by Sara Raasch
Rolling up his sleeves, Madoc raced to the well. He filled a bucket with water and grabbed a ladle, then moved to a man with a mangled foot, offering a sip. Two girls, no more than seventeen, followed, blinking at the sky and prodding weeping cuts on their heads. He knelt beside a man in a dusty white robe who was crouched over a child with a puncture wound in his shoulder. Madoc recognized the boy from the arena—he’d been the one saved by the Deiman woman with the braid in her hair. His brow was pale and sweaty now, and he fought for air with quick, raspy breaths.
“I have water,” Madoc said.
“He needs more than water.”
Madoc’s chin jerked up at the familiar rasp of the man’s voice. “Tyber?”
The priest touched his jaw as Madoc’s gaze lowered to the smear of white chalk over his mouth that had been mostly wiped away by sweat. Though his brows scrunched, he did not seem surprised at Madoc’s presence.
“Much has changed since you were last here,” Tyber said.
“You included,” Madoc answered. It wasn’t a question, but Tyber nodded anyway.
“The circle is loyal to Anathrasa’s cause. We spread her message to the people.”
“What circle?” Madoc asked tightly, his gaze falling again to the boy. “What are you talking about?”
“All priests of the Father God are recommitted to Anathrasa now,” Tyber said. “We are part of her circle. The circle of energeia. Of life. The Mother Goddess is the bringing back together of all things, and we serve her to avenge Geoxus. Her return signifies a rebirth for the world. In the ashes of Geoxus’s death, the Mother Goddess has returned to bring peace.”
A bitter taste filled Madoc’s mouth. “Forgive me, Tyber, but this doesn’t look like peace.”
“Peace is earned in sweat and blood,” Tyber answered simply. “You of all people should know that, Madoc.”
Madoc cringed, thinking of the ribs he’d been able to count when he’d lived here. Of the home he’d found with the Metaxas after Cassia had found him on the temple steps.
“This boy fought bravely to serve the Mother Goddess,” Tyber said. “His wound is beyond the work of our priests. If his lung collapses, there’s nothing more we can do.”
Anger mingled with pity, turning Madoc’s muscles to lead. This boy didn’t deserve to die—not for Anathrasa, or any god. He was only a child.
Madoc’s mind shot to Ash, who had watched her mother battle in the arena for as long as she could remember. She’d always known Char’s fate would be to kill or die. He wondered if Ash had been told the same thing—that she’d have to fight bravely to honor Ignitus.
How easily he’d once believed Geoxus deserved such glory.
“Dying honors no one,” Madoc said bitterly. Anathreia pulsed inside him, angry. Hungry. He could feel the tempest of emotions all around him, and the growing demand inside him to draw from their souls and soothe his own fury.
Shame rose in his throat.
The boy gave a rattling gasp, drawing Madoc’s focus to a point. He dropped the water bucket beside him, the contents sloshing out onto the dusty ground. He couldn’t look away from the boy’s face, twisted in pain, and his trembling blue lips. The pain and fear rose in ragged waves, and Madoc longed to take it to comfort him.
To drain him.
No. He didn’t want that. He wanted to save the boy the way he’d saved Ash.
Ash.
He’d healed her once, in the arena after Elias had attacked her. He remembered, with a twist of his gut, how Hydra had said Ash had been dead before that.
He shook the thought from his head. If he was strong enough, he could save this boy. But when he’d healed Ash, he’d used too much energeia and nearly died from the exertion. He couldn’t risk depleting his strength and failing his task with Aera and Biotus just to save one person—one stranger—even if he wanted to.
If he could tithe on someone the way Anathrasa had once told him, he could be strong enough to heal this boy with soul energy. If Madoc could tithe on the boy’s pain, maybe he could make himself powerful enough to heal him.
Shaking, Madoc swallowed and focused on the beads of sweat across the boy’s pale brow. He reached toward him with his consciousness, the air shivering between them like the sky over hot sand. The boy’s pain was a beacon, as bright as any emotion he’d ever sensed.
I won’t hurt you, he willed the child to know, but the boy only squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.
“Madoc?” Tyber asked, worry thinning his voice. “What are you doing?”
Carefully, Madoc inhaled, pulling that bright spot of pain away from the boy, into himself, until he could taste the sour bite of it in the back of his jaw.
His anathreia sighed in pleasure. It didn’t care what part of the soul he fed on as long as it was sated, and Madoc gasped, feeling as though he hadn’t truly breathed in weeks.
He exhaled and sent a warm wave of soul energy over the boy. It blanketed him, soaking into his pores like rain into parched earth.
The boy shivered.
Tyber gave a surprised grunt. “Madoc, what is this?”
Madoc blinked, finding the arrow wound in the boy’s shoulder now gone. The boy took a steady breath. He sat up, and when he rolled his arm in a slow circle, he smiled.
Then he launched himself into Madoc’s arms.
Whispers rose around them, excited murmurs and heated spikes of energeia, but Madoc didn’t care. He’d done it. He’d healed someone without hurting them and was somehow stronger than before. When he looked up, he saw his own shock mirrored on Tyber’s face.
“How did you do that?” Tyber asked as the boy ran off, telling everyone he passed what Madoc had done.
“By tithing.”
Madoc’s stomach dropped at the sound of Anathrasa’s voice. He stood at once, finding the Mother Goddess making her way through the courtyard, flanked by centurions.
“That is what you came here to do, isn’t it? Save these poor people?” As she approached Madoc, a circle formed around them. Centurions and circle priests, but others too. The injured began moving toward them—limping, dragging themselves closer. The Earth Divine seemed eager to do whatever she might ask, but he also saw Air Divine and Animal Divine, battered from the fight, who clung to the back of the group with wary looks on their faces.
Madoc was staggered by the sudden fear of what Anathrasa might do. He tried to tell himself to be calm, that even after all he’d said to her, he could not risk severing her trust. But if she intended to harm these people further, he would not stand by.
“At your wishes, Mother Goddess,” he said carefully. “I know you didn’t want anyone to suffer needlessly in these games.”
A muscle in her neck twitched, and he braced for her wrath. Instead, she smiled.
“Tithing?” Tyber was standing now, too, and looked to Madoc, confused.
“Children of Deimos, Lakhu, and Cenhelm,” Anathrasa interrupted, raising her arms. “The Earth Divine’s beloved Geoxus may have been rendered mortal by Ignitus and murdered by the God Killer, but all is not lost.”
At the mention of Ash—the “God Killer,” as Anathrasa had named her—Madoc’s knees threatened to buckle. He could still hear Anathrasa screaming about what Ash had done as the Kulans dragged him out of the crumbling palace, the raging power of both gods inside him.
Rendered mortal by Ignitus. He didn’t realize Anathrasa was spreading that lie, but it made sense. Better to have the people think only a god could tear down another god, rather than a mortal like them.
“My son has been returned to me.”
Madoc’s teeth pressed together. He couldn’t believe she’d just claimed him as her son. His gaze spun around the courtyard, wariness rising in him as he gauged the wide-eyed responses of those who listened. He couldn’t help thinking of when Petros had done the same in front of Geoxus, and the gladiators he’d been training with at Lucius’s villa had suddenly wanted him dead.
Anathrasa walked a slow circle arou
nd him. “Geoxus made my son a champion to show the people of Deimos how he would fight for your honor regardless of lineage. The god of earth protected Madoc, as he protected me, in the hope that one day Madoc would be embraced by his father’s people.” Anathrasa paused, giving Madoc a strange look of fondness that made him want to crawl out of his skin. “When the God Killer and Ignitus’s gladiators stole my son from us, I thought him lost. But he persevered, just as he did in the great arena. He returned to fight for Deimos.”
The relief Madoc felt at healing the boy was replaced by a bolt of panic. For all he knew, these people thought he was an Earth Divine gladiator—that was what Geoxus had said when he’d chosen Madoc for the Honored Eight to fight for Deimos in the war against Kula. But now they knew he wasn’t what he’d claimed.
Whispers rose, prickling a defensive shield over Madoc’s skin. He felt as if he were balancing on the edge of a knife, torn between running and holding his ground. But the people were nodding now, looking at him with wonder in their eyes, and when Anathrasa touched his shoulder fondly, they didn’t flee.
He couldn’t tell if that was because they bought her story, or because of the centurions now blocking every exit of the courtyard.
“I’ve sent Madoc here to continue his fight on the streets of Crixion,” Anathrasa continued. “With the people he was raised to defend.”
Madoc shuddered at her acknowledgment of his street fights with Elias. Anathrasa may have accepted his claim that he’d come here at her bidding, but it hardly relieved him. What was she playing at? One word, and her centurions could slaughter everyone in this courtyard. There was a reason she was going along with his claim, and he doubted it had anything to do with mercy.
Tyber hastened a woman to the front of the circle. She leaned heavily against another fighter, unable to walk, and based on the limp swing of her ankle, it looked as if her leg had been broken below the knee. Her tight grimace of pain tugged at Madoc’s wariness.
“Will you help her, Madoc?” Tyber asked.
“I . . .” Madoc stumbled back a step. He glanced to Anathrasa, who smiled.
“I’ve heard this is the perfect time for mercy,” she said quietly.
It was a trick, but he didn’t know what else to do. His palms were sweating.
“Energeia is an unending cycle of give-and-take. I created Geoxus, and Geoxus created this woman. These people are all part of anathreia, and all part of you. This is the unending circle.”
He glanced to Tyber, to the smear of chalk over his mouth. Her return signifies a rebirth for the world. In the ashes of Geoxus’s death, the Mother Goddess has returned to bring peace.
“Pretty sentiment,” Madoc said. “But why did you create something just to abuse it? Is that all we are to you—pigstock to feed off of?”
Again, Madoc could feel that hunger rearing inside him, gnawing at his control.
His gaze dropped to the woman, to the fear and hope in her eyes. He could help her. Even if Anathrasa was telling him to do it, it wasn’t wrong. It had been his idea first. That boy was alive because of him.
“You’ll tithe on her, just as you tithed on that child. Just as you tithed on Petros,” Anathrasa said quietly, coming close. “Just as you tithed on the gladiator Jann in the arena when you pulled out his self-control. You took Ash’s pain that day, Madoc. Her broken parts. You fed on them and left her changed. Better. Everything you think you’ve done has begun with extraction.”
Madoc’s gaze shot to Anathrasa. He’d felt this with the boy—the pull and push of energeia, like completing a circle.
“If you can’t take from the willing, how will you do what you must with those who refuse? With those who now know what you’re capable of?”
The threat whispered over his skin like the promising touch of a blade. She could pretend as much as she liked that he was her beloved son, but they both knew the truth. He was only as valuable as his ability to drain Aera and Biotus.
“The circle is unending,” Tyber said, and other priests behind him took up the chant in an eerie, low tone. “The circle is unending.”
Madoc reset his mind to the task she’d ordered. He looked at the woman, knowing his mind had already been made up. He would help her, and if Anathrasa wanted Deimos to think it was her idea, that was fine. Maybe it would prove his loyalty to her.
She would never suspect that the air and animal energeia he’d promised her would go to Ash.
He closed his eyes, and tithed on the woman’s pain, finding it easier to take the second time. Healing her was easier too, and when it was done, he felt the thrum of power in his veins.
“You’re a gift.” Tyber clasped his hands together. “A gift from the Mother Goddess!” He bowed at Madoc’s feet, the same man who’d once freed him from an offering box and smacked him upside the head for trying to steal. He and the other priests started herding the injured into lines to be healed.
This was good, Madoc told himself, even though something about it didn’t feel right. He accepted the woman’s thanks, and when she kissed his hand, he didn’t object.
Beside him, Anathrasa smiled.
“The circle is complete,” she said.
Ten
ASH
“ASH!”
Ash jolted awake, fingers splayed and body awash with cold sweat before she even knew where she was. Pinpricks of blue fire lit on her palms, ready to throw, ready to fight—
The speckled beige of the petrified wood walls came into focus. The floor was clean now; all traces of Ash’s blood were gone, the broken vines and razor leaves removed. Florus must have come in while Ash was unconscious. At least he wasn’t forcing her to stay trapped with her own carnage.
At that thought, Ash turned and vomited against the wall.
“Ash! Are you in there?”
She blinked, dazed, wiping one hand across her lips and swallowing, throat dry and sour.
That voice—it wasn’t Florus. Was she drugged again? Part of her soul squeezed with the longing to be hallucinating. She had seen Char. She needed her mother right now, or Tor, or—
A fist pounded on the outside of the box. “Ash! ASH!”
Something heavier crashed against it, but the walls didn’t so much as rattle.
Ash flew to the corner where she’d heard the voice. “Tor?”
How had he found her? She didn’t even know where she was—
A pause, then the crash came again. “I’m getting you out of here.”
His calm, collected voice dragged a sob from the pit of her lungs, forcing her to shove her fist against her mouth, quelling her need to scream.
“You’re here,” she managed, and a tear fled down her cheek.
Of course he’d found her. Of course he’d save her.
Another crash came, followed by the sounds of something shattering outside. “Damn it—what is this made out of? My igneia’s doing nothing, and I can’t break it.”
“Fossilized wood,” Ash said. “Fire won’t burn it.”
“Damn it,” Tor cursed again. The noises of his efforts stilled. “What do you see in there? Can you—can you do anything with igneia?”
He meant Ignitus’s igneia, but he didn’t say it.
“I tried, but it didn’t make any difference.”
Tor was silent a beat. “You have Ignitus’s powers,” he said. “Maybe you can move like a god too? Can you travel through igneia?”
Another sob built, but Ash willed it down. Oh, she was a god, more than even Tor knew. She touched the spots on her tattered sealskin suit where Florus’s razor leaves had speared her.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll try. Where are we? What’s out there?”
“We’re in Itza,” he said. “In Florus’s palace.”
Panic turned her cold. “Is he here?”
“Don’t worry about him right now. We’re alone.”
Alone? Florus didn’t have her under guard?
Or had Tor killed everyone to get to her?
It di
dn’t matter—what mattered was that she would not lose her chance.
Ash braced herself on her hands and knees. The tart smell of vomit was choking her, but she willed her mind to focus on the gritty petrified wood, on the weight of her own body.
How did the gods travel through the very ether using their energeias? Was it just a thought? When she’d managed to hear through fire and see Igna, it had been almost an unconscious will, just a focus and a wish—
Ash’s fingers curled against the wood and she willed herself to dissolve into flames. She thought of Tor, standing just outside this box. If they were in Itza, in Florus’s palace, did that mean the room was made of the same kinds of vines that Florus had dragged everywhere? Ash should have asked before she risked burning a hole through the floor. Hopefully they were on solid earth—
That word echoed through her mind. Earth.
The floor rose under Ash’s palm.
She rocked back, gaping at the wood. It stayed in a slightly curved position before melting back to become flush with the floor.
Eyes wide, Ash waited, expecting Florus to appear. He had to have done that.
“Ash?” Tor’s voice was pinched. “Are you all right? What’s happening?”
“I—I think I moved the wood.” Ash stared at the spot. “But it isn’t wood, not really. How—is this a trick? Where is Florus?”
“He’s not here, Ash. So whatever happened was you. What was it?”
“The floor. I think I made it move.”
Tor was silent, and Ash knew what look was on his face—calculating, thoughtful, focused.
“It’s fossilized wood,” he said, “so no hydreia, no igneia. But . . . it has geoeia.”
“No.” But Ash hesitated. “Florus told me I couldn’t manipulate it because it was only plant, that he’d taken all other energeias out of it to fossilize it.”
“Touch it again. Try whatever you did before. Maybe there’s more to this petrified wood than what Florus said.”
Her breath held, Ash leaned forward and spread her palm flat on the wood again. She focused on the rough petrified wood, the long, thin fragments forever frozen together. It was mostly floreia, plant life suspended in time; she felt that and could do nothing about it.
