Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  2 To be fair, the last wine he’d drunk had been.

  19: yield

  They called for Mia before dessert.

  Dona Leona had commanded her to wait in a small antechamber, down in the servants’ wing of the governor’s palazzo. A guard was posted at her door, she was given a simple meal and some watered wine, while the guests in the banquet hall enjoyed aperitifs of stuffed quail hearts doused with brandy butter, followed by a main of roasted honeyfish and kingclaw braised in goldwine.

  Mia knew Quintus Messala had served as governor of Stormwatch for six years—he’d been appointed soon after the Kingmaker Rebellion. As a childhood friend of Consul Scaeva and a scion of one of the twelve great familia of the Republic, his wealth and power were the envy of everyone who met him, and it seemed Messala lived to stoke that envy. Mia couldn’t recall an affair as lavish, or a house quite as opulent. The antechamber she sat in was decorated with intricate stucco reliefs, gold leaf, and Dweymeri crystal chandeliers. The man who served her meal was dressed in clothes most marrowborn dons would envy.

  She’d sat in the room brooding about her argument with Ashlinn until Arkades had come to fetch her. He was dressed in his finery, falcons and lions on his doublet. Mia was dressed in the armor she’d worn yesterturn, though it had been polished to within an inch of its life. They’d not given her helmet back, but there was little she could do about that. The chances of a Red Church servant being at the feast were low, but still, walking toward the banquet hall, Executus in front and two guards at her flanks, Mia felt as if she were buck-naked and strolling into a scabdog’s den.

  “Hold,” Arkades told her, stopping at the door to the dining hall.

  The big man turned to look at her, raised a finger in warning.

  “Do not speak unless you are spoken to. Remember that all eyes are upon you. You may never have seen the like before, but the people in this room are serpents, girl. They slay with a whisper. Bestow fortunes or end reputations with a word. If you shame your domina’s name, I swear by the Everseeing, I’ll see you suffer for it.”

  Black Mother, the torch he’s carrying for that woman could light up truedark . . .

  Truth was, Mia knew the machinations of the marrowborn all too well—she’d seen her mother play their power games for years. The Dona Corvere could reduce men to hollow shells and women to tears when she put her mind to it. But Mia wasn’t about to let Arkades know that. Instead, she simply bowed her head.

  “Aye, Executus.”

  Satisfied, the man opened the door to the dining hall and limped inside. Mia waited, hands clasped. She could hear string music, voices in the room beyond.

  “Fine match yesterturn,” one of the guards beside her murmured.

  “Aye,” another said. “Bloody spectacular, lass.”

  Mia nodded thanks, grateful word of her victory was still spreading. If there had been any chance of Leona selling her off before the venatus, it was as dead as that retchwyrm now. Her domina would have to ponder some other way to pay her creditors—though if all went well this eve, that should prove no difficulty. Wealthy marrowborn often offered patronage to favored collegia, and with the Falcons of Remus the toast of the city, Leona should have no trouble securing investment.

  The future of the collegium was assured.

  All that remained was securing her place at the magni.

  Mia soon heard the clinking of a ring upon a crystal goblet, a lull in conversation. A voice called out in the room beyond; a silk-smooth baritone Mia guessed must belong to Governor Messala.

  “Esteemed guests, honored friends, I thank you for visiting my humble home this nevernight. It gives me and my good wife no end of pride to see so many of you here. May the Everseeing watch over you, and the Four Daughters bestow their blessings.”

  Messala waited for the polite applause to die before continuing.

  “We hold this feast every venatus, to give thanks to friends who grace our city but rarely, and yet, leave their mark indelibly on the hearts and minds of our citizens. It is with no hyperbole that I declare yesterturn’s venatus the greatest seen in our fine city, and I thank each and every sanguila here present, who toiled to make it so!”

  Messala paused again for applause. It was a rarity for sanguila to be invited to a governor’s home—blood masters could never hold the status of the true marrowborn. But Mia could see Messala’s acumen in arranging it. The sanguila were popular with common folk, and the love of the citizenry had seen Julius Scaeva flout all convention and sit in the consuls’ chair for three terms. It made sense for Messala to court the men who owned the favor of the mob.

  A snake this one, sure and true.

  “Now,” Messala continued. “Each sanguila has brought their champion, that we may marvel. But for you, dear friends, I’ve arranged a gift more marvelous still. Through the generosity of Dona Leona of the Remus Collegium”—Mia heard a murmur ripple through the guests—“I am pleased to present the victor of yesterturn’s Ultima, and one of the finest warriors to set foot upon the sands . . . Crow, the Savior of Stormwatch!”

  The doors were flung wide, and Mia looked out into a sea of curious faces. Hundreds of people were in attendance—the cream of society, gathered in pretty knots or lying on divans around the vast room. The hall was marble, frescoed, tall windows thrown open to the let in the cool nevernight breeze. Plates were laden with food, goblets overflowed with wine, wealth dripping off the walls.

  Mia recognized this world. She’d grown up in it, after all. Daughter of a marrowborn familia, raised in opulence just like this. So much wealth held in so few palms. A kingdom of the blind, built on the backs of the bruised and the broken.

  And nobody born to it ever questioning a thing.

  Governor Messala stood at the center of the room—a handsome Itreyan man with dark, piercing eyes. The divans were arranged about his own, and guests were seated according to their status. Mia saw Dona Leona at a place of honor on Messala’s right side, Arkades beside her. Furian loomed behind, dressed in a breastplate of iron, bracers and shin guards crafted like falcon’s wings. The champion was practically seething, staring at Mia with hatred in his eyes.

  But when she looked at him, still . . . that hunger . . .

  That want.

  Mia noted other sanguila around the room, recognizing their sigils. A heavyset man wearing the sword and shield of the Trajan Collegium. A one-handed man that could only be Phillipi, a former gladiatii who’d started his own stable. And there among them, Mia saw an overweight man wearing a frock coat embroidered with golden lions. She recognized him immediately—the man who’d offered to buy her for a thousand silver priests, and been bested by a single coin.

  Leonides.

  He was still sat close to Messala, Mia noted, even though he hadn’t fielded a fighter in the Ultima. She wondered again at that, and at Leona’s revelation that the governor had long favored the Lions of Leonides. Looking about the room, another might have seen a simple banquet. But Mia saw a spiderweb, sticky strands spun among the guests, vibration thrumming to the center of the web. And at the heart of it was Dona Leona, a goblet to her lips, sitting blithely at the spider’s right hand.

  Leonides himself seemed unremarkable in many ways. Too fond of his food and drink perhaps, but no kind of monster. He sipped his wine and affected a yawn, pretending not to notice Mia had entered. But she saw how he watched, the glittering blue eyes he’d gifted his daughter not missing a thing.

  Thus, the greatest monsters get their way, she realized.

  By looking just like the rest of us.

  Beside Leonides stood his hulking bald executus, Titus, the girth of his arms straining his silken shirt. And behind Titus, Mia saw an ominous figure, at least seven feet tall, cloaked and cowled despite the heat.

  . . . His champion?

  “Good Crow.”

  The governor’s voice snatched Mia from her reverie.

  “Come forward,” he beckoned. “Let Stormwatch see its savior.”
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  Mia marched into the room as commanded, the guards in step beside her. The guests weren’t so crass as to applaud her presence—Mia was property, after all, and quality didn’t clap when a pet successfully performed a trick. But she could feel an arkemical current in the air nevertheless; curiosity, admiration, even desire. Just a turn ago, she’d had tens of thousands of people on their feet, roaring her name. That gave her a kind of gravity, she realized. The same kind of magnetism Arkades wore like armor, the other gladiatii in the room fought to attain. Primal, perhaps. Steeped in blood.

  But power nonetheless.

  “I commend you, good Crow,” Messala said, “and give thanks on behalf of the citizens of our city. Not only did you treat us to a spectacle unlike any other, but through skill and courage, the lives of no few of our citizens were rescued from calamity.” The governor raised his goblet, joined by the many guests around the room. “Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana ever guide your hand.”

  Mia bowed. “You honor me, Governor.”

  “You honor us, as does your domina.” The governor turned with a smile to the woman at his right, raised his goblet to Leona. “My thanks to you, gracious Dona, for allowing opportunity to see our savior up close.”

  Leona inclined her head. “I am your humble servant, Governor.”

  “She is quite magnificent, aye?” Messala said to his guests, walking around Mia and admiring the view from every angle. “The goddess Tsana made flesh. ’Tis one thing to bear witness from the boxes, quite another to see her here, neh?”

  Leona smiled. “Who’d have thought one so fair could be so fierce?”

  “I’d wager she could best any three of my houseguards.”

  Leona smiled wide, basking in the adoration. She shot a poison glance at her father, Mia noting Leonides’s face was flush with anger. And as a thought seized her, Mia saw the dona look to her executus, lips curling in a devious smile.

  “Perhaps you and your guests desire a demonstration, Governor Quintus?”

  The man tilted his head, playful. “Would you indulge us, Mi Dona?”

  “It would be my honor to pit my Crow against your finest man,” Leona said. “E navium, of course.”1

  Messala raised an eyebrow, looked among his guests. “What say you, friends?”

  Arkades frowned at the suggestion, obviously displeased. Mia herself didn’t much fancy the thought of performing for the elite’s amusement—she was black and blue from her battle against the retchwyrm yesterturn. But the marrowborn were well charmed with the dona’s suggestion, and impressing with a simple bout did seem a sensible way for Leona to secure the patronage she so needed.

  Still . . .

  Mia looked to Leonides. Back to Messala. Trying to shake the ill feeling crawling on her skin.

  The governor turned to one of his guards—a burly lump with biceps as thick as his neck. “Varius, perhaps you’d be kind enough to oblige?”

  The big man nodded, took a gladius from the guard beside him, and tossed it to Mia. Snatching it from the air, she looked to Dona Leona, who simply gave an encouraging nod while Furian—obviously incensed at being overshadowed—glowered in the background. Space was cleared by the governor’s servants in the center of the room, and Mia took up her place, sword raised, trying to shake her misgivings. The guard drew his own blade and bowed to the governor, set his eyes on Mia.

  “I beg pardon, honored Governor,” came a voice. “If I might interject?”

  All eyes turned to Sanguila Leonides, standing by his divan and bowing low.

  “Good Leonides?” Messala asked.

  “Gracious host, I mean no offense to your man,” Leonides said. “But if we are to see the Savior of Stormwatch at her finest, might I suggest she cross steel with one trained in the arts of the sand?” Leonides turned glittering eyes to his daughter. “Unless the Crow’s sanguila feels she is not fit for the task?”

  Leona stared at her father across the crowd, her face a mask of perfect calm. But Mia’s hackles were raised. She could see the trap now. With a few buttered words, Messala had manipulated Leona into putting a sword in Mia’s hand, and Leonides could make his daughter look the coward if challenge was refused. And yet, Mia knew the man wasn’t fool enough to propose a match without some advantage.

  It seemed finally the dona had a sense of the danger herself now, eyes flickering to her host, back to her father, remaining mute a moment too long.

  “She hesitates?” Leonides smiled to the other guests. “Understandable, of course. Remus Collegium has only three laurels to its name, and our Crow here is but a babe upon the sands. Perhaps our savior needs a few turns to rest her wings before she is fit to fight again, neh?”

  Mia saw Arkades whisper in his dona’s ear. But Leona raised her hand in annoyance, and the man fell silent. She glanced once more about the room, the faces of the assembled marrowborn—folk she might have sat among as an equal were she still married to a justicus. Patrons she now needed to keep her collegium afloat. Mia could see that desperate need to impress in her eyes. The same desire that saw her bid at the Gardens without thought, spend beyond her means, dress as if she were attending a gala every turn. And as Mia’s heart sank to see her so easily goaded, warning trapped behind her teeth, Leona inclined her head and smiled.

  “I thought only to spare you embarrassment, Sanguila Leonides. But I gratefully accept your offer. My bloody beauty will meet any man from your stable, steel to steel.”

  “Man? O, no, my dear, you misunderstand.” Leonides motioned to the robed and hooded figure looming beside him. “I’d thought to keep my Ishkah here in lieu until the next venatus, as I’ve only just secured her purchase. But in honor of good Governor Messala, and fighting e navium, I see no risk in a small preview to whet appetites now.”

  He turned to the figure, speaking softly.

  “Be gentle with her, my lioness.”

  A murmur of excitement rippled across the room as Leonides’s fighter stepped forward into the sparring space. This was a treat no one had expected—to see champions cross blades for the marrowborn’s own private amusement. The guests smiled wide, teeth stained dark with wine, pulses quickening at the thought of blood in the water. Mia raised her sword, sunslight glinting on the edge.

  “Ladies and gentlefriends, honored hosts,” Leonides said with a dramatic sweep of his hand. “May I present the latest addition to my pride. A foe fiercer than the Black Mother herself, a terror among her kind, whose very name means ‘death’ in the tongue of the Dominion. It has taken me years to secure a prize like her, but in all my time beside the sand, I have never seen her equal. I give you my next champion, and the next victor of the Venatus Magni . . . Ishkah, the Exile!”

  Leonides dropped his hand. And as the crowd gasped in wonder, his challenger sloughed off its robe to reveal the figure beneath.

  “Four Daughters . . . ,” someone breathed.

  “Almighty Aa . . . ,” another whispered.

  Maw’s teeth . . .

  Mia swallowed thickly, shadow rippling at her feet.

  A silkling.

  Mia had read about the denizens of the Silken Dominion in Mercurio’s books as a child, but she’d never thought to see one in the flesh. Looking at Leonides’s fighter, Mia could see she was almost certainly female, hips curved beneath her studded leather skirt, six arms folded over the subtle curve of her breasts. She was seven feet tall, her skin chitinous, a green so dark it was almost black. Her lips were painted white, two large, featureless orbs set in a smooth, oval face, six smaller eyes scattered across her cheeks like freckles. She had no eyelids with which to blink. From her readings, Mia guessed the silkling was young, but in truth, she had no real way to tell.2

  The silkling reached up to her back, drew forth six glittering blades, each gently curved and razor-sharp, etched with strange glyphs. As the assembled marrowborn murmured in astonishment, she wove the weapons through the air in an intricate, twisting dance, the steel whistling as it sliced the air. Finishing her
display, Ishkah spread her arms like fans, blades poised and pointed directly at Mia.

  The girl glanced to Leona, Arkades, Furian. The dona’s face was stone, but her eyes were dark with fear, seeing now how simply she’d been played. And yet, with the marrowborn now awash with excitement, she dare not make an overture to end the bout prematurely. Leonides looked to his daughter and smiled like a cat who’d stolen the cream, the bucket, and the maid to boot.

  He played her like a lyre. If I lose here, the people of the city might still sing my name. But the people of influence and power . . . they’ll sing only of the Lions of Leonides. And Leona’s chance of patronage goes up in flames.

  Mia saw the trap revealed. Paused a moment to admire its simplicity. She saw the strands of the web between the governor and Leonides, the invitation that had brought Leona here with her guard down. Plying her with a wine or two and a bevy of compliments from folk above her station, manipulating her into a fight she couldn’t afford to lose, and yet supposing she couldn’t ever win.