by Morgan Rice
Thanos saw him nod in the direction of the city.
“The bad news,” Akila said, “is that even with their supplies gone, there’s still more Empire soldiers than us. We’ve a lot of fighting ahead of us. Are you ready for that, Prince?”
Thanos looked out toward the waterfront, where soldiers were still attacking in scattered clumps. They were the army belonging to his land, his king. Right then, though, he had never felt more strongly that he was on the right side.
He nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Well, Prince,” Akila said with a smile, “looks like we’re not going to be killing you after all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ceres was sweating in the night air, and not from sparring, for once. Instead, she was stuck scrubbing the tiles of one of the castle’s courtyards, wiping away the mud and dirt that had collected there. She had no doubt that this was Lucious’s doing; just another way of him making life harder for her there, and maybe a way of wearing her down before her fight too.
Of course, she had to do her cleaning where she would have a good view of the castle’s main hall, and where those within would be able to look out and laugh at her. There was a feast taking place in there, complete with dancing and lavish entertainments. Ceres could see Lucious, Stephania, and all the other royals enjoying themselves, eating delicate pastries and drinking wines that had probably been brought from all corners of the Empire. Girls in elaborate dresses danced with young men who strode around the place looking as though they’d decided they deserved all the attention in the world.
Seeing them there like that was difficult. Ceres scrubbed the tiles because she had no doubt that they’d take any excuse to punish her, but she didn’t mind hard work. She’d done worse than this when her mother had set her endless chores back home. The hard part was seeing them enjoying themselves when she was stuck out here. It was the knowledge that she would never be good enough for any of them, no matter what she did.
Even if she had been there, Ceres knew, they would have treated her as nothing. She would have been just one more of the servants and slaves who moved through the hall, offering food and drink, dancing or singing for their amusement.
Thanos was the only one who treated her any differently, and now he was gone. Just the thought of that made Ceres stare up at the stars above, looking for answers among their pinpoints. How could he have died? Only the thought that Stephania might have lied to her kept Ceres going then, and the truth was that Stephania had no reason to lie. As she’d said, the truth was more painful.
Ceres sat watching the feast then. The queen sat daintily, drinking from a crystal goblet while around her, lesser nobles formed concentric rings of power and gossip. The king sat separately, at the head of the longest table, where some of the younger noblemen were already drunk enough to start making grabs for the serving girls. Just the sight of it all made Ceres sick.
I will win tomorrow, she told herself. Whatever they throw at me.
What would happen after that, though? Match after match in the Stade, with no time to recover from her injuries? Her back was healing well, but the physical work of scrubbing the tiles felt as though it was almost designed to open up the wounds again. How soon would there be an injury she couldn’t recover from? Ceres couldn’t imagine Stephania or Lucious holding back, no matter how bad things got.
Ceres could see Stephania there, dancing with Lucious. She moved with such delicate grace, like a jeweled butterfly flitting her way around him. If Lucious occasionally shot glances in the direction of the other young women there, Stephania appeared not to notice. It was hard for Ceres to guess exactly how much she saw. She certainly didn’t seem to have been affected by the news of Thanos’s death.
It will get worse, Ceres told herself. They will find a way to make it worse. She was certain of that much. It wasn’t just about who she was now. It was about the symbol she’d become. The girl who could fight in the Stade and win. The commoner who could stand up to the power of the royals and live. She’d been the girl who was going to marry a prince, too, and Ceres knew that Stephania, at least, hated her as much for that as any of the rest of it.
They would find a way to make it worse for her. They’d treated her like a princess because of Thanos, then as a fighter because that was how they wanted her to die. Tonight proved, though, that there was nothing to stop them from treating her like much less. They would pile humiliation on top of humiliation, simply because they could, and if she fought back, they would finally have an excuse to simply execute her.
“I should have gone with my father,” Ceres said, but she didn’t really believe it. She couldn’t run from what waited for her in the Stade, and she couldn’t let her father take the risk of trying to break her out of there.
There was another option, of course. She might not be able to win, but she could deprive the nobles of their fun with her. One sweep of a knife across her wrists, and it would be over. Or she could stand there in the Stade and let it happen. She could refuse to give them the entertainment they demanded.
“Ceres?”
Ceres turned, recognizing the voice.
A woman stepped out of the darkness, and Ceres heart soared to see her old friend.
Anka. The girl she had saved from the slavers.
There appeared to be something tougher about her now that she’d joined the rebellion. Something less frightened of the world.
Ceres rushed forward to embrace her friend, the shock overcoming her.
Seeing Anka there was a shock. She’d been sure that she wouldn’t see the young woman again. She was safe with the rebellion, or at least as safe as anyone could be with it. It was a good surprise though.
“How did you get here?” Ceres asked.
“It was hard getting in to see you,” Anka said. “But there are things you need to know.”
Something about her tone told Ceres what those things would be. “Rexus and Thanos are dead.”
She said it as a fact, hoping to hear it refuted.
Anka paused. “You heard already?”
Ceres didn’t want to say Stephania’s name here. “One of the nobles here made sure I found out.”
“That’s—”
“Yes,” Ceres said. “It is. You’re sure though? They aren’t lying?” She thought back to the moment when an arrow had struck Rexus as he was climbing, and he’d fallen through her hands, away into the depths below.
Anka shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ceres. We found the body. Rexus didn’t survive the fall.”
Pain shot through Ceres, clear and palpable. She should have guessed that it would be like this, but some part of her seemed to have assumed that Rexus would find a way to survive. There was something so powerful about him, so vibrant, that it seemed impossible anything could kill him.
“What about Thanos?” Ceres asked.
Anka shook her head. “We have friends around the fringes of the Empire’s army. Some of them tell us that Thanos fell in the first assault on the beaches there, in the confusion as they fought to land.”
That blow hurt even more than the news about Rexus. Perhaps it was just that there had been more hope. Ceres had seen Rexus fall, but Thanos… that could have been a lie designed to hurt her. Maybe it was more than that, though, and the thought of how much more made Ceres’s stomach clench with the thought of it.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She shook her head. “None of it matters.”
“You don’t mean that,” Anka replied.
“How can it matter when they’re dead?” Ceres demanded. The idea that the world could go on without Rexus, without Thanos, just seemed impossible. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead soon too.”
Somehow, that felt like a relief. She wouldn’t end things herself. No, she would do it the way that fate had set out for her. She would step out into the Stade, and she would die. She couldn’t imagine it happening any other way now.
“The revolution needs you, Ceres,” Anka insisted.
&
nbsp; “No it doesn’t,” Ceres said. “Who has been running the revolution since Rexus died?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to get everyone to work together, but—”
“Then that’s the answer. You don’t need me, Anka.”
Anka stepped back. “I don’t know what to say. I never thought that you’d just give up like this.”
Anger flashed through Ceres, and she welcomed it, because it seemed like the only thing that might replace the emptiness she felt right then. Her hands curled into fists. “Do you think I wanted this?” she demanded. “Do you think I wanted any of this? Do you think I wanted the man I love…” She trailed off, realizing what she was saying.
“I’m sorry,” Anka said. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you all of this. And I thought I could try to get you out of here.”
It was the same offer her father had made. Anka might even have the resources to do it if she could get there without any problems. Ceres knew her answer had to be the same, though.
“I can’t go.”
Anka took hold of Ceres’s arm, pulling her toward the shadows. “You got me out of the slaver’s cage. We both know all the things you saved me from. Do you know what it’s like, knowing that you’re going out into the Stade tomorrow to die?”
“I have to do this,” Ceres insisted. “This is what I was meant to do, Anka.”
“But we could get you out of here,” Anka insisted.
Ceres disengaged the other woman’s hand as gently as she could. “But it’s not what I want.”
Ceres heard a noise from the main hall and saw one of the doors opening. It was probably one of the nobles coming out to taunt her while she worked. Anka obviously heard it too, because she turned to slip back toward the darkness, beyond the spread of lamplight from the hall.
“This is your last chance,” Anka said. “Please, Ceres.”
Ceres shook her head, then called out as Anka started to go. “Anka, wait. If you want to do something that will help me, there is something.”
“Anything I can,” Anka promised.
“Help to make sure my brother and my father are safe,” Ceres said. “The army took Sartes and my father is looking for him. They’re both going to need all the help they can get.” She held her hands earnestly as her friend prepared to flee, and she squeezed them.
“Can I trust you?” she asked.
Anka nodded back, with all solemnity.
“With my life,” she replied. “Your family is my family, and I shall not stop until I find them—and bring them to safety.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Every step brought a wrench to Berin’s heart as he traveled south, in search of the soldiers who had taken his son. Every step took him a little further from his daughter, left behind in a city where she would soon fight to the death. Every time his foot hit the ground, it felt like an impossible choice, one that he made only because his daughter had insisted.
Had he made a mistake?
Berin carried whatever supplies he could with him, their weight a constant on his back. Getting out of the city was easy enough, and after that he continued on the main roads for as long as he could. The roads were there for the army to march along, after all, so sticking to them seemed like the best way to find the unit that had taken his son. He only left them when he heard others coming, hiding by the side of the road until they passed each time. He didn’t want to risk running into soldiers, bandits, or worse in these troubled times.
He came to a village after hours of walking, and it was easy to see that the army had been through there. It was too quiet, the way places were quiet in the wake of a storm. Berin had seen this before, in the years when he’d followed the army to smith for it. Armies devastated the country around them through the sheer numbers of men they contained, regardless of which side it represented. They stripped it bare whenever they stayed in one place too long, leaving the locals starving. A part of Berin suspected that the Empire sent out its army to take on foreign foes simply so that it wouldn’t have to support it at home.
He hated the thought of Sartes being caught up in that. He wouldn’t do well in the brutality of the Empire’s forces. He wasn’t cruel enough, or strong enough. The sooner Berin could get his son back, the better.
Berin could see a small market in the middle of the village, although there weren’t very many stalls there now. Those that there were looked as though they only had scrapings left, with as many empty spaces on barrows and under awnings as there were goods for sale. Berin stopped at the nearly empty stall of a fruit seller.
“Has the army been through here?” he asked.
“Aye. Took half my stock as well, they did.”
Berin nodded sympathetically. Times would probably be hard in the village for a while now, as the traders and the smallholders tried to recover. Yet right then, it was hard for him to keep his attention on anything except what had happened to Sartes.
“Do you know which way they went?” Berin asked.
“Why? Going to join up?” The fruit seller asked that with a laugh that Berin made himself join in.
“Maybe. Although I think I’d be better off sticking to smithing.”
“You’re a smith?” the fruit seller said. “Then you should stay here. There would be plenty of work for you.”
Berin shook his head, although there was a pang of regret that came with it. If there had been an offer like that a few months back, he might not have left his family. They could have found a spot in this village and been safe. Now, though, it was too late for that. “It’s a good thought, but there are things I need to do.”
He started to make his way around the rest of the market, always asking the same questions, always trying to make it sound as if he were just making conversation as he passed through. He spoke to tinkers and chandlers, butchers and farmers, getting the same picture from each of them: one of the army’s units had been through a day or two ago, heading south to make camp.
Berin was asking a cheese seller if she knew anything when he saw the soldiers making their way through the market. He’d assumed that they would be long gone, but these must have been away on some errand. There were three of them, all leading horses. One wore the more elaborate armor of an officer, while the two beside him had the high boots and longer swords of cavalry. They were talking to the stall-holders, and though Berin couldn’t make out the words, he could guess what they were talking about when the fruit seller pointed in his direction.
“Seems as though they’re looking for you,” the cheese seller asked him. “With all these questions, the others probably think that you’re part of the rebellion.”
“And the army left soldiers to watch,” Berin said. He should have guessed that they would. His stomach knotted. He was afraid then, not for himself, but for Sartes. If he was caught, the soldiers would want to know what he was doing there, and if they found out that he was trying to get his son out of the army, then Sartes might be the one to pay the price. Berin couldn’t let that happen, no matter what it took.
“Don’t blame the others,” the cheese seller said. “They’re too afraid of the soldiers to do anything. Are you with the rebellion?”
To Berin, she sounded almost as though she was hoping that he was. That perhaps he was there to fight off the Empire’s soldiers for them. That thought might have been laughable if the situation hadn’t been so deadly serious. It was enough to make him take a risk. After all, what else did he have to lose?
“I’m trying to find my son,” he said, and he saw the cheese seller’s eyes widen. “He was taken away by the army as a conscript, and I want to get him back.”
It was a big risk to take. He’d potentially just given this woman enough to condemn him, but some instinct made him trust her. Maybe it was just that he wanted to believe people would help, given the chance.
“I had a son once,” the woman said. She nodded. “He starved two winters ago because the Empire had taken too much of our food for the city. Come with me
.”
She led the way away from her stall. Berin glanced back to see the three soldiers making their way across the market square, and he hurried after her. She led the way around the side of one of the village’s small houses, to a space where linen hung out drying in the sun.
“Down that way,” she said, pointing.
“Thank you,” Berin replied. “I won’t forget this.”
He wanted to say more, but there was no time. Instead, he ducked amid the hanging washing, brushing it aside as he tried to lose himself in it. Somewhere behind him, he thought he heard soldiers shouting. He ignored it, concentrating on making his way through the village, staying in the shadow of the huts and outbuildings. He looked back and thought he caught a glimpse of an imperial uniform. He kept going.
Finally, Berin reached the edge of the village, where the houses gave way to the rising furrows of shared farmland. There was long grass along the side of the road, and he could have run easily then without being seen, but that wouldn’t have helped him to get any closer to Sartes. Instead, Berin found a spot where he wouldn’t be seen and hunkered down, putting aside the aches in his joints as he squatted there, waiting.
From his hiding place, Berin could see the soldiers out on the road. He held his breath as they looked out in his direction. If they caught him now, there would be no talking his way out of it. He’d run, and for them, that would be enough to prove his guilt. The best he could hope for would be a quick death. Berin stayed still, waiting as the men searched, then talked among themselves. After a while, they went back into the village, and one of the three came out riding his horse off at an angle from the road.
Berin started to follow the horseman, moving slowly, keeping low. When he passed out of sight, Berin switched to following the horse’s tracks, and it was just as well the soldier had left a trail a blind man could follow, because Berin had never been much of a tracker. Despite the urgency of it all, he kept his head down and moved only at a walking pace. It was hard to be that cautious. Far more of him wanted to run to his son and rip him free from the army’s clutches, but he couldn’t help Sartes if he got himself captured, and the truth was that he couldn’t keep up with the horseman even if he tried.