost a fortune. A fortune Leona could ill afford.
“You fight beneath our banner a champion now.”
Mia glanced at Leona, holding back her sigh.
“And you should look the part.”
“I thank you, Domina,” Mia said.
“You may thank me in the magni,” Leona replied. “By bringing me the vic . . .”
The dona’s voice trailed off as a houseguard marched into the yard, a young boy in a feathered cap beside him. The lad’s cheek was branded with the single circle, but he wore expensive livery, a little dusty from the road. His doublet was embroidered with the Lion of Leonides.
“Messenger, Mi Dona,” the guard said. “The boy claims the matter urgent.”
“I bring missive from my master, your father, gracious Dona,” the boy said bowing low. “I am instructed to read it aloud, under pain of the lash.”
“Speak, then,” Leona commanded.
The boy produced a sheaf of parchment set with Leonides’s seal. He glanced at the assembled gladiatii, clearly unnerved. But with a loud, clear voice, he began to speak.
“Beloved Daughter,
“It is with a happy heart that I congratulate you upon your victory at Whitekeep. I confess surprise that you did not seek audience to gloat afterward, and it gladdens me to think that the humility I sought to teach you in your childhood has begun to take root. Would that I had . . .”
The boy faltered, glancing up at Leona and swallowing thickly.
“Continue,” she demanded.
The boy stammered a moment before he found his voice.
“ . . . W-would that I had beaten you harder, and more often.”
Several of the gladiatii stirred, glowering at the boy. Mia felt her fingernails cut into her palm, her eyes on the dona. Leona’s expression didn’t change at all.
This is why she hates him so . . .
The lad was sweating now, pawing at the collar of his doublet as if it choked him. Desperate to finish, his cleared his throat and plunged on.
“I have been reliably informed by my business acquaintances that Remus Collegium is in serious arrears with its suppliers. To spare myself the humiliation of seeing a daughter of my line dragged before the debtor’s court, I have taken the liberty of purchasing all debts from your creditors, and consolidating them into a single sum, which is now owed to Leonides Collegium and accrues points weekly.”
Leona’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Your first repayment of three thousand, two hundred and forty-three silver priests is due at the turning of the month, three weeks hence. Should you fail to deliver the required sum, I will have no choice but to seek punitive compensation through the magistrate’s court, and claim possession of your collegium, properties, and other financial holdings by way of reimbursement.
“Please do not think I hold wrath or rancor in my heart for you, my dearest. This is, as you once told me, just business.”
The boy glanced up at Leona, voice trembling.
“If only your dear mother were here to see just how far you have come,” he finished. “With all the respect you are due, your loving f-father, Leonides.”
The courtyard was so still, Mia could have heard Mister Kindly breathing. Looking at the messenger, she realized the poor bastard had no idea about the contents of the letter he was delivering. Glancing at Wavewaker and Otho’s face, the lad fully probably expected to be dragged down to the cliffs and thrown into the sea.
“H-he also wished me to convey you a gift, Mi Dona,” the boy said. “To celebrate your victory.”
Reaching into his pack, the boy produced a bottle of goldwine and placed it on the sand. A blood-red label denoted the vintage on the side.
Albari, seventy-four.
As Leona saw the label, her entire body stiffened with rage. Mia had no idea why, but to the dona, the sight of that bottle was like blood to a whitedrake. With clear effort, Leona drew a deep breath, only the trembling of her clenched fists to bely her fury. And standing tall, she addressed the boy with customary formality.
“Convey all thanks to my father,” she said. “Inform him the magistrate’s involvement will be unnecessary. He will have his coin by month’s end. I do here vow it.”
“Yes, Mi Dona,” the boy bowed, relief flooding his features.
“You may go,” she said, her voice turning to cold steel.
The boy doffed his cap and scurried away as fast as his legs could carry him.
“O, and boy?” Leona said.
The messenger turned, half-wincing, eyebrow raised. “Y-yes, Mi Dona?”
Leona ran her hand over Mia’s new armor, her fingers lingering at the dagger’s hilt. “Please convey condolences to my father at the slaughter of his champion. Tell him that I look forward to watching my Crow butcher his next offering in Godsgrave.”
“Y-yes, Mi Dona,” the boy stammered, and scampered out of sight.
Silence reig
ned in the yard, only the call of distant gulls and the faint song of the sea to break it. Leona walked across the sand, picked up the bottle of goldwine and held it in her hand, staring at that label. She looked among her gladiatii, fury spotting her cheeks. They had fought so hard, come so far, and even now, on the brink of victory, they still stood at the precipice of disaster. Where in the Daughters’ names would she get that kind of money?
“Back to training, my Falcons,” she commanded. “We have work to do.”
The gladiatii marched to the racks, took up their practice weapons.
The dona turned and walked back into the keep.
Arkades watched her leave.
His eyes were narrowed.
His hands, fists.
* * *
Leona sat in her study, bent over her ledgers, bathed in sunslight spilling through the bay window. The shadows were long and dark, and if one beneath her desk was of a peculiar shape, the dona was too intent on her work to notice.
A guard knocked softly on the door, stepping inside at her command.
“Mi Dona,” the guard said. “Executus begs a word.”
“Send him in,” Leona replied.
Arkades entered, clink thump, clink thump, the guard closing the door behind him. Leona’s gaze didn’t stray from her bookwork, a quill poised in her fingers, scribing figures in her neat, flowing hand. The Albari seventy-four was sat on the desk beside her, unopened. Arkades stood before her, staring at that bottle, shifting his weight.
“What is it, Executus?” the dona asked, not looking up.
“I . . . I wished to see if you were well, Domina.”
“And why would I not be?”
“Your father’s missive . . .”
Leona stilled, finally looking up.
“I thought his gift was a lovely touch.” The dona glanced to the bottle beside her. “I’m surprised he remembered the vintage.”
“I knew him to be the cruelest of men, but . . .” Arkades sighed, his voice soft with sorrow. “Your mother was a fine woman, Mi Dona. You do not deserve such insult. And she did not deserve what he did to her.”
“He beat her to death with a bottle of goldwine, Arkades,” Leona said, her voice beginning to tremble. “Because she knocked over his glass at dinner. Who exactly does deserve that?”
The executus searched the floorboards as if looking the right words. He might be a god on the sands, but here, in the privacy of his dona’s chambers, under her pale blue stare, he seemed as helpless as a newborn.
“If ever . . .”
He paused, swallowed hard. Drawing a deep breath, as if before the plunge.
“If ever you seek comfort . . . that is to say, if ever you wish to talk . . .”
Leona tilted her head, looking her executus in the eye.
“That is very kind of you, Arkades. But I do not think it appropriate.”
He glanced out the window into the yard, to the infirmary where Furian lay.
“ . . . Appropriate?” he repeated.
“I am no longer the girl who spent her childhood on tiptoe, for fear of what might set the monster she lived with off next. I am not the girl who cowered beneath the table as that bottle fell, again and again and again. I am sanguila. I am domina of this collegium. You are my executus. And my father’s cheap theater serves in only one regard: to harden my resolve to stand victorious in Godsgrave.”
Arkades simply stared at her, grief and anger plain on his face.
“I need no comfort,” Leona continued, rage shining in her eyes. “I need that bastard on his fucking knees. If you’d serve me, Arkades, I pray you, serve me in the matter I pay you for. Bring me my victory.”
Leona bent back over her bookwork, resting her head in one hand.
“You may go,” she said.
Arkades stood for an empty moment, utterly mute. Hands in fists. But finally . . .
“Your whisper,” he murmured. “My will.”
The big man turned and limped from the room, shutting the door behind him. Leona dropped her quill as soon as he was gone. Pressing her lips together and drawing one shuddering breath after another. Swiping a hand across her eyes in rage.
Her tears bested, she turned her stare to the bottle on her desk. The sunslight glinting on the glass. The label, etched in blood red.
Leona hung her head, waves of auburn hiding her eyes.
“Father,” she spat.
A knock came at the door.
“Four Daughters, who is it now?” Leona demanded.
“Apologies, Mi Dona,” the guard said, peering inside. “Magistrae seeks audience.”
Leona sighed, smoothed her hair back from her face.
“Very well.”
The older woman entered, pushing the door closed behind her. Leona sat tall in her chair, quill in hand, a fresh picture of poise. Her magistrae stood before her, twisting her braid of long gray hair and bowing her head in courtesy.
“What is it, Anthea?”
“ . . . Domina, you know that ever I have served you faithfully.” Trepidation shone in Magistrae’s eyes as she glanced to that bottle of goldwine. “And I would never seek to do you hurt.”
“Of course.”
“I know your father presses your finances. I did not wish to place one more trouble upon your brow. I’ve struggled with whether or not to bring this to you, bu—”
“Anthea,” Leona said calmly. “Speak your piece.”
“ . . . It is Arkades, Domina.”
Leona looked to the door her executus had just left by.
“What of him?”
“He knows.”
Leona put aside her quill and sat back in the chair, frowning.
“Knows what?”
“Leona,” Magistrae said. “He knows.”
* * *
Mia sat in the infirmary, listening to the nevernight winds blowing off the ocean. The turn in temperature was a welcome relief, but not nearly enough let her breathe easy. Squinting at the horizon earlier, she’d fancied she could see the third sun, poised at the world’s end. Soon it would rise, truelight would begin; awful heat and thrumming crowds and oceans and oceans of blood.
The sounds of the other gladiatii at evemeal filtered through the stone walls, and Mia could hear Butcher complaining about the quality of Finger’s “stew.” To the hoots and cheers of their fellows, the emaciated cook loudly informed the Butcher of Amai where he could stick said stew if he didn’t like it.1
Mia’s smile became a wince as Maggot swabbed her cheek with aloe and evermint, the vague sting crawling in her wound. Maggot nodded to herself, wrapping Mia’s face in fresh bandages and tying a gentle knot.
“It’s healing well,” she said. “We can leave the wrappings off next time.”
“Aye,” Mia said. “My thanks.”
“Cheer up, little Crow,” came a groggy voice behind her. “Pretty as you were, you’re not true gladiatii without a few scars.”
Mia turned to Bladesinger, yawning and sitting up on the slab beside her.
“Well, if that’s the case,” the girl smiled, “you’re the truest gladiatii that ever walked the sands, ’Singer.”
“Aye,” the woman smirked. She held up her swordarm, still wrapped in bandages. “It’s going to be a beaut, that much is sure.”
“Can you move it yet?” Mia asked softly.
Bladesinger looked to Maggot, shook her head.
“It’s early turns,” the little girl declared. “Far too early to tell.”
Mia and the older woman exchanged an uneasy glance, but said nothing. Finger shuffled into the infirmary, carrying four steaming bowls on a wooden tray. As he set down his burden with a flourish, Mia looked the cook up and down, wondering how many people parts he’d used in his creation this time.
“Dinner,” he declared. “Eat it while it’s hot.”
“Scrumptious,” Maggot smiled. “Thank you, Finger.”
The man scruffed the girl’s hair and shuffled back out. Mia raised an eyebr
ow.
“Scrumptious?” she said, once the cook was out of earshot. “Of every word in creation, the last I’d use to describe Finger’s cooking is ‘scrumptious,’ Maggot.”
“Depends how you grew up,” the girl shrugged. “Once you’ve eaten raw rat with your bare hands, you become far less choosy about cookery, believe me.”
Mia nodded, sucked her lip. Again she was struck by how much this little girl reminded her of herself. Growing up rough and brash, just as Mia had done after her parents were taken. Unafraid to speak her mind. Maybe a touch too clever for her own good. She knew she shouldn’t. Knew it was weakness.
But Mia liked her.
“Fair point,” she smiled. “Apologies.”
“You want any or not?”
“Give it over, then.”
Maggot passed Mia a bowl, raised an eyebrow at her second patient. “Bladesinger?”
“My thanks.”
The woman set the bowl on the slab beside her. Mia watched her carefully spoon a mouthful with her off-hand. Wondering what would become of her if she never regained use of her swordarm. How quickly would this world dispose of a gladiatii who couldn’t lift a blade?
Fang wandered into the infirmary, the big mastiff looking up at Mia’s bowl and wagging his tail hopefully. She leaned down and scruffed his ears, but kept her dinner to herself.
“How does Furian fare?” Mia asked.
Maggot nodded at the Unfallen, speaking around her mouthful. “Take a look.”
Mia set her bowl aside and rose with a wince—her ribs were still bothering her, and there was no real remedy save working them as little as possible. She stepped to the sleeping Furian’s side, shadow trembling, a familiar hunger rising in her belly that had nothing to do with her waiting meal.
Truth told, the Unfallen looked a little better. Color was returning to his face, and touching his brow, Mia found his fever lessened. Wincing with trepidation, she pulled back the bandages to take a peek. The injuries were ghastly, no doubt about it; the silkling’s venom had burned through muscle and skin across his chest and throat. But instead of the rotten, weeping mess she’d last seen, the wounds were clean, healthy, pink. The sight of fat, wriggling maggots crawling over the fissures in Furian’s skin still made Mia sick to her stomach, and the smell was far from roses. But Black Mother be praised, the blighted flesh was all but gone.