Sword of the Seven Sins

by Emily Colin

  I’m reassured that the other two recruits won’t be able to fight, either—but when I’m able to lift my head, I see the two of them being towed to shore atop inflatable rafts. My mouth falls open. How did they rate a rescue? Would the Bellatorum have let me drown?

  Indignation drives me to my knees, then upward. I grasp the trunk of the tree that saved me, ignoring the pain in my hands, and pull myself to my feet. At the top of the cliff I see the dark mass of the Bellatorum, edged by torchlight. They are up there, waiting—but for what?

  I stiffen, feeling suddenly as if I am being watched—and not by the Bellatorum. There is no way they can see me, not at this distance, down here in the dark. No, there is someone else, closer. I can’t hear him—but I know he is there. My back against the tree, I turn my head left and right, searching.

  The other two recruits are onshore now, coughing and choking. They’re not paying me a bit of attention, nor are the bellators who ferried them back. On slightly higher ground, concealed by a clump of sugar maples, I can see them, but they have no way to return the favor. Still, I can feel the weight of someone’s eyes on me.

  Slowly, I bend and pick up a rock from the dirt. My hands are trembling, but I tighten my grip and don’t let go. “I know you’re there,” I say. “You might as well come out.”

  A figure materializes from the blackness under the copse of trees to my right: a lone bellator, not much older than I but deep-voiced nonetheless. “Put down the rock, girl,” he says.

  “No,” I reply, with a confidence whose origins bewilder me. “Unless you’d care to surrender your blade.”

  At this, the man laughs, a rusty, unused chuckle that forces its way up from his chest. “Keep your pebble if you want, citizen. You won’t get far with it, anyhow. You’ll be needing both your hands for the task ahead.”

  “Which is what?”

  With his chin, he gestures toward the hulking rise of rock to the right of the rapids. “You’ve got to get back up there somehow, eh?”

  “You want me to climb—that?” I say incredulously. “In the dark? Barefoot? Wearing this?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t make the rules. You’ll climb, or you’ll forfeit your Choice, and pay the price.”

  I clutch my rock, feeling desperate, and resist the urge to snap that I didn’t choose this situation in the least. I’d love to relinquish my recruitment to the Bellatorum—but I’ve seen what happens to citizens who fail their Choosing; they are reduced to little more than natural-borns. I’ll be damned if I let that happen to me.

  Still, cold and exhausted as I am, wearing this flimsy nightgown—unlike the male recruits, in their rough but serviceable cotton pajamas—I’ll never be able to make it to the top of that cliff. I’ll be scratched to the Sins and back before I go five feet.

  Chastened, I bow my head. “I just—I don’t think I can do it,” I mumble, pitching my voice beneath the roar of the rapids.

  The bellator takes a step closer, lured by the scent of surrender. “What’s that you say, girl?” His voice is so condescending I want to punch him, a sin in itself. But I don’t. I bide my time.

  Likely, I will have to commit a sin far worse than throwing a punch before this night is done. I don’t reflect on this. I can’t. Right now, my priority is to survive.

  “I’m cold,” I say, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. “I want to go back to the Rookery. Could I borrow your shirt, just until I get home?”

  He laughs again. “You want to borrow my shirt?” The way he says it, you’d think I suggested borrowing his skin.

  “Please,” I whisper. “I’m so cold. And look—I cut my finger. It’s bleeding.” Widening my eyes to look defenseless, I hold out my free hand for his inspection.

  The man sneers. But as I’d hoped, he comes closer, bending his head to inspect my injured finger. This is my chance. I draw back and smash the rock into his skull with all the force in me. He lets out a surprised grunt and goes down hard, spilling blood. Lucky for me, the sound is camouflaged by the roar of the water, compounded by the coughing of the other two recruits.

  I have never hit anyone before, much less clubbed them with a rock—but there is no time to dwell on what I have done. The moment the man hits the ground, I am on my knees next to him. I check his pulse to make sure he isn’t dead, then undo his weapons belt and tug it free. What I really want is the big blade down his back, his sverd—but it’s wedged into its scabbard by some kind of trickery. In the dark, I can’t see how to pry it loose. So I shove the harness down his arms with the blade still sheathed, then yank his pants and shirt off, pull my sopping nightgown over my head, and exchange it for the rest of his gear. He lies there in his undergarments, motionless, a small pool of blood seeping from his head, as I roll up the sleeves of his shirt, cuff his pants, and cinch his weapons belt around my waist.

  By a stroke of luck, he has a pair of gloves stashed in his pockets. They’re too big, but I put them on anyhow. His shoes are hopelessly huge, and his socks won’t give me the friction I need to climb, so I’ll have to stay barefoot. Still, my clothing situation has vastly improved. I wring out my braid, which has somehow survived, and drag him by his legs into the copse of trees he came out of. And then I head for the cliff.

  The climb is easier than I’d imagined. There are ropes fixed to the rock and decent footholds. The downed bellator’s gloves protect my abused hands, and, fueled by adrenaline and my unexpected conquest, I climb faster than I imagined possible. The top of the cliff is ten feet above my head when I feel weight on the rope below.

  My initial fear is that the bellator I hit has woken up and is pursuing me. But no—when I peer down the rope I see the pale face of one of the other recruits. I shouldn’t be able to make him out at this distance, but I am sure it is him nonetheless. Still, I climb faster. I don’t know if I’m competing against myself, the others, or the Bellatorum. Either way, it’s foolish to cede an advantage.

  Finally, I haul myself over the edge of the cliff and drop the rope. Even through the gloves, my palms are stinging, and my calf muscles burn. The Bellatorum are nowhere in sight. I am alone.

  It is a trick, a trap. It has to be. I back away and scan the shadows, looking for movement. But before I get very far, I hear Efraím’s voice, issuing from somewhere to my left. “Well done, girl. You’ve surprised me for the second time tonight.”

  Instinctively, my hand drops to my stolen weapons belt. “What do you want?”

  “You,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. Now his voice is coming from the patch of darkness under the trees, but I could swear he hasn’t moved. I would have heard him. “Tonight we hunt you, Eva Marteinn.”

  “And if you catch me?” I force my voice not to waver.

  He snorts. “Oh, we will catch you. It’s just a matter of when.”

  Behind me I hear the other two recruits making their way up the rock. Soon, my advantage will be lost—if indeed I have one to begin with. My heart pounds harder, and I shiver in my borrowed clothes. “There are two hundred of you, and one of me,” I point out. “That hardly seems fair.”

  Another voice issues from the shadows, this one amused. “Actually, there are three of you. And we’ll even give you a head start. Three minutes. Think of it as a game of hide-and-seek, Citizen Marteinn, if that makes you feel better.”

  Laughter rises from the darkness between the trees, and I bristle. “You’d better hope you’re not the one who catches me, Bellator Westergaard.” My words issue between clenched teeth, and the laughter cuts off abruptly, as if someone has flipped a switch.

  “Oh?” Ari’s voice is sharp-edged, drifting from the trees overhead. “Had I, little warrior? What will you do?”

  I don’t bother looking upward. I know he isn’t there. From a deep well inside me there comes a surge of rage. I am tired of being ripped from my bed and chased out of windows, marched through the woods like a criminal and tossed off cliffs into a maelstrom of raging water. I’d requested a quiet career in comp tech, n
ot this uncivilized insanity. Wrath is forbidden in the Commonwealth, but I do not care.

  As contained as the Bellatorum may be when they stalk the Commonwealth’s streets, tonight in the firelit forest I see them for the savage, wild creatures they really are—little better than the beasts all the fables warn us against becoming. I am not one of them—not a hired blade, nor a killer. But as my fury crests higher, burning away the chills that rack my muscles, a strange feeling rises alongside it, as terrifying as it is unfamiliar.

  Facing a horde of invisible warriors who want to hunt me like an animal, at liberty to speak my mind and bare the ugliness in my heart, I feel…free.

  The Architect damn Ari Westergaard, and all his kind.

  “Chase me if you will,” I tell him, the words coming from some unknown, careless place, as if the two of us are alone here in the woods at the edge of the world. “Catch me if you can. And we’ll see who hurls the insults then.”

  There is a brief silence. Then Ari replies, his voice ice cold, “Challenge me and pay the price, Eva Marteinn. What say you, sir? Should she run?”

  When Efraím speaks again, he sounds resigned. “Three minutes, girl,” he says. “And pray to the Architect that my apprentice is in a giving mood.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I run for the woods, straight through the column of bellators I’m sure are scattered in its midst. Behind me I hear the other recruits cresting the cliff, hear Efraím explaining the rules of the hunt to them. I couldn't care less, save for the distraction and the noise that covers my retreat. I run faster than I ever have, and the night opens for me, coming alive. It seems to me I can smell the creatures that call the forest home, see each tree and fallen log, so it requires no effort to avoid them. I count as I run, second by second, making my way ever closer to the three-minute mark. And then I shimmy up a tree, high as I can go, and crouch in its branches, waiting.

  I haven’t climbed a tree since I was a child, but the running is familiar enough. Three times a week, our physical trainers make us exercise—it forestalls bodily excess and calms the mind. In the weeks leading up to the Choosing, I’ve pounded the track harder and faster than usual, driven by anxiety. I’ve forced myself to hold back, to stay with the pack of seventh-form girls, lest the trainer note my heightened speed and divert my Choice to a path more suited for citizens with physical acuity.

  But maybe he has noticed, and informed the Choosing Committee anyhow. It’s the only explanation I have, and I curse myself for a careless sinner. Regardless, tonight my anxiety-fueled adrenaline is all that stands between myself and certain capture, and I give thanks for it.

  I have no idea how much time passes. Enough for my bruised muscles to protest, for me to realize my feet are bleeding. Enough to wonder if this entire endeavor has been a fool’s pursuit. I count the space between heartbeats and press myself against the trunk of the tree, a knife from the borrowed weapons belt in my hand. I’d love to examine the belt’s contents more closely, but I don’t dare make a sound or do more than pull this one knife free. Its handle feels strange in my hand, awkward. I have never held a knife like this before.

  What will Ari Westergaard do if he catches me? I think, and have to suppress a shiver. Will he kill me? I’d been foolish to goad him into anger. I knew better. And now, as he warned, I will doubtless pay the price.

  I can hear the bellators moving quietly through the woods, hear the occasional sound of a struggle. Perhaps they have captured the other two recruits? I feel almost sorry for the two boys, with their sopping clothes and their lack of weapons. Perhaps they will even be relieved to be caught.

  I don’t hear footsteps coming in my direction until it’s too late. They stop at the base of the tree, and then I hear a familiar laugh. “Hello,” Ari Westergaard says, conversationally enough. “Care to join me?”

  By the Sins. “Not really,” I reply.

  “Ah. I thought you’d say that. Well, too late.”

  The arrogance in his voice pushes me over the edge. Forgetting my resolution to control my temper, I throw the knife—not at the place where his voice is coming from, but to the left, where a form shifts in the shadows beneath the tree. To my surprise, the blade flies true, and a second later, I hear his sharp intake of breath.

  “You put a hole in my pants.” He sounds offended. “I’ll have to requisition another pair.”

  “Attachment to items of clothing is a sin,” I retort.

  If I could see Ari, I feel certain he’d be rolling his eyes. “I’m not attached, citizen. One pair of pants is as good as another. I just hate paperwork.”

  I tug another knife loose from the weapons belt—this one heavier in my hand, weighted for throwing. “How do you feel about your shirts?”

  He doesn’t answer, and I let the second knife fly. This time it draws blood; I can smell the iron tang, clear in the crisp night air. “Not bad,” he muses, sounding infuriatingly unharmed. “If only you could put an end to your opponents by shaving the skin off their forearms.”

  From my perch in the tree, I see him draw the sverd at his back. The blade glints in the thin stream of moonlight that filters through the trees. “Out of curiosity, whose knives are you throwing at me? I could have sworn you began this evening unarmed and wearing your nightclothes. Now there you sit, outfitted like a bellator, weapons and all.”

  I don’t say a word, and he throws the sword high, letting it fall end over end until it lands, trembling, in the earth between his feet. One hand resting on its hilt, he lifts his face to mine. “What did you do, Eva?” he whispers.

  “If you must know, I tricked one of the bellators by the water into believing I was cold and hurt. It wasn’t that hard. I mean, I was freezing, and I’d nicked my hand on the branch I used to pull myself out of the rapids.”

  As soon as the explanation leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. What if my little ruse might come in handy again? Not for the first time, I curse Ari Westergaard and his virtueless ability to bring out the worst in me.

  Beneath the tree, I see him go still. “You pulled yourself out? But we saw rafts—”

  “Those were for the boys. I got out on my own, no thanks to any of your bellator brothers. If it had been up to them, I’d be fish food right now.” I wrap one hand around the branch to steady myself. “But when that bellator told me I had to climb the cliffs, I knew I didn’t stand a chance. So I told him I was bleeding. When he came over to see, I hit him over the head with a rock and stole his clothes and his weapons belt.”

  “I see. What did he look like?”

  The question startles me. “I don’t know. He had a deep voice. He was stocky, broad through the shoulders, maybe a few inches taller than I am. His hair was wavy—I remember noticing that, before I hit him.”

  Ari is laughing again, but this time I don’t think it’s at my expense. “That would be Bellator Reykdal Skau. He didn’t save you, so you laid him out with a rock and disarmed him. I’d say you have a fair talent for revenge, Citizen Marteinn.”

  “Revenge?” I say, puzzled. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Of course it was,” Ari says, pulling his blade from the ground and wiping it clean on his shirt.

  “It wasn’t,” I say stiffly. “He had something I needed. I took it. That’s all. Revenge didn’t enter into the equation.”

  “I see,” he says again, not sounding as if he believes me in the slightest. “Well, Eva, as enlightening as this has been, I’m afraid target practice is over. I’m going to have to ask you to come down.”

  My heart jolts, then starts racing. “No.” The word leaves my mouth without volition, startling me.

  There is a pause, and then Ari gives a low chuckle. “No?” he says, sounding as incredulous as I feel.

  “No,” I repeat, digging my free hand into the bark of the tree. “I won’t. Come up and get me, if you want me so badly.”

  He exhales so loudly I can hear it, more of a snort than anything else, and in the silence that falls between u
s, I realize what I’ve said. Blood rushes to my cheeks, heating my face to a fever pitch, but I don’t move an inch. Maybe it’s terror that holds me in place, or pure pigheadedness. All I know is, if the Bellatorum are going to make me play this game, I won’t make it easy for them.

  “You want me to come after you?” Ari says. “And force you to the ground? Are you sure, little warrior?”

  I grip the hilt of one of my remaining knives. “I don’t want you to do a virtueless thing, except go away and leave me alone.”

  “Such language, Eva. And you know I can’t do that.” He sounds different now, closer. I glance down into the shadows and realize he is circling the tree, his feet crunching in the fallen leaves, determining the best angle of approach. My heart quickens, and I draw the knife.

  “Come down. I won’t ask again.” It’s his persuasive voice, the one I’d swear could talk one of the Architect’s fire-demons into setting itself aflame. Bracing, I steel myself against its sway. He was easy enough to provoke before; maybe that strategy will work again, and distract him long enough that he’ll make a careless mistake.

  “What, are you afraid you won’t be able to best me, Bellator Westergaard?” I say, imbuing my voice with as much scorn as I can muster. “I’m just a girl in a tree. Why the reluctance? Perhaps you’re all talk, after everything.”

  He growls, a menacing sound that makes me shiver. The rustling of the leaves stops, and in the moonlight I see the glint of his green eyes as they measure the distance between us. “Ah, Eva. You really shouldn’t have said that.”

  The tree shakes as he leaps, lunging for one of the lower branches and catching hold. Alarmed, I reach for the limb above me with the hand not clutching the knife, but the tree quakes under his weight and I lose my balance. The branch breaks, plummeting to the ground, just as Ari Westergaard’s blade presses against my throat.

  He gives a low hum of satisfaction as the metal creases my skin. With his free hand, he forces the knife from my grasp, sending it tumbling after the broken branch.