by Emily Colin
I didn’t care for the man. He was a condescending, arrogant sinner. But that doesn’t mean I wished him dead.
Guilt grips my muscles, sends my stomach roiling with tension as I pass beneath the massive arch of the Great Hall later that morning on my way to the Choosing. The names of the Sins and Virtues are engraved in the stone arch, weathered by snow and wind, but I don’t glance at them. There’s no need. My sins are etched on my mind far more indelibly than they could ever be carved into rock.
I file into the huge room and have no sooner taken my seat with the other seventh-formers than the Executor begins to speak from the dais. He seems smaller in person than he does in the vids, but the authoritative look in his black eyes is no less intimidating.
The five High Priests stand behind him, their red robes in sharp contrast to his crisp white shirt and pants, flanked by armed bellators. One is Efraím Stinar, and the other is Kilían Bryndísarson—the red-haired man he’d left in charge, who’d greeted him when he and Ari brought me to the falls last night: We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire.
A shiver runs through me, remembering, and I rub my upper arms, hoping no one has noticed. With luck, they will attribute it to nerves or awe at the Executor’s presence. Many citizens worship him as they do the Architect. It is rare for us to see him in person, a privilege.
“Citizens of the Commonwealth!” the Executor says in his resonant voice. “I stand here before you today on this, our ninety-eighth Choosing Ceremony, surrounded by the cream of our society. I am but the Commonwealth’s mouthpiece. The High Priests keep its conscience. The Bellatorum enacts its justice. And you are its beating heart, our hope and our light. Together, we continue to build a world governed not by strife and the pursuit of power, but by order and peace.”
Next to me, my classmate Adelía clenches her fists on the tan material of her pants. I turn my head slightly and see her pupils dilated, her lips parted. I could swear I hear her pulse pounding—but that isn’t possible, is it? Either way, there is no mistaking the ecstasy emanating from her.
It is the morning in Clockverk Square all over again.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying to ignore the racing beat of Adelía’s heart and the sharp musk of anxiety that rises from the rows of my fellow seventh-formers. My defensive posture draws disapproving looks, so I unknot my arms and thread my fingers together, resting my entwined hands on my knee. Breathe, I tell myself. Of course you can’t hear Adelía’s heart beating, and what you smell is probably your own sweat. You’re just nervous, and who could blame you?
The Bellatorum are a black-clad phalanx occupying row after row in the back of the hall. I can feel their eyes boring into me as I sit, my numb hands gripping each other, listening to the Executor begin to call out citizens’ names and assignments: Jon Kaase, Arborist. Georg Trygge, Comp Networking. Alix Soelberg, Carpentry Specialist. One by one, the Chosen come up and accept the responsibility that is their due, shake the Executor’s hand—an honor that causes some of them to go pale—and return to their seats. They will embrace their new roles, regardless of personal preference. To do otherwise is a violation of the highest order.
“Step forward, Eva Marteinn.”
I push to my feet, feeling as if a puppeteer is controlling my limbs, and make my way toward the dais. Shaking, I turn to face the crowd.
“Today,” the Executor says, pausing for emphasis, “is a very special day, unique in our history. Today we announce the induction of the first female apprentice to the ranks of the Bellatorum.”
It feels like the whole room inhales at once. Surely they must, because there is no air left for me to breathe. The crowd blurs into a tossing sea of colors, and when my vision clears I see Adelía staring at me, open-mouthed. I look around and realize everyone is wearing the same expression—dumbfounded.
“Citizen Marteinn,” a deep voice says. I turn and see Efraím standing on the Executor’s other side, his clothes pressed and his face serene, as if the night in the woods never took place. He has stepped forward soundlessly, leaving the second bellator to stand with the Priests. They will teach me to move like that, I think, returning his gaze. When I am one of them.
Efraím clears his throat. “You will listen to my questions, and you will reply,” he says. “With the Executor, the Priests, the crowd, and the Bellatorum as witnesses. Do you understand?”
The shaking has spread everywhere, even my lips. “I do.”
At the back of the Great Hall, the Bellatorum rises to its feet. The bellators fall into formation, forming a circle around the citizens of the Commonwealth. The symbolism is clear: The Bellatorum surrounds us. It protects us. It guards the Commonwealth, even from ourselves, and keeps us safe.
“Do you enter into this solemn contract of your own free will?” Efraím asks.
I want to tell him I do no such thing. That the idea horrifies me, day after day of violence shaping me into the worst the Commonwealth has to offer. But then I think about Bellator Skau, bleeding out his life onto the pine needles because of me, and realize it is too late.
First the thief in Clockverk Square. Then Reykdal Skau.
Ari Westergaard is right; I am already a killer—and a coward, too. Because if Bellator Stinar can take the life of one of his own men, someone he broke bread beside and trained with, surely he can do the same to me. I will be at his mercy—and from what I can see, he has none, not even for those he calls his brothers.
So I don’t tell him he can take his ‘solemn contract’ and carve it to bits, the way he did Skau’s jugular, for fear of what the consequences might be. Instead I lift my chin, and lie. “I do.”
“Do you enter it with the understanding that this is a bond severed only by death, or the renunciation of your oath?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand the renunciation of your oath will carry with it a sentence of irrevocable exile from the Commonwealth, into the Borderlands?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to protect the Commonwealth with all the service of your blade and to the last drop of your blood?”
I draw a deep breath and utter the words that will commit me irrevocably to his cause, the ones every recruit must say to seal their oath. “I do so swear.”
Efraím turns to his right. “Ari Westergaard, step forward,” he says.
As Efraím’s apprentice, it is Ari’s duty to be by his side, unless ordered otherwise. I should have known when the bellators took their places, he’d be next to his mentor. But when Ari steps out of the line, looking more presentable than I’ve ever seen him—his torn clothes replaced with spotless gear, his face freshly shaven, and his hair combed—I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from gaping at the contrast. Try as I might, I can find no trace of the warrior who pursued me through the forest, taunting me until I sliced his arm with a stolen blade. In his place is the beautiful, stubborn boy I’d been drawn to despite myself all those years ago in Clockverk Square—expressionless save his eyes, which are fierce with an emotion I am hard-pressed to decipher, but which ignites a burn within me nonetheless. I look at him, and I want something more: To best him with words or a weapon, even—the Architect forbid—to kiss him.
By the Sins, what is wrong with me?
“Sir,” Ari says. His lips are set in a grim line, a sharp contrast from his usual smirk. He isn’t happy with this turn of events—that much is clear enough. All I have to do is think of him saying the scourge of pants and shirts everywhere to know that.
“Do you accept this citizen, Eva Marteinn, as your apprentice?”
“I do.” Ari’s voice is husky. He looks anywhere but at me.
“Do you vow to pass along your knowledge to her, to instruct her to the best of your abilities, to train her in the ways of the Bellatorum so she may live to protect the flock and confront the wolf?”
“I do.”
“Do you promise to challenge her when she must be challenged, to avoid the interference of per
sonal attachment in her training, to demand all she is capable of, so she may in turn dedicate her life to preserving all we hold dear?”
Ari’s eyes flick to my face. His expression is unreadable when he says, “I do so swear.”
“Then step forward, Bellator Westergaard and Apprentice Marteinn. Step forward and make your promises in blood.”
Ari takes a step toward me and holds out his hand. For an inexplicable moment I think he is reaching for me, and my heart jolts, spurred by an emotion for which I have no name. But of course he isn’t. He is holding out his arm for the slice of Efraím’s blade. I turn my head and see it—a foot long and razor-sharp, gleaming in the light. Fear grips me, sudden and humiliating—how deep will it cut? How much will it hurt? What type of barbaric ritual is this, anyway?
Seeing my hesitation, Ari curls the fingers of his extended hand, beckoning. “A moment, Bellator Stinar,” he says. “Apprentice, come to me.”
It is his coaxing voice, the one that persuaded me to confess how I disarmed Reykdal Skau. As if his words have the ability to compel my actions, I obey, stepping toward him until we stand less than six inches apart.
“Bare your arm,” he says, and I do, rolling the sleeve of my shirt up with trembling fingers. My gaze strays helplessly toward the knife again, and he gives a small shake of his head. “Look at me, Eva.” His words bear the clear bite of command. “At me.”
With an effort, I refocus on his face. His eyes hold mine, clear and green and bottomless. “Efraím,” he says softly. “Now.”
The blade comes down. Out of the corner of my eye I see it, a quick flash of silver that pierces my arm and withdraws before I feel the pain. Dark blood wells up as it descends again, this time scoring Ari’s flesh. He never flinches, never takes his eyes off mine. “Good,” he says, but whether to me or to Efraím, I have no idea.
Efraím sheathes his knife and produces a small copper bowl. He holds my wounded arm over it, then Ari’s. Our blood mingles, and still Ari doesn’t look away. Then there is a hiss of metal against leather as two hundred bellators draw their blades. One by one, they cut themselves, passing the bowl around the circle. When it finds its way back to us, it is brimming with our shared blood.
Efraím is last, drawing the sharp point of his knife along his forearm. He takes the bowl and lifts it high. The reek of iron fills the air as the Bellatorum speak in unison, their combined voices sending tremors through the hall. “Your blood to ours, our blades as one. Your strength is our strength. Your fight, our own.”
Efraím walks toward me, the bowl cradled in his hands. “Kneel,” he says.
I sink to my knees and he dips his fingers, marking my forehead, my cheeks and throat. “Repeat after me. I am Bellatorum Lucis. I walk in the light.”
I do as I am told, a bone-deep misery undergirding every word.
As one, the Bellatorum reply, “Transit umbra, lux permanent.” Shadow passes, light remains.
“Rise, Apprentice Marteinn, and take your place alongside your brethren.” Efraím’s voice booms through the hall, echoing from the rafters.
I get to my feet, follow Ari to the line of waiting bellators, and take my place at his side. My arm throbs, but it doesn’t matter.
There is no turning back.
9
Ari
The sun beats down on the rough-hewn gray stone of the Bellatorum’s headquarters, reflecting off the chips of mica embedded in the rock. The building’s four towers loom above us, each flying the flag of a House from one of the old fables, emblazoned with its spirit creature: purple for House Montyorke, with a soaring brown falcon; gold and green for San Fraesco, with a gray selkie; black and crimson for Minneska, with a snow-white, howling wolf; turquoise and cream for Satrizona, with an onyx panther, faded by the elements but fierce nonetheless. The Bellatorum’s sleeping accommodations are divided among these towers, whose flags are meant to remind us of our role as arbiters of justice, peacekeepers who prevent the Commonwealth’s citizens from backsliding into savagery.
Eva follows in my wake as I press my palm to the identification pad and swing the heavy wooden door wide. I walk her through the first floor, with its sitting area and kitchen, its storeroom full of energy bars and water and first aid supplies, then up the worn wooden stairs to the second story, which houses the training facilities, the armory, and the weapons repair room.
She trails me silently as we make our way up to Minneska’s tower. Pushing open the door to the third-floor dormitory, I try not to think about the rush of power when I’d called her to me and she’d come—the weight of those large dark eyes, locked on mine as Efraím pierced her arm and then my own. I’d never seen her give an inch, but in that moment she’d let me be strong enough for both of us. It had roused an unfamiliar sensation in me, protective and hungry. The feeling is with me still, twisting inside me every time I look at her face. I don’t know what to do except attempt to train it out of my body. Maybe if I push myself hard enough, if I sweat and bruise and bleed, it will go away.
“This is the Minneska dorm,” I tell Eva, addressing a spot somewhere over her head. “You won’t be sleeping here.”
She nods. “Where’s my room, then?”
I shut the door behind us, obscuring the rows of white-sheeted single beds, and stride down the hallway, to the door Efraím showed me when we got back from the Trials this morning. “Here,” I say, pushing it open.
She steps inside. There’s not much to see—a single bed, a worn wooden dresser, a window that overlooks the outdoor training ground. About half the bellators are already out there, sparring. She stands and looks down at them. And then she turns from the window.
“Will you teach me to do that?” she says.
“What, fight? It’s part of the job description. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
The words come out rougher than I intend, and Eva’s eyes narrow. “I would never expect that. And I don’t expect you to like me either. Just train me well.”
“I don’t dislike you,” I say, surprised into honesty.
She laughs, a humorless sound that fills the space between us. “They do say bellators are prodigious liars, Ari Westergaard. Is this my first lesson?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”
“Believe what you want,” I say, irritated. “It makes no difference to me.”
Eva smiles. “Now that I do believe. So. When do we start?”
I bare my teeth, a savage mockery of her smile that promises violence. Prisoners in the interrogation chamber have dissolved into hysterics at the sight of this expression, but Eva doesn’t flinch—not then and not when I draw my throwing knife from my belt, weighing it in my hand before I hurl it toward her—aiming far enough away to miss, close enough to terrify.
I don’t know what I expect Eva to do—maybe duck, maybe scream like the untrained citizen she is—but I am disappointed on both counts. Her eyes flick to the blade and she dodges it with a burst of speed that excites the predator in me, sending my heart into overdrive. I stalk toward her, watching her eyes widen, breathing in the wash of pheromones that roll off her body. And then I reach around her, our bodies inches apart, and yank the quivering blade out of the window frame.
“Now,” I say.
10
Eva
Bellators don’t kill small animals for breakfast. They eat protein-heavy meals in their own dining hall, not speaking much except for the occasional request to pass a dish across the table. I sit next to Ari, ignoring the sidelong glances of the other bellators, none of who seem pleased to see me—not that I have the energy to care.
The weeks after my Choosing are a blur of exhaustion and bruising, of fighting and running and commands I never obey fast enough. I spend hours in the training room with Ari every day, during which he drills me on the name and history of each weapon, sets up targets for me to pierce, teaches me how to spar and to use my momentum as leverage. He teaches me to fa
ll, and I fall over and over, ending with him standing over me, the tip of his sverd against my skin. Je me rends, I gasp, watching his smile widen. I surrender. Only then will he back off, so we can begin again. And through it all he taunts me, his voice an omnipresent irritant, a needle buried beneath my skin.
As exhausted as I am, you’d think I wouldn’t dream. But I do—elaborate scenarios in which I slip through the woods on the trail of prey I never manage to catch, then race through the shadows until my muscles cramp to avoid the clutches of a relentless predator. It’s the nightmare scenarios from my childhood all over again, but this time—just as is the case when I’m awake—all my senses are amplified. I pursue the prey through the woods, following a complex pattern of its scent. My speed is a blur, the darkness of no consequence. And then I wake, my muscles aching, only to find the dream has not left me.
I am tempted to stop taking the small pink pill that arrives each morning with my other vitamins—after all, this bizarre augmentation of my senses began in the dining hall, right after I swallowed that pill for the first time—but if I really am anemic, I can ill afford to let my red blood cell count fall. How will I defend myself then?
So I do my best to ignore the way the world seems more sharp-edged than usual, every scent exaggerated, my reflexes and balance far better than they used to be. After all, I am training every day for this exact purpose. Perhaps this happens to every bellator around the time of the Choosing; maybe these exaggerated responses are what qualify a citizen for inclusion in the Bellatorum.
I consider asking Ari, then think better of it; the last thing I want is to give him a reason to mock me—or worse, doubt my abilities, attributing them to a performance-enhancing drug. But what if that’s the truth? What if the Executor had a deeper reason for choosing me as a bellator—and he’s given me those pills to make me faster, stronger? To help me keep up with the others so I don’t fall far behind, humiliating myself and the Choosing Committee?