Leona’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Your first repayment of three thousand two hundred forty-three silver priests is due at the turning of the month, three weeks hence. Should you fail to deliver the required sum, I will have no choice but to seek punitive compensation through the magistrate’s court, and claim possession of your collegium, properties, and other financial holdings by way of reimbursement.
“Please do not think I hold wrath or rancor in my heart for you, my dearest. This is, as you once told me, just business.”
The boy glanced up at Leona, voice trembling.
“If only your dear mother were here to see just how far you have come,” he finished. “With all the respect you are due, your loving f-father, Leonides.”
The courtyard was so still, Mia could have heard Mister Kindly breathing. Looking at the messenger, she realized the poor bastard had no idea about the contents of the letter he was delivering. Glancing at Wavewaker and Otho’s faces, the lad probably fully expected to be dragged down to the cliffs and thrown into the sea.
“H-he also wished me to convey you a gift, Mi Dona,” the boy said. “To celebrate your victory.”
Reaching into his pack, the boy produced a bottle of goldwine and placed it on the sand. A blood-red label denoted the vintage on the side.
Albari, seventy-four.
As Leona saw the label, her entire body stiffened with rage. Mia had no idea why, but to the dona, the sight of that bottle was like blood to a whitedrake. With clear effort, Leona drew a deep breath, only the trembling of her clenched fists to bely her fury. And standing tall, she addressed the boy with customary formality.
“Convey all thanks to my father,” she said. “Inform him the magistrate’s involvement will be unnecessary. He will have his coin by month’s end. I do here vow it.”
“Yes, Mi Dona,” the boy bowed, relief flooding his features.
“You may go,” she said, her voice turning to cold steel.
The boy doffed his cap and scurried away as fast as his legs could carry him.
“O, and boy?” Leona said.
The messenger turned, half-wincing, eyebrow raised. “Y-yes, Mi Dona?”
Leona ran her hand over Mia’s new armor, her fingers lingering at the dagger’s hilt. “Please convey condolences to my father at the slaughter of his champion. Tell him that I look forward to watching my Crow butcher his next offering in Godsgrave.”
“Y-yes, Mi Dona,” the boy stammered, and scampered out of sight.
Silence reigned in the yard, only the call of distant gulls and the faint song of the sea to break it. Leona walked across the sand, picked up the bottle of goldwine and held it in her hand, staring at that label. She looked among her gladiatii, fury spotting her cheeks. They had fought so hard, come so far, and even now, on the brink of victory, they still stood at the precipice of disaster. Where in the Daughters’ names would she get that kind of money?
“Back to training, my Falcons,” she commanded. “We have work to do.”
The gladiatii marched to the racks, took up their practice weapons.
The dona turned and walked back into the keep.
Arkades watched her leave.
His eyes were narrowed.
His hands, fists.
*
Leona sat in her study, bent over her ledgers, bathed in sunslight spilling through the bay window. The shadows were long and dark, and if one beneath her desk was of a peculiar shape, the dona was too intent on her work to notice.
A guard knocked softly on the door, stepping inside at her command.
“Mi Dona,” the guard said. “Executus begs a word.”
“Send him in,” Leona replied.
Arkades entered, clink thump, clink thump, the guard closing the door behind him. Leona’s gaze didn’t stray from her bookwork, a quill poised in her fingers, scribing figures in her neat, flowing hand. The Albari seventy-four was sat on the desk beside her, unopened. Arkades stood before her, staring at that bottle, shifting his weight.
“What is it, Executus?” the dona asked, not looking up.
“I … I wished to see if you were well, Domina.”
“And why would I not be?”
“Your father’s missive…”
Leona stilled, finally looking up.
“I thought his gift was a lovely touch.” The dona glanced to the bottle beside her. “I’m surprised he remembered the vintage.”
“I knew him to be the cruelest of men, but…” Arkades sighed, his voice soft with sorrow. “Your mother was a fine woman, Mi Dona. You do not deserve such insult. And she did not deserve what he did to her.”
“He beat her to death with a bottle of goldwine, Arkades,” Leona said, her voice beginning to tremble. “Because she knocked over his glass at dinner. Who exactly does deserve that?”
The executus searched the floorboards as if looking for the right words. He might be a god on the sands, but here, in the privacy of his dona’s chambers, under her pale blue stare, he seemed as helpless as a newborn.
“If ever…”
He paused, swallowed hard. Drawing a deep breath, as if before the plunge.
“If ever you seek comfort … that is to say, if ever you wish to talk…”
Leona tilted her head, looking her executus in the eye.
“That is very kind of you, Arkades. But I do not think it appropriate.”
He glanced out the window into the yard, to the infirmary where Furian lay.
“… Appropriate?” he repeated.
“I am no longer the girl who spent her childhood on tiptoe, for fear of what might set the monster she lived with off next. I am not the girl who cowered beneath the table as that bottle fell, again and again and again. I am sanguila. I am domina of this collegium. You are my executus. And my father’s cheap theater serves in only one regard: to harden my resolve to stand victorious in Godsgrave.”
Arkades simply stared at her, grief and anger plain on his face.
“I need no comfort,” Leona continued, rage shining in her eyes. “I need that bastard on his fucking knees. If you’d serve me, Arkades, I pray you, serve me in the matter I pay you for. Bring me my victory.”
Leona bent back over her bookwork, resting her head in one hand.
“You may go,” she said.
Arkades stood for an empty moment, utterly mute. But finally …
“Your whisper,” he murmured. “My will.”
The big man turned and limped from the room, shutting the door behind him. Leona dropped her quill as soon as he was gone. Pressing her lips together and drawing one shuddering breath after another. Swiping a hand across her eyes in rage.
Her tears bested, she turned her stare to the bottle on her desk. The sunslight glinting on the glass. The label, painted in blood red.
Leona hung her head, waves of auburn hiding her eyes.
“Father,” she spat.
A knock came at the door.
“Four Daughters, who is it now?” Leona demanded.
“Apologies, Mi Dona,” the guard said, peering inside. “Magistrae seeks audience.”
Leona sighed, smoothed her hair back from her face.