“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, storm clouds 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.
CHAPTER 26
SILVER
They gathered in the yard after mornmeal.
Seven turns had passed, and little had changed—Furian’s fever burned the lesser, but still hadn’t burned out entirely. The fly larvae were doing … well, they were doing exactly what maggots do. The process was beyond disgusting, the sight when Maggot pulled back those bandages was almost more than Mia could stomach. And there was still no telling whether it was doing any good.
The gladiatii were of a mood. Buoyed by their victory in the arena and the berth the Falcons of Remus had won in the Venatus Magni. But the price they’d paid …
Bryn stayed in her cell, speaking to no one, even at mealtimes. Bladesinger might never fight again. Furian hovered close to death’s door, and Byern was simply dead. If this was the tithe they paid for a chance at freedom, it was drenched in more blood than most would have preferred.
Arkades had summoned them at the command of their domina, the suns beating down on the sand like hammers as the gladiatii of the Remus Collegium assembled. Mia’s ribs ached abominably, the slice on her face itching beneath the crusted gauze. It was odd seeing the world with one eye under a bandage, the lack of depth, the loss of balance. She knew she should go see Ashlinn—Eclipse had appeared in her cell late last nevernight, informing her that their ship had arrived back in Crow’s Rest. But with the situation in the keep the way it was, Mia dare not risk a visit. Furian might wake at any moment, and if Maggot called on her to help with some herbcraft in the middle of the nevernight and the guards discovered her missing …
She touched the bandage at her face. She’d not yet mustered the will to look underneath it in a mirror. Wondering what she’d see when she did.
Wondering what Ashlinn would see.
Butcher stood with hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as always. Despite losing his match at Whitekeep, he seemed pleased that he’d earned himself a few more scars to add to his collection.
Sidonius waited silently, arms crossed over the COWARD branded on his broad chest. His cropped hair was getting longer, his blue eyes sparking in the sun. As always, he stood right beside Mia, never straying far if he could help it. He’d sung her praises in their cell, declaring her match against the silkling the greatest he’d ever seen. And still, he didn’t press about her parents. Didn’t ask questions she wasn’t yet prepared to answer. For all his bluster and thuggery, for all his foolery around women, he knew when to talk, and when to keep his mouth shut.
Mia liked him more and more with every passing turn.
But he is not my friend.
Wavewaker stood at Sidonius’s other side, feet planted in the earth like the roots of mountains. He’d fought like a daemon against those scythebears in the arena; he and Sid had fallen shy of their own laurel by only two points. Again, Mia found it hard to imagine the man strutting about the stage in silken hose, talking in rhyming couplets. Standing tall, skin gleaming in the sunslight, he seemed a warrior born.
And he is not my friend.
Bryn stood beside Otho and Felix, looking as though she’d not slept a wink since Whitekeep. It was so strange to see her without her twin—Mia actually caught herself glancing about for Byern. The Vaanian girl walked like a ghost. Bloodshot and empty stare, arms wrapped about herself.
And she is not …
Bladesinger leaned at the door to the infirmary. Her face was bloodless beneath her tattoos, swordarm slung around her neck with blood-soaked gauze. The slice to her back had been vicious, but the gouge to her arm had been horrendous. None knew if the woman would ever wield a sword again. Mia could see fear in her eyes.
But she is …
And Furian?
He lay sleeping on the infirmary slab, Maggot by his side. Mia could feel his pain whenever she strayed too near, as if it were bleeding through the dark at her feet. She had no idea why. Even with all her herbcraft, with Maggot’s remedies, none knew his future, save perhaps the Mother.