by Sara Raasch
“It does.” She hiccuped a laugh. “Once I was in the galley of a ship on the way to Lakhu—we were always traveling for the next war. I was practicing a twist with igneia.” She leaned to the side, turning her wrist to emulate the path of the fire. “I went a little too far. I nearly set the ship on fire.”
Madoc winced. “I don’t imagine that went over well.”
“Everyone was meeting with Ignitus,” she said. “Taro found me covered in soot and corn flour—I’d grabbed the first thing in reach to put out the flames, but that just made it worse. She doused the fire before anyone knew what had happened. She called me Corn Cake for a year after that.”
He wasn’t going to laugh.
It happened anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he said, getting himself under control. “You don’t exactly look like a corn cake.”
Ash was trying to hold her lips in a straight line, but they twitched with the effort. “Madoc isn’t much better. Unless you’re an angry bird. Madoc. Madoc.”
He gaped at her. “That hurts, Corn Cake.”
She covered her mouth with both hands, stifling her laughter. Her joy lifted his shoulders. It smoothed the rough edges inside him. He wished she would put her hands down so he could hear the full force of it.
“Not as much as watching you flail around the arena,” she said, humor in her eyes. “You were serious about not training.”
He snorted and she laughed again. “I’ll have you know I won four matches before this war.”
“Using anathreia?”
“Using deception. And Elias. The anathreia . . . we didn’t know much about it.” It was strange confessing this to her—to anyone. But she knew more about him than most people.
She seemed impressed. Was it wrong for him to hope she was?
She bit her bottom lip. His gaze focused there, on the dip made by her teeth in the soft, pink skin. “So that’s how champions are made in Deimos.”
His grin faded. His head dipped lower, and he pulled at his hood to keep his face hidden. Here he was with a gladiator who was trying to save her country from her warmongering god, while he was risking the fate of Deimos for one person—Cassia.
Not even the money he’d earned to save her would help.
“I’m not a champion,” he muttered.
“You’re fighting, aren’t you?” Her gaze met his, steady and brighter than the gold gleaming beside them. “For your people. Your family. Where I’m from, we call that brave.”
She saw through him like he was made of glass. Like she wasn’t afraid, or disgusted by what he’d proven capable of.
It was she who was brave.
Her hand dropped to her side. He wished she had reached for him.
“That’s good,” he said with a dry laugh. “Because I may have to move to Kula when this is all over.”
Her smile started small, then rose like the sun, the heat of it warming his skin. He became aware of the distance from her arm to his, and the delicate, lethal shape of her fingers, and the flecks of gold in her irises.
She was beautiful.
He swallowed, his throat tight. He shouldn’t have been thinking this way about her. He shouldn’t be alone with her, laughing, either. They were enemies.
Who were both on the same side against Ignitus.
“You would love it in Igna,” she said. “Our capital city. It’s quiet enough that you can hear the sea if you’re anywhere near the shore, and the crackle of wood from all the fires. There’s glass everywhere, rainbows of it. And the food . . .” She sighed. “You’ve never had anything as good as our cacao pies.”
He could see her there, listening to the sea. Laughing with her friends. For a moment, he imagined her reaching for his hand, dragging him through a garden of glittering glass sculptures.
“Maybe I’ll visit it someday,” he said quietly.
She nodded, but her eyes were sad. “If the gods don’t tear my home apart first. Ignitus has lost most of our resources. If this doesn’t stop, there will be nothing left for me to go back to.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. And he was. But that didn’t mean he could help her kill her god. He was just a cheat from the stonemasons’ quarter with a power he didn’t fully know how to use.
“Madoc?”
At the sound of his name, Madoc startled, wincing as the coins against his side jingled. A man in a priest’s robe approached from behind the statue, where the covered sanctuary extended along the length of the market. He looked as ancient now as he had been when Madoc was five, and moved slowly, with a slight limp.
“Tyber,” said Madoc, calming Ash’s worry with a smile as he strode to meet the temple priest. Tyber’s robe was stained with gruel from the morning charity line, though he didn’t seem to notice.
“Is it true?” Tyber asked. “We heard a rumor that you’d become a gladiator. . . .” He tapered off as his gaze landed on Ash, whose hands were wringing before her waist.
“It’s all right, Tyber, she’s a friend.”
Ash’s arms lowered. “Hello.”
Tyber nodded slowly. “Any friend of Madoc’s is a friend of the temple.”
Madoc felt her curious gaze warm the side of his face.
“Tyber and I have known each other a long time,” he explained. “Ever since I was five, when he caught me stealing from the offering box.”
Tyber gave an amused snort. “He’d gotten his arm stuck in the slot in the door. The poor boy had to wait until morning for me to fish him out.”
Ash didn’t laugh; instead her lips parted in surprise. Maybe it should have embarrassed him for her to know he’d been poor, but it didn’t. She already knew his other secrets.
“He let me stay in the sanctuary for a while,” Madoc explained. “It was softer than the streets.”
“Petros threw you out,” Ash said.
He nodded. “I was here for two years until Cassia found me.”
“Thanks to several anonymous donations over the last few months, we have many more beds for little thieves these days,” Tyber said, his eyes glinting with a humor that took Madoc by surprise. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you and your friend sneaking around the temple at night.”
“You’re up awfully late, old priest.” Heat climbed over Madoc’s jaw. He hadn’t considered that Tyber would have caught him and Elias. When they’d earned the fighting money, Madoc had wanted only that the coin Petros had wrongfully taken be returned to those who needed it. The only credit Madoc had dreamed of accepting was the fury on Petros’s face when he’d discovered what his son had done.
That hadn’t worked out as Madoc had hoped.
“There is more work to be done than there are hours in a day.” Tyber straightened his back with a soft groan. “Besides. Someone needs to set free any children our hungry offering box grabs in the middle of the night.”
Madoc snorted, but Tyber’s words pulled at him. The priests would never be able to help everyone in this city. Not while Petros and people like him terrorized families like Jann’s and Raclin’s, and could break apart the Metaxas out of spite.
“Well,” said Madoc, “I hope you have even more beds soon.” He pulled open his cloak and untied the heavy purse from his hip. Carefully, he handed it to Tyber, who gaped at the gift.
“Madoc,” he whispered. “This is . . .”
Madoc waved a hand. “I don’t need it.” Whatever lightness he had felt with Ash was slipping away. The coins were a reminder of Cassia, and the failed plan he’d made to save her. At least now he knew this money would help someone.
Ash was staring at him, respect lifting her chin. It brought on a new wave of uncertainty. This coin would feed a few hungry mouths, that was all. It wasn’t as if he was taking down a god to save his people like she was.
“Thank you.” Tyber shook his head in wonder, clutching the purse against his chest. “When his people are in need, Geoxus provides.”
“If Geoxus provided, his people wouldn’t be in need,” Ash said.
But he couldn’t help thinking she had a point.
“The Father God’s strength flows through his children,” Tyber said. “Their works are his works.”
It made Madoc think of Stavos, and the arrows in his back. After what Petros had told him at the palace, Madoc was sure his father had had something to do with the murder, and yet Petros was a child of Geoxus. If strength came from Geoxus, where did deception come from?
Tyber patted Madoc’s arm. “He will bless you all the way to victory, I’m sure of it.”
Madoc glanced to Ash, who gave a tight smile.
“I’ll see you soon, then,” Madoc said.
“Champion!” All three spun to the steps that led to the market, and the crowd that had gathered. The children Madoc had seen playing earlier were among those gathered, their eyes wide with wonder.
“Madoc!” called a woman standing with a basket in her arms near the statue. “Is it really you?”
Shoved forward by her friends, she moved closer, frowning as she tried to decipher the face beneath Ash’s hood. Wordlessly, Tyber went to usher the woman away.
“I should leave,” Ash said quietly. “It’s not wise for us to be seen together.”
She was right, though he regretted it all the same. If two champions from opposite sides were seen talking, it could be construed as plotting.
“We could both go,” he said.
A flicker of amusement crossed her face, bringing a lightness in his chest. “Where would we go?”
“Anywhere.” He didn’t care as long as it meant a few more minutes with her. But a shadow crossed her face, and her back rounded.
She stepped nearer, and his skin warmed at their closeness. “I’m sorry for what was said earlier. You have your own people to fight for. We shouldn’t have dragged you into our trouble.”
He wanted to tell her not to be sorry—that anything someone loved that much deserved defending—but how could he say that when he was here, and Cassia was still locked away?
“I understand why you tried,” he said, then added, “Corn Cake.”
She smirked. “Goodbye for now, Madoc.”
He watched her go, stealing past the centurion on the steps with her hood pulled low. Her absence was as broad a force as her presence had been. The air was cool now, and smelled like olives and baked bread and too many people from the street gawking at him.
As he stared at Ash’s back, he thought of her fight against Rook, the gladiator who’d tried to kill Ignitus, and Ash’s dead mother, and a land far away that she would kill a god for.
She was sacrificing everything for her people.
Maybe it was time he did too.
He might be a cheat from the stonemasons’ quarter, but he was here, like Ash had said. He wasn’t a coward—he’d made himself a champion, whether he’d earned it fairly or not.
Elias was right; without doing what he’d done to Jann to someone else, he would never win this war, which left him one last play to convince Geoxus that Petros was corrupt so he could bring Cassia home.
It was time for the Father God to know the truth about his trusted tax collector. And to tell it, Madoc would have to lie.
Sixteen
Ash
THE DEIMAN CENTURIONS in the temple glowered at Ash until she slipped between the pillars and back across the road to the arena. You shouldn’t be so far from our people, Tor had said the first time she’d snuck off with Madoc—but neither Tor nor Ash had realized the similarity until now. Maybe because this time felt starkly different from before.
Maybe because Tor’s mind was just as loud with panic as Ash’s, drowning out all sense.
Ash darted into the arena’s servant entrance and returned the cloak she’d swiped from a laundered pile. She took a turn down the yellow-green halls, winding her way toward the arena’s more opulent exit, where her carriage would be waiting with Tor. The sandstone floor was rough under her shoes, the hem of her white tunic softly brushing the tops of her knees with every step. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes downcast, a headache pounding from her temples into her neck.
Either the Mother Goddess was still alive or a line of her descendants had survived. Madoc could be one of many Soul Divine, or he could be the only one. It seemed unlikely there were others like him, or word would have surely spread, the same way word—or vindictive carnage—would have spread if Anathrasa were still alive.
So it made the most sense that Madoc alone could manipulate soul energy. Anathreia.
And he hadn’t known until today.
Madoc had to be the gladiator Ignitus feared. But whatever plot was unfolding, Madoc didn’t know about it. Someone had to know, though. Geoxus? Was Madoc an unwitting player in his targeting of Kula? What did Geoxus, Aera, and Biotus have planned for Madoc, then?
Honestly, it didn’t matter. Madoc wouldn’t do what they wanted him to do. He wasn’t driven by petty revenge like they were, or swayed by glory like other gladiators. He wouldn’t play along with the gods’ scheme.
But he also wouldn’t help Ash kill Ignitus. He didn’t want to be involved in their treason.
Though he wasn’t repulsed by her treason either. He’d looked at her openly, softly, even with all her truths laid out before him, and the memory of his teasing smile played itself over and over in Ash’s mind.
She lifted her fingers to rub small circles into her temples. The key to Ignitus’s undoing, the answer to all the riddles she had been beating herself ragged to solve, was Madoc. And she was walking away from him.
How foolish was she? What would Tor say about this? That she was unerringly stupid and so obviously childish for not coercing Madoc to help simply because, with him, she didn’t feel so alone anymore? Because he was the first true friend she had made in . . . a lifetime?
Ash stopped walking and fell back against the rough wall, needing a moment to collect herself. This day had exhausted her to the core of her being, and all she had to show for it was the gold bricks that would be delivered to her room, a few new bruises from Brand’s attacks, and the position as one of Ignitus’s two remaining champions.
She could use that. Her god would trust her, now more than ever. She could go back to the beginning. Poke him for weaknesses, again.
If Anathrasa truly was dead, there was still hope that Ash could kill Ignitus.
The reassurance only exhausted her. She wanted to sink to the floor and sleep. She wanted to go back to her room in the palace and slip into a scalding bath, the kind Char would heat for her with igneia until the water bubbled.
A pang of missing Char rocked through Ash. She wanted to talk to her. To lay her head on Char’s shoulder and let her mother take her weight, just for a moment.
“The arena is empty?” a voice rumbled from the hall to Ash’s right.
“Yes, dominus. A guard saw your son heading for the temple. Shall I fetch him for you?”
Ash straightened. Your son?
She edged closer to the corner, keeping her breathing shallow, her body stiff.
A slow peek around, and she spotted Petros and a guard, their backs to her.
Cassia wasn’t with them.
“No.” Petros flicked his hand. “Prepare my carriage.”
“Yes, dominus.”
The guard marched off, taking the hall opposite Ash’s. She sank back regardless, keeping her eyes wide, muscles rigid.
Only she and Petros were in this intersection of halls now. She knew enough of his treatment of Madoc, Cassia, and Elias to know that this situation would not result in her favor, especially with the hall absent of igneia.
Lungs burning, Ash slid to the side, readying herself to retreat the way she’d come—
“I am alone,” Petros said.
Ash froze. The hall hung silent, the press of the empty arena above feeling suffocating.
After a long stretch of nothing, someone else spoke.
<
br /> “You let Stavos escape,” the male voice snapped.
Ash ground her fingers into the wall. She thought she recognized the voice, but it was muffled, as though whoever was talking did so from behind a door.
She started to peek around the corner again when her heart seized.
Wait—had the voice meant that Petros had abducted Stavos?
“I started rumors that his behavior was from a fever,” Petros replied, ripe with confidence. “People already believed he’d fallen ill with the champions’ pox, like the others. Now they say he was delirious with fever, roaming the streets, and attacked an innocent family. Centurions had no choice but to shoot him down.”
“You are getting sloppy. First, Stavos. Now, your son.”
Ash bit her lip. Luckily, Petros asked the question she wanted to shout.
“What about Madoc?”
“He knows more than he says. Too much.”
“What he does or doesn’t know is of no consequence. I have his sister. He entered this war. He will do whatever we ask of him with her life at stake.”
“I’m losing faith in your ability to—” The voice cut off in a sharp drop.
Ash waited, sweat slicking down her back, her heart thundering against her ribs.
Then the voice spoke again. And Ash retched.
“Our conversation is not private.”
She shoved herself off the wall, sprinting back up the hallway. She didn’t stop to look back, to see if Petros was gaining on her.
He was Earth Divine; they were in a tunnel of stone. She had to get out.
Ash’s heart lodged in her throat, galloping pulses that made her wheeze. She slammed into a corner, shoved off it; she took a turn, barreling on. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she thought she was heading back toward the temple.
Petros was behind this. All of this. He was the one who had planted Madoc in this war, knowing about his anathreia. He was the one who had abducted Stavos.
Why? How did Stavos’s abduction tie in with Madoc?
And who had Petros been talking to? There was no one else there that Ash could see. Just the stones—
