by Sara Raasch
A sheen of sweat coated Madoc’s skin. In the box beside him, he heard an audible grunt of disgust, and when he turned, he saw Lucius, the gladiator trainer he’d once served. The man met Madoc’s gaze, his eyes filled with anger, then looked away.
Madoc’s mouth went dry. The last time he’d seen Lucius, he’d been training to fight as an Earth Divine champion. Surely by now the sponsor knew that had been a lie. Was he disgusted now at the very sight of Madoc? Did he know Anathrasa was Madoc’s mother? He had to be wondering why Madoc was here, among some of the most powerful people in the world.
Regardless what the sponsor thought, Madoc felt his surprise settle into a tentative relief. There was at least one other Deiman displeased with Anathrasa’s rule—even if Lucius’s disgust was reserved for him.
Forty Deimans were on the sand now, but Madoc’s gaze locked on the smallest among them—a boy with dark curls and a small wooden knife. He glanced again to Lucius. The sponsor never would have put a child on the sand, or any of these fighters for that matter. He’d taken only the best. The strongest.
Or at least those who’d appeared to be the strongest.
He had a sudden, desperate desire to talk to Ash, to tell her what was happening here. Did she know? Did Hydra look through the water to learn of the horrors about to take place?
Had Ash learned how to do the same?
No. She would have tried to contact him if she could. Still, too much time had passed since he’d left the islands. Was she all right? Had something happened? He wished there was a way that he could reach her, but how? He wasn’t a god. They didn’t even share the same energeia.
He was overcome by a wave of insignificance. This was the kind of thing they were fighting to stop. These people were risking their lives for the pleasures of the gods. And yet he was forced to stand by and do nothing.
Not nothing.
He was close to Aera. If he could figure out how to drain some of her power, they would be one step closer to ending these events forever.
“There they are!” The goddess of air squealed as the northern gate was pulled back to reveal another group—men and women with fair hair and skin, who carried thin golden shields and small handheld weapons. They moved over the ground like their goddess did—light on their feet, their gazes constantly in motion.
A moment later, seven warriors in fur skins stomped out of the far exit. They were braced for a fight, and even from the box, Madoc could feel the charge of their bioseia. As soon as the gate behind them had closed, the sand began to shift. At first, Madoc thought this was the work of geoeia, but as he watched, a trapdoor opened in the ground and a giant white mountain cat lunged up a hidden ramp. Two more followed, lithe beasts the size of horses, with paws as big as a man’s head and claws like knives. When the last cat tried to pounce at the nearest Animal Divine fighter, it was caught around the neck by a metal collar and crashed to its side with a shriek.
The crowd went wild.
Madoc’s gaze darted back to the Deiman boy, who clearly had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. This wasn’t the gladiator fights of the old wars; this was a free-for-all—Earth Divine against Air Divine against Animal Divine. Like last night in the garden, the urge rose in him to stop this, but before he could say or do anything, the announcer raised his hands.
“Let the games begin!”
The audience screamed as the three divinities in the arena clashed in a torrent of wind and dust and clanging metal. Despite the unprepared look of the Deimans, they hurled themselves toward the Air and Animal Divine with a reckless bravery, and soon, a hundred energeias were heaving across the sand.
Madoc gripped the railing, sick to his core. He searched for the boy and found him near the outskirts of the fight, flinging balls of gravel into the fray before sprinting to a new position. As he neared the back of the arena, he came close to one of the jungle cats, and Madoc found himself yelling for the boy to move as the animal swiped at him with its monstrous paw.
The boy ducked just in time, but as the animal crouched to attack again, it twisted, its head ducked low in pain, and stumbled to its side. Behind it, an Animal Divine warrior lowered his hands from where he’d reached and drawn out the beast’s life force, and he roared, bioseia flooding his veins.
Before he could attack, he was swept into the air by a Lak fighter and flung into the stands.
“Oh my,” Aera giggled.
Madoc could feel the tingle of her victory dancing over his skin, and beyond it, the pulse of her energeia—a cool, invisible fog. It was different than this morning in the carriage. This was unchecked and unprotected, and as the moments passed, he became more aware of it, until his vision had fallen out of focus and he’d lost track of the boy in the crowd.
He eased closer to Aera, a dark hunger licking his soul. Everyone was distracted now. If the goddess of air didn’t notice Madoc sipping the smallest bit of her energeia, would anyone else? Would Anathrasa?
Now might be his best chance to test how much, if any, he could take without her noticing.
Inhaling, he felt Aera’s consciousness, light as a cloud. When he grasped for it with his anathreia, it slipped away. Drawing back, he steadied himself, then tried again.
Just a little, he thought.
He kept his eyes on the battle, vaguely acknowledging the four Earth Divine fighters who’d made a clay wall to block the attacks of the other two divinities. The Air Divine were picking off Biotus’s warriors one by one, and soon had turned on the Deimans.
Madoc pressed against the threshold of Aera’s energeia, invisible strands of his anathreia reaching for the goddess’s soul. The sweet taste of spun sugar filled his mouth, then was gone a second later.
Aera flinched. She looked behind her, as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder.
“Wine?”
Madoc turned sharply to find Anathrasa standing beside him. She’d taken two goblets off a tray and was extending one toward Madoc.
He accepted it with a shaking hand but didn’t drink. Had she known what he was trying to do? Was that why she’d interrupted him? He tried to read her emotions, but his anathreia was unsteady from trying to tithe on Aera, so he searched her face for confirmation, only to find her staring at her reflection in the silver goblet with a frown.
“I’ve given you the finest bed in the palace in hopes that your good sleep will get rid of these bags under my eyes.” She pulled gently at the corner of one eye, flattening the wrinkles. “I don’t think it’s helped, do you?”
The fight before him faded. Aera, who’d moved away to watch with her guards, slipped from his mind.
“So we are connected.” He knew this—he’d seen it—and yet her confirmation made his chest feel as though it was filled with stones.
Anathrasa lowered the goblet, meeting his gaze with an unamused stare. “There are no accounts of mortals and gods who have been linked in this way before.” Her chin lifted. “Then again, there are no accounts of mortals living after an attack on their god, either.”
A shiver worked its way down Madoc’s chest. So she did think what he’d done to her on the ship had caused this. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel proud, or incredibly stupid.
She opened her hand, eyeing the scar across her palm. It had healed quickly—perhaps she was like Madoc in that way—but it still sent a new wave of fear through him.
She knew, or at least suspected, what he’d done last night.
“How does it work, I wonder?” she mused, her voice quiet amid the screams around them. “You didn’t feel anything strange last night after you cut your hand, did you? Anything on your shoulder?” He flinched as she pushed open the collar of his robe, examining his right shoulder the way Aera had done this morning.
Wariness scrunched his brows. “Should I have, Mother Goddess?”
She moved the strap of her dress to the side, showing a red scab.
Had she cut herself as he had, to see if he’d bleed?
He was just s
tarting to grasp what this might mean—that he could hurt her without being hurt in return—when she leaned down to a rosebush beside her and wrapped her fist around the thorned stem beneath a white blossom.
A pinch of pain ricocheted up his right hand, and when he looked down, he saw four points of blood beading on his palm.
“Interesting,” she said, wiping her bloody palm on a servant girl standing behind them. “So why didn’t it work last night? What were you doing?”
He’d been with Elias after the garden. Was it merely a matter of proximity, or had her attempt to hurt him not worked because of something else?
All he and Elias had been doing was talking. It didn’t make sense.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was in my room.”
“No doubt plotting my demise,” she said with a grim smile. “First a cut on the hand, then a knife to the heart, hmm?”
Again, a dark question penetrated his thoughts. If he died, would she die also? If he ceased to exist, this war could be over in moments. His family would be free. Ash wouldn’t have to fight.
But he had to be certain it would work.
Frantically, he replayed last night’s events. He and Elias had gone to the barn. They’d talked about Anathrasa. About Ash. It had been a welcome relief from the tension he’d felt since arriving back in Crixion.
Why hadn’t her experiment worked, as his had? What had been different?
He’d been content with Elias. He’d felt safe.
Was that it? Was the difference as simple as the comfort of his brother’s presence?
Straightening, Anathrasa turned to him, the sun glinting off her light hair. “Believe me, son, it will take more than your death to kill me. I’ve tithed enough souls to keep us alive a long, long time. Trying to end your life will only inconvenience us both.”
He was equally relieved and disappointed.
“What do we do about this?” he asked carefully.
Her eyes met his, and a strange look crossed her face—something like hope, but more desperate. Though he was reluctant to believe it, part of him wondered if Anathrasa wanted his help.
He could use that to his advantage.
“We make ourselves strong,” she said. “So that I can fix what has been broken.”
“You mean so that you can rule the six countries.” His tone had gone hard.
She inhaled slowly, locking her gaze on his. Even in this younger body, his old neighbor was still visible, looking at him as if she could see every unconscious desire that lurked within.
He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to remain steady. Trying not to think of Cassia.
“I was wrong to split my soul for these gods,” she said quietly enough that no one, gods included, could hear. “When I made them, I thought they would love their children as I loved them, but they became worse than mortals. Fighting for power. Fighting for land. Turning on me, the one who made them.” She made a sound of disgust that had his jaw clenching. “They’re bent on destroying everything.”
Aera and Biotus had turned on her in the past, as well, yet now they were preparing to stand beside her in war. Aera had even seemed to pity Anathrasa and her trusting nature. Perhaps she didn’t know the Mother Goddess was speaking this way about her behind her back.
Or perhaps this speech was a lie, meant to lure Madoc in.
“So you’ll destroy them instead?” he asked, wondering again where Biotus had gone when he’d left the grand arena. Was he truly investigating the delayed arrival of his people, or was he doing something for Anathrasa?
“Your mother’s son, through and through.” She inhaled slowly. “Yes. Help me, and you’ll be free to do what you will.”
“And the Metaxas?”
She smiled tightly. “We’ll see how loyal you truly prove to be.”
He froze, the shouts of the crowd drowned out by the buzzing in his ears. “What would you have me do?”
She faced him, leaning her hip against the railing. “Return the six gods’ powers to me so that I can reunite the mortal world under one reigning goddess.”
He scoffed. “You want me to take the energeias from Aera and Biotus?”
Anathrasa smiled, a look filled with dangerous promise. “Why do you think I called them here?”
He remembered the conversation with Aera earlier and was now certain she didn’t know Anathrasa’s true intent: to drain two gods, just as he’d come here to do.
“Biotus is very strong, and Aera, though she doesn’t look it, is cunning. She’ll be hard to pin down. You’ll need my help.” Anathrasa turned back to the fighting. “Which leaves the energeias you gave to the Kulan girl.”
Ash. At the mention, Madoc’s chest seized.
“We’ll have to get them back when she arrives. It won’t be easy. Not many are trained for the arena as thoroughly as your little gladiator friend,” Anathrasa continued, motioning toward the fight below. “Clearly.”
Madoc forced his eyes back to the fight so that he didn’t give away his anger. His gaze found the boy just as he was hit in the shoulder by an arrow and thrown backward with a stunted cry.
Madoc felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
“Stop this,” he said. “I’ll help you, but please. These people aren’t fighters.”
“Neither were you,” said Anathrasa, almost sounding proud. “The time has come for us all to be champions.”
Below him, a Deiman woman sprinted toward the boy, her shoulders gleaming with ill-fitting silver armor, her hair shaved up one side and braided down the other. She grabbed the boy under the arms and dragged him aside, then sent a quake of sand toward two approaching Air Divine warriors, knocking them to the ground.
Half the fighters were strewn across the sand, bleeding and moaning, or fighting to stand. The cats were all down. One tossed its head in obvious pain. The others were drained, their lush white coats now clinging to their bones as if they’d been starved to death.
Only three fighters remained standing. Two Lak men, and the Deiman woman with the braid in her hair who’d helped the boy. They approached each other cautiously from three points of a triangle, their bodies heavy with fatigue but their hands raised and deadly.
“Please.” Anger seared beneath Madoc’s skin; it took all his control to keep his expression even. “If you truly want to win the heart of Deimos, you’ll need more than just its finest fighters.”
He couldn’t watch this. He didn’t know what he intended to do, but he couldn’t stay here with her. He couldn’t pretend this was all right.
Her chin lifted. “There is little room for mercy in times like these, Madoc.”
He bit back a scoff. “There is no better time for mercy,” he argued, aware now that he’d caught the eye of some of the others in the box, who were watching and whispering. “Tomorrow these champions will be forgotten, and the people who watched them fight will return to their broken lives—a life I knew well before I stepped into the arena.” When she flinched, he stepped closer, but it wasn’t her face he saw. It was Ilena, calling him son when his own father wouldn’t. Cassia, who’d taken Madoc’s hand and led him to what he would learn to call home. Elias, his brother in all the ways that mattered. Madoc knew he should be placating Anathrasa, earning her favor, but trust was earned with truth, and he was done standing by while gods used mortals as tools.
“Give them blood and they’re yours for a day,” he told her. “Show them mercy, and they’re yours for a lifetime.”
Without another word, he left the box.
It was a short walk to the Temple of Geoxus—not the sanctuary, where the fallen statue lay, but the sheltered area behind it, still enclosed by a singed wall. A guard at the arena, flushed with stress, had told Madoc that this was where the injured would be brought after the fight. The city hospital was already overrun with survivors from the riots, and the healers could not afford to leave those they were already caring for.
Madoc climbed the stone steps, blinking at the metal slo
t on the tall door where offerings were collected. He’d delivered his street fight winnings here, and once, long before, gotten his arm caught trying to steal coin to buy food.
He knocked twice, and when no answer came, he pushed the door inward. The courtyard was crowded with injured fighters—some propped against the walls or each other, others strewn out over the ground. Centurions and priests in white robes ran between them. Groans of pain filled the air, accented by crying and calls for help.
“No more room,” a centurion snapped at him. “If there’s anyone else, they’re on their own.”
“I’m here to help,” Madoc said, chest tight.
The guard only shook his head and jogged toward the well, where a dozen people were fighting over a pail of water.
Memories clogged Madoc’s throat. Inside these walls, he’d slept on bunks with dozens of other children—orphans, runaways, those who’d been shut out of their homes like he had. He’d been given food and water, and taught the proper ways to pray to Geoxus, with one hand on a stone and gratitude in his heart.
As he stepped into the dusty courtyard, a centurion shoved the wooden door closed behind him. The scent of blood and bile had him fighting the urge to gag. Pain was so thick in the air, he coughed breathing it in.
He shouldn’t have come. He couldn’t help these people. He’d healed Ash once, but that had been an accident. Maybe he could help clean wounds or bandage injuries—he’d worked as a stonemason long enough to know how to patch someone up after a stone broke or slid free from its mooring—but he didn’t know where to start.
Biting back a surge of helplessness, he caught the arm of a passing priest—a young man whose lips were white with the chalk that had been smeared across his mouth.
“What can I do?” he asked.
The priest looked him over, brows scrunching in confusion at Madoc’s fine cloak. They both knew this was not a place for privilege.
“Water,” the priest said a moment later. “Make them comfortable. It’s the least we can do before the circle is complete.”
Madoc didn’t know what this meant, but the priest was already gone.
