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.