Set Fire to the Gods

by Sara Raasch

  Ignitus had come to watch her fight Rook. Or to watch Rook fight her?

  Terror ate up Ash’s stomach, rose into her throat. Her eyes went to Rook, who watched Ignitus. There was something off about his face—his response to what Ignitus did was usually anger, furious rage that was so beautifully Kulan it lit him up like a flame. But now Rook looked sad almost. His face was red, his eyes swollen.

  What had happened?

  Ash’s mind reeled, her breaths coming in tight gasps.

  “Rook Akela,” an announcer bellowed, “five times great-grandson of the fire god, will fight Ash Nikau, great-granddaughter of the fire god, to progress in the war. This elimination fight begins”—the announcer paused dramatically—“now!”

  Fuel and flame. I am fuel and flame.

  Ash stumbled forward, her heart a brick in her chest. Her eyes stayed on Rook, expecting some hidden signal from him or a mouthed command.

  Rook didn’t move, lost in staring at Ignitus. The crowd roared, cheers turning to hisses, and finally he blinked, shaking himself to life.

  He and Ash met to the left of the fire bowl, the rack of weapons between them. Rook took a dagger; Ash followed, her palms sweaty, her heart beating so fast it hummed in her chest.

  “What should we do?” Ash hissed. “Am I to win?”

  “Fight!” the crowd demanded. “Fight!”

  Ash’s grip tightened on her dagger. She couldn’t stand here having a conversation with her opponent. But Rook was staring at the sand between their feet. He hefted the dagger in one hand while his other remained tightly clenched around—was that a scroll?

  “Rook,” Ash tried. She hated that her voice wavered, but, burn it all, she was terrified, shaking, and she needed him to look at her. “Rook, what happened?”

  He moved. He didn’t draw on any igneia; he just dived at her, thrusting his knife for her middle, and she parried by instinct. He swung again; she dodged. They’d sparred before, and it felt like that, the two of them dancing around each other. Each jab from Rook thundered up Ash’s arm, and she blocked most of his blows before he’d completed them.

  The crowd rejoiced. Cheering, stomping, an orchestra that multiplied Ash’s anxiety and made her miss a block when Rook drove a fist into her shoulder.

  She flailed back with a dull yelp, but he hadn’t struck her with his knife-wielding hand. Sweat poured down her face and matted the reed armor to her chest and legs.

  Rook paused, hands on his knees, face to the ground, wheezing. They hadn’t been fighting that long. He couldn’t be tired yet.

  Had he been poisoned, like Char?

  “Rook,” Ash whispered, her lungs hollow. “What happened to you?”

  At their pause, the crowd’s cheering became one collective BOO.

  Rook swiped his hand across his nose. “Four days. He let me carry on for four days.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  He sobbed once, still bent double. “I wasn’t there. Because I was here. With him. Great Ignitus, we have to call him. Great fucking Ignitus!”

  He bolted upright to shout the last words at Ignitus.

  The noise of the crowd silenced.

  No one—no one—spoke badly of the gods, least of all directly to them.

  “You need to stop,” Ash tried, panic welling. “Please—attack me, and I’ll fall. You’ll win. Ignitus will be pleased with you—”

  Rook whirled toward Ignitus’s viewing box. Ash chased after him, coming around the firepit—and there, hands on the railing, Ignitus fumed down at Rook.

  Ash grabbed Rook’s shoulder. “What are you doing? Remember Wolfsbane—”

  He spun on her, slapping her hand away, and pointed his other fist at her, the one holding the scroll. The crowd whooped, urging them to bloodshed.

  Blue fire flickered on Ignitus’s arms, the tips of his hair.

  Rook’s lower lip trembled. Ash went motionless, her hands splayed between them.

  “Lynx is dead,” Rook whispered. “He died the morning after we left Igna.”

  Ash sucked in a breath.

  “My son has been dead for four days, and Ignitus claims he just got the news.” Rook opened his fist and let the scroll drop to the sand. “But he waited to give me the letter until this morning because all he cares about, all he’s ever cared about, is war.”

  A howl bubbled in Ash’s throat. She fought it down, willed it down, because Ignitus watched and already Rook had gone too far and she needed to be the one to save them both.

  “Rook,” she begged, “I’m so sorry. I loved Lynx too. I’m so—” She swallowed. “Fight me. One more round, we’ll fake a win, and we can walk out of here.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll get your revenge. I swear, Rook. Please.”

  Sweat, tears, and dust from the arena made a paste on Rook’s face, thick streaks of brown across his dark skin. He didn’t look angry. He looked . . . tired.

  “I should’ve gotten Lynx out years ago,” Rook said. “Char should’ve taken you too. We all should have run instead of playing his sick games. You deserve better than this life. Lynx deserved better. And I can’t—” He coughed, sniffing back tears. “I’m sorry, Ash.”

  He took off—sprinting away from her, toward Ignitus.

  Agony seared hotter than any flame, gouged deeper than any wound. Ash flung herself after him. “No! Stop, please—”

  Momentum carried Rook as he leaped into the air and grabbed the wall of the viewing box, kicking the rough edge of the stone to propel himself onto the railing.

  The crowd had gone silent again. Shocked, awed, intrigued.

  In the viewing box, Ignitus watched Rook come at him, his anger dimmed to disgust. His attendants cowered behind him; his guards held flames in their hands but didn’t attack, held in place by Ignitus’s two lifted fingers.

  Rook balanced on the railing, readied his knife, and hurled himself at Ignitus.

  The blade sank into the god’s neck.

  For a moment, Ash thought it had worked. Ignitus didn’t move, as if stricken in the early shock of death. His eyes were frozen on Rook, who gasped for breath before him.

  Calmly, Ignitus reached up and removed the knife. A thin stream of blood spurted out of the wound, but before Ash had even blinked, it was closing, mending itself.

  She had never seen a god injured before. She had heard about it, dreamed of it, but this was worse. Now she knew, undeniably—the gods could not be killed.

  But they could. The Mother Goddess was dead. How, how—

  Rook fumbled against the railing. Ash choked, so far below, helplessly watching him.

  Ignitus dropped the blade. In the horrified silence of the arena, it clattered against the marble of the viewing box’s floor.

  “Mistake,” Ignitus growled, and punched his hands palm out at Rook.

  Fire blasted like a cannonball. Only Ignitus’s fire could burn a Kulan.

  A great blue knot shot out of Ignitus’s fingers and slammed into Rook’s chest, knocking him down, down, down.

  His body crashed into the fighting pit.

  Ash raced for him, her sandals slipping on the gritty dirt. She dropped to her knees next to Rook, hands hovering over the concave circle burned into his chest. Blackened skin and bone, charred muscle, bulging cauterized veins, all fought to escape.

  Her stomach seized, nausea and horror coming out as a sob. “Rook,” Ash said, as though he could undo it, as though he could still choose not to leave her too. “Please, Rook, hold on—”

  Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and fell in a perfect circle on the sand.

  Blood on the sand. Char’s lips moving across the arena. A sword in her chest.

  Ignitus, glaring. He was over them right now, scowling in the morning sunlight.

  Tears gathered in Rook’s eyes. He inhaled, but the air got stuck in the void, and he heaved. The motion rocked a bag out of his pocket, spilling gold, teal, and pink marbles. The toy that Lynx loved.

  Ash scramb
led to lift Rook, but she couldn’t stand and she couldn’t run and a scream tore through her that she muffled in Rook’s shoulder.

  In the stands, the crowd stomped and cheered, stomped and cheered.

  Nine

  Madoc

  MADOC WON HIS first elimination match of the war by forfeit.

  After a restless night replaying Petros’s bold claims about Madoc’s abilities and failing to push Ash’s hate-filled eyes out of his mind, he and Elias had fumbled through the morning routine. Breakfast Madoc couldn’t stomach. Armor that didn’t meet Arkos’s high standards for inspection. A wrong turn in the barracks that made him late for the morning roll call. He’d only just found his place in line with the other gladiators when Lucius had announced that in his first fight, Madoc would face Stavos, the giant gladiator who’d heckled Ash in the arena and who favored a broadsword for ramming straight through his opponents.

  Madoc had vomited twice on the carriage ride to the small arena on the west side of the city. Even Elias, who could talk his way into and out of anything, had fallen quiet.

  But Stavos hadn’t shown.

  “Probably scared of looking bad when we beat him,” Elias had offered weakly.

  While the guards had searched the streets, suspicion had gnawed at the edges of Madoc’s thoughts. Stavos’s forfeit didn’t make sense. Madoc had seen him get into his carriage that morning. He’d watched the gladiator mime how he would crush Madoc’s face and laugh when Madoc had gone pale. Stavos was a seasoned gladiator; he wasn’t afraid of some untrained stonemason who’d barely bested a Kulan fighter without energeia.

  So where had he gone?

  But when the guards had returned without Stavos, holding a sack of gold coins so heavy Madoc had to use two hands to take it, his worries ground to dust.

  He’d won, and it didn’t matter how. He was one thousand coins closer to saving Cassia and humiliating his father in front of Geoxus.

  “We should take this to Petros now,” Elias said. “Offer it as an installment. Maybe he’ll let Cassia go once he sees we’re going to make good on his demand.”

  Madoc focused on Elias’s voice through the roar of the crowd above them. They were still in one of the exit tunnels, only a short walk from the outside of the small arena. Lesser matches were held here during the week along with plays and livestock auctions, which left the corridor crowded with stage planking and tattered curtains, and smelling vaguely of sheep dung.

  “He won’t.” He couldn’t take the edge out of his voice. The crowd was screaming, their stomping feet a stampede one rock layer above his head. Whatever fight had gone on in place of his must have ended quickly, and in a bloody mess.

  The crowds always loved those the best.

  “Then go back to Geoxus,” Elias said. “You’ve won now. Maybe he’ll front you the rest of the money, or grant you a favor.” Elias’s hands were circling as he talked. “He might free Cassia if you ask.”

  “And what will I say?” Madoc steered them toward the exit so they could get back into the carriage that would bring them to Lucius’s villa. Hello, Geoxus. I know half of my wins since becoming a champion are by forfeit, but can you do me a favor and set our sister free? He only chose me in the first place because he trusts Petros.”

  Elias groaned and pulled at his dark hair, making it stick forward like a wave reaching for shore. The smudges beneath his eyes said that he’d slept about as much as Madoc had last night. Every minute they stayed at Headless Hill was another they risked exposure, and Lucius’s training had been particularly brutal that morning following the meeting with Geoxus. Convinced that Madoc had deliberately lied about his lineage, the sponsor had promised to take Madoc’s fingers, one by one, should he step out of line. On top of that, rumors had already begun to circulate about Madoc’s father, and judging by the heated glares he and Elias had gotten at breakfast, his relationship with Petros wasn’t making them popular.

  Fifteen hundred gold coins, and then this would be over.

  “Madoc! There he is . . . Madoc!” A burst of screams had Madoc bracing in defense.

  A crowd had gathered near the exit of the arena. Deiman women and men, even a few children, all held back by an arc of centurions. Madoc’s immediate response was to run—these people knew he was a fraud. They were angry at him for his appointment to the Honored Eight, or bitter that he hadn’t put on a good show. But their smiles had him hesitating.

  “Are you truly a stonemason?” a man called, drawing Madoc’s eyes to the mortar stains on his tunic, and his sun-bronzed shoulder, where Madoc’s name was etched in black ink.

  Madoc opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “Madoc!” came a woman’s voice. “Over here!”

  He spun in her direction, finding a horde of girls in pale blue-and-gold gowns pressing against a centurion’s horizontal spear. They were cheering, cheeks flushed, a mass of bare arms and plunging necklines and laughter, and Madoc found himself completely at a loss about how to respond.

  “Was Stavos scared of you, Brave Madoc?” one cooed.

  “How many fights have you won?”

  “Have you a lover waiting for you in the stonemasons’ quarter?”

  “You’re my pick for champion!”

  Madoc’s breath lodged in his throat. His blood moved too fast through his veins. A lover waiting for him? How did they know where he lived?

  “Why couldn’t I be the champion?” muttered Elias.

  Madoc tried to smile but only managed a tight grimace. He clutched the bag of gold against his side. He didn’t even realize he was backing away until the stone edge of the exit’s archway was pressed between his shoulder blades.

  “Madoc. Elias!” One woman’s voice cut through the rest like a pointed knife plunged straight into Madoc’s chest.

  Pushing to the edge of the crowd was a thin woman with a wrap around her dark hair and a hard stare set to punish. Her tightly cinched dress was made of the plain, worn muslin of the working class. Her skirt was splattered with mud. Madoc suspected this meant she had walked all the way from the stonemasons’ quarter.

  “Oh no,” said Elias.

  Ilena waited expectantly, fists on her narrow hips.

  Since it was clear he and Elias weren’t making it out of here anytime soon, Madoc motioned her through the barricade.

  “It’s all right,” he said when the centurion shot a wary glance his way. “She’s my mother.”

  Ilena pressed between the armored shoulders of the centurions, dragging a frail, hobbling woman behind. Seneca. Madoc couldn’t think of why she was here, or how she had managed the trip, but it didn’t matter, because Ilena was rolling toward them like storm clouds on the sea, and he was not about to get a beating in front of all these people.

  He and Elias retreated into the tunnel and were just out of sight before Ilena grabbed both their ears.

  “Ow!” Elias howled.

  “You’re gladiators now? You’re fighting in a war?” Her voice reverberated off the ceiling, high enough to shatter eardrums.

  “I haven’t fought anyone,” Madoc countered, just as her iron grip began to twist.

  Behind her, Seneca chuckled, her voice like gravel shaking in a jar.

  “Champion!” One of the centurions from outside had heard the noise and came rushing toward them, spear extended. He took one look at Ilena and then sent Madoc an uncertain scowl. “Unhand him, domina . . .”

  “Keep talking and you’ll be next!” she hollered, but her grip loosened enough for Madoc to slide free. He waved off the centurion, massaging his hot earlobe and wishing he could melt into the floor.

  The centurion waited one more beat before turning.

  “That was embarrassing,” Elias muttered, wriggling free.

  “Your pride is the least of my concerns,” Ilena responded. She jabbed a finger at Madoc. “You two leave to get Cassia, and I hear nothing. I fear the worst. And three days later you’re one of the Honored Eight? I had to hear it from Seneca!
My own sons couldn’t tell me the truth!”

  “Whispers on the wind,” sang Seneca, adjusting a belt around a tunic Madoc was fairly certain had been stolen off their laundry line. “They say you’re very impressive, Madoc.”

  Elias gave her a disgusted look.

  “I’m sorry,” Madoc said to Ilena, hot shame washing between his shoulder blades. “But . . .” He drew open the pouch of gold nestled in his arm.

  The anger ripped from her face, leaving her skin pale and the bones in her cheeks too prominent. “How did you—”

  “A thousand gold coins for every round he wins,” said Elias. “One forfeit, and we’re over halfway to paying off Cassia’s indenture.”

  Ilena hushed him, closing the bag with one hand. She looked over her shoulder, as if fearful that someone might try to steal it. It was almost funny. No one would think of stealing from a champion—not here, anyway.

  “It’s too dangerous,” she hissed. “These aren’t street fights, Madoc. These are trained gladiators.”

  “I know,” he said grimly, wondering again where Stavos had gone. As much as Madoc wanted to believe the champion had run scared, he knew that was unlikely. Could it have been illness? Gladiators sometimes fell to pox.

  “Does Lucius know you aren’t . . .” She didn’t have to say the word to make her meaning clear. Does he know you aren’t Divine?

  Madoc shook his head.

  “Of course not.” Ilena huffed. She inhaled slowly, gaze turning toward the arena, where the crowd had begun chanting, “Burn her up! Burn her up!”

  “What’s going on out there?” Elias stepped closer to the golden sand at the end of the corridor, the long beam of light reaching the tips of his sandals.

  “Ignitus has lost his temper,” said Seneca, tightening the knot of silver hair at the base of her neck. “It seems to happen more often than not.”

  Ilena ignored her and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. “All right. We need to explain that there’s been a mistake. Can you speak to the sponsor—Lucius? Maybe he can help.”

  Madoc could see her scheming, trying to figure out how to work with what they’d done, and he loved her for that.