“… ever the observant one…”
She could see them, making their way down to the arena’s edge. The crowd about them parting like a sea before the wave of Luminatii preceding them. Mia heard a mekwerk groan, the drake-infested waters churning as a large stone archway surfaced from the arena floor. Seawater pouring from its flanks, it slid into place, forming a broad bridge from the arena’s edge to the central plinth. Scaeva stood on one side, his son on his shoulders, raising three fingers to bless the adoring crowd.
“… he brings the boy…”
“… AND? HE THOUGHT NOTHING OF MURDERING MIA’S FATHER IN FRONT OF HER…”
“… so thirsty for blood, dear mongrel…”
“… GIRD YOURSELF, CUR. TIME FOR YOUNG LUCIUS TO LEARN LIFE’S HARSH REALITIES…”
Mia fixed her eyes on Scaeva in his rich purple toga, Duomo behind him in his blood-red cardinal’s robes. As she watched, a half-dozen attendants took the cardinal’s staff from his hands, slipped off his vestments. Beneath, the great holy man was clad in a shift made of threadbare sackcloth, barefooted. He removed his rings, his golden bracelets, and finally, the blessed trinity of Aa hanging about his neck.
Stripped bare.
The holiest man in the Republic. The Hand of God himself, reduced to a beggar, just as the Father of Light had been in the old parable when he granted the generous slave his freedom. And soon, the champion of the magni would know that same freedom, bestowed by the voice of the Everseeing upon this earth.
But first came the Luminatii and a bevy of arena attendants. Marching across the stone span, fat and sated stormdrakes cruising below. An entire century of soldiers, clad in gravebone armor, their sunsteel blades rippling with holy flame. Reaching the fortifications, they surrounded Mia, the attendants setting to work, tipping the bodies of the slaughtered gladiatii off the battlements and into the churning waters below. She spared a glance for Furian’s body, watching it tumble and splash down into the blue, the black at her feet rippling. A Luminatii centurion stood before Mia, wordlessly held out his hand, glancing to her bloody gladius. Mia gave over the blade without blinking.
As the crowd chanted, cheered, the attendants quickly washed away the blood, gathered the fallen weapons and tossed them into the water beside the corpses of their owners, and scurried back across the bridge. Mia was left surrounded by Luminatii, flanking her on all sides, a hundred to her one.
“Kneel, slave,” the centurion commanded.
Mia did as she was told, knee and knuckles pressed to the stone, head bowed.
Her gravebone dagger hidden back inside the iron bracer at her wrist.
Trumpets rang. The procession began, Duomo first, his broad shoulders squared, beard bristling, three fingers raised as he marched across the bridge surrounded by yet more legionaries. Next came Scaeva, waving to the jubilant crowd, his son atop his shoulders holding the golden victor’s wreath. Mia kept her head down, glaring through her lashes as the cardinal approached, the Luminatii around her parting to allow him through.
Duomo stopped before her, looked down with a gentle smile. It had been years since he’d seen her last. She had a new face and new scars to show for her time. But looking up into his eyes, she searched for recognition. Some sliver of understanding about who it was kneeling before him. Some acknowledgment of all he’d done.
Nothing.
He doesn’t even know me.
More Luminatii, Scaeva marching behind, taking his time. Waving with his son to the crowd. And as he and his retinue drew nearer, closer, above the stubborn butterflies flitting about her belly, Mia felt it. A now familiar sensation.
Hunger.
Want.
The longing of a puzzle, searching for a piece of itself.
Maw’s teeth …
Her eyes widened. Mouth dry as ashes.
Someone here is darkin …
She searched among the soldiers, felt no hint of hunger. Heart hammering, she looked to Duomo, but no … that would be impossible. She’d seen him wielding a blessed trinity in his hand—if he were darkin, sanctified sigils of Aa would repel him, just as she …
O, Black Mother …
… Scaeva?
Her stomach sank. Eyes wide. But again, she’d seen him the truedark she attacked the Basilica Grande. There among the pews in Aa’s holy house, no ill effects among the Light Father’s faithful or his blessed symbols. But …
O, Black Mother …
The boy …
Scaeva’s son.
She looked at him, found him looking back, brow creased in puzzlement. He was dark of hair, dark of eye, just like her. And as her stomach sank toward her toes, in his face, the line of his cheeks, or perhaps the shape of his lips, she saw …
“Luminus Invicta, heretic,” Remus said, raising the blade above her head. “I will give your brother your regards.”
… she saw.
“You have what is yours,” Alinne said. “Your hollow victory. Your precious Republic. I trust it keeps you warm in the nevernight.”
Consul Julius looked down at Mia, his smile dark as bruises. “Would you like to know what keeps me warm in the nevernight, little one?”
No …
Mia blinked in the gloom. Eyes searching the cell beyond.
“Mother, where’s Jonnen?”
The Dona Corvere mouthed shapeless words. She clawed her skin, dug her hands into her matted hair. Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Gone,” she breathed. “With his father. Gone.”
Not “dead.”
Only “gone.”
With his …
… no.
O, mother, please no …
“Father,” the boy on Scaeva’s shoulders asked.
“Yes, my son?” the consul replied.
The child narrowed his ink-black eyes. Looking right at Mia.
“I’m hungry…”
Mia turned her eyes to the stone. Her heart was thundering now, despite all Mister Kindly’s and Eclipse’s efforts. Pulse rushing beneath her skin. The thought was too repulsive to believe, too awful, too horrifying, but glancing up again into the boy’s face, she saw it. The shape of her mother’s eyes. The bow of her lips. Memories of the babe she’d played with as a child, six years and a lifetime ago, flooding back into her mind and threatening to spill from her throat in a scream.
Jonnen.
O, sweet little Jonnen.
My brother lives …
Mind racing. Heart pounding. Sweat burning. Mia curled her hands into fists and pressed her knuckles into the stone as Cardinal Duomo stood before her and spread his arms wide, face upturned to the sky.
Patience.
“Father of Light!” Duomo called. “Creator of fire, water, storm and earth! We call you to bear witness, on this, your holy feast! Through right of combat and trial before your everseeing eyes, we name this slave a free woman, and beg you grant her the honor of your grace! Stand and speak your name, child, that all may know our victor!”
Patience.
“Crow!” the crowd roared. “CROW!”
The name echoed on the arena walls.
Reverberation.
Admonition.
Benediction.
“Crow! Crow! Crow! Crow!”
The girl rose slowly, standing like a mountain beneath those burning suns.