Set Fire to the Gods

by Sara Raasch

  “He thinks you had something to do with Stavos’s death,” Elias said.

  Madoc’s jaw flexed. It didn’t matter if he shouted from the top of the palace that he was innocent, the other gladiators believed what they wanted—that Madoc, untrained and unheard of before this war, had rigged the fight to advance.

  “All this helpful information wouldn’t be coming from Narris’s attendant, would it?” Madoc snorted. “Remi.”

  Madoc had seen the two of them together around the barracks and in the dining hall during meals. Maybe others hadn’t noticed the way Elias perked up when Remi entered a room, but Madoc had.

  Pink blossomed on Elias’s cheeks. “All I do, I do for our cause.”

  “I’m sure.”

  But the tilt of Elias’s head revealed the edge of a bruise along his temple, previously hidden by his hair. When he saw Madoc looking, he combed it down over the mark.

  “Who did that?” Madoc asked quietly, grateful for the anger sliding over his queasy stomach.

  “No one,” Elias muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”

  It didn’t. That was the problem. Madoc might have taken his blows during the day, but at night the champions had their own rooms at the barracks. The attendants slept in a community room near the kitchen, and Madoc’s lack of popularity had bled through to his brother.

  “You’ll stay in my room tonight,” Madoc said.

  Elias glared at him. “Why don’t you focus on Cassia instead of on me?”

  “I am,” Madoc said, throwing a glare Elias’s direction. “It’s all I’m focused on.” Cassia. Elias. Ava. Danon. Ilena. All of them.

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “What is . . .”

  Madoc bit back his retort as two Deiman arena workers raced down the hall, their arms filled with blackened torches. Outside, the arena was being cleared and prepared for the next fight.

  It was almost time.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Madoc muttered once the workers were gone.

  Elias spun away from the window and kicked a wave of sand against the far wall. “It means this was supposed to be about getting the money and getting out. The past two days you’ve been different. Waking up before dawn to practice. Studying records in Lucius’s library. The way you gave that speech to those donors Lucius brought you to see yesterday—about your ‘humble beginnings in the stonemasons’ quarter’ . . . I almost bought it myself.”

  “Because it’s true.” Maybe he embellished a little, but it had earned Lucius five hundred gold coins and Madoc a break from his sponsor’s irritation.

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Elias said. “This is a job, nothing more. Keep your eyes on the prize: as soon as we have the money we need for Cassia, we get out. Or you’re either going to end up in the finals or with an arrow in your back like Stavos.”

  Madoc hushed him. They couldn’t be talking about that here. Too many people suspected Madoc’s involvement, and they didn’t know who was listening.

  He tried to brush off Elias’s words, but they clung to his skin. It didn’t matter if he didn’t want the attention. He couldn’t slow down or give in. Each day his father’s promise carved a wider divide between him and Elias, but as much as Madoc wanted to, he couldn’t tell his brother what Petros had threatened.

  “I don’t have much of a choice,” he said, avoiding the truth. “Lucius already despises me because of Petros’s games and Stavos’s death. I need him on our side to get the money for Cassia.”

  “We need him, you mean,” Elias muttered.

  Madoc could feel his brother’s desperation, a cloak of lightning, clinging to every jerky movement. He felt the sudden urge to touch Elias’s shoulder. To calm him, the way he’d calmed Ash after Ignitus had killed her opponent.

  For a moment, the urge stole every bit of his concentration.

  His strange perceptions were getting stronger. He’d been convinced after what had happened with Ash in the hallway that they had some kind of connection, that he was more aware of her emotions because of her igneia, or even because of the way she commanded his focus. But it wasn’t just her. He was becoming more aware of everyone—Elias, the other gladiators, even Lucius, who’d worked him twice as hard since Stavos had been found dead.

  Something was changing, or maybe he was losing his mind. It didn’t matter if worries about it felt like a closing fist around his throat—he couldn’t deal with it now.

  “We need to go to Petros,” said Elias. “Give him the thousand coins and tell him we’ll make good on the rest.”

  Madoc blinked, steadying himself. “We can’t go back to Petros.”

  Elias’s chin shot up. “Why not?”

  Because I tried talking to him and it didn’t work. Because if I don’t do what he says and win this war, he’s going to kill you and the rest of the family.

  “Because he’ll report us to Geoxus for cheating—you know that.”

  Elias kicked at the ground. “Are you sure it has nothing to do with those crowds cheering your name?”

  Madoc’s hands fisted. How could Elias think this was about glory? It was about survival. If Madoc told Elias that the Metaxas’ lives depended on Madoc winning this war, Elias would do something stupid, give Petros an excuse to react.

  Madoc refused to have his family’s blood on his hands.

  Outside, the crowd had begun to chant for Jann. He must have just been announced.

  “It’s time,” Madoc said.

  Elias crossed his arms. “Well. Don’t die.”

  Madoc flinched. Elias’s narrow gaze turned toward the bright afternoon sky beyond the window. I’m sorry, Madoc wanted to tell him, but the words were locked behind his chattering teeth.

  This was no time for nerves. No time for weakness.

  He had to defeat Jann to advance. To save Cassia, and Elias, and everyone he loved.

  Madoc took his place at the mouth of the arena, just as Arkos had told him to. Jann, his breastplate glowing gold, was already standing by his rack of weapons on the far end of the sand oval. The grand arena might be vast, but Jann was close enough for Madoc to see his brows lift in amusement.

  “Madoc of Crixion!” the announcer called.

  Madoc’s throat knotted.

  “I mean it,” said Elias, just behind him in the shadows. “Don’t die.”

  Madoc nodded and then stepped onto the sand. Heart galloping, he raised his right hand. The audience, seated on steep steps two stories high, screamed in delight. Sweat dripped down his brow, and the breath he swallowed tasted of fish.

  Beat Jann.

  Madoc spotted Lucius and Arkos in a box in the center of the stands—no doubt ready to tear apart his performance. They moved down the row as two figures slid in beside them.

  Petros, in a fine white toga, and Cassia.

  His blood surged at the sight of her. Petros had brought her here to taunt him. To remind him of what he could lose if he failed in today’s match.

  Her gaze met his across the arena, and all he could think of was her as a child, taking his hand. Let’s go home.

  Madoc looked away; he must not be distracted now. He made his way toward the weapons rack and grabbed the gladius—a short, curved blade halfway between a knife and a sword—that he’d begun to favor. His father wanted to see him fight? Fine. He would get this victory, and all the rest, if that’s what it took for Petros to leave him alone.

  Madoc glanced once more back at the arena exit, but Elias was not standing there as planned. Nerves rose in his chest as he turned back toward Jann. Elias was nearby. He had to be. Madoc couldn’t see him, that was all.

  Instead, he spotted a girl who had changed into a simple white tunic, her long, dark hair knotted at the base of her neck. She stood just above the exit in the first row of stands, her arms folded across her chest, a few bandages pressed to her fresh wounds. Her stare was as steady as Geoxus’s had been when he’d chosen Madoc to fight in this war.

  Ash.

 
His heart gave an unexpected lurch.

  “Champions, take your places!” the announcer called. Madoc homed in on the voice—a tall man in a white-and-silver toga standing at a podium above the spectators’ box. He couldn’t think about Ash now. He needed to secure his placement in the next round.

  Madoc evened his steps as he walked to the center of the arena. The sand slipped between his soles and the hard leather of his sandals. He adjusted his grip on the gladius’s handle and tried to shut out the cheers.

  “You offend me, boy,” Jann said as they drew closer. He’d chosen two knives Madoc recognized from training, and they gleamed in his equally lethal hands. This match was to submission, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t end in death. “You learn you’re fighting Stavos, and he doesn’t make it to the arena. But here I am. Are you not afraid?”

  Madoc ignored him.

  “The fight begins now!” shouted the announcer.

  But Jann only lowered his stance, turning the knives in his hands so the sunlight danced in Madoc’s eyes.

  “You know why I moved to Arsia?” Jann asked. The long braid over his shoulder was fastened with rubies the color of blood. “I was born in Crixion. Me and my four brothers.”

  He began to make a slow circle, and Madoc countered, one hand lifted, the other gripping his weapon. He looked for a weakness in his opponent’s side, as Elias had said, and found a slight hitch in Jann’s gait.

  “I left because the taxes were too high, but then you’d know nothing of that, would you? Petros’s bastard.”

  In the blink of an eye, Jann dropped the knife in his left hand and scooped his fingers into the dirt at his feet. A storm of gravel slashed across the arena, and Madoc lifted his forearm to shield his eyes as the small rocks pinged off the blade of his gladius. The other man sprinted toward him, half hidden by a curtain of sand. Madoc raised his gladius just in time, deflecting Jann’s windmilling knives, and threw himself to the side.

  The larger bits of gravel fell, but the dust did not settle.

  “He came to my house,” Jann continued, as if he had not just attacked. “I was only nine, but I remember as if it were yesterday. He took my mother as payment—a servant for debts we didn’t even owe. And when my father objected, Petros’s men stoned him to death.”

  Madoc swallowed, grains of sand gathering as grit between his teeth. He needed to remain focused. He needed to win.

  He glanced back, but Elias was still not in the doorway.

  Jann had snatched up his second knife, one for each hand, and begun circling again.

  “My oldest brother was next,” Jann said. “Beaten so badly he would never walk again. All thanks to your father.”

  Madoc didn’t care. He wouldn’t. He needed to attack with Elias’s geoeia to land a powerful enough blow. Jann was so busy talking, he wouldn’t see it coming.

  Madoc tapped his thigh twice.

  Nothing happened.

  “We had to live with a cousin in Arsia,” Jann said. “Which is more than Raclin can say. Did you know she grew up on the streets? A few of the other fighters too. All thanks to your father.”

  Madoc tapped his thigh again, but to no avail. Sweat poured into his eyes, mingling with the dust coating his face. Panic raced through him. Where was Elias?

  With a roar, Jann dropped to one knee, the ground beneath Madoc’s feet quaking hard enough to knock him backward. He scrambled away as Jann flew toward him, leaping through the air, knives slicing downward.

  Madoc twisted aside, clearing the jump, but not before Jann spun on him. Madoc swiped his leg low, tossing the other gladiator onto his back. He raised his weapon but was hit hard in the gut by a punch of geoeia. His gladius fell to the sand as he gasped for breath, white frames ringing around his vision.

  Jann charged, one knife scraping Madoc’s breastplate. Madoc dropped and threw his weight forward, tossing the taller, thinner man back onto the sand. His fist connected with Jann’s right side—the space between his breastplate and his back shield—once, twice.

  With a grunt, Jann dropped his knives, and dust flew into Madoc’s face, blinding him. He swung at where he thought Jann’s face would be, but the gladiator had twisted and elbowed Madoc hard in the side of the head.

  They grappled, fists thudding against metal and meat, the roar of blood in Madoc’s ears louder than any crowd. Then Jann was kneeling over him, his hands closing around Madoc’s neck. Madoc could feel the thick tar of Jann’s hatred clogging his throat as he struggled to get free.

  “You’re no better than him.” Spittle flew from Jann’s split lower lip. “You have no honor.”

  Elias, where are you?

  Madoc’s frantic gaze shot from Jann to the shadowed south entrance of the arena, to Ash, now leaning over the edge of the railing, to the box where Lucius, Arkos, Cassia, and Petros sat. But Elias was nowhere to be seen.

  He shook his head, sweat burning his eyes. His family depended on him. He might not be a gladiator by training, but he was a fighter at heart.

  As Madoc’s vision dimmed, he clung to Jann’s hate. As with Ash’s pain, Madoc breathed it in, gulping it like bitter wine. He grasped it with both hands and climbed out of the pit of his own failing body.

  The Metaxas were his family, and no one would harm them.

  He blinked up at Jann, but the rage in his eyes had turned to white-ringed fear. Madoc could feel Jann’s hands scratching at his throat, but there was no longer pressure—it was as if Jann was trying to choke a stone column using only the strength of his fingers.

  With a heave, Madoc twisted, and Jann fell to the dirt at his side. This time he was the one scrambling away, and Madoc pursued—Jann was no longer the gladiator who’d beaten him in training but an obstacle between him and his family.

  Jann was just like Petros.

  Madoc felt his muscles swell with power. He focused on the glistening sweat on his opponent’s brow, and the tick of the vein in his forehead. Jann’s fear was hot, and sweet, and Madoc wanted it the way he thirsted for water after a long day at the quarry. He imagined drinking that terror the way he would a bowl of broth, swallowing it down until his stomach felt like it would burst, and Jann was no more than a shell.

  You are weak, Madoc thought at him.

  Jann dropped to his knees. His mouth gaped. He looked down at his legs, as if shocked they could no longer support his weight. He fell forward onto his forearms, quaking.

  Madoc had done that. Just as he’d turned away the guards with Ash. He’d failed with Petros, but he wasn’t failing now.

  You are nothing, Madoc thought.

  Jann gave a cry, and when he looked up at Madoc, fear pulled his features taut.

  Madoc stepped closer.

  You can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt my family. You won’t hurt anyone ever again.

  Jann curled into a ball at Madoc’s feet, a giant man, whimpering. Rocking.

  The dust from his attack was beginning to settle, but Madoc hardly noticed. His skin felt cleaner than it had ever been.

  Beat Jann. The words echoed in his head, but now seemed inconsequential. Jann wasn’t a difficult opponent. He was a stone in the road that needed to be kicked aside. His hatred had been fuel, and Madoc had drunk it up.

  Surrender, Madoc thought.

  Jann raised one shaking hand, and over the quiet in his ears, Madoc registered the announcer’s voice.

  “The victory goes to Madoc of Crixion!”

  Madoc blinked. The air rushed from his lungs, and he staggered to one knee. The arena was spinning, or maybe he was falling. He couldn’t distinguish up from down.

  Before him, Jann gasped, staring at him in terror. He crawled away, then rose and sprinted toward the edge of the arena.

  Madoc’s thoughts were muddled. He searched for Elias but still didn’t see him in the mouth of the tunnel.

  Ash.

  She was at the edge of the stands, watching him with wide eyes and parted lips. He clung to her gaze, desperate for something to steady
himself. The rest of the crowd would see the dust and assume he’d used geoeia, but Ash knew what he’d done.

  She could go to the gods, now with proof that he was different.

  No. She wouldn’t do that. She’d stood by him when Stavos had died. She’d pressed herself against his side, unafraid of this strange power lurking inside him.

  Would she fear him now?

  It didn’t matter. He’d won. He’d saved his family, at least for one more day. But as he rose unsteadily, he felt no joy or even relief.

  There was thirst. He longed for Jann’s hatred, for Ash’s pain, for Ilena’s grief. He was parched for their emotions. Now that he’d had a taste, he wanted more.

  Madoc shook his head. He didn’t know what was happening. This was different from the fight against Fentus, or any opponents before him. Madoc hadn’t just sensed Jann’s weakness; he’d made him weak without even touching him. He’d willed Jann’s submission, just as he’d willed those centurions to leave Ash alone, just as he’d willed the pain to leave her body. He’d taken an invisible step, and the change rippled through him, powerful and undeniable. Siphoning the hate from Jann’s soul had made him something more—something terrible and dangerous.

  A champion.

  Slowly, he raised his hands over his head, and the arena screamed his name.

  Fourteen

  Ash

  WHEN ASH WAS eight, she was obsessed with aereia.

  It had been shortly after she had learned that her birth father had been from Lakhu, and so Ash was part Lak. She was certain that that meant she could learn to control air energy too, though Char told her repeatedly that mortals could only hold one type of divinity in them.

  On visits to Lakhu, while Char and Ignitus’s other gladiators warred against his god-sister’s fighters, Ash studied the Air Divine. They moved deliberately, in contrast to the sharp ferocity of Fire Divine. When they used aereia, there was a ripple in the particles around them, dust disturbed by the funnels of air they pulled and directed.

  Ash had taught herself to move like them. She put all her focus into imagining the air swelling and puckering—but she hadn’t wanted to be Air Divine, not really. She had started to understand the awfulness of Ignitus, the growing poverty from scarce resources in Kula, and she had just wanted something else, anything else, to link her to a different god.