Set Fire to the Gods

by Sara Raasch

  Lucius’s glare narrowed. “Yes, now. Where is your attendant?”

  “Here, dominus,” said Elias, sprinting past the exiting trainees behind Madoc. He’d managed to retrieve Madoc’s armor from whoever had taken it out of the arena and was now holding it against his side over one bent arm.

  “Clean him up,” Lucius snapped, clearly not used to having to explain himself. “Get the blood off his face and put him back in armor. Geoxus will not be kept waiting.”

  “Yes, dominus,” said Elias.

  Lucius turned to Madoc. They were matched for height, but equal in no other way. Lucius’s shoulders stretched with lean, hard muscle that made Madoc look young and boyish in comparison. The sponsor’s face had been chiseled from stone—a polished jaw met a thin, serious mouth, and his slate-colored eyes dared defiance. Even his white toga dripped with affluence.

  Madoc could see why he was Geoxus’s favorite, and how Petros would never measure up.

  “That was pathetic,” he told Madoc as Elias shoved a tunic in his direction. “You’re a champion now, and champions strike first and strike hard. If I ever see you hesitate again, you’ll be slop for the pigs that feed real fighters.”

  Madoc swallowed and pulled the tunic over his head. “Yes, dominus.”

  Lucius turned to spout off orders at Arkos, giving Madoc a moment to clean up.

  “Better hurry,” Elias said. “If this is what happens when you win, I don’t want to see what Lucius does when you’re late.”

  Madoc dipped down to check his reflection in the pounded metal of his chest plate, still over Elias’s arm. Blood was smeared over his upper lip. Sweat glistened on his forehead, highlighting the tips of his hair. With a grunt of pain, he pressed his fingertips gently to the bridge of his nose, trying to feel if it was broken.

  “Get me a cloth,” he said.

  “Get your own cloth—this is heavier than Geoxus’s throne.” Elias adjusted the armor to his other arm.

  “It’s dipped in gold.”

  “Oh, is that why?” Elias asked flatly.

  Madoc grabbed the folds of Elias’s tunic to clean off his jaw. His teeth were stained orange with blood, and he ran his tongue along the fronts of them, tasting the copper remains of an earlier wound.

  “He made you a war champion,” Elias said.

  “I know. I was there.”

  “I thought the Kulan was going to win.”

  “You’re not supposed to tell me that,” Madoc said, but Elias was right. Madoc had been thrown into a match with their enemy—a gladiator who, by some stroke of fortune, hadn’t been permitted to use energeia.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t sure how he was alive at all.

  “At least you’re making more coin,” Elias said with weak smile. “If you can take a few more beatings like that, we’ll have Cassia home before the war’s over.”

  But the fights to come would be nothing like that, and they both knew it. Madoc wouldn’t just be training, he’d be competing against Deiman gladiators for the chance to fight Kula’s best champion. The Honored Eight were the most ruthless, skilled killers in the entire country.

  In grim silence, Elias helped lift the armor over Madoc’s head and then buckled the sides to hold it in place.

  “Ready?” Elias asked, his knuckles bumping Madoc’s side as he straightened the breastplate.

  Nerves trembled through him. He was going to meet Geoxus. In front of Ignitus, Lucius had said. Was this a strategy to shame the fire god? Dig the knife of his loss in a bit deeper?

  He didn’t care as long as it brought Cassia home.

  Nerves burned in his stomach as he and Elias hurried toward the line of trainees. There, Lucius and Arkos were lit a pale green beneath the glowing, phosphorescent stones that peppered the ceiling like stars. Geoxus had long ago figured out that the best way to limit the Kulans’ energeia was to remove their access to fire. Now these stones were everywhere Ignitus’s gladiators might roam—the arenas, the docks, even their lodgings at the palace—so Madoc had heard.

  With a somber nod, Lucius departed, his toga rippling behind him as he led Madoc and Elias down a narrow corridor that split from the main hall.

  “Thank him for this opportunity, then don’t speak further unless spoken to,” Lucius said as they came to the stairs where a centurion stood guard. Without a word, the soldier let them pass. “Address him as Honorable Geoxus, or Father God. And stand up straight—you look like pigstock.”

  Madoc locked his jaw to hide a wince and drew his shoulders together.

  At the top was another hall, and across it a stone archway, bright with sunlight. Just outside, Madoc could make out palace attendants in black togas and dresses, city officials and senate members in white. Deiman men and women had more colors on their tunics and gowns than Madoc had seen in the jewel barrels at the quarry.

  They’d reached Geoxus’s viewing box.

  Madoc hadn’t remembered there being so many people here during the ceremony or fight, but now that it was over, everyone had flocked around the Father God, seated on a throne made of smoky quartz and amethyst.

  His broad shoulders and thick, muscular form filled the entire seat and sent a wave of awe through Madoc. The Father God looked like a man but was immortal—stronger, sleeker, more in every way. And when he smiled at the group of men he spoke to, the wisdom in his gaze punctured Madoc’s confidence. He wasn’t sure what he should say, whether he should even look his god in the eyes, or if doing so would turn him to rubble. They’d told stories of that happening when they were children, but now the concept didn’t feel so farfetched.

  What if Geoxus sensed he was a fraud?

  There was no turning back now.

  Lucius led the way, striding across the threshold into the sunlight. On weak legs, Madoc followed, but hesitated when a guard blocked Elias’s path with a spear.

  “This is champion business,” Lucius said. “Your servant can wait in the hall.”

  Elias’s chin jutted inward, but he had the good sense not to speak.

  Without Elias, Madoc felt untethered. He didn’t belong in this place with these people, drinking wine and eating rich food off ruby-studded plates. He was a stonemason. Pigstock, unable to hide behind Elias’s geoeia.

  He felt like the boy his father had kicked out all those years ago.

  It didn’t matter. He was here for Cassia. Geoxus hadn’t noticed he was Undivine earlier; maybe he wouldn’t now, either.

  Madoc gave a quick nod to Elias and followed his sponsor.

  Whoever was talking to Geoxus backed away as Lucius approached, tightening the bands of anxiety around Madoc’s lungs. He’d thought they might have to stand in line to wait for the Father God. That he’d have a moment more to prepare what he was going to say.

  “There he is now. Quite a show you put on, Madoc. You must be starving, yes?”

  Madoc’s knees turned to water. Before today, Geoxus had been a statue in Market Square, a prayer that came easily to Madoc’s tongue. On rare occasions at festivals, Madoc and Elias had seen the Father God from afar, but though they’d clamored for a look like the rest of Deimos had, Geoxus had remained a pinprick at the end of their narrowed gazes, not even close enough to really distinguish from any other citizen. As a child, Madoc had never been permitted to go to the palace with Petros on senate business.

  Now Madoc could see every precious stone sewn into the leather bindings of Geoxus’s sandals and feel the god’s power pulsing across the space between them.

  Madoc scratched a hand over his skull, then quickly forced it down. He looked around for Ignitus, but the Kulan god was sulking in his seat, surrounded by servants. His hot glare burned in their direction.

  Lucius slapped a companionable hand on the back of Madoc’s armor.

  Geoxus had spoken. He was now looking at Madoc as if waiting for a response.

  “I am. Honorable Geoxus,” he added.

  “Well, you must eat. You’ll need your strength in the coming weeks, isn’
t that right, Lucius?”

  “It certainly is,” Lucius promised with a tight, gleaming smile.

  “I . . . I look forward to the challenge, Honorable Geoxus.”

  “Of course you do,” said Geoxus, and the pride in his voice gave Madoc a small dose of courage. A reckless thought kindled in his mind: If Geoxus favored him enough to include him in the Honored Eight, maybe the god would set Cassia free. Maybe he would listen if Madoc told him about Petros’s unfair taxes, and how no one in the poor districts could make ends meet.

  “Madoc is very fortunate to have been chosen,” prompted Lucius.

  Madoc was nodding—had he been nodding very long? He made himself stop. “Yes. I’m honored to be here. To be picked for the war.” Had he already said honored? He sounded like a fool. “Thank you.”

  He glanced up and saw that Geoxus had leaned forward in his seat. His face was timeless, jaw chiseled to perfection, cheekbones high and proud. Though he’d lived for thousands of years, only a few small wrinkles lined his eyes—from smiling so much, Ilena used to tell them. His black hair, crowned by the circlet of onyx and opals, hung in fine ringlets to his shoulders. It was no wonder that Seneca, the old bat upstairs, had always said he was prettiest of all the gods. Ilena used to say it was dishonorable to speak of him that way, but blushed every time.

  “It’s not me you should thank.” Geoxus waved a hand, motioning for someone to join them. “Petros spoke very highly of you. There are few mortals whose opinions I value more.”

  The weight of Madoc’s armor nearly dragged him to the stones below his feet.

  His father was here. Of course he was. He was a member of the senate, Crixion’s tax collector. The box was filled with people just like him. Any thought of asking Geoxus to free Cassia, or of voicing Petros’s corruption, dried on Madoc’s tongue. How could he explain what had happened with Petros here to refute him? His father had Geoxus’s trust. All Madoc had was one nearly failed match without geoeia—and once he was forced to use energeia, he’d lose that slim standing as well.

  “Ah, Madoc. I’m glad you could join us.” Petros strode up in his fine white toga, cheeks already flushed with too much wine. He smiled at Madoc with yellowed teeth and a glare that said, Defy me in front of Geoxus, and see what I will do to you.

  “Excellent work in that match,” Petros continued. “You drew it out nicely, let the crowd get into it before you won.”

  I almost lost, thought Madoc weakly. Tension stretched between them, tight enough to snap.

  “Yes,” said Geoxus. “Deimos already adores its new champion.”

  “Just wait until you see what he can do with geoeia,” Petros said, his eyes gleaming. “The Kulans may surrender on the spot.” He laughed loud enough that Ignitus must have heard.

  Uncertainty rippled through Madoc’s veins. Petros was taunting him, the way he had in the arena and at the Metaxas’ home, and just like before, Madoc couldn’t stop him. If he refuted Petros’s claim, he’d lose his position in the Honored Eight and the money that came with it. Petros would certainly punish Cassia for the humiliation Madoc caused. Even playing at modesty was a risk; to question his position here was to question Geoxus himself.

  “I’m sure he’s very accomplished,” the Father God said with a smile. “He’d have to be, if he’s your son, Petros.”

  Madoc gaped. He half expected to blink and find himself in a different conversation, one in which Petros was still revolted by his very being.

  But Petros did not falter. His shoulders drew back, and his chin lifted in what looked suspiciously like pride.

  “Your son?” Lucius barked out a dry laugh. “What game are you playing, Petros?”

  “An honest one, I assure you,” Petros answered. “Had I given away Madoc’s lineage, it might have offered him an unfair advantage entering into the war. Young champions must prove their worth to the Father God, not rely on their bloodlines to get ahead, isn’t that right, Lucius?”

  Beside Madoc, Lucius seethed, the blood rising in his cheeks. His glare slid to Madoc, accusing and disgusted.

  “Great-Grandfather,” Lucius said between his teeth. “Petros has always been hungry for your attention, but even I don’t know what he hopes to accomplish through this claim.”

  “Petros’s intentions favor Deimos,” Geoxus assured Lucius. “He only learned of his son’s existence recently, once he pledged to train with you. Madoc came to Petros right after—he had waited all these years until he could truly show his worth.” Geoxus laughed heartily, but Madoc could only muster a weak chuckle. “What a moment that must have been, eh, Madoc?”

  Madoc coughed into his fist, his throat as dry as chalk. He could practically hear Petros laying out this story, feigning his delight at reconnecting with a son he’d never known existed.

  “Indeed,” he managed. Any lingering doubt that he’d been chosen for the Honored Eight without Petros’s interference disappeared. Madoc was only here now because his father had willed it.

  Sorrow glimmered in Petros’s eyes, as false as his claims at fair play. “Had I known of him, I would have raised him as my own. He certainly wouldn’t have been fighting in the streets. It’s of great pride to me that you found him worthy to train, Lucius.”

  Madoc heaved out a breath. Every word his father had said was a lie, from how they’d parted ways to Madoc’s supposed geoeia.

  And Geoxus believed it all.

  He couldn’t see that this was an act, meant to humiliate and destroy Madoc, and maybe Lucius by default.

  “The fact that Madoc has Petros’s blood does not make him qualified to stand in the arena in a war,” Lucius said carefully.

  Geoxus’s smile faded, replaced by a hard grimace. “The fact that you have my blood does not make you qualified to question my judgment, Lucius.” When the trainer bowed his head, Geoxus sighed. “I know potential when I see it. Madoc will do great things for Deimos.”

  “Yes, Great-Grandfather,” said Lucius.

  “Is there something you’d like to say, Madoc?” prompted Petros.

  Anger blanketed Madoc’s fear, bringing a sharp, ice-cold clarity. Petros had taken Cassia. He’d lied to Geoxus. He’d pushed Madoc into a war he would certainly lose.

  But just because Madoc was Undivine didn’t meant he didn’t have power.

  Petros was risking his reputation, his status, his life, just to punish Madoc, and that righteous hate thinned his reasoning. It made Petros weak, and as he had with Fentus, Madoc sensed his point of attack. Petros would do anything to impress Geoxus, but like so many Divine, he equated worth with energeia. He didn’t see his pigstock son as a threat, but he would soon enough.

  Madoc was a gladiator now, and once he had the money to secure Cassia’s freedom, he could ruin Petros in the only way that would truly hurt him.

  He would fail in front of Geoxus. Get the money he needed for Cassia, and then, before he had to risk his neck in a match to the death, lose, and shame his father publicly.

  “No, Father,” he said, painting a smile on his face as false as Petros’s claims. “I’m just grateful for the chance to fight for my god.”

  Eight

  Ash

  ASH HAD LOST her first gladiator fight. She had lost in front of Ignitus.

  Tor and Rook had pulled her into a preparation chamber off the main fighting ring. The world was a blur of color and light, the windowless room washed a sickly pale green in the glow of the phosphorescent stones Geoxus employed. The hue turned Ash’s stomach.

  When Char had lost a fight, the only time Char had lost, she hadn’t walked out of the ring. But here Ash was, the thudding of her heart sending pain into every tender bruise and scrape.

  If she had lost this fight, how would she fare against a gladiator who could use energeia?

  Spark poked Ash’s arms, checked her eyes. She dabbed balm on Ash’s collarbone and rubbed the smooth cream across her neck where Madoc’s forearm had been.

  The gladiators Ash had met who worshipped
other gods had always been like Stavos, proud and eager and so loyal it radiated out of them. But Madoc had looked like he hated what he was doing. He’d even defended her against Stavos’s taunts.

  He made no sense.

  “Nothing broken,” Spark declared, twisting the lid back on the jar of balm. “Which is miraculous. Fighting a Deiman without using igneia—it’s a wonder you still have all your limbs.”

  Ash grimaced. “Thanks for your confidence.”

  Taro pushed forward. “Confidence has nothing to do with it. You got out of there thanks to luck, not skill.” Her eyes shifted to Tor, accusing. “You need to increase her training without energeia—”

  But Tor ignored his sister and knelt in front of Ash. “You let Stavos get to you,” he stated. “Before Madoc took you to the ground. It made you lower your guard.”

  Ash looked down at her lap.

  She hated that she had let Stavos’s taunting worm its way into her mind: that she could die just like Char. When she had lain under Madoc, his thighs fixing her to the hot sand, she had realized that if he killed her, she would leave nothing behind. Char would remain unavenged and Ignitus would continue destroying Kula—and Stavos would still be alive.

  She wanted Stavos dead almost as badly as she wanted Ignitus dead. She wanted revenge, simple and grotesque, and the desire sickened her like she’d choked down spoiled meat.

  Ash replayed Hydra’s message in her mind like some kind of desperate prayer, clinging to that goal over the rotten, misshapen desire to bleed Stavos dry.

  I have heard no similar rumors. He should stop worrying, and leave me out of his squabbles with Biotus, Aera, and Geoxus.

  If Ash thought about the words enough, could she shake the secrets out of them?

  Stop worrying. Leave me out of his squabbles with Biotus, Aera, and—

  Realization made Ash bolt to her feet. Her head rushed with standing so quickly, and Tor followed her up.

  Leave me out of his squabbles with Geoxus, Hydra had said.