Nomi wasn’t the only one with a secret here, she realized. Maris had one too.
FIFTEEN
SERINA
SERINA SPENT EVERY day for a week sparring with Petrel. She was getting better at keeping her feet and faster at avoiding the fists and elbows, but her arms were still weak, her punches ineffectual. Her body didn’t feel like her own when Ember ordered her into the makeshift ring, over and over again. Her muscles screamed as angrily as the gulls that screeched overhead.
“You’re coming along just fine,” Petrel said cheerfully, patting Serina on the shoulder.
Serina bent over, hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath.
Petrel laughed. “Go take a walk. It’ll stretch out your legs, keep them from cramping.” She headed over to watch Mirror spar with Jacana.
“What do you want, Grace?” Oracle asked when Serina approached her. The crew chief was sitting just outside the cave entrance, sharpening sticks into spears for boar hunting.
Serina bristled. She hated the name she’d earned. She’d never even been a Grace.
Serina certainly didn’t look like one anymore. She hadn’t cut her hair, but she’d have to soon; it hung in a limp, dirty braid down her back and was constantly getting in her way. Her hands were coated with fine black volcanic dust. No matter how many times she scrubbed them, they never seemed to come clean. And her once-luminous olive skin was now red and chapped by the sun.
“The volcano,” she said, glancing up at the cloud of smoke that hung above the hills behind Oracle. “What if it erupts? Why do you stay so close? Isn’t it dangerous?”
Oracle paused, hands poised over her spear. “If the volcano wakes again, everyone on this island will die. Would you prefer to go first, and quickly, or have time to panic and pray?”
“I don’t think I’d accept death so easily,” Serina shot back.
“Death comes, whether you accept it or not,” Oracle stated. She bent over her work again, an obvious dismissal.
“Can I go for a hike?” Serina addressed the top of the woman’s head.
Oracle laughed but didn’t bother looking up. “Why are you asking me? Do what you like. Just stay away from the guards.”
Serina stomped away. Was it so strange that she had asked? She was in a prison.
She hiked north, around the rim of the caldera. The ragged terrain tore at her flimsy shoes. A narrow guard tower loomed in the distance; as she approached it, she noted the one silent guard standing watch, his hand on his firearm. She walked faster until he was out of sight.
Eventually, she reached the far rim of the massive crater, the gray and white rock smoking in places. No plants grew here, not even the hardy golden grass. Her head ached from sun glare and dehydration.
Panting, she scaled a large rock fall and collapsed on the top. She brushed grit from her sore, blistered hands. No calluses yet. Before her, stretching to the horizon, the ocean glinted. Behind her, the caldera smoked.
There wasn’t another person in sight, not in any direction. Even the guard tower had disappeared, hidden by a fold in the land. Out here, she might as well be the only person on the island. The only person in the world.
Do what you like.
Oracle’s words pounded in her head. No one had ever said that to her before. Her life had been ruled by duty. And no one, not even the people she loved, had let her forget it.
She’d hoped that becoming a Grace would be her reward. But Nomi had been given the life Serina had always imagined for herself: a series of balls and concerts and delectable meals. Nomi was primped and pampered. Nomi slept in a soft bed in her own room. Nomi didn’t fear for her life every day.
Sometimes Serina wished Nomi had been the one caught with the book, that she’d been forced to pay for her own crime. On those days, Serina felt like the worst sister in the world. Who could wish a place like this on anyone, let alone someone you loved?
Today, all Serina could think about was Nomi’s bed, and how her sister had wanted Serina to sleep with her that first night in the palazzo. Serina’s only night in the palazzo. Nomi had needed her, and Serina had turned the other way. She thought about the morning after, when she could have given Nomi a hug or words of encouragement, and she hadn’t.
Serina was going to die here, one way or another. She would never see Nomi again. She could have told her little sister she loved her, that she was proud of her. And now she’d never have the chance.
With a sigh, Serina climbed down from the rock and started the slow trek back to the lava tube. The setting sun paced her, hovering just above the horizon, staining the edges of the guard tower red.
Serina heard a clatter of stones, just as a figure appeared from the scrub beside the path. The guard stepped in front of her, blocking her way, his narrow face cocked to the side.
“New or banished, I wonder,” he said, appraising her from head to toe. “No other excuse for you to be out here on your own.”
Serina didn’t like the calculation in his eyes. She lowered her gaze and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. A scratch on her forearm burned when the skin pulled taut.
“Excuse me,” she said, and moved to go around him, her heart trip-hammering in her chest.
He blocked her, stepping into her space. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he didn’t need bulk to frighten her. All it took was his hand on his firearm, and the way he moved so close, so fast. Like he was used to intimidating the prisoners here.
He leaned into her and murmured in her ear, “Your shoes are falling apart. Let me find you a pair of boots.”
One hand stayed on his firearm. The other rose to her shoulder, his fingers splaying against the side of her neck.
Every breath Serina took felt like a scream. What was she supposed to do? It was obvious what this man wanted in exchange for boots, and she didn’t want to give it to him.
She was unwilling.
But when had that ever mattered before?
It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been chosen as a Grace.
For the first time, Serina really understood what Nomi had meant that night in the palazzo, when she’d said it wasn’t a choice if you weren’t allowed to say no. Serina had chosen to be willing, to want the Heir. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she hadn’t.
And it didn’t matter now.
“I—I don’t want any boots,” she stuttered, unable to force her voice out louder than a whisper. She tried to take a step back, but he held her fast, his hand on the curve of her throat.
“Yes,” he said, his fingers digging into her skin. “You do.”
Serina closed her eyes. Her breath came in gasps.
“She doesn’t want the boots, Bruno,” a voice rang out. There was a grunt and a thud. Free from the guard’s hand, Serina stumbled backward.
She opened her eyes. Bruno was on the ground, legs akimbo. Petrel stood over him. “She’s Cave crew,” she said, staring him down. “And she said no.”
Bruno scrambled to his feet, his narrow face reddening. “You better watch yourself,” he growled, but Petrel laughed in his face.
“You know where Oracle draws the line,” she said.
He spit at her feet before heading back into the scrub, toward the guard tower.
Petrel turned back to Serina. “Are you okay?”
Serina nodded, mutely, even though she wasn’t. Her heart still pounded in her chest, and a headache filled her skull with flames. Petrel had hit that guard. She had stopped him. “What is Oracle’s line?” Serina asked, her voice still faint and shaky.
Petrel swung an arm around Serina’s shoulders and drew her along the path. “The system is delicate here. In the ring, the guards have all the power. But out here, split up in their patrols and towers… out here we can sometimes fight back. Oracle doesn’t tolerate the guards forcing themselves on us.” Petrel smiled reassuringly. “Most of the guards leave us alone now. Bruno’s stupid. He won’t last long here.”
Serina’s hands shook. She
stared down at her feet, scrambling along the rough path. “I didn’t know what to do.”
Petrel squeezed her shoulder before letting her arm fall to her side. “You fight back. Always.”
When they reached the cave, Petrel kept walking. No one was loitering in the entrance, even though it was nearly dinnertime.
“Where are we going?” Serina asked. Her headache blurred the edges of her vision, giving the twilight a surreal quality.
“It’s time for another fight.” Petrel brushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “Oracle sent me to collect you. She knew I wanted a few moments to myself before I headed for the ring.”
Serina’s head snapped up. “Another boat came in? Already?”
Petrel nodded. “New rations. New prisoners.”
Serina swallowed, her throat dry. “Who did Oracle choose to fight?”
Petrel didn’t answer. She navigated the rugged trail with ease, even in the near dark. Serina stumbled after her. A deep, sickening unease spread through her. There was only one reason why Petrel would need time alone before the fight. “Petrel…”
“Don’t worry,” Petrel replied at last, her voice deceptively light. “I’ve won two fights already.”
By the time they reached the ruined amphitheater, most of their crew had already arrived. With a last squeeze of Serina’s arm, Petrel headed to the edge of the stage, where Oracle stood. Serina found a spot to sit next to Jacana and Gia. Cliff climbed down to them with a bedraggled, terrified older woman in tow.
“Sit here,” she told the woman. “And don’t cry. The guards will see your weakness, and they’ll use it. Don’t let them.” It was the same speech she’d given the last time. Serina wondered how many times she’d said the words.
“Where were you?” Jacana whispered, nudging Serina’s arm.
The ghost of Bruno’s hand pressed into her throat. Serina glanced up at the balcony but didn’t see him. “I was walking,” was all she said.
Serina shifted her gaze to Petrel. Oracle stood next to her, their heads bent close together.
“Cliff, what’s she saying?” Serina asked, pointing.
Cliff followed her gaze. “Oracle can tell someone’s fighting style, their strengths and weaknesses, almost immediately. One, two moves and she knows exactly what they’re going to do before they do it. It’s how she got her name. She’s watched all these women fight before. She’s telling Petrel how to beat them.”
“Those are the other camp leaders, with their champions?” Serina watched the women at the edge of the stage. Sized them up. Were the fighters good this week? Could Petrel beat them?
Cliff cocked her head to the pair at the far left. One woman towered over the other, her arms and legs thin and straight as iron bars. “The tall one’s Twig, leader of the Beach. They live on a stretch of shoreline along the north coast.”
“Is she called Twig because she’s tall and thin?” Serina tried to focus. She tried to breathe.
Cliff shot her a glare. “People call her Twig because she likes to break bones when she fights. Snaps ’em like twigs.”
Serina’s stomach rolled.
Cliff pointed to the next pair. “Slash, leader of Hotel Misery. She’s the one with spiky hair. She makes knives.” The girl next to Slash was bouncing on the balls of her feet, her cloud of dark hair bobbing in time.
“The guards let you have weapons in the fights?” Gia asked, her eyes wide.
Cliff snorted. “No. The guards take them from her and her crew, but they always seem to find material to make more. We’re not exactly the kind of women who follow rules, are we?”
“Why do people call you Cliff?” Jacana asked.
Cliff gave her a long look. “Because after I watched my first fight, I almost jumped off a cliff.”
Commander Ricci called the fighters onto the stage, like last time, and then headed up onto the balcony. The only sound was the rumble of male voices as the guards placed their bets.
Ricci hefted a crate above his head.
“What are the crates?” Serina whispered to Cliff, whose full attention was focused on stage.
“He likes to make the fights interesting,” the woman replied. “The crates are filled with different things each fight. Once, he dropped a crate of rope, and the girls all strangled one another.”
Commander Ricci released the box and shouted, “Begin!” When the crate splintered against the ground, a cloud of wasps erupted from the broken nest inside. The women in the first few rows scrambled away from the stage.
Jungle Camp’s champion kicked the nest toward one of the other girls and went after Petrel. She thrust a fist at her face, but Petrel ducked and, with one quick, brutal movement, wrapped the girl’s head tightly in her arms and twisted.
The girl crumpled, her neck bent at a strange angle.
Above the fighting, the guards cheered. Serina stifled a sob. She couldn’t block it out this time, couldn’t close her eyes. Couldn’t believe she’d have to do this too. She’d never survive when it was her turn to fight.
A scream sliced the air—one of the women was backing away from the others, writhing in agony. The wasps had swarmed her. She clawed at her face. A tall girl—the champion from the northern beaches—kicked out the girl’s knees. She fell to the ground, writhing, and howled, “I submit! I submit!”
No one pulled her away or helped her with the wasps. A few seconds later, while the three remaining fighters wove and parried, the girl stopped crying. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Her face was swollen and purple, like she’d been strangled.
Every muscle, every atom of Serina’s body ached to pull her up off the rough stone bench, up out of the arena, away from the horrors unfolding in the ring.
With a sickening crunch, the girl from Hotel Misery dispatched the champion from the northern beaches. While she still stood above the body, Petrel hit the Misery girl hard and fast. They were the only two left.
The girl fell, but before Petrel could slam her again, she swept a leg and brought Petrel down too. Instead of grappling on the floor, Petrel sprang to her feet and retreated a couple steps.
For a moment, the two girls sized each other up, bodies littered around them. Petrel’s adversary was the same height, with a brown puff of hair and a narrow face. From Serina’s vantage, it wasn’t clear who would be stronger.
Punch, thrust, parry.
Petrel dodged each of Misery’s moves, almost as if she knew exactly what to expect. The girl’s easy manner and sweet smile had disappeared beneath a cold calculation Serina would never have imagined her capable of.
Petrel connected with Misery’s jaw again, and the girl let out a scream of frustration. Petrel pressed her advantage, delivering another punishing blow. Misery stepped back. Petrel advanced. She pounded at Misery’s face and stomach, each punch driving forward with all her force behind it. They were blows to break bones.
No one cheered or booed, not even the guards. No one made a sound.
Misery’s face was bloody and swollen. Her cloud of hair sagged, weighted with sweat and blood. She was standing at the edge of the stage, hands up to protect herself, not even trying to fight back. Petrel spun sideways and thrust her foot into Misery’s knee. With a hollow scream, the girl crumpled. She curled into herself, around the injured leg, and bowed her head. Petrel paused, and Serina realized she was waiting. She wanted Misery to submit.
The girl didn’t say a word.
Petrel clenched her fists for an instant, her face twisting. Then she reached down with both hands, to choke her or break her neck.
Bile rose in Serina’s throat. She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t watch another girl die. It was so deliberate this time, without the heat of multiple battles, the struggle to survive. Petrel was no longer defending herself. She was committing murder.
Suddenly, the press of bodies was too much, the heat, the electric silence as they all laid witness to Misery’s final moments. Serina couldn’t stand it. She dropped her head into her han
ds, just as a collective gasp rose around her. She glanced back up in time to see a flash, something catching the light.
Petrel’s mouth opened.
Her hands dropped from Misery’s throat… and grasped her own.
Petrel’s fingers turned black. No. Red. She was trying to stanch the blood. The blood pouring out of her, pouring from her neck.
She made a strange gurgling sound. As she drifted slowly to her knees, Misery rose, favoring her injured leg. In her hand, something glinted. A knife.
“Cheater,” someone shouted angrily. Whispers of outrage rippled through the amphitheater.
The gurgling stopped. Petrel fell to her side, eyes still open.
Serina couldn’t breathe, and the world faded in and out, as if she were the one lying there, dying in a pool of her own blood. She couldn’t get her brain to work. She couldn’t accept—
Hotel Misery’s champion thrust a bloody fist into the air.
Her crew cheered.
There was a flurry of movement near the stage; Oracle and Ember leapt up and collected Petrel’s body. As they carried her away, blood dripped to mark their path. Serina stared at the slash of red against the pale stone. So much blood had been spilled here. How could so much death not leave a stain?
SIXTEEN
NOMI
NOMI STOOD ON the roof of the tallest building in Bellaqua, her black-and-silver gown billowing in the howling wind. Angeline had been beside herself all day, regaling Nomi with stories of the Premio Belaria, the most famous horse race in the world. The only one ever to be run through city streets. The most difficult race in history. Nomi had heard, in detail, about all the most famous runners, some of whom had won, and some of whom had died.
“His Eminence Asa ran it two years ago,” Angeline had said, practically swooning. “He was the youngest ever to run it, and he won. It was a brutal year too. Many racers died.”
Nomi had never been remotely interested in horse racing. But as she stood there, high above the streets below, she found herself awash in reluctant anticipation.
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