My lovely, bright-eyed agent, Sandy Lu of L. Perkins Agency, who has advocated and fought for me, and who may or may not have missed a subway stop or two while working on this book.
My editor, the tireless Susan Chang, who devoted tears and sweat and probably years off her lifespan to this story, as well as the entire team at Tor, from artists to copy editors, who have helped me make this debut as good as it could possibly be.
To my literary sister, Dot Hutchison, who wove her own stories with equal parts magic and possibility, who shared her knowledge and passion for fiction, and who ultimately made me believe that I could write this book at all. It exists because of you.
To my adopted sister, Katrina Cuddy, who found me when I was lost, who is bound to me by love rather than blood, and whose unwavering loyalty has given me more strength than any creed I have ever known. I’ve survived because of you.
And to Karl, who has made me the kind of vows you make in the soul. Who knows me down to my bones and loves me anyway. Who has kept so very many vigils with me in the dark, and who has helped me turn to face the light. I am because of you.
Read on Page for a preview of
FIRE AND ASH,
coming soon from Tor Teen.
CHAPTER 1
They called for her in the darkness. In the quiet. The voices of the dead reached through the ether with words like blades. A cacophony of whispers and cries and furious epithets.
Disgrace. Coward. False queen.
And when Attia closed her eyes, she saw them: the faces of all the ones she couldn’t save.
It had been three days.
Pompeii was gone, buried under a mountain of fire and ash. A strong western wind blew in from the Tyrrhenian sending slate-gray smoke billowing out for miles in a suffocating fog, its edges sharp with the screams of the dying.
Attia and her people could barely outrun it. Their horses began to stumble with the burden of their retreat. They didn’t have the luxury of stealth. Crius and the other Maedi knew a dozen different routes between Pompeii and Rome. But the paved main road was the most direct, and as the third day passed into the fourth, whatever apprehension they had about being caught by the auxilia or vigiles was burned away by the relentless flames spreading inland.
Herculaneum fell. Then Oplontis. And suddenly, they weren’t the only ones running.
The other cities must have had some warning because there were survivors—thousands of them. An exodus of displaced Romans venturing north and east, fleeing the wrath of the gods. The flood of bodies—plebeian and patrician, slave and free—swept over the countryside like a wave.
Among them, Attia and her people could be anyone and no one. Still, they kept to themselves, forcing their tired limbs to move until the sun set on the fifth day and they could finally stop. It was the first time they’d been able to rest since the sky started burning.
Attia’s eyes were red and heavy with exhaustion. She collapsed onto the grass with the others, and her lids began to fall shut. But all at once, the faces and the voices rushed in, crowding out every other thought in her head. She jerked awake, gasping for breath. There would be no sleep for her. The souls of the departed haunted her, and she found she could not face them.
She’d once thought it was Xanthus’s curse to remember and hers to forget. But as she sat there with her demons and her ghosts, she wished for oblivion. She wanted to forget the faces and the voices. She wanted the void. She wanted the darkness.
But not death. Not yet.
Attia glanced over her shoulder at the others. Sabina and Lucretia sat curled together around Rory and the little boy, Balius. The gladiators and the Maedi had formed a loose circle around them, some resting, others keeping watch. In a shallow valley just to the north, Linus slept with the horses.
What a strange, broken family they made. Attia wondered again why they’d chosen to follow her. They were no longer slaves. They’d survived, and they were free. And Attia was no general. Certainly not a queen. Was she even a Thracian anymore? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything, except that Rome would burn—and that she would be the one to light the flame.
She looked up at the smoke-dimmed stars overhead. Five days. It had been five days, and she could still hear his voice. Xanthus. He’d come back for her. He’d kept his promise, and died. For her.
She remembered the rock breaking away from the cliff, crumbling out from under him.
“I’ve got you,” she said. “Just hold on.”
He’d met her eyes before placing a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “Run.” Then he let go.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Lucretia approached as silently as a ghost, her hair a wild tangle around her face. Purple and blue shadows ringed her tired eyes. “Isn’t that what the Christians say?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Attia said. “I’ve yet to meet a Christian.” Her gaze focused briefly on the mass of refugees huddled together in the valley below. Then she unsheathed the gladius she’d taken from one of the soldiers in Pompeii, took a whetstone from her pack, and began to sharpen the blade with slow, deliberate arcs. The iron whispered softly in the silence.
“Who are you?” Lucretia said. “For reasons beyond my comprehension, the others have agreed to follow you. But you are not the only one who will suffer and die in this crusade of yours.”
“Tell me how you truly feel, Lucretia,” Attia murmured. She tried not to flinch when Lucretia put a firm hand on her arm.
“They obey your orders without question, without hesitation. You have the loyalty of gladiators and warriors. You have my loyalty.” Lucretia almost frowned at those last words, as though she’d surprised herself by speaking them out loud. “We’ve always been honest with each other, Attia, so be honest now. Who are you?”
Attia sighed. “It’s a long story and difficult to explain.”
Lucretia’s face creased. She cocked her head. “I think we’ve got the time.”
“All right. I’ll make you a trade,” Attia said. “Quid pro quo, as the Romans say. I’ll tell you who I am, if you agree to tell me your true name.”
Lucretia’s jaw clenched. Her dark eyes shifted. After a brief moment, she nodded.
So Attia told her. In a low voice that only Lucretia could hear, Attia told her who she was, who her father had been. She told her about Crius and the Maedi and the genocide of the Thracians. She told her about the night in Ardea when she’d fought beside Xanthus. She told her about Spartacus.
Lucretia said nothing as she listened. Her face a mask, and Attia was grateful for it. She had too many of her own emotions to deal with. And even when she was finally done, Lucretia stayed silent for a long time.