by Sara Raasch
Only a god who valued the lost lives of his citizens would put so much at risk. Still, Madoc couldn’t help thinking what would happen if the Deiman champion did not succeed.
Geoxus raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “We will delay no longer. Ignitus has chosen his champions. How will they fare against the pride of Deimos?”
Jeers and laughter erupted around the arena. Madoc’s gaze turned again to the Kulan girl, who was now half hidden behind the giant warrior in her group. Her jaw flexed in hatred as she stared across the box toward Geoxus, standing beside her god. It reminded him a little of the way Cassia would get angry when they were young and he and Elias kept her out of their games. The likeness brought on a slash of pity, and guilt, because she was only with Petros now because he’d been foolhardy enough to fight in the first place.
“As it has been since the beginning, eight of my finest gladiators will fight for the chance to defend Deimos.”
The crowd cheered again.
In front of Madoc, the Deiman gladiators began to move in a subtle dance, transferring their weight, flexing their fists, tapping their weapons against the armor. Madoc could feel their energy swell, like a wave over the shore. He leaned forward, drawn to it.
“Yes,” Narris whispered beside him.
Yes, thought Madoc.
“The Honored Eight begin their trials at dawn. Each I have carefully considered. Each will do our great country proud.”
The gladiators began to nod, their weapons louder against the gold plates on their chests.
“Stavos of Xiphos!” boomed Geoxus, and the stands erupted in cheers. “Who will no doubt get his retribution for the interference in the match in Kula!”
The man holding the hammer raised his fist, then left the rank of fighters to move to the stage behind the trainees.
“Raclin of Crixion!”
A woman with thighs as thick as Madoc’s chest whooped, and jogged over to join Stavos.
One of them would be getting one thousand gold coins.
One might die in the final round against a Kulan champion.
“Jann of Arsia!”
A man with a bald head twisted his wrist, and with a small flick sent a spiral of sand high into the air. By the time it landed, he was on the stage with the others.
The crowd shouted their approval.
Three more names were called, and with each one, the crowd grew wilder, the remaining gladiators hungrier. A pressure built in Madoc’s chest, taking up the room for his lungs. It reminded him of how he could feel Elias’s anger, or anxiety, or fear, and how he’d sensed Fentus’s fatigue. But this was a thousand times more intense. Stealing his focus. Building pressure beneath his skin. Demanding some kind of release.
He forced his gaze up to the Father God and blinked through the screaming in his brain.
Geoxus was looking right at him.
No, that wasn’t right. Geoxus must be looking at the stage, or something in the distance. Why would he be staring at Madoc?
Unless he knew Madoc didn’t belong. Unless the rumors about sensing divinity weren’t rumors at all.
During the inspection at Headless Hill, Madoc had felt this same awareness rooting in his bones—the sensation of being watched, evaluated, measured for worth. It was ten times stronger now in Geoxus’s physical presence—so intense, Madoc could hardly breathe.
Another fighter, two down from where Jann of Arsia had stood, stepped forward and took his place on the stage. Madoc hadn’t even heard the man’s name called.
One name left. One last fighter. Then the trainees would march back into the corridors beneath the arena. He and Elias would find Cassia, and they would figure out what to do next.
“Our last position, as always, is reserved for a trainee,” said Geoxus. “A hungry young fighter, ready to prove their worth to Deimos.”
“Finally,” muttered Narris, stretching taller. Madoc gritted his teeth, imagining this meathead bringing home a thousand coins. He’d probably buy himself a chariot, like Elias had wanted.
Madoc could do a lot more with that coin.
Though the chances were slim, he found himself hoping to be chosen.
“Madoc of Crixion.”
Madoc didn’t move.
The crowd quieted. The gladiators looked to each other in confusion.
“You?” Narris swore.
It couldn’t have been him. Hope or not, Madoc hadn’t expected his name to actually be called. He was new. He’d come on three days ago. This was impossible. Narris had misheard.
The entire stadium had misheard.
He sucked in a hard breath. Geoxus was still staring at him, only now he was smiling. It was the smile of the statue in Market Square. It was the smile that had calmed Madoc when he was a child, alone on the streets and afraid. That had convinced him to pray for help.
Geoxus’s chin dipped as if to say, Yes, you.
“Go.” Narris’s hard whisper made him jump. “Madoc! Go now!”
Madoc tentatively stepped forward.
The crowd began to cheer again as he took another step through the line of gladiators.
One of the seasoned fighters sneered at him, and he sidestepped into another, then stumbled, catching himself before he hit the ground.
The crowd laughed and cheered harder.
All the while, Geoxus smiled.
He knows, Madoc thought. He’s angry. This is my death sentence. As soon as I step onto that stage, someone’s going to ram an iron spear through my heart.
But how did he know Madoc’s name?
Because he knows all. Because he saved your miserable life when you were a child, and he gave you to the Metaxas. Because he is a god.
But if that was true, why was he making Madoc, who had no geoeia, one of his Honored Eight?
Madoc could feel the Kulans watching him as he made for the stage, could feel the curious, pointed gaze of the girl with the wild hair. Would he have to fight her? Would he have to kill her?
Somehow, he made it onto the stage. On numb feet, he walked across the smooth, shaped earth, passing the other champions, who barely acknowledged his presence. Past a curious, appraising Lucius, to the end of the line, where Petros waited with eyes that gleamed with deceit.
He stood beside the last gladiator, his hands empty without a weapon.
Please don’t make me use geoeia, he prayed.
Geoxus was talking. Congratulating the Honored Eight. Saying they would serve Deimos proudly. That their names would live on long after their deaths.
“You look confused, Madoc,” whispered Petros beside him. “Don’t worry. I told Geoxus how well you’ve fought in my amateur matches. How you’ve built your career in the streets. He was willing to forgive you for breaking the law in exchange for what I assured him would be a fierce showing in the arena. He thinks you might be his secret weapon—isn’t that something?”
Petros had told Geoxus he was a fighter. That’s why Madoc had felt watched at Headless Hill, why Geoxus had chosen him for the Honored Eight. His father was punishing him for what had happened with Cassia, or for beating his hired fighters, or because he’d been born. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t keep Elias close enough to throw geoeia, Geoxus would see that he was a fraud.
He focused on Cassia’s face. He remembered her hand, stretching toward him when they were children, filled with a chunk of dry bread. How she’d sat with him on the temple steps while Ilena had shopped at the market, chattering like a bird about the shapes of the clouds, and how well she could swim in the river. She’d given him all her food, and when he’d gobbled it up, she’d taken his hand and pulled him across the street.
Come on, she’d said. Let’s go home.
Madoc would bring Cassia home, even if it took fighting. Even if it meant winning.
Even if he had to lie to a god.
Six
Ash
ASH INSTANTLY REGRETTED telling Tor about Hydra’s message.
They stood
in the finest viewing box of Crixion’s grandest arena, just behind the god of earth and the god of fire. The whole of the city screamed for the eight Earth Divine champions Geoxus had just selected.
One of them was Stavos of Xiphos, and it took every speck of strength left within Ash to not look at him.
“Stop worrying.” Tor echoed Hydra’s words to Ignitus, but it sounded like a plea to himself.
Rook’s jaw worked. “Maybe she didn’t mean a direct threat. Maybe the rumor was over something”—he motioned at the lavishness of the obsidian stage below, the rows upon rows of gilded gladiator trainees—“frivolous.”
Ash unintentionally followed his pointing finger to where Geoxus’s champions now stood. The first, the largest—Stavos. He thrust his arms into the air and bellowed a war cry that stoked a frenzy of screaming in his honor.
The last time Ash had seen his arms lifted like that, they had been lobbing a sword into Char’s body.
Heart thundering, Ash’s eyes fled to the last Deiman champion. Gods often gave slots in wars to up-and-coming trainees, betting on their determination to prove themselves. Never had one progressed very far, but they always provided a great show in the preliminary fights.
Madoc, though, had been so shocked at his god selecting him that he’d toppled into the other fighters around him. He couldn’t have been any older than Ash, but he was slightly taller, more muscular, as Deimans tended to be, with dark eyes that snapped back and forth over the arena. Did he occasionally look at Ash? He shifted so much that she couldn’t tell. His nervousness made Ash the most wary of him, out of all of Geoxus’s champions. Madoc had to be hiding great skill for the earth god to give one of his coveted war spots to someone who looked terrified to be here.
An announcer started bellowing out a list of the Deiman champions’ victories. A few paces ahead of Ash, Geoxus toasted each one, twisting his head back and forth slowly, clearly aware of how the rays from his arena’s light-amplifying mirrors caught the opals in the crown of onyx set on his dark, shoulder-length curls. The hem of his black toga kissed the marble floor of the viewing box, one end hooked around his arm as he tipped his goblet at Ignitus.
To anyone unfamiliar with the fire god’s emotions, Ignitus would appear disinterested. But that twitch over his eyebrow, the flare to his upper lip—he was furious. Ash could see Ignitus’s mind whirling, trying to plan how he could wrest away control for the next public gathering.
Rook had to be right—the only thing a god worried about was an offense to their reputation.
Even if Ignitus could lose Kula’s last fishing ports in this war.
“Wine!” Ignitus barked, and a servant scrambled forward to refill his empty goblet.
Ash scraped her palms on the leggings under her gilded reed armor, chest burning as she eyed Tor. Behind them, two of Ignitus’s other champions made jokes and pointed at the Deiman fighters.
Tor absently scrubbed his chin. “We have to be sure,” he whispered.
Ash stopped herself from wiping her palms on her leggings again. Fidgeting would give away her nerves, and she couldn’t afford to show weakness here.
“I could ask him,” she breathed.
Tor frowned down at her.
She braced, expecting him to reject her idea. “I could mention rumors I’ve heard. His worries are my worries, right? I’m one of his champions. I heard horrible rumors of someone who could weaken him. I have to know if it’s true, and who might slight my god.”
Tor’s consideration darkened. A long moment passed before he nodded.
“But I’ll be the one to ask him,” Tor added on a huff of breath.
Ash tensed. Ignitus was muttering something no doubt contentious as Geoxus slapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder.
No, she wanted to argue. Let me. I should do it—I cannot lose you too.
The crowd in the stands cheered as the announcer described the victories of Jann of Arsia. Hawkers sold wine and food, shouting their prices as they walked the rows of seats. Even the Kulan champions behind Ash were jovial, snatching wine flasks from a table in the viewing box.
But Tor set off, focused, crossing the few paces of marble to the railing where Ignitus stood with Geoxus. The Deiman champions remained in that perfect row on the center stage, their backs to an assortment of Geoxus’s highest ranking officials.
The announcer moved on. “And, finally, mighty Stavos of Xiphos, who, despite the fire god’s meddling, snatched victory from the burning flames of treason!”
Rook cut along behind Tor. Ash stumbled, her body jolting to keep up with them both. Her heart now raced so hard, she could barely fill her lungs against the incessant pounding.
By the time they reached Ignitus, she felt as if her throat had swollen shut, and all she could see was the broadsword sticking out of Char’s chest.
“Great Ignitus,” Tor started. “If I may request an audience?”
Ignitus took a sip of his wine and scowled. “This tastes like vinegar,” he snapped.
Geoxus, in turn, downed a whole glass. “Really? I imported it special from Kula.”
Ignitus’s face flared red.
“Great Ignitus,” Tor said again, louder. “If I—”
“What?” A flash of blue fire lit on Ignitus’s arms.
Ash lurched, wanting to beg Tor to stop. She was wrong, she had misheard Hydra—
“A moment of your time, Great Ignitus,” Tor said. “In private, please.”
Geoxus chuckled. “Go—quell your champion’s nerves about the war.”
Ignitus shifted. A look of calculation passed over his face, and he smiled. “You misread their intention in coming over. Allow me to properly introduce you, brother, to Ash Nikau.”
Ash choked. But Ignitus’s smile was full and rich now.
Tor shot in front of Ash, his back to her. “My god Ignitus, I—”
“Ash is my newest fighter,” Ignitus said. “She was extensively trained by my late gladiator, and it was Ash who took action to stop your gladiator from using his poisoned blade.”
Geoxus assessed her face, her neck; lower, lower. Wrinkles at the edges of his eyes dug deeper, and that detail settled oddly in Ash’s mind.
Ignitus didn’t have wrinkles by his eyes. It was a sign of age, too mortal for a god.
But Geoxus snapped his gaze back to Ignitus and yanked Ash’s focus away. “There was no poisoned blade. It is tragic that you have forced this child to be a champion merely to support your made-up claims of sabotage.”
Ignitus darkened. “Nikau comes from a line of my most elite fighters. She may be young, but you yourself wasted a champion slot on an untrained street rat.”
He batted his hand at Madoc, far below and oblivious.
For the first time, Geoxus lost his composure long enough to scowl. “That street rat came from my most trusted sponsor—he’s brought me nine war-winning champions, you know. Another of my advisers assures me that he will heap victories at my feet. He’s straight from the slums of Crixion. Quite wild, brother. Untamed. He’ll tear the limbs from your young champion.”
Ash’s fingers were in such tight fists that she felt her nails puncture her palms.
Tor slid back to stand at Ash’s side. He didn’t say anything—couldn’t—but with him on one side and Rook on the other, Ash could almost pretend that two gods weren’t discussing her like livestock on a farm.
Ignitus cocked his head. “Interesting.” He clicked his tongue and grinned at Ash.
She hated him. She hated him, and she feared everything about the look he gave her.
“A proposal, Geoxus,” Ignitus said. “Let’s give the crowd a taste of the events to come. Your young champion against mine—but without energeia. We’ll put true skill to the test, the talents your obscure fighter supposedly has against the training and superior breeding of mine.”
Disagree, Ash begged Geoxus. Cast him off—
But Geoxus smiled and snapped his fingers.
The viewing box rumbled and
a staircase indented from the railing all the way down to the fighting pit. The crowd on either side of the newly appeared path shouted in awe, the exclamation rippling across the stadium.
“Ready the boy,” Geoxus told a nearby servant. “Clear a space below.”
One servant scurried down the stairs for the stage; others followed and began shooing the trainees back.
A space cleared, a perfect circle on the velvet sands. A fighting ring.
Someone in the sand whooped with excitement. It caught like stray flames, and soon everyone was hooting and cheering. “Fight!” they chanted. “Fight! Fight!”
“Ash Nikau.” Ignitus said her name loud. He set a hand on her shoulder and she staggered, fighting a wince. “You will bring glory to Kula.”
It was a command. It was a threat.
Ash turned, pulling out of Ignitus’s grip, though he hadn’t dismissed her. But she couldn’t think rationally, could barely see enough to manage one foot in front of the other toward the stairs.
Now. She was going to fight a Deiman gladiator right now.
“The gods demand a match!” The announcer’s voice shifted, alight with eagerness. “Two of their champions will fight to the surrender in a test of physical strength—no energeia!”
Ash’s stomach cramped. The crowd crooned. No energeia meant the fight would be for indulgence—just fists. Just talent.
She could do that. Char and Tor had trained her in every type of combat.
Tor and Rook started down the staircase ahead of her so Ignitus couldn’t call them back or argue for them to stay. She focused on their rigid backs as she descended, and when they hit the sand, a path to the makeshift ring through the gladiator trainees waited. Some cheered like the crowd; a few whistled at her.
Ash walked toward the fighting ring, numb.
Tor caught her arm. “Ash.” His voice was deep and heavy, and to the people around, it looked as though he was offering her a final tip.
“I’ll ask Ignitus,” she whispered. It was all she could think to say, her eyes darting between Tor and Rook. “When I win. I’ll ask him about the rumors.”
