by Jay Kristoff
Mia gingerly touched the bandages at her cheek, looked to Maggot.
“You tell me.”
“Your ribs are cracked,” the young girl replied. “The bruises will be awful, but you’ll mend. The cut to your face is healing well. Though I’m afraid it will scar.”
Mia focused on that thought, briefly burning hotter than the pain of her wounds. She’d never been pretty when she was a girl—she’d only discovered what beauty was once Marielle wove her face into a portrait in the Quiet Mountain. And truth was, she’d reveled in the power it bestowed.
She wondered what Ashlinn might say. How the girl might look at her now, and whether she’d hate the reflection she saw in those pools of sunsburned blue. For a moment, she wished she were back in the Mountain, where Marielle could mend all hurts with a wave of her hand. She supposed that option would be forever denied her now she’d set herself against the Church. That this scar, the brand beside it, would be hers to cherish until she died.
Mia pictured her father, swinging and choking before the mob. Her mother, weeping and bleeding out in her arms. Her brother, dying as a babe in a lightless pit.
And, hand falling away from her face, she shrugged.
“The choice between looking plain and pretty isn’t really a choice at all. But any fool knows looking dangerous is preferable to both.”
A mirthless smile curled Leona’s lips, and she slowly shook her head.
“I like you, Crow. Everseeing help me, but I do. I know not what you were before this, but for the assistance you offered our champion and your courage in the arena, I will be forever grateful.”
“I wonder if your champion will say the same, Domina . . .”
The dona’s eyes returned to Furian, fingers clasped so tight about his silver torc that her knuckles were white. Mia wondered how often the dona had visited his side since they left Whitekeep. Wondered if perhaps she did truly care for him. Wondered what Arkades would be making of it all if he knew . . .
“Perhaps we should head back up to the deck, Domina?” Magistrae murmured, squeezing the woman’s hand. “Let them rest.”
Leona blinked as if waking from a dream. But she nodded, allowed herself to be led away. As she reached the cabin door, she stopped, turned to Mia.
“Thank you, Crow,” she murmured.
And with that, she was gone.
* * *
Turn after turn, the Gloryhound cut through the Sea of Swords, a trader’s wind at their backs. The Lady of Oceans was merciful, and the ship pulled into the harbor at Crow’s Rest a good twenty hours before schedule. But even with Mother Trelene on his side, it seemed Furian the Unfallen’s luck was all but spent.
Just as Maggot predicted, his wounds had turned septic. By the time they arrived at Crow’s Rest, the flesh about his chest and throat was dark and weeping, and the sweet stink of rot hung over him like fog. Maggot and Mia did their best to keep him sedated, though he slipped in and out of consciousness frequently. He was barely lucid when awake, and murmured fever-dream nonsense while sleeping. What it would mean for the collegium and Leona if he died, Mia had no idea.
A waiting wagon rushed them up to Crow’s Nest, hooves pounding on the hillside. Mia’s knowledge of herbcraft seemed to have impressed the dona, and she rode with Maggot and the dazed and groaning Furian, Leona and Magistrae beside her. Arkades and the other gladiatii were left to tromp up the hill on foot.
Captain Gannicus met them at the gates, Leona’s houseguards carrying Furian to the rear of the house. Despite the ache of her broken ribs, once inside Maggot’s infirmary, Mia began looking for ingredients that might quell his blood poisoning. Maggot herself disappeared into the shed in the corner of the yard. Leona hovered like a mother hen, a kerchief pressed to her nose and mouth to stifle the stench, pale with worry.
“Can you save him?” she asked.
Mia only scowled, sighing as she rifled through Maggot’s chests and cupboards. It was true what the girl had said—it looked to have been months since Leona allowed her to restock. Even with all she’d learned from Spiderkiller and her beloved, dog-eared copy of Arkemical Truths, there wasn’t enough to work with.
“We need hollyroot,” Mia declared. “Maidenhead. Something to kill the swelling, like tinberry or pufferfish bladder. And ice. Lots of ice. This fever is burning him out like a fucking candle.”
“Can you write?” Leona asked.
Mia raised an eyebrow. “Aye. I can write.”
“Make a list,” Leona commanded. “All you need.”
Maggot returned from the shed, waddling under the weight of an old tin bucket. She thumped it on the bloodstained slab beside Furian’s head, tied up her hair and began peeling off the pus-soaked bandages from his throat and chest.
“What are you doing?” Mia asked.
“You remember when you asked how I got my name?”
“You told me to pray I’d never find out,” Mia replied.
The girl dragged her nose along her arm, wincing at the stench of Furian’s wounds. “Well, you didn’t pray hard enough.”
Mia peered into the bucket and saw a great wriggling mass; hundreds of tiny white bodies, black heads, chewing sightlessly at the air. She put her hand to her mouth, gorge rising at the sight of those crawling, squirming . . .
“Four Daughters,” she gagged. “Those are . . .”
“Maggots,” the little girl replied. “I breed them in the shed.”
“ . . . What the ’byss for?”
“What do maggots eat, Crow?”
Mia looked at the flesh of Furian’s neck, his torso. The infection was dug deep; the wounds streaked with pus, muscles and skin gone putrid with decay. The veins about the wound were dark with corruption, every heartbeat only spreading it further.
“Rotten meat,” she whispered. “But what stops them eating . . .”
“The good bits?”
“Aye.”
“Two jars on the shelf behind you. Bring them here.”
Mia did as she was bid, peering at the spidery writing on the sides. She looked at the little girl, a smile creeping to her lips despite herself.
“Vinegar and bay leaves. You are very good at this.”
Maggot offered a mirthless smile and began applying the larvae to the wounds, sprinkling them like salt onto the rancid flesh. Sickened despite the genius of it, Mia began writing on a wax tablet, making a list of all they’d need to keep Furian sedated, stop the sepsis spreading, kill his fever. She showed the list to Maggot, who looked up long enough to grunt assent, then handed the list to Leona.
The dona looked over the tablet once, gave it to her magistrae.
“Anthea, head to town,” she commanded. “Gather all that Crow bids you.”
Magistrae looked over the list, raised her eyebrow. “Domina, the cost of—”
“Hang the bloody cost!” Leona snapped. “Do as I command!”
The woman glanced to Mia and Maggot, pursed her lips. But still, she looked to her mistress and bowed low. “Your whisper, my will, Domina.”
Magistrae marched out into the yard, wax tablet in hand. Dona Leona remained behind, eyes locked on Furian, chewing her tortured fingernails.
“He must live,” she whispered.
A command.
A hope.
A desperate prayer.
But whether it was because she cared about the man, or cared about the magni, Mia had no idea.
They worked into the nevernight, Maggot applying the squirming flyspawn over Furian’s wounds, smearing the edges with vinegar and bay leaves to repel the larvae from the hale flesh, and then gently wrapping it all in gauze. Mia stood by, helping when she could, but mostly observing with a churning belly.
Finger brought their evemeal to them, the emaciated cook peering at Furian as if he were already dead. Fang came snuffling about looking for scraps soon after, and with the pain of her ribs, the nausea at Maggot’s treatments, Mia fed the mastiff most of her meal, scruffing him behind his ears as he wagged
his stubby tail. Dona Leona also refused to eat, sitting and staring at the Unfallen, not saying a word. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her cheeks hollow.
The other gladiatii arrived back at the Nest, marching down to the barracks accompanied by the houseguards. Arkades limped into the infirmary, dusty and sore from his long walk. He looked Furian over, pressed a hand to the man’s sweat-slicked brow, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The long scar bisecting his cheek deepened as he scowled. Mia touched the bandage at her own face. Once more thinking of Ashlinn.
Wondering.
“How does he fare?” Arkades asked.
“We’ve done all we can ’til Magistrae returns,” Maggot replied. “The herbs and brews she’s fetching will help. But it’s no sure thing, Executus.”
Arkades nodded. “Crow, return to the barracks. Maggot will call if she has need.”
“I’d prefer to sta—”
“And I’d prefer a villa in southern Liis and my real leg back,” Arkades growled. “It is after nevernight. Your place is under lock and key in the barracks.”
Mia glanced to Dona Leona, but the woman was paying no attention at all, stare fixed on Furian. Touching Maggot’s shoulder in farewell, Mia limped out into the yard, flanked by two houseguards. Arkades remained, staring at his mistress, brow creased in thought. A small, cat-shaped piece of Mia’s shadow stayed behind also.
“Mi Dona, you should rest,” Arkades said.
“I will stay.”
“Maggot can inform you if there is any cha—”
“I will stay!” Leona snapped.
Maggot glanced up at the shout, returned quickly to work. The executus looked between his mistress and the fallen gladiatii on the bench. Nodding slow.
“Your whisper, my will.”
Turning on his heel, he limped out from the infirmary into the yard. Staring up at the nevernight suns, the blue glow budding ever deeper on the horizon. Truelight was close now—just a few weeks until all three of the Everseeing’s eyes burned bright in the sky. Scorching the world pure. Exposing all their sins.
Sins.
Arkades glanced back over his shoulder to his mistress, watching her watching her champion, lips pursed. And then he was walking, into the keep and along the halls, clink thump, clink thump, the tune of his tread. His brow was a dark scowl, his lips a thin line, those mighty, sword-callused fists clenched.
He did not notice the small, dark shape following him, flitting from shadow to shadow behind. Silent as cats.
Arkades limped passed paintings on the walls of old gladiatii battles, the suits of armor and gleaming helms, the marble busts of Marcus Remus’s ancestors, paying them not a moment’s mind. And finally, he arrived at a single door at the end of the hall, unlocking it with an iron key.
Arkades walked into Furian’s room. Folding his arms and surveying the scene. The shrine to Tsana beneath the small window. The trinity of Aa on the wall. A practice dummy and some swords. A small chest for the Unfallen’s meager belongings.
Closing the door behind him, Arkades limped to the chest. Kneeling with a wince, he began rifling through it—two silver laurels won at Talia and Blackbridge. The hilt of a broken sword. A moldy deck of cards and some dice. Spare loincloth. A fishbone comb. A handful of copper beggars.
Arkades stood, scowling about the room. His face was darkening, eyes glinting with anger. He limped to the bed, searched inside the pillow and threw it to the floor, tore off the sheets, pawed at the straw mattress. With a frustrated curse, he flipped the mattress over and hurled it against the wall. And there, on the bedframe, he saw it.
A silken underslip.
The executus stooped, lifted the slip to his nose and inhaled. The faint scent of jasmine perfume. The same scent he’d inhaled when he’d visited here before the venatus, warning the Unfallen that his soap was making him smell like a woman.
“You fucking bastard . . .”
Arkades clenched the slip in one white-knuckled fist.
“You ungrateful . . .”
Arkades returned the room to its former state, remaking the bed, smoothing the sheets. His face was pale, jaw clenched. With the bedchamber as it was, he turned and stormed from the room, clink thump, clink thump. Limping down the corridor, stormclouds over his brow, he arrived at his bedchamber and slammed the door.
Enraged as he was, the Executus failed to notice Magistrae standing by the storeroom, her arms laden with the remedies she’d fetched from town.
But the old woman certainly noticed the silk slip clutched in his hand.
“ . . . interesting . . . ,” the shadows whispered.
26: silver
They gathered in the yard after mornmeal.
Seven turns had passed, and little had changed—Furian’s fever burned the lesser, but still hadn’t burned out entirely. The fly larvae were doing . . . well, they were doing exactly what maggots do. The process was beyond disgusting, the sight when Maggot pulled back those bandages was almost more than Mia could stomach. And there was still no telling whether it was doing any good.
The gladiatii were of a mood. Buoyed by their victory in the arena and the berth the Falcons of Remus had won in the Venatus Magni. But the price they’d paid . . .
Bryn stayed in her cell, speaking to no one, even at mealtimes. Bladesinger might never fight again. Furian hovered close to death’s door, and Byern was simply dead. If this was the tithe they paid for a chance at freedom, it was drenched in more blood than most would have preferred.
Arkades had summoned them at the command of their domina, the suns beating down on the sand like hammers as the gladiatii of the Remus Collegium assembled. Mia’s ribs ached abominably, the slice on her face itching beneath the crusted gauze. It was odd seeing the world with one eye under a bandage, the lack of depth, the loss of balance. She knew she should go see Ashlinn—Eclipse had appeared in her cell late last nevernight, informing her that their ship had arrived back in Crow’s Rest. But with the situation in the keep the way it was, Mia dare not risk a visit. Furian might wake at any moment, and if Maggot called on her to help with some herbcraft in the middle of the nevernight and the guards discovered her missing . . .
She touched the bandage at her face. She’d not yet mustered the will to look underneath it in a mirror. Wondering what she’d see when she did.
Wondering what Ashlinn would see.
Butcher stood with hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as always. Despite losing his match at Whitekeep, he seemed pleased that he’d earned himself a few more scars to add to his collection.
Sidonius waited silently, arms crossed over the COWARD branded on his broad chest. His cropped hair was getting longer, his blue eyes sparking in the sun. As always, he stood right beside Mia, never straying far if he could help it. He’d sung her praises in their cell, declaring her match against the silkling the greatest he’d ever seen. And still, he didn’t press about her parents. Didn’t ask questions she wasn’t yet prepared to answer. For all his bluster and thuggery, for all his foolery around women, he knew when to talk, and when to keep his mouth shut.
Mia liked him more and more with every passing turn.
But he is not my friend.
Wavewaker stood at Sidonius’s other side, feet planted in the earth like the roots of mountains. He’d fought like a daemon against those scythebears in the arena; he and Sid had fallen shy of their own laurel by only two points. Again, Mia found it hard to imagine the man strutting about the stage in silken hose, talking in rhyming couplets. Standing tall, skin gleaming in the sunslight, he seemed a warrior born.
And he is not my friend.
Bryn stood beside Otho and Felix, looking as though she’d not slept a wink since Whitekeep. It was so strange to see her without her twin—Mia actually caught herself glancing about for Byern. The Vaanian girl walked like a ghost. Bloodshot stare and empty stare, arms wrapped about herself.
And she is not . . .
Bladesin
ger leaned at the door to the infirmary. Her face was bloodless beneath her tattoos, swordarm slung around her neck with blood-soaked gauze. The slice to her back had been vicious, but the gouge to her arm had been horrendous. None knew if the woman would ever wield a sword again. Mia could see fear in her eyes.
But she is . . .
And Furian?
He lay sleeping on the infirmary slab, Maggot by his side. Mia could feel his pain whenever she strayed too near, as if it were bleeding through the dark at her feet. She had no idea why. Even with all her herbcraft, with Maggot’s remedies, none knew his future, save perhaps the Mother.
“Gladiatii!” Arkades barked. “Attend!”
The assembled warriors straightened, fists to their chests. Leona and Anthea marched out from the verandah, the dona one step ahead of her magistrae.
Leona looked tired, but at last she’d dressed in a manner more like her usual self. She was clad in a flowing white dress, the fabric rippling about her sandals as she took her place on the burning sands. Her hair was plaited about her brow like the victor’s laurel she held in her right hand.
“My Falcons!” she called, raising the laurel high. “Behold!”
The assembled gladiatii cheered, but circumstances being what they were, Mia felt their enthusiasm rang a little hollow.
“Though the tithe we paid was steep, we have the victory we have so long sought. With this laurel comes a berth in the Venatus Magni, five weeks hence. Freedom is within your reach, and soon, the City of Bridges and Bones shall ring with the name of the Remus Collegium!”
A second cheer rang in the yard, much louder than the first. It seemed no matter how deep they ran, the promise of liberty could make any gladiatii forget their sorrows. Wavewaker clapped his hand on Sid’s shoulder, Butcher slapped his thighs and roared. The thought of fighting in the magni was enough to thrill their hearts, and Mia found her blood quickening along with the rest. Picturing Scaeva and Duomo in her mind’s eye.
Soon, bastards . . .
“Three among you stand tall,” Leona declared. “The best and bravest yet trained within these walls under the careful eye of our noble Executus.”
