by Jay Kristoff
“I’ve devoted my life to the Red Church,” the old man said.
Mia stepped forward, her eyes burning.
“Are you with me?”
The bishop of Godsgrave looked at his former pupil. She seemed carved of stone, jaw set, fists clenched in the soft arkemical glow. He searched those dark eyes, looking for something of the girl he’d taken under his wing for six long years. He’d been angry with her after she failed her initiation. After she failed him. But in truth, she’d been his daughter those six years. And she always would be.
The Church had already taken one father from her.
Could he let them take another?
“I’m with you.”
The answer hung in the room like a sword above their heads. Mercurio knew what it would mean, and where it would end. How big the foe they were pitting themselves against truly was.
“We have to do this unseen, Mia,” Mercurio said. “The Church can’t know it’s you when you get Scaeva, or they’ll retaliate. And you’ll have to get Duomo with the same stroke, or else he’s going to be ten times as hard to hit.”
“That’s the least of our problems,” Mia replied. “The Church are going to want me back. The dona is dead. Scaeva could have another offering for me.”
“They still don’t have the map,” Mercurio said. “I can weave a story. Say the map slipped your grasp, but you’re chasing it now. Strictly speaking, that could take months.”
“The Ministry won’t be pleased with that,” Ashlinn said.
“Fuck them,” Mia scowled. “The Ministry aren’t pleased with me anyway.”
“Wonderful,” Ashlinn said. “So now all we need do is ponder a way for you to murder a cardinal you can’t physically get close to, while at the same time killing the most highly guarded consul in the history of the Itreyan Republic.”
Mia and Mercurio were silent. The old man’s brow creased in thought. Mia’s eyes were narrowed, roaming the bookshelves and finding no answer along their spines. She turned her gaze to the other wall, Mercurio’s collection of weapons. The Luminatii sunsteel blade, the Vaanian battleaxe, the gladius from a gladiatii arena in Liis . . .
Her eyes narrowed further. The wheels behind them turning.
She glanced to her old teacher, her breath coming quick.
“What is it?” he asked.
Idiotic.
Insane.
Impossible.
“I think I have an idea . . .”
* * *
Thirteen gladiatii were gathered in a circle in the training yard. The walls of Crow’s Nest rose about them, banners of the Familia Remus fluttering in the rising wind. They’d arrived back from Blackbridge late, and it was near the turn of nevernight. But before evemeal, time would be taken to welcome their new brother and sister into their fold—the most sacred of rites, conducted here on the sacred ground of their collegium.
The votum vitus.2
The twin suns beat down on the yard, and Mia felt sweat dripping down her bare belly and arms. She was on her knees in the circle, Sidonius beside her. Arkades stood before them, clad in a gleaming breastplate embossed with twin lions, scratched and scored from years of combat. Dona Leona watched from the balcony in a beautiful silken yellow gown. When she looked down at the executus, she smiled, and the sapphire of her eyes seemed to say, “I told you so.”
“Gladiatii,” the executus said. “We stand here on sacred ground, in sacred rite, to welcome these two proven warriors into our fold. We bind ourselves not with steel, but with blood. For blood we are, and blood we shall remain.”
“Blood we are,” came the voices around the circle. “And blood we shall remain.”
Executus drew a dagger from his belt, drew the blade across his palm, let the red drip upon the sand. And then he passed the blade to his left.
The Butcher of Amai took the dagger. He repeated the ritual, cutting his palm before passing it to Bladesinger. The woman looked Mia in the eye as she cut her palm. And so it went, around the thirteen. To the Vaanian twins, Bryn and Byern, the male Dweymeri Wavewaker, to the rest of the gladiatii in the circle, until finally, the bloody blade was passed to their champion, Furian, the Unfallen.
The Itreyan watched Mia with dark, clouded eyes, a new silver laurel resting on his brow. She’d watched him fight at Blackbridge, and his victory (“peerless,” the editorii had called him, “flawless”) had only inflamed her curiosity. She felt her shadow tremble as he cut his palm, mingling his blood with his gladiatii familia on the razored edge. He let the scarlet droplets fall to the sand, then walked across the circle to stand before Sidonius and Mia. Glancing from that handsome jaw, those burning eyes, down to the darkness at his feet, she saw his shadow was trembling too.
He stands in your way, she reminded herself.
All of them.
In your way.
“Blood we are,” he said, passing her the blade. “And blood we shall remain.”
Mia took the knife, her belly thrilling as her fingertips brushed his. And chiding herself for a fool, she turned to the executus, looked him in the eye.
“Not too deep,” he cautioned. “You will ruin your grip.”
Mia nodded, drawing the blade across her palm. The pain was bright and real, bringing all the world into focus. She was here. A blooded member of the collegium. Before her lay a desert of sand, an ocean of blood. But at the end, she saw Grand Cardinal Duomo in his beggar’s robes, no trinity about his throat. Consul Scaeva, reaching up to place the victor’s laurel upon her brow.
Her shadow, reaching toward theirs . . .
“Blood we shall remain,” she said.
Sidonius took the blade, cut his palm, and repeated the vow.
“Blood we shall remain.”
A rousing cheer went up around the circle. Executus motioned for Mia and Sidonius to rise, and the gladiatii closed in. Bladesinger smiled at Mia, and the Vaanian girl Bryn crushed her to her breast, whispering, “You fought well.” Butcher slapped her on the back so hard she almost fell over, the others offering their bloody hands or giving her friendly thumps on the arm. Only Furian held himself apart—but whether out of his lofty status as champion or the enmity between them, Mia had no idea.
“My Falcons,” came a voice from the balcony.
“Attend!” snapped the executus, and all eyes turned upward.
Dona Leona smiled at them like a goddess upon her children, arms spread wide. “Our victories at Blackbridge earn us yet more renown, and berth at the venatus four weeks hence in Stormwatch!”
The gladiatii cheered, and Sidonius wrapped his arm around Mia’s neck, squeezing as he bellowed. Mia laughed and pushed the big man off, but she couldn’t help but find her voice caught up among them.
“The contests shall only grow fiercer as we approach the magni. On the morrow, you return to training. But for now, never let it be said your domina does not reward your valor, or the honor you do her each time you take to the sands!”
Leona clapped her hands, and three servants wheeled a large barrel out among the tables and chairs on the verandah.
“Is that wine?” Sidonius breathed.
“Drink, my Falcons!” Leona smiled. “A toast to your new brother and sister. A toast to glory! And a toast to our many victories to come!”
* * *
Three hours later, as she lay down in her cell, Mia’s head was swimming.
She’d tried to drink frugally, but Sid had bellowed every time she slacked her pace, and every one of the other gladiatii seemed to drink as though their lives depended on it. It made perfect sense, she supposed—for folk who owned nothing, their lives at risk every time they took to the sands, a moment of respite and a full cup must seem like a paradise. And so, she’d done her best to play her role, drinking hard with her new familia and smiling at their praise.
The Dweymeri woman, Bladesinger, seemed to have taken a particular liking to her, though most of the collegium had a kind word. Her ploy in the arena—wearing the enemy’s colors
and playing wounded to get close enough to bring them down—had struck most of her new kin as a stroke of small genius.
Bryn, the blond Vaanian girl, had raised her cup in toast.
“A fine ruse, little Crow.”
“Aye,” her brother Byern replied. “When I saw you clutching those guts and realized what you were up to, I almost shouted loud enough to give the game away.”
“Crow my arse,” Butcher had grinned. “We should call her the bloody Fox.”
“The Wolf,” Bladesinger smiled.
“The Snake,” came a voice.
All eyes had turned to Furian, glowering at the head of the table. Mia had met his stare, watched his lip curl in derision.
“Gladiatii fight with honor,” he’d said. “Not with lies.”
“Brother, come,” Bladesinger had said. “A victory won is a victory earned.”
“I am champion of this collegium,” the Unfallen had replied. “I say what is earned. And what is stolen.”
Bladesinger had glanced at the torc around Furian’s neck, the laurel at his brow, nodded acquiescence. The Unfallen returned to his cup, speaking no more. Festivities ended soon after, and in truth, Mia had been thankful. She wasn’t accustomed to so much wine, and a few more cups and she’d have been painting the walls.
She sat in her cell now, the bars slowly spinning. She’d heard that same singing from Bladesinger’s cell before the lights died, supposing it might be some sort of prayer. But now darkness had descended, all she could hear was the sound of sleep.
Sidonius was on his back snoring like a dying bull, pausing only long enough to fart so loud Mia felt it through the floor. She scowled and kicked the big Itreyan, who rolled over with a grumble.
“Fucking pig,” she cursed, covering her nose. “I need my own bloody cell.”
“ . . . i seldom find myself ungrateful that I do not need to breathe . . .”
Mia’s eyes widened as she heard the whisper.
“ . . . at this moment, doubly so . . .”
“Mister Kindly!”
“ . . . she cried, loud enough to wake the dead . . .”
Two black shapes coalesced from the shadows at the other end of the cell.
“ . . . IF THIS LUMP’S SNORING HASN’T DONE SO, NOTHING WILL . . .”
Mia grinned as the pair of daemons bounded up to her, diving into her shadow as if it were black water. A rush of soothing chill washed over her, rippling down the length of her body, leaving an iron calm in its wake. She felt Mister Kindly stalking across her shoulder, weaving among her hair without disturbing a single strand. Eclipse curled around Mia’s back, put her insubstantial head in the girl’s lap. Mia ran her hands through both of them, their shapes rippling like black smoke. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d missed them until she had them back.
“Black Mother, it’s good to see you two,” she whispered.
“ . . . I MISSED YOU . . .”
“ . . . o, please . . .”
“ . . . I MISSED THE MOGGY LESS . . .”
Mia ran her hands down the length of the shadowwolf’s body. There was no sensation of being able to touch her, but petting Eclipse was like petting a cool breeze.
“When did you arrive?”
“ . . . YESTERTURN. BUT YOU WERE NOT YET RETURNED FROM THE venatus . . .”
“ . . . things went well, i take it . . .”
“I’m not dead, if that counts for anything.”
Mister Kindly nuzzled against her ear, and Mia’s skin tingled. It felt like being kissed by cigarillo smoke.
“ . . . everything . . . ,” he whispered.
The trio sat in the gloom for a while, simply enjoying each other’s company. Mia curled her fingers through their gossamer bodies, felt any trace of the fear she’d felt over the past weeks fading to nothing. She’d done it, she realized. The first step toward Duomo’s and Scaeva’s throats was complete. And with her passengers beside her, the remaining steps seemed not so far at all.
“ . . . lovely as this is . . .”
“ . . . ALWAYS WE CAN COUNT UPON YOU TO SPOIL THE MOOD . . .”
“No, he’s right,” Mia sighed. “Is she waiting?”
“ . . . AYE . . .”
“Take me to her, then.”
Her passengers faded into the black. Mia felt them coalesce in the shadows of the antechamber, and just as she’d done the nevernight she visited Furian, she closed her eyes, reached into the dark. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the practice she’d had, but she found the Step a little easier this time, the sudden rush, the vertigo. Opening her eyes, she found the room spinning wildly, but she was in the shadow of the stairwell beside them.
Bending double, she retched a few cups’ worth onto the stone, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. She felt a few gladiatii stirring in the barracks, sinking back into the shadows and fighting the urge to vomit again. She clutched the wall to help it stop spinning. Wiping her hand across her lips, and spitting onto the stone.
“Black Mother, remind me not to do that when I’m half-drunk again.”
“ . . . COME . . .”
“ . . . the viper waits, mia . . .”
She glanced to the mekwerk control on the wall, pondering how it worked. On unsteady legs, she stole out through the keep, into the shadows of the verandah. Fang was sitting beneath a table, watching with curious eyes. As Mister Kindly and Eclipse flitted past, the dog’s hackles rose. Mia offered her hand to calm the mastiff, but with a low whimper, Fang scampered out of the room.
“ . . . dogs are fools . . .”
“ . . . SAYS THE FOOL WHO GOT LOST ON THE WAY UP HERE . . .”
“ . . . i was not lost, dear mongrel, i was exploring . . .”
“ . . . IT IS AN ENORMOUS KEEP ATOP A CLIFF OVERLOOKING THE WHOLE CITY, HOW DO—. . .”
“Hsst,” Mia hissed, ducking into an alcove. Swift footsteps marked the approach of the magistrae, a serving girl in tow. The pair were in deep discussion about travel arrangements to Stormwatch, the girl marking notes in a wax ledger. Mia waited ’til the pair were out of sight, slowly crept along the corridor to the front doors, open wide to cool sea breeze. Squinting against the sunslight, she peered out at the high keep walls, red stone against a sky of burning blue.
Gathering handfuls of shadows, Mia draped them about her shoulders. Her fingers were a little clumsy from the drink, but finally all the world was shrouded in muzzy black and muffled white, and she almost as blind as the turn she was born. With soft whispers, her two passengers guided her through the courtyard, past the patrolling guards and into a shadowed alcove just beside the main gates. And from there, she closed her eyes
and Stepped
into the
shadow
across
the road
Mia fell to her knees, clutching her belly and fighting the urge to vomit with all she had. After a few minutes in the dirt, she caught her breath, wiping tears from her eyes.
“ . . . are you well . . . ?”
“Next silly question, please,” she whispered.
“ . . . WE DO NOT HAVE TO SEE HER NOW . . .”
“No, we should. But we can’t be gone too long. They don’t rouse us ’til early morn, but if they somehow miss me in the nevernight . . .”
“ . . . THE WINE WILL KEEP YOUR CELLMATE DREAMING ’TIL THEN . . .”
“Still, we need to be swift.”
“ . . . it is not far . . .”
She rose on shaking legs and staggered along the dusty road, winding down the sheer hill upon which Crow’s Nest stood. Mia didn’t need Mister Kindly or Eclipse as much out here—she knew the road well enough to walk it blind. But she didn’t dare risk casting off her shadow cloak just yet. She was still clad as a gladiatii, and the twin circles branded at her cheek marked her as property. Though masters might often walk in the company of armed warrior slaves, it would be a rarity to see one wandering alone. Best to remain hidden, and avoid questions entirely.
Mia could hear the
sea to the south, the ringing of port bells below, smell the familiar scents of the town in the keep’s shadow. Known as Crow’s Rest, it was home to three or four thousand—a bustling trade port that had sprung up under the keep’s protection. The buildings were red stone and white plaster, crammed together on the steep hillsides leaning down to the water. The air rang with the song of gulls.
Her passengers led her into the tangled warren of dockside. She threw off her cloak here, stole down twisted alleys, ripe with garbage and salt air. They arrived at a small alehouse, Mister Kindly nodding to the guest rooms above.
“ . . . second floor, third window . . .”
Mia glanced about to ensure all was clear, and began to climb. She reached the second-floor terraces, slipped over the iron railing, rapped once upon the glass.
The window opened and she stole inside, quiet as whispers.
Mia’s eyes took a moment to adjust after the sunslight outside. But finally she saw a figure dropping herself into an old divan, stretching long legs out before her. She was dressed in black, leather britches and a short leather corset, a long-sleeved shirt of dark silk beneath. She’d dyed her hair to cover the telltale blond, now as bloody-red as Jessamine’s had been. But there was no mistaking those eyes.
The girl leaned back in her chair, looked Mia up and down.
“Hello, beautiful,” she smiled.
“Hello, Ashlinn,” Mia replied.
1 Aye, aye, I can hear your question, gentlefriends. Just as if I were sitting behind you. (No fear, I am not sitting behind you.) But you find yourself wondering, if the Red Church won’t murder anyone they’re currently employed by, why doesn’t everyone simply pay them a retainer and sleep soundly in the nevernight? An excellent question, gentlefriends, with a very simple answer:It’s fucking expensive.A king or consul might afford to keep the Church on permanent retainer. But you must remember, gentlefriends, the Red Church is a cult of assassins, not extortionists. And it’d be quite difficult to maintain a reputation as the most fearsome murderers in the Republic if they spent all their time being paid to not murder anyone.
