“Hold him still!”

“Almighty God, it burns!”

“Hold his legs, damn you!”

“Aa, help me! Help me!”

Mia sat in a dark corner of the cell, ribs burning, a blood-soaked rag held to her split cheek. She could feel the adrenaline from the match souring in her veins, hands trembling. The crowd bellowed above, the Ultima in full swing, the stone beneath her vibrating with the fury of the final bout. Bladesinger sat beside her, arm swaddled in red-soaked cloth, Mia pressing a sodden bandage to the ragged wound across the woman’s back. The pair of them were in need of stitching, blood pooling on the stone around them. But Maggot’s hands were more than full.

“Tie him down!” the girl yelled. “He’s only making it worse!”

Furian screamed again, full-throated and trembling, his agony echoing through the arena’s bowels. He was laid out on a stone slab, Executus and three of Leona’s houseguards trying to keep him still. The flesh of his throat, jaw, and chest was blistered and weeping from the touch of the silkling’s venom. He seemed to have gone mad from the agony, muscles corded in his arms and chest as he screamed.

Dona Leona stood by the door, horror in her eyes.

“Almighty Aa . . . ,” she whispered.

“Tie him down!” Maggot cried again.

Arkades snapped heavy iron manacles about Furian’s arms, feet, and waist, securing him to the slab. But the Unfallen continued to thrash, cutting his wrists and ankles on his bonds, smashing the back of his head against the stone. Mia had seen pain before—the blood scourging in the Mountain, her branding in that cell in the Hanging Gardens. But she’d never seen agony the likes of this in her life.

“You need to put him under, Maggot,” she said.

“I don’t have any slumberweed!” the little girl cried, pointing to a chest of herbs and remedies. “It all spoiled on the way here!”

“Do you have any Swoon?”

“I used it all on Butcher!”

“Four Daughters,” Leona cursed. “Did you only bring a thimbleful?”

“All respect, Domina, but you’ve not given me coin to restock in months!”

“Well, you must do something!” Leona cried. “Listen to him!”

Furian screamed again, mouth open wide, his throat bleeding with the force of it. With a wince at her cracked ribs, Mia rose and limped to Maggot’s herb chest. Fingers sticky with blood, she rifled through the phials and jars of powder and liquid, all the lessons from Spiderkiller’s hall buzzing in her head.

“What the ’byss are you doing?” Arkades growled.

Mia ignored the executus, handed Maggot a half-dozen jars. “Grind the scalpweed with the maidenhead and a pinch of allroot, mix it with some goldwine.”

“No,” Maggot frowned. “The alcohol will calcify the maidenhe—”

“That’s what the mireleaf is for,” Mia interrupted. “Steep the leaf in the . . . in fact, let me do it. You go stitch up Bladesinger. She’s bleeding all over the fucking floor.”

“Crow?” Leona asked.

Mia turned to the woman by the door. “Trust me, Domina.”

Leona looked to Furian, still writhing in agony. Eyes brimming, she nodded, and Mia set to work mixing her concoction. Maggot took a needle and silken thread, set to work stitching the awful wound on Bladesinger’s forearm. The silkling’s blade had sliced the woman down to the bone, and the blood was flowing like cheap wine at a truelight feast. Bladesinger grit her teeth, eyes locked on the Unfallen.

“Can you save him?”

“I can make him sleep,” Mia replied. “Executus, I need your flask.”

Arkades raised an eyebrow as Mia held out one bloody hand.

“Your goldwine, now!”

Arkades reached into his tunic, pulled out his silver flask. Mia poured her concoction into the whiskey, shook the mixture thoroughly.

Furian was still bucking, screaming, begging. And as Mia stepped closer, flask in hand, his shadow began bleeding over the stone, reaching out toward her own. It was only the dim light of the cell and the drama unfolding on the slab that prevented any from noticing right away, and Mia moved quickly, shouldering one of the guards aside. The Unfallen’s shadow melted into her own, all the sickness, all the hunger she felt when she was near him rising in her gullet and almost making her vomit. She staggered, nearly dropped the flask, Arkades grabbing her shoulders to stop her fall.

Black Mother, I can feel him . . .

“Are you well?”

. . . as if he were part of me.

“Hold his m-mouth open,” Mia said.

The pain from her split cheek and broken ribs was awful, but she could feel pain at her throat and chest, too; Furian’s agony was somehow bleeding into her, worsening her own.

“Furian, you must drink!” Mia shouted. “Do you hear me?”

A gurgling wail of agony was his only reply, and so Mia upended the flask into the man’s mouth. He gargled, tried to spit the dose out, but Mia clamped her hand over his blistered lips and roared, “Swallow!”

Furian bucked, straining against his bonds, tears spilling from his eyes. But finally he did as commanded, his mangled throat bobbing as he drank the burning draft. It took a few minutes for the herbs to take effect—Mia wasn’t working with the finest materials, after all. But slowly, the Unfallen’s struggles slowed, his screams became moans, and finally, after what seemed an age in the lightless bowels beneath that bloody sand, Furian’s bloodshot eyes fluttered closed.

Mia fell to her knees, hair plastered to her split brow and cheek, head swimming.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Maggot asked, bewildered.

Mia hung her head, vision swimming.

“ . . . Crow?” Leona asked.

“ . . . mia . . . ?”

“ . . . MIA . . . !”

Blood on her hands, in her eyes, the taste of bitter medicine she’d never drunk on her tongue. She looked down to her shadow. The shadow that should have been dark enough for three. But as the room swam before her eyes, as the pain of her wounds and the trauma of her ordeal in the arena and the shuddering aftermath rose up to sweep a black curtain over her eyes, she realized . . .

Dark enough for four . . .

“ . . . mia . . .”

She woke in the hold of a ship, creaking beams above and the sound of the waves all around. As she opened her eyes, she felt a cool, featherlight touch on the back of her neck, a whispered sigh of relief in her ear.

“ . . . at last . . .”

The hammock she lay in ebbed and rolled, her mouth dry as dust. Garish light filtered in through a small glass porthole, a glimpse of two blues framed beyond; sunsburned bright and ocean deep. Her ribs burned like a dying fire. Mia reached up to her face, felt a bandage over her cheek and brow, crusted with dried blood.

“Don’t touch it,” came a voice. “It’ll heal best when let alone.”

Mia looked up and saw Maggot, her dark eyes and pretty smile. She was hovering over Furian, the man swinging in a hammock beside her. Glancing to her shadow, Mia saw Furian’s had apparently left hers somewhere as they slept. But still, that sickness lingered, the ache of a missing piece of herself swelling in her chest.

She took a deep breath, signing in Tongueless so only Mister Kindly might understand.

Where?

“ . . . the gloryhound . . . ,” came the whispered reply. “ . . . bound for crow’s nest . . .”

Eclipse? Ashlinn?

“ . . . they follow, a handful of turns behind us . . .”

Furian?

“ . . . not good . . .”

Mia nodded to herself, looking about the cabin. She’d not been up here before—every trip she’d taken had been spent locked down in the hold. The room was cramped, a chest full of Maggot’s implements and herbs and some wooden crates were the only decor. Three hammocks hung from the ceiling, Mia in the middle. Bladesinger was belly-down to her left, eyes closed, swordarm and back swathed in bloody bandages. To her right, the Champion of Remus Collegium lay unconscious, soaked through. Furian’s torso and throat were swabbed with a greenish salve, but the wounds from the silkling’s venom still looked awful. Above the bilge and the sea and the sweat, Mia could smell the beginnings of a high, ripe decay.

Maggot held a cup of fresh water to her lips, and Mia drank all she was given despite the pain, sighing with relief.

“Bladesinger . . . ,” she began, licking at dry lips. “H-how does . . .”

“Passing fair,” Maggot whispered, so as not to disturb the sleepers. “The tendon and muscle in her swordarm are badly cut. But she stitched up well. I think she’ll wake.”

“And . . . F-Furian?”

Maggot sighed, looking the Unfallen over. “Not so well. Infection is taking root, and I fear it will turn to blood sepsis. I need to get him back to the Nest.”

“We sail as fast as Lady Trelene and Lady Nalipse allow.”

Mia looked up to see Dona Leona at the doorway, eyes locked on the Unfallen. Magistrae stood beside her, ever the dutiful second.

As usual, the magistrae’s appearance was immaculate, but Mia was surprised to see the turn Leona had taken. The dona usually dressed as if she were attending some grand salon, but now, she wore only a simple white shift. Mia could see her fingernails were chewed down to the quick. In her right hand, she held the silver torc that had once encircled Furian’s neck. The metal was melted slightly by the silkling’s venom.

“Domina,” Mia nodded.

“My Crow,” the woman answered. “I am heartened to see you wake.”

Mia sat up with a wince, head swimming. Her cheek felt swollen, and she could feel the pinch of sutures in her skin. Ribs aching, she took a second cup from Maggot, drank until it was empty.

“H-how long did I sleep for?”

“Three turns since your triumph,” Leona said.

“It is ours, then?” she asked, stomach thrilling. “The magni?”

“Aye,” the dona replied, stepping into the room. “It is ours. My father is many things, little Crow. A snake. A liar. A bastard. But no sanguila would dare renege on a wager made so publicly. With the laurels he has won, he had berths to spare. He can afford to lose one to us. But now, thanks to Bryn and Byern’s sacrifice, he has no equillai. And thanks to your valor, he has no champion.”

The woman fixed her eyes on Furian.

“All we have desired is now within our reach.”

“How is Bryn?” Mia asked.

The dona’s haunted glance was Mia’s only reply. But Bryn had lost her twin brother, right before her very eyes. Crushed and bled out before a booing mob. And all for nothing. No purse. No glory. Nothing at all.

How the ’byss do you expect her to be?

“How are your wounds?” Leona asked.

Mia gingerly touched the bandages at her cheek, looked to Maggot.

“You tell me.”

“Your ribs are cracked,” the young girl replied. “The bruises will be awful, but you’ll mend. The cut to your face is healing well. Though I’m afraid it will scar.”

Mia focused on that thought, briefly burning hotter than the pain of her wounds. She’d never been pretty when she was a girl—she’d only discovered what beauty was once Marielle wove her face into a portrait in the Quiet Mountain. And truth was, she’d reveled in the power it bestowed.

She wondered what Ashlinn might say. How the girl might look at her now, and whether she’d hate the reflection she saw in those pools of sunsburned blue. For a moment, she wished she were back in the Mountain, where Marielle could mend all hurts with a wave of her hand. She supposed that option would be forever denied her now she’d set herself against the Church. That this scar, the brand beside it, would be hers to cherish until she died.

Mia pictured her father, swinging and choking before the mob. Her mother, weeping and bleeding out in her arms. Her brother, dying as a babe in a lightless pit.

And, hand falling away from her face, she shrugged.

“The choice between looking plain and pretty isn’t really a choice at all. But any fool knows looking dangerous is preferable to both.”

A mirthless smile curled Leona’s lips, and she slowly shook her head.

“I like you, Crow. Everseeing help me, but I do. I know not what you were before this, but for the assistance you offered our champion and your courage in the arena, I will be forever grateful.”

“I wonder if your champion will say the same, Domina . . .”

The dona’s eyes returned to Furian, fingers clasped so tight about his silver torc that her knuckles were white. Mia wondered how often the dona had visited his side since they left Whitekeep. Wondered if perhaps she did truly care for him. Wondered what Arkades would be making of it all if he knew . . .

“Perhaps we should head back up to the deck, Domina?” Magistrae murmured, squeezing the woman’s hand. “Let them rest.”

Leona blinked as if waking from a dream. But she nodded, allowed herself to be led away. As she reached the cabin door, she stopped, turned to Mia.

“Thank you, Crow,” she murmured.

And with that, she was gone.

* * *

Turn after turn, the Gloryhound cut through the Sea of Swords, a trader’s wind at their backs. The Lady of Oceans was merciful, and the ship pulled into the harbor at Crow’s Rest a good twenty hours before schedule. But even with Mother Trelene on his side, it seemed Furian the Unfallen’s luck was all but spent.

Just as Maggot predicted, his wounds had turned septic. By the time they arrived at Crow’s Rest, the flesh about his chest and throat was dark and weeping, and the sweet stink of rot hung over him like fog. Maggot and Mia did their best to keep him sedated, though he slipped in and out of consciousness frequently. He was barely lucid when awake, and murmured fever-dream nonsense while sleeping. What it would mean for the collegium and Leona if he died, Mia had no idea.

A waiting wagon rushed them up to Crow’s Nest, hooves pounding on the hillside. Mia’s knowledge of herbcraft seemed to have impressed the dona, and she rode with Maggot and the dazed and groaning Furian, Leona and Magistrae beside her. Arkades and the other gladiatii were left to tromp up the hill on foot.

Captain Gannicus met them at the gates, Leona’s houseguards carrying Furian to the rear of the house. Despite the ache of her broken ribs, once inside Maggot’s infirmary, Mia began looking for ingredients that might quell his blood poisoning. Maggot herself disappeared into the shed in the corner of the yard. Leona hovered like a mother hen, a kerchief pressed to her nose and mouth to stifle the stench, pale with worry.

“Can you save him?” she asked.

Mia only scowled, sighing as she rifled through Maggot’s chests and cupboards. It was true what the girl had said—it looked to have been months since Leona allowed her to restock. Even with all she’d learned from Spiderkiller and her beloved, dog-eared copy of Arkemical Truths, there wasn’t enough to work with.

“We need hollyroot,” Mia declared. “Maidenhead. Something to kill the swelling, like tinberry or pufferfish bladder. And ice. Lots of ice. This fever is burning him out like a fucking candle.”

“Can you write?” Leona asked.

Mia raised an eyebrow. “Aye. I can write.”

“Make a list,” Leona commanded. “All you need.”

Maggot returned from the shed, waddling under the weight of an old tin bucket. She thumped it on the bloodstained slab beside Furian’s head, tied up her hair and began peeling off the pus-soaked bandages from his throat and chest.

“What are you doing?” Mia asked.

“You remember when you asked how I got my name?”

“You told me to pray I’d never find out,” Mia replied.

The girl dragged her nose along her arm, wincing at the stench of Furian’s wounds. “Well, you didn’t pray hard enough.”

Mia peered into the bucket and saw a great wriggling mass; hundreds of tiny white bodies, black heads, chewing sightlessly at the air. She put her hand to her mouth, gorge rising at the sight of those crawling, squirming . . .

“Four Daughters,” she gagged. “Those are . . .”

“Maggots,” the little girl replied. “I breed them in the shed.”

“ . . . What the ’byss for?”

“What do maggots eat, Crow?”

Mia looked at the flesh of Furian’s neck, his torso. The infection was dug deep; the wounds streaked with pus, muscles and skin gone putrid with decay. The veins about the wound were dark with corruption, every heartbeat only spreading it further.

“Rotten meat,” she whispered. “But what stops them eating . . .”

“The good bits?”

“Aye.”

“Two jars on the shelf behind you. Bring them here.”

Mia did as she was bid, peering at the spidery writing on the sides. She looked at the little girl, a smile creeping to her lips despite herself.

“Vinegar and bay leaves. You are very good at this.”

Maggot offered a mirthless smile and began applying the larvae to the wounds, sprinkling them like salt onto the rancid flesh. Sickened despite the genius of it, Mia began writing on a wax tablet, making a list of all they’d need to keep Furian sedated, stop the sepsis spreading, kill his fever. She showed the list to Maggot, who looked up long enough to grunt assent, then handed the list to Leona.

The dona looked over the tablet once, gave it to her magistrae.

“Anthea, head to town,” she commanded. “Gather all that Crow bids you.”

Magistrae looked over the list, raised her eyebrow. “Domina, the cost of—”

“Hang the bloody cost!” Leona snapped. “Do as I command!”

The woman glanced to Mia and Maggot, pursed her lips. But still, she looked to her mistress and bowed low. “Your whisper, my will, Domina.”

Magistrae marched out into the yard, wax tablet in hand. Dona Leona remained behind, eyes locked on Furian, chewing her tortured fingernails.

“He must live,” she whispered.

A command.

A hope.

A desperate prayer.

But whether it was because she cared about the man, or cared about the magni, Mia had no idea.

They worked into the nevernight, Maggot applying the squirming flyspawn over Furian’s wounds, smearing the edges with vinegar and bay leaves to repel the larvae from the hale flesh, and then gently wrapping it all in gauze. Mia stood by, helping when she could, but mostly observing with a churning belly.

Finger brought their evemeal to them, the emaciated cook peering at Furian as if he were already dead. Fang came snuffling about looking for scraps soon after, and with the pain of her ribs, the nausea at Maggot’s treatments, Mia fed the mastiff most of her meal, scruffing him behind his ears as he wagged his stubby tail. Dona Leona also refused to eat, sitting and staring at the Unfallen, not saying a word. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her cheeks hollow.

The other gladiatii arrived back at the Nest, marching down to the barracks accompanied by the houseguards. Arkades limped into the infirmary, dusty and sore from his long walk. He looked Furian over, pressed a hand to the man’s sweat-slicked brow, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The long scar bisecting his cheek deepened as he scowled. Mia touched the bandage at her own face. Once more thinking of Ashlinn.

Wondering.

“How does he fare?” Arkades asked.

“We’ve done all we can ’til Magistrae returns,” Maggot replied. “The herbs and brews she’s fetching will help. But it’s no sure thing, Executus.”

Arkades nodded. “Crow, return to the barracks. Maggot will call if she has need.”

“I’d prefer to sta—”

“And I’d prefer a villa in southern Liis and my real leg back,” Arkades growled. “It is after nevernight. Your place is under lock and key in the barracks.”

Mia glanced to Dona Leona, but the woman was paying no attention at all, stare fixed on Furian. Touching Maggot’s shoulder in farewell, Mia limped out into the yard, flanked by two houseguards. Arkades remained, staring at his mistress, brow creased in thought. A small, cat-shaped piece of Mia’s shadow stayed behind also.

“Mi Dona, you should rest,” Arkades said.

“I will stay.”

“Maggot can inform you if there is any cha—”

“I will stay!” Leona snapped.

Maggot glanced up at the shout, returned quickly to work. The executus looked between his mistress and the fallen gladiatii on the bench. Nodding slow.

“Your whisper, my will.”

Turning on his heel, he limped out from the infirmary into the yard. Staring up at the nevernight suns, the blue glow budding ever deeper on the horizon. Truelight was close now—just a few weeks until all three of the Everseeing’s eyes burned bright in the sky. Scorching the world pure. Exposing all their sins.

Sins.

Arkades glanced back over his shoulder to his mistress, watching her watching her champion, lips pursed. And then he was walking, into the keep and along the halls, clink thump, clink thump, the tune of his tread. His brow was a dark scowl, his lips a thin line, those mighty, sword-callused fists clenched.

He did not notice the small, dark shape following him, flitting from shadow to shadow behind. Silent as cats.

Arkades limped passed paintings on the walls of old gladiatii battles, the suits of armor and gleaming helms, the marble busts of Marcus Remus’s ancestors, paying them not a moment’s mind. And finally, he arrived at a single door at the end of the hall, unlocking it with an iron key.

Arkades walked into Furian’s room. Folding his arms and surveying the scene. The shrine to Tsana beneath the small window. The trinity of Aa on the wall. A practice dummy and some swords. A small chest for the Unfallen’s meager belongings.

Closing the door behind him, Arkades limped to the chest. Kneeling with a wince, he began rifling through it—two silver laurels won at Talia and Blackbridge. The hilt of a broken sword. A moldy deck of cards and some dice. Spare loincloth. A fishbone comb. A handful of copper beggars.

Arkades stood, scowling about the room. His face was darkening, eyes glinting with anger. He limped to the bed, searched inside the pillow and threw it to the floor, tore off the sheets, pawed at the straw mattress. With a frustrated curse, he flipped the mattress over and hurled it against the wall. And there, on the bedframe, he saw it.

A silken underslip.

The executus stooped, lifted the slip to his nose and inhaled. The faint scent of jasmine perfume. The same scent he’d inhaled when he’d visited here before the venatus, warning the Unfallen that his soap was making him smell like a woman.

“You fucking bastard . . .”

Arkades clenched the slip in one white-knuckled fist.

“You ungrateful . . .”

Arkades returned the room to its former state, remaking the bed, smoothing the sheets. His face was pale, jaw clenched. With the bedchamber as it was, he turned and stormed from the room, clink thump, clink thump. Limping down the corridor, stormclouds over his brow, he arrived at his bedchamber and slammed the door.

Enraged as he was, the Executus failed to notice Magistrae standing by the storeroom, her arms laden with the remedies she’d fetched from town.

But the old woman certainly noticed the silk slip clutched in his hand.

“ . . . interesting . . . ,” the shadows whispered.