Rise Up from the Embers

by Sara Raasch

  Because of course she would let him go. That was what this war demanded of her, and she would always do what was right, even if it killed her.

  Freeing Kula had cost Ash her mother. It had cost Ash her god. It had chased her from her home and made her a target, and now it asked her to let go of Madoc, too.

  A selfish burn singed her gut. How much else would this war take from her?

  When would she get to start taking things back?

  Ash pressed her forehead to Madoc’s, their breaths mingling.

  “You know Anathrasa won’t hurt me,” he said, “not if she thinks there’s any hope that I’ll get the gods’ powers and give them to her.”

  “Like you’re doing for me.” Ash laughed brittlely. “Is this any better than her plan?”

  “Yes.” Madoc’s response was instant and firm. “Let me do this. When I come back, we can be together. We—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “We won’t have to worry anymore.”

  Ash’s fingers curled into the short hairs at the back of his neck and she planted her other hand on his chest, over his heart, savoring the feel of it thudding against her palm.

  They would both be fine. Anathrasa wouldn’t hurt Madoc.

  Because if she did, she would have to contend with the wrath of a goddess.

  Five

  MADOC

  WITH ASH’S KISS seared into his memory and the freedom of the world on his shoulders, Madoc sailed home to Deimos to face his mother.

  Propelled by a strong current created by a small crew of Water Divine sailors, the ship cut through the waves as it raced through the nights, pressing on too quickly for Madoc to succumb to his previous seasickness. Where the trip to the Apuit Islands had taken two weeks, the return voyage took only three days. Soon he found himself facing a fleet of Deiman ships bearing black sails, a hailstorm of gravel suspended over the hull of his boat, ready to sink him into the sea.

  Furiously, he waved a white flag over the side of the deck, his eyes bouncing from the sky peppered with stones to the fleet five hundred paces away. As many times as he’d practiced this in his mind, nothing could prepare him for the horrific awe of this moment, and the gripping fear of what might happen if he never made it to land.

  Barely two weeks ago, he had fled Crixion, half conscious, terrified for his family and with no idea of the effect Anathrasa’s war had on the world.

  Now he was returning in much the same way.

  “Come on,” he muttered, sweat streaking down his face, burning the sea salt on his chapped lips. The heat had increased dramatically from the islands, and his tunic—the one shredded on the side from Tor’s training—clung to his chest. Hydra’s people had offered him new clothes, but he couldn’t risk appearing on friendly terms with the water goddess. It was better if he showed up in his Deiman clothes, weathered as they were.

  “It’s not going to work,” he heard a sailor whisper. They’d left Hydra’s lands with only three Water Divine sailors and a first mate to captain the vessel. If they were going to make it look as though he’d used anathreia to sway Hydra’s people to sail him home, they couldn’t afford to have a fully crewed ship. Now they’d been waiting at the edge of Deiman waters for over an hour.

  Panic pressed against the edges of his control. Ash was counting on him. He could not fail.

  “They haven’t attacked us yet,” Madoc growled, waving the flag harder. “They’re stalling until Anathrasa gives her orders.”

  We surrender.

  He focused on the words, willing them to stretch across the waves. Willing his anathreia to save their necks.

  Mother, I’m here.

  A cool breeze lifted the hairs on his arms, climbing up his chest to his throat.

  Not a breeze—this came from inside him. A healing, the broken parts of his energeia fusing together in pulsing relief.

  But there was something different about it. It was like spun sugar that was too sweet—good, but not quite right.

  It felt like it had when he’d tried to take Anathrasa’s energeia.

  He didn’t have time to wonder about it. He ignored it and concentrated on the nearest ship. With a focused breath, he reached across the waves, invisible strands of energeia seeking purchase on the souls, pulsing like lantern light on the crowded deck.

  We surrender. Tell my mother I’ve come home.

  “Look!” called one of the sailors at the helm. “They’re pulling back!”

  Madoc glanced up, huffing a sigh as the rocks overhead crumbled in midair, raining a harmless dust that stuck to his damp skin.

  Madoc lowered the flag, keeping it hanging in sight over the side of the deck.

  “Approach slowly,” he called to his crew.

  The Water Divine warriors lowered the sails, and as they carved a line through the waves toward the fleet, Madoc’s pulse pounded in his ears.

  The closer they got to the other ships, the more alive his anathreia became. It buzzed through him with no regard to his tense muscles or his wary thoughts. Despite their progress, a frown pulled at his lips. Even when he couldn’t control it, his energeia had always been in sync with the rest of his body. But now it felt strange inside him, as if it wasn’t entirely his own.

  Like when he’d taken Petros’s geoeia and felt it slipping through his veins.

  He hadn’t tithed on anyone. He hadn’t even used his anathreia since four nights ago, when they’d been attacked at the barrier outside the Apuit Islands. He’d been trying to conserve his energy, rebuild his strength, so that when he faced Anathrasa he’d be ready. But something still felt wrong.

  Dread mingled with his power as he considered whether this might have something to do with his proximity to the Mother Goddess. When they’d clashed on the water, something had happened. He’d felt gutted, broken—it wasn’t the rush he’d experienced every other time he’d used anathreia, but rather the opposite effect. And now he was in Deimos, facing a fleet of her soldiers, and his anathreia was acting up again.

  He shook his head. He didn’t have time to worry about the unruliness of his energeia now. He had a surrender to fake, and two more gods to somehow siphon enough power from to turn Ash into a gladiator strong enough to defeat Anathrasa.

  He felt a lot like the boy who’d stood in those fighting rings in South Gate—a fraud, boasting a power he didn’t have. A kid with quick fists who could put on a decent show.

  And just like he had then, he would let the crowd believe what they wanted, until he’d taken everything he’d come for.

  The Deiman ships cleared a path for their boat, and as they steered toward the Port of Iov, Madoc lifted his chin to the sun, and to the lighthouse he thought he’d never see again.

  His heart gave a hard lurch. Home.

  Was Ilena safe? Had she found Elias? What about Danon and Ava? Without thinking, his gaze turned west, to the fields outside the city where the dead were buried to reunite their geoeia with the earth.

  Pain rippled through his chest. Had they laid Cassia to rest in his absence?

  The sailors remained silent, their wary gazes bouncing between him and the approaching shoreline, where a legion of soldiers were gathering. So many Deimans, already loyal to his mother. Their silver armor glinted in the sun, and Madoc didn’t need to see them up close to know that stones and weapons were ready in each of their hands.

  “You have no memory of what’s happened since we left the islands,” he called to the sailors as they slowed their approach. “If you’re questioned, the last thing you remember was me telling you to board this boat.”

  He’d tried to use soul energeia to muddle their memories about their departure from the Apuit Islands—a precaution in case Anathrasa captured and questioned them. But the closer they’d come to Crixion, the more unruly his power felt, as if it had been damaged in the attack on Anathrasa. He didn’t want to risk hurting the sailors by losing control—he’d seen what had happened to Jann in the arena when he’d tried before. He hoped that they could act well enough
to deter suspicion.

  The sailors nodded in wary acceptance, but he could hear the water churning against the hull beneath them and knew that if it came to a fight, their instincts would steer them toward self-preservation.

  He could not let it come to that.

  As they passed the narrow peninsula hosting the lighthouse, his anathreia staggered his breath, pushing him onto the balls of his feet, and when he glanced down his hands were spread, as if prepared for attack.

  The move had been unconscious, and he fisted his hands at his sides.

  Be calm, he told himself. But the power in him said, be ready.

  When the ship docked, they were boarded by two dozen centurions in full armor, ready with stones spinning above their hands. It felt like a lifetime ago that he’d fought the centurions off in the palace, and any confidence he’d had that he could turn their thoughts if needed evaporated into the dry air.

  He pulled Ash into his mind and planted his feet.

  “We surrender!” he shouted as they surrounded him and shoved him to his knees. “Please. Take me to Anathrasa. I don’t intend any harm!”

  He was dragged down the loading plank to the stone dock where the centurions waited in lines, staring at him uncertainly. Word must have spread about his part in Geoxus’s defeat. He took some comfort in their fear, hoping it meant they would not be quick to attack.

  Silently, the crowd parted, and his mother approached, her clean white gown fluttering in the breeze.

  His stomach pitted.

  “Madoc,” she said, eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose you’re here for the festivities.”

  He didn’t know what she meant. His blunt nails dug into the callused heels of his hands. “I come to beg for sanctuary, and your forgiveness.”

  As she lifted her chin, his anathreia prickled inside him, feeding an anger that caught him by surprise. She stepped closer, and he saw, with some discomfort, that his onetime neighbor—an old woman they’d called Seneca—moved with more ease than he’d ever seen. Her back was straighter. Her skin, tighter, and flushed with a healthy glow. Even her white hair looked golden.

  Instead of a woman nearing a century, she looked scarcely older than Ilena.

  Tithes. That was the only answer. Anathrasa was feeding on innocent Deimans. Draining the energeia from their bodies, and leaving them as shells, like she had with Cassia and Ash.

  He wiped any trace of revulsion from his face. She would not know his heart.

  “Forgiveness,” she said, even her voice clearer than he’d known when they were neighbors. “Sanctuary? These are powerful words, my son.”

  His stomach twisted. She may have been his mother by birth, but she had no right to call him son.

  “The Kulan gladiators are beyond reason,” he said as the Water Divine sailors disembarked in shackles. They blinked in confusion, seeming surprised that they’d come to Deimos—part of the plan that Madoc had devised. “I was wrong to trust them. I tried to convince them to turn back after that night at the blockade, but they wouldn’t listen. They’ll stop at nothing to avenge their god.”

  Anathrasa paused before him, close enough that he could reach out and wring her slender neck.

  “And what of Hydra? What does the goddess of water say about this?”

  Madoc shook his head, looking tired, torn. “She sided with them.”

  “Pity,” Anathrasa said, as if she’d expected this. Her lips curled into a patronizing smile. She may have looked younger, but there were still shadows under her eyes and creases around her mouth. “How did you manage to get away?”

  Madoc pictured Ash. Remembered the steadiness in her gaze when he’d left on this mission.

  “I snuck out while they were summoning Florus. Convinced a few sailors to bring me back. My hold on the sailors’ minds prevented Hydra from tracking them across the water.”

  A glimmer of interest arched Anathrasa’s brows, but it was stifled by a hard glare.

  “Or she chose not to follow you so you could spy for her.” Fear chilled Madoc’s blood as she stepped closer. “For all I know, she sent you to turn this legion against me and use the anathreia I gave you to make them do your bidding.” She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “We both know you’d like that.”

  He would. And he could do it. Tell the soldiers behind her to grab her arms. Those beside him to ram their spears through her heart.

  “It would only delay the inevitable,” he said, and it was true. “I want no part of Hydra’s pact with the Kulans. Fighting you will just lead to more bloodshed. I’ve seen enough war.”

  “Oh, my dear,” she clucked. “What you’ve seen could fill the palm of my hand.”

  Again, his anathreia pulsed with a strange, sticky-sweet urgency. Fight, it whispered. Feed.

  Feed.

  The hunger was returning, with teeth like knives. It rose in him like a wave, forcing his breath out in a huff.

  He wanted to end this now.

  He wanted to destroy her, so Ash would never have to fight again.

  He shook his head, sweat burning his eyes. No. Hydra had told him he couldn’t use his anathreia against the Mother Goddess, just as her Water Divine couldn’t use hydreia against Hydra. That was why attacking Anathrasa on the ship had nearly broken him.

  He had to stick to his plan. Join Anathrasa. Find Biotus and Aera. Give their energeias to Ash so that she could harness the power of the six gods and destroy the Mother Goddess.

  “Even so,” he said. “I pledge myself to you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve pledged yourself to another, Madoc. A girl your fingers long to touch, even now.”

  Madoc’s jaw clenched. He would not let her get to Ash—not until Ash was ready to kill her.

  “She’s made her choice,” Madoc said, tension lacing between them, thin and brittle as ice.

  Anathrasa cackled.

  He willed the roar of his blood to settle. He could still make this work. He had sold hundreds of people on his performance as an Earth Divine fighter in the rings of Crixion. He could convince his mother he was on her side.

  He dropped his chin. “She doesn’t want me. Her only love is Kula. Is . . . was . . . Ignitus. I tried to get her to come, but . . .” He shook his head, looking crestfallen. “She would see the world burn, and dance on the embers.”

  Anathrasa assessed him long enough that he began to fidget.

  “Then why didn’t you change her mind?” she asked.

  The thought of forcing Ash to do anything made him ill.

  “Were you not strong enough?” Anathrasa pressed. “Did you not take Ignitus’s fire? Geoxus’s ability to manipulate the very earth we stand on?”

  He could hear the test in her tone. She must have suspected he’d given those powers to Ash and was waiting to catch him in a lie.

  If he didn’t play this carefully, he’d lose his only shot at getting close to Anathrasa, and to Aera and Biotus. He wouldn’t be able to give Ash the power she needed to defeat the Mother Goddess.

  His head hung forward. “The gods’ energeias were killing me. I couldn’t hold them.”

  “And Ash could?” Her teeth pressed together over the name, like she’d bitten into bitter fruit. “How interesting.”

  Madoc reminded himself that Ash had Hydra and the Water Divine. She had Tor. And Taro and Spark and a crew of Kulan sailors that would rise to her defense if needed—but he still felt sick about siphoning this attention her way.

  “She tricked me into giving them to her. I was weak.” He swallowed, a blush rising in his cheeks. “She was . . . convincing.”

  “You expect me to believe your surrender is the result of a broken heart?” Anathrasa shook her head. “You take me for a pitying fool, Madoc.”

  Madoc went still. Anathrasa wasn’t buying his story. With a wave of her hand, she spoke quietly to one of her guards, then turned to go.

  He’d faced this moment a dozen times in street fights—the moment when the act either became
real, and his fate relied on his own fists, or the truth came out and everyone saw him for what he was. A liar.

  He lifted his chin, clenched his fists, and fought.

  “Wait!” he shouted as the guard drew his sword. “It’s Hydra. She didn’t trust me. She wanted me dead. If Ash hadn’t helped me sneak out, I wouldn’t be here now.”

  Anathrasa paused. Turned.

  “Why would she want you dead?”

  “She knows I am your son,” Madoc said in a rush. “She thinks I’m loyal to you.”

  “And are you?” The sparkle in Anathrasa’s eyes drove a stake of fear through him.

  If he lied now, he was sure she would see it. But if he didn’t, she might kill him before he had the chance to accomplish what he’d come to do.

  “Does it matter?” He added a strain to his voice, a hunch to his shoulders. “I have nowhere else to go that she won’t find me.”

  Anathrasa considered this for a long moment. “Now that their god has been brutally murdered, these soldiers belong to Geoxus’s creator—me. I could have them cut you to pieces if you’re lying.”

  “It is no lie.”

  She stepped closer, lifting her hand. Her fingers trailed down his cheek. Show or not, he fought the urge to jerk back; her touch revolted him.

  “You should have considered that you might need me before you attacked me on that ship four days ago.”

  She wheeled back, faster than Madoc expected, and struck him hard across the jaw.

  The slap stung his skin, radiating through his teeth and sending white sparks across his vision. His breath ripped through his dry throat.

  But it was his mother who cried out.

  Before him, Anathrasa’s cheek stained pink, a perfect handprint appearing on her tan skin. She gasped in surprise, the sound that came from her lips a mixture of shock and pain. Stumbling back, she bumped into one of her guards, who caught her around the elbow. She shook him off, covering the mark on her face with her hands.

  Had her power backfired? How had she injured them both by striking him?

  Excitement doused his confusion, overriding his own physical pain. Up until this moment, they hadn’t been sure they could hurt her without him draining what remained of her power, but now the proof was before him. Anathrasa could feel pain.