The sound was impossible.
A living, breathing, colossal thing, pressing on Mia’s skin, so real she felt she could almost reach out and touch it. A weight on her shoulders, rooting her to the earth. A tremor in the stone around her, a physical sensation in the air. In all her years, even in Stormwatch, even in Whitekeep, she’d never heard the like of it.
She sat in her cell, listening to the song of murder above, the verse of steel on steel, the percussion of hooves, the chorus of the blood-mad crowd. Mister Kindly and Eclipse both swam in her shadow, rippling at the edges, trying to devour the fear swelling in her chest. It was hard not to feel it now, try as she might. The daemons did their best, but still, she could sense it, like those hateful suns above her. The scent of Ashlinn’s sweat lingering on her skin. Reminding her of all she now had to lose.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“ . . . WE ARE SORRY, MIA . . .”
“ . . . we try, but the suns . . .”
“ . . . THEY BURN US . . .”
She clasped her hands together to stop them shaking. Reminding herself of who she was. Where she sat. All that would be undone if she failed.
“Conquer your fear,” she whispered, “and you can conquer the world.”
The mekwerk lock clicked, the door swung aside. Dona Leona stood there, tall and proud, surrounded by her houseguards and Itreyan legionaries. She was clad in shimmering silver, the gown flowing off her shoulders like summer showers. Her plaited hair was interwoven with metallic ribbon, like a victor’s laurel about her brow.
“My champion,” she said.
“Domina,” Mia replied.
“You are prepared?”
Mia nodded. “Are you?”
Leona blinked. “Why would I not be?”
“These are your gladiatii about to die, Domina,” Mia replied. “I wondered if perhaps you felt some regret about that.”
Leona raised her chin, pride tightening her jaw. “My only regret is that I fostered a nest of traitors for so very long. Next season, it shall be different, I vow it. With the coin I make from the magni, I shall stock my collegium with only the finest gladiatii, and an executus who may be counted upon to forge them into true gods.”
“Arkades forged Furian, did he not? Arkades forged me.”
“Arkades was a cur. An honorless dog who—”
“Arkades was in love with you, Domina.”
Leona lips parted, but she found no words to speak.
“Surely you sensed it?” Mia pressed. “He was champion and then executus of one of the richest, most accomplished collegia in the history of the venatus. Why else would he have followed you to Crow’s Nest, if he wasn’t following his heart?”
“Arkades betrayed me,” Leona hissed.
Mia shook her head. “Arkades was gladiatii. A man of the sword. Even if he discovered you were bedding Furian, do you honestly think he’d look to poison the whole collegium? Knowing how he felt about you, and what it would cost you if your father got his way?”
“ . . . I scarce know where to begin,” Leona said, blustering. “First of all, how dare you imply—”
“Look to your own house, Leona,” Mia said. “Look to those closest to you, and ask yourself who truly stood to gain if you were forced to limp back to civilization and beg forgiveness at your father’s feet. Who encouraged you to ask him for coin? Who was the first to object, whenever you spoke ill of him in public?”
The dona stood rooted to the stone, a small frown forming on her brow.
“Sanguila Leona,” said a legionary in the hall. “The Crow must be prepared for the execution bout.”
Mia stepped closer to her mistress, speaking so only they could hear.
“I might have been like you, if fate were kinder, and crueler. I know what happened to your mother. I know what kind of childhood you had. All the things you are, you are for a reason. Vicious and generous. Courageous and pitiless. I like you, and I hate you, and I couldn’t have done this without you. So when the turn is done, I’ll give you all the thanks I can muster. You won’t think it nearly enough, I’m sure. But it’s all I can fashion for you, Leona.”
The dona’s eyes were narrowed to papercuts, filled with indignant fury.
“You will address me as Domina!”
The crowd roared above them, trumpets rang bright and clear in the air, signaling the end of the equillai race. Mia looked to the older woman, and slowly nodded.
“Aye,” she said. “But not for much longer.”
She stood before a portcullis of iron, wrapped in black steel. Falcon wings at her shoulders, a cloak of red feathers at her back. The face of a goddess covered her own, only her eyes visible through the helm’s facade.
She was glad no one would be able to see if she wept.
The temperature was soaring, the audience baking in the suns. Many had taken the opportunity after the final (spectacular) equillai race to seek some shade or refreshment. But there was still no shortage of eyes to watch her. Tens of thousands in the stands, stamping their feet and waiting for the main event to begin.
“Citizens of Itreya!” The editorii’s words echoed across the bloodstained stone. “We present to you, our final execution bout!”
The crowd’s reaction was tepid, some applause, no shortage of jeers from those who simply wished the magni to get under way. After five turns of ceaseless butchery, the thought of a few more reprobates sent to slaughter seemed positively pedestrian.
“These are no common criminals!” the editorii insisted. “These are the basest cowards, the vilest wretches, slaves who betrayed their masters!”
The crowd perked up at that, resounding boos echoing around the arena.
“We give thanks to Sanguila Leona of the Remus Collegium, for providing the cattle for this righteous slaughter! Citizens, we present to you . . . the condemned!”
A portcullis opened in the northern end of the arena, and Mia’s heart sank to see seven figures stagger out into the sunslight to the crowd’s jeers. Sidonius and Wavewaker. Bladesinger and Bryn. Felix and Albanus and Butcher. They’d not been treated kindly in their captivity—all looked weak and starved. They were armed with rusted blades and dressed in piecemeal armor. Just a few scraps of leather on their chests and shins that would avail them not at all against someone even half-skilled with a blade.
They were meant to die here, after all.
The guard beside Mia handed her a razor-sharp gladius and a long, wicked dagger, polished to a blinding sheen. Mia looked into the guard’s eyes, blue as the sunsburned sky.
“No fear,” Ash whispered. “Strike true.”
Mia nodded, turned her gaze back to the sand. Sickness in her stomach. Horror at the thought of what was to come. Certainty that it was the only way, that everything she’d sacrificed would soon be worthwhile, that all the death, all the blood, all the pain would be justified once Scaeva and Duomo were in the ground.
This was the end of a tyranny. And the ends justified the means, didn’t they?
As long as the end isn’t mine?
“And now,” the editorii cried. “Our executioner! Champion of the Remus Collegium, victor of Whitekeep, the Savior of Stormwatch, citizens of Godsgrave, we present to you . . . the Crow!”
The crowd rose to their feet, curiosity finally alight. All had heard the tales of the girl who slew the retchwyrm, who saved the citizens of Stormwatch from certain doom, who’d bested a warrior of the Silken Dominion.
The portcullis rose and Mia marched out into the merciless heat, her shadow shriveling as both Mister Kindly and Eclipse hissed in their misery. The crowd roared at the sight of her, blood-red feathers and armor black as truedark, her beautiful, pitiless face wrought in polished steel. On cue, the sands around her spat forth rippling flame, the crowd bellowing in approval. She followed the pillars of fire, out into the center of the arena, awestruck by the scale of it all.
The pale sands stained red with blood. The gravebone walls rising into the blinding sky. The barrier separating the crowd from the arena floor loomed over twenty feet high, hung with banners of the noble houses, the collegia, the trinity of Aa. In the premium seats at the barrier’s lip, Mia could see a collection of ministers and holy men arrayed in their bloody red robes and tall, pompous hats, her heart thrilling as she spied the grand cardinal among them. Duomo sat at the heart of his flock, solid as a brick shithouse, looking as ever like a thug who’d beaten a holy man to death and stolen his kit. His robe was the color of heart’s blood, his smile like a knife in her chest.
Beside the church, she could see the ringside marrowborn and the sanguilas’ boxes. Mia spied Leonides and his hulking executus, Titus. She could see Magistrae in a dazzling scarlet gown. But of Leona, she saw no sign. She turned her eyes upward to the stands, to the rippling, roaring, swelling ocean of people.
“Crow!” they roared. “CROW!”
She looked to the consul’s box, set with fluted pillars and shaded from the sun. The Senate of Godsgrave were seated about it, old men with twinkling eyes, white togas trimmed with purple. A small army of Luminatii surrounded it, sunsteel swords blazing in their hands. She could see a great chair, trimmed in gold, dangerously close to what might be called a throne. But the chair stood empty.
No Scaeva.
Trumpets sounded, dragging Mia’s attention back to the sand. Sidonius and the others were stalking toward her, rusty swords in hand. These matches weren’t supposed to be even, but the former Falcons of Remus were still gladiatii. And though they were beaten, bruised, starving, they were seven, and she was one. A rusted blade could still cut to the bone if wielded with enough skill, and a poisoned tongue could cut deeper still.
“So,” Wavewaker said, stopping twenty feet away. “They send you to swing the axe, Mi Dona? Fitting, I suppose.”
“Almighty Aa,” Sidonius breathed. “Where is your heart, Mia?”
“They buried it with my father, Sidonius,” she replied.
“You treacherous fucking cunt,” Bladesinger spat.
Mia looked the seven over, the faces of folk who’d once called her friend. Mouth as dry as dust. Skin drenched with sweat.
Soon, all of this will be worth it.
“I’d tell you exactly why I consider that word a compliment and not an insult,” she said. “But I’m not sure we’ve time for a monologue, ’Singer.”
She drew her heavy sword, her razored dagger, saluted the consul’s box.
“Now let’s get this over with.”
Trumpets blared, the crowd roared, and Dona Leona made her way to her seat in the sanguila’s box. Her magistrae greeted her with a smile, lifting a parasol over her mistress’s head to shield her from the Light Father’s burning eyes.
She looked about the seats around her, saw Tacitus, Trajan, Phillipi, the other usual suspects. Surrounded by their executi and staffers, decked in the bright colors of their collegia, their sigils emblazoned on banners at their backs. And in the box directly to her left, beneath a roaring golden lion, dressed in an extravagant frock coat and popping a grape between his teeth . . .
“Father,” she nodded.
“Dearest daughter.” Leonides smiled, raising his voice over the thrum of the crowd. “My heart gladdens to see you.”
“And you,” she nodded. “My first payment arrived, I trust?”
“Aye,” Leonides called. “It was received with gratitude and, I confess, no small degree of surprise.”
“You’ll find I’m full of surprises, Father,” she called back. “Your Exile could testify to that, I’m sure, had my Crow not separated her head from her body.”
The sanguila around them smiled and murmured, updating the score in their mental ledgers. But Leonides only scoffed, popped another grape into his mouth.
“We didn’t think we’d be graced with your presence for the execution.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m used to it by now, my dear,” he sighed. “But I was just saying to Phillipi here, I’m not certain if shame wouldn’t keep me from showing my face, if the best portion of my collegium were to be executed for rebellion.”
“Have you still shame, Father?” Leona asked. “I thought it buried with the wife you beat to death.”
The mood around them dropped, sanguila exchanging uncomfortable glances. Leonides’s face darkened, and Magistrae put a restraining hand on Leona’s arm.
“You go too far, Domina,” she whispered. “Is it wise to insult him so?”
Leona looked to Anthea, the slow frown that had been planted in the Crow’s cell returning to her brow. But a peal of trumpets dragged her eyes to the sand, and she found herself squinting at the preliminaries through the awful glare. The Crow and her traitorous gladiatii were exchanging poisoned words, but she could only hear scraps.
She knew it was a risk, fielding her champion to mop up some traitorous dregs. But she simply needed the coin too badly to allow another sanguila to wield the axe. Crow was one of the finest she’d seen on the sand, and the traitors had been beaten and starved to the point of exhaustion. With Aa’s grace, the Crow would still stand with Furian in the magni, still bring the glory and coin Leona so desperately needed.
Craved.
Trumpets blared again, the match began, the Crow moving swift as her namesake. She had to even the numbers quickly, weed out the weakest of the Falcons before sheer numbers overtook her. Thus, the girl went straight for Felix, skipping under his broad, scything blow and slipping inside his guard. The man was clearly the worse for his captivity, slow to react, and with the speed that had made her the collegium champion, the Crow plunged her dagger into his leather breastplate and the heart beyond.
The crowd roared, Felix clutched his skewered chest and toppled to the sand, the blood spraying bright and red. The Crow moved in a blur, kicking a toeful of sand up into Wavewaker’s face and charging at Bryn. The Vaanian girl might have been a daemon with a bow and arrow, but with a sword, she was less the prodigy. The Crow smashed aside her strike with her heavy gladius, opened a small cut on her thigh. As Bryn cried out, staggering, the Crow spun behind her and plunged her blade under the Vaanian girl’s spaulder, and up into her back.
Blood. Gushing from the wound. Glinting on the Crow’s steel. Reflected in the crowd’s eyes. They roared as the Vaanian toppled forward in a pool of scarlet, Wavewaker bellowing and running at the Crow like a madman. He swung his rusty blade in a terrifying overhand strike, the steel whistling as it came. But the weeks of starvation in the Gloryhound’s hold had weakened his legs, left him slightly off-balance and late to recover, and a swift strike sent him to his knees, hands to his chest, blood welling between his fingers.
“No!”
Bladesinger charged, the crowd thrilling as her strike opened up a shallow cut on the Crow’s arm. Sidonius struck from the side, Butcher and Albanus from behind, Crow rolling aside and rising again with shocking speed. Her dagger flashed, Butcher cried out, fell back in a spray of red, Bladesinger falling on the Crow in a frenzy. The girl rolled back across the sand, flinging a handful of dirt into the woman’s eyes. Flipping to her feet, she met Sidonius’s blade on her own, her legs almost buckling under the bigger man’s strength. But as every man in the stands winced in sympathy, the Crow drove her knee up into Sidonius’s bollocks, dropping him to the sand with a high-pitched wail. Her counterstrike whistled past Albanus’s guard, her dagger buried to the hilt under his armpit, the blood a scarlet waterfall.
Blinking the grit from her eyes, Bladesinger stuck again, the Crow bending backward as the blow skimmed past her chin. The woman’s long saltlocks seethed as she followed through, knocking the Crow’s gladius flying. Armed only with her knife now, the Crow struck back, punching the woman in the face with her free hand, ducking beneath another strike and snatching up one of Bladesinger’s long locks. Dragging the woman off-balance, she pulled Bladesinger backward and onto her blade. The audience howled in approval, Bladesinger stumbled to her knees, blood spilling from her ruptured breastplate and down her belly, collapsing face first on the sand.
Only Sidonius remained. The man was bent double, clutching his jewels. The Crow moved toward him, merciless, the bigger man trying to fend her off. He was screaming at her, but the pair were so far away, Leona only caught a handful of words.
“ . . . traitor . . .”
“ . . . father . . .”
“ . . . no . . .”
And the Crow?
She said nothing at all.
Instead, she feinted sideways and slashed at his wrist, his sword spinning to the sand. She kicked out at his legs, sending him onto his knees. And as the crowd roared, she spun around to his back, long hair streaming behind her, plunging her dagger past the collar of his breastplate and down into his spine. Sidonius’s face twisted in agony, a gout of glittering scarlet spraying from the wound. He toppled forward, red spilling across the sand, the mob bellowing in delight.
Leona saw his lips move.
A whispered prayer, perhaps?
A curse for the girl who’d slain him?
And then, his eyes closed for the final time.
Leona sat still, peering at the Crow. The bloodstained blades in her hands.
That slow frown deepening on her brow.
The sanguila about her gave polite applause, Tacitus glanced at her and offered an approving nod at her champion’s form. She looked to her father, but couldn’t catch his eye. Instead, Leonides was staring at that blood-soaked slip of a girl out there on the sand. The girl who’d bested his Exile. The girl who’d just murdered seven gladiatii and barely gotten a scratch. His scowl was black. His eyes, narrowed.
He turned to his executus, Titus. Whispering in the big man’s ear.
Leona’s frown only deepened.
“Citizens of Itreya!” the editorii called. “Your victor!”
The Crow retrieved her fallen gladius, pointed the bloody blade to the empty consul’s chair, then held it to the sky. She was wrapped in black steel. Falcon wings at her shoulders, a cloak of red feathers at her back. As she walked a circuit of the arena, the corpses of the murdered gladiatii were dragged off the sands. The face of a goddess covered her own, only her eyes visible through the helm’s facade.
No one could tell if she wept.