by Emily Colin
As soon as I can’t hear her anymore, I open my eyes. It takes a second to get used to the darkness, but then I can see well enough. In fact, my night vision is far better than usual. The sodium streetlights stream through the white window curtain, illuminating the humped forms of the other girls beneath their covers, the angles of their bedsteads and the boxy forms of the wooden dressers lined against the far wall. All around me, girls grunt and sigh and shift, bed frames creaking beneath their weight. Valentína, closest to me, whispers, “Please, I don’t want—I’m not suited—” and then falls silent, as if even in her sleep, she knows better than to protest.
Cautiously, I sit up and glance around. I am the only one still awake. But just in case Mother Northrup comes back in for a second round of bed checks, I lie back down, clutching my blanket to my chest. I watch shadows creep across the walls, puzzling at the restlessness that grips me. It must be my imagination, but I’d swear the silent room is filled with a cacophony of heartbeats—some faster than others, skipping beats and stumbling. I press my palms to my ears to drown out the noise, but it does no good.
I’m still lying awake at two a.m., hands fisted in the bedclothes, resisting the absurd urge to chew on the end of my braid, when the window creaks open. Two black-suited figures creep soundlessly through, landing on the wooden floor and scanning the darkness. At first I think they are one of my nighttime shadow-visions, half-dream, half-hallucination. But then the figures separate from the shadows and head straight toward me. This is new, and I feel a weary curiosity. Blinking, I struggle up on my elbows to see them more clearly in the glow of the streetlight. One is taller, broad-shouldered and lean. The other is a head shorter, and stocky.
As I stare, trying to figure out whether they can possibly be real, the streetlight winks out. Before my eyes can adjust, the taller one is on me, knife at my throat.
“Don’t scream,” he whispers.
I don’t, not that it would matter; no one in this room would hear, what with the sleeping pills, and the last thing I want is for Mother Northrup to come running. The Architect only knows what kind of trouble I’ll get into if I’m imagining things again. Besides, if I opened my mouth wide enough to let out a good yell, I’d probably wind up slicing my jugular.
So I don’t make a noise, but I do struggle. I can’t help myself—it’s instinct to resist with a sharp blade against my neck. To my shock, I manage to throw the man off. His knife goes skittering under the bed, and I hear his muttered oath. Emboldened, I thrash and fight like the rabid fox I saw once in the alley by the marketplace, biting anything that comes near and head-butting the stocky figure when it bends over me.
“By the Virtues,” the taller figure hisses, irritated. I could swear I recognize his voice. “She’s a fighter, yeah, sir?”
The shorter man grabs my shoulders to hold me still. “Shut up,” he grunts.
“Yes, sir. But you couldn’t wake those poor devils with a rockslide.” He leans on me, pinning me down. I sink my teeth into his forearm and he hisses again. “Quit that, would you? It’ll go the same for you, either way. Better if you cooperate.”
Adrenaline surges, flooding my muscles. I head-butt the one that’s got hold of my shoulders, kick out at the other, race for the window, and fling myself out. I hear the taller one cursing in that familiar voice as I fall, hurtling through the night. The ground comes rushing up and up. I hit hard and roll, trying to catch my breath.
Miraculously, I seem to be undamaged. I struggle to my knees and run. But before I’ve gone more than a few feet, strong arms grab me from behind, getting me in a headlock, wrestling me to the ground. I land on my back and stare up at my captor—Ari Westergaard, blood dripping onto my face from the place where I’ve bitten him. He kneels on my arms, well out of reach of my teeth.
“Now,” he says with satisfaction, “lie still.”
Since I have no choice, I obey. The streetlight is still out, and by the dim glow of the moon, I see the shorter, stocky figure clambering down the side of the building. Stupidly, I realize there is a rope. I could have climbed down and spared myself a lot of trouble.
The other man stalks over to where Ari has me pinned and glowers. I recognize him now: Efraím Stinar, the lead bellator. His nose is bloody, and I feel an involuntary grin spread across my face. I try to stop it, but it’s too late.
Efraím doesn’t like the grin. “What are you smiling about, girl?” he snarls. I don’t answer, figuring muteness is probably my safest course of action. Instead I return his glare in silence, which Ari Westergaard fills.
“Well, I’d imagine she’s got a few things to smile about, sir. For one thing, she nearly bested two trained bellators. For another, she leapt from a second-story window and landed without a scratch. And for a third, she’s not dead—which is more than most people can say, after they’ve experienced us up-close and personally.”
“Humility, Westergaard,” Efraím snaps.
“Oh, I’m feeling humble, sir,” Ari says, not sounding it in the least. “You and I are bleeding, and she, as I have pointed out, is not.”
Efraím snorts and prods me with his foot. “What do you have to say for yourself, girl? Or do you intend to let this bastard do all your talking?”
I drag air into my lungs and ask the only question that matters. “Are you going to kill me? Because if you are, kindly get it over with. I’d rather not lie here waiting to feel your knife slide between my ribs, if it’s all the same to you.”
Efraím looks surprised. “Courage,” he muses, gazing down at me. “An unexpected virtue. And one that will stand you in good stead in the hours to come.”
Courage isn’t one of the Seven Virtues, not unless the Bellatorum lives by a different code than the rest of us. I regard him, confused. “What do you mean?”
He eyes me with pity. Clouds scud across the moon, and by its revealed light, I take him in. He is clothed in the Bellatorum's signature black and bristles with weapons—a sheathed blade at his back, the leather belt buckled around his hips studded with all manner of sharp objects I do not recognize. “You have been Chosen,” he says.
The suspicion that has been rankling since I saw them come through my window blooms into full-blown panic. The Bellatorum’s rituals are a closely-held secret, but people talk, and I’d heard rumors they took their recruits in the night, subjecting them to a terrifying initiation. I’d dismissed it as so much hyperbolic gossip, but now—
From my prone position on the ground, I shake my head as much as Ari’s grip will allow. “No.”
“Aye,” he says in the formal speech I have heard the Bellatorum use when addressing the High Priests. “And you must accept our challenge, Eva Marteinn. Fac fortia et patere, eh?”
Do brave deeds and endure—the motto of the Bellatorum Lucis. I look into his shadowed eyes and tremble. “But I—I can’t—I mean, I’m a girl, and you don’t—”
Efraím’s lips twitch with distaste, and I grind to a halt. If this is what the Executor has decreed, then I will have to accept it—but how? It is as if he has seen into my dreams and brought to life the future I feared the most.
That must be it. I’m dreaming.
The thought lends me the strength to hold Efraím’s gaze and give the correct response. “Acta, non verba,” I tell him. Actions, not words.
“Indeed,” Efraím says. He nods at Ari, who hauls me to my feet, an implacable grip on my upper arm. “Tonight we see what you are made of, girl. Tonight, you walk with us.”
5
Ari
Eva doesn’t say a word during the long hike through the Commonwealth and the woods to the gorges. Doesn’t ask a question or complain, though the night is cold and she is wearing only her assigned sleeping clothes—an ankle-length white nightgown, which clings to her body in ways I do my best not to notice. She just sets her jaw and trudges alongside us, her arm unyielding under my grip, though the pine needles lining the forest floor must hurt her feet and the brisk fall air is less than welcomin
g.
Despite my careful observation of Eva Marteinn over the years, I hadn’t expected her to fight. In fact, I’d expected to come upon her asleep—if not the unnatural rest of the sleeping draughts, at least the restless slumber that afflicts those of us who reject the pills on Choosing Eve. It’s a common enough rebellion among the citizens selected for the Bellatorum. Even though we don’t know about the Trials, we are hypervigilant and untrusting by nature, unwilling to swallow anything that might slow our reflexes in the days to come.
Efraím and I had been arrogant, that was the only excuse. There’s no way she should have been able to best us, and I shudder to think what the Executor would have said if she’d been killed in the fall from the window. But now, on the way to the rapids of the Austari, the river that cuts through the Commonwealth, we are both on our guard. My fingers dig into the material covering her upper arm, holding her fast. She couldn’t get away if she tried.
The wind shifts, and I breathe deep, inhaling the smell of the woods at night: sap and dirt and the heady scent of growing things. I hear the roar of water, growing closer, and the far-off howl of the Bastarour in the off-limits forest that rings the electric fence. The Commonwealth is a series of concentric circles, carefully cultivated after the Fall and fifty miles wide at its largest circumference—the City, with its buildings and squares and gardens, housing our 10,000 citizens; then the Bellatorum’s training territory, woods and gorges which most citizens have no reason to explore; then rolling hills, and the forest, a thick, tangled sprawl of trees and brush where the Bastarour prowl, contained by buried electric lines and the animals’ solar-powered collars; and finally the fence itself, a towering metal structure between us and the chaos beyond. I have never seen the fence, but I know from my security training there is a gate on each side and a keypad to match. Should the Executor or his guard need to depart for any reason, this is the route they take.
The Bastarour are particularly unnerving—genetically modified, species-blended beasts created in the gen lab for maximum savagery, endurance, and protection. If one of the barbarians were unfortunate enough to stumble upon the Commonwealth from the outside—and sufficiently resourceful to outwit the fence—the creatures would devour them the moment they landed on the ground. As for those who leave from the inside, none of the exiles banished to the woods have ever come out again. Not alive, anyhow.
The roar of the water grows louder, drowning out the Bastarours’ howls, and within me, anticipation rises. I don’t change my expression, don’t vary my pace or the pressure of my hand on her arm, but I could swear Eva senses it anyhow. Her head turns toward mine, and in the dim glow of Efraím’s flashlight I see her delicate nostrils flare, as if she is sampling my scent. Her eyes go wide, and she turns away, eyes fixed on the path.
I feel my own eyes narrow. We learn how to hone all our senses in training, how to detect the pheromone shift that marks anger or fear or joy. But there’s no way Eva could sense such a thing. It has to be a coincidence.
Before I can consider this further, we emerge on the ridge above the rapids. The full complement of the Bellatorum are massed, two hundred strong, clad in black. Here and there, a blade glints in the firelight flickering from torches staked at the edges of the clearing. A thrill runs through me, seeing them. We are forbidden attachment, but the Bellatorum is different. Together, we are brothers in arms, the closest to the antiquated notion of family that the Commonwealth allows. Though I would never say such a thing aloud, I crave the sense of belonging membership in its ranks gives me. It is foolish, verging on sinful—a weakness I keep close to my heart.
The bellators stand at attention, their eyes fixed on us. In Efraím’s absence, Kilían Bryndísarson, the lead interrogator, has point. He stands in front—the tip of an arrow made up of the thirty elite bellators that comprise Efraím’s inner circle—blade unsheathed in his hand, his close-cropped red hair gleaming in the torchlight. The rest of the bellators fan out behind Efraím’s Thirty, coiled and silent. It is the highest honor to be named one of the Thirty, who carry out classified tasks beyond those assigned to the rank-and-file. As an apprentice, membership is beyond my reach; but one day soon, I am determined to stand with them.
Kilían inclines his head when he sees Efraím. “In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni,” he says in greeting. We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire.
Efraím smiles, a quick, fierce baring of teeth. “Igne ferroque,” he replies. With fire and iron.
Behind Kilían, the Bellatorum speak as one and I with them, our voices echoing over the ridgetop and down the gorge. “Igne natura renovatur integra.” Through fire, nature is reborn whole.
Eva stands between us, silent and motionless, tension thrumming through her body. I can hardly blame her: Gathered like this, brotherhood or no, the Bellatorum are an intimidating sight. I am one of them, and I still feel the cold spot between my shoulder blades that alerts me to the presence of predators, my adrenaline jacked in preparation for a fight. I remember how it felt to be in her place, trapped on a mountainside by two hundred warriors with no knowledge of what was to come. It wasn’t that long ago for me.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say to her, low-voiced. “It won’t help you.”
Eva turns those deep brown eyes of hers on me and doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to; the expression on her face is eloquent enough. I’d only meant to offer her assistance, but it’s clear she thinks I’m condescending to her—or worse, posing a threat. She looks at me as if, given the opportunity, she’d like nothing more than to sink her teeth into me again.
Annoyed, I face front and push her forward, following Efraím to the edge of the rapids. The Bellatorum part, letting us through. They are too well trained to make a sound, but I can feel the incredulity and unease that rise from them when they realize Eva is a girl, feel the weight of their gazes as we pass through their ranks.
It is a relief when we emerge on the overlook alongside the other two recruits, flanked by a guard on either side. The other prospective bellators look likely enough—fit and strong. One of them has fifty pounds on Eva; the other, perhaps seventy. They both have the advantage of height and reach. Eva’s head turns, taking the recruits in. Alarm flashes over her face, quickly subdued.
Kilían has followed us, and as we come to a standstill, he speaks. “These are all of them, Efraím? Just these three?”
“This is it,” Efraím says. “A pitiful bunch, I agree, but what are we to do?”
A smile lifts one side of Kilían’s lips. “Our duty, I imagine,” he says.
“Indeed, Kilían. Step away,” he says, motioning at the guards. We obey, retreating so the three stand in isolation at the lip of the cliff. Beside the others, Eva looks very small.
Efraím straightens and pulls a short blade from his belt. He flips it over his knuckles, the way he does when he’s hypnotizing an intractable interrogation subject. The boys’ eyes follow the blade, but Eva’s gaze locks with mine, then fixes on Efraím’s. And finally, she speaks, her voice low but clear. “What is this?”
I don’t expect Efraím to answer, but he does nonetheless. “This,” he says with exquisite kindness, “is your first Trial.”
He pushes her off the overlook, sending her into the roiling water below.
6
Eva
I fall down into the gorge, a yawning chasm. The spray of the rapids is icy, stinging me through my thin nightgown like a thousand tiny needles. I’m going to die, I think. They brought me up here to kill me.
My eyes are squeezed shut. When I force them open, I see whitewater rushing toward my body at a terrifying speed. I don’t see how I can survive this; if the impact doesn’t kill me, surely I will drown or go into hypothermic shock.
Someone is screaming: I can make out the noise over the oncoming rapids, a high, reedy sound. I am afraid it is me—but my lips are shut tight, my jaw clenched so hard it hurts. It must be one of the other recruits—one of those boys, calling out
in terror as he falls.
I never wanted this, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let them murder me. I will fight for my life. If I die trying, so be it.
I make my body into a straight line, hands against my sides and my toes pointed, the perfect arrow. The world streams by, faster and faster. Inside myself I have gone to a staticky, empty place. There is nothing but the thought that somehow, I will survive. I have a second to wonder if this is how the Bellatorum feel when they kill.
My feet break the surface of the water and I suck in a giant breath. The water gives, it must, but still I feel as if I am hitting concrete. You survived a fall from a second-story window, I remind myself. You can survive this.
And then the water takes me down.
For a moment I am disoriented. There is no air, and I am choking, spinning, the pull of the rapids sucking me deeper. I kick for the surface with everything I have, my lungs aching, and break through, getting my head above water long enough to heave another ragged breath. The water sucks me down again, a greedy, grasping hand that has my body in its unforgiving grip.
Pure stubbornness saves me. That, or an intervention from the Architect himself. I fight my way to the surface once more and see a branch from a nearby tree extending over the water. Desperate, I lunge and miss, scraping the skin off my palms. I gasp in pain as the rapids drag me under, inhale water, and come up sputtering. With my last bit of strength, I lunge for the tree limb again and catch hold. For a second I hang there, disbelieving. And then, hand over hand, I haul myself in toward shore, where I collapse, panting.
I lie there, coughing to clear my lungs and checking to make sure my limbs are still attached. My abraded palms ache. I’m freezing, shivering so hard my teeth clack together, narrowly missing my tongue. How will I fight if I am hypothermic?
