Godsgrave. Jay Kristoff
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a few famous female gladiatii, the stage of the venatus was ever managed by the careful hands of men. Maybe the newcomer was an agent for another domini? A foil from the ledgermen to drive up her price?
Mia looked to Leonides expectantly. Whoever this woman was, the greatest sanguila in the history of the games wasn’t going to be outbid by a single silver coin.
Titus’s face was a mask. Leonides glanced to his executus, back to the newcomer, speaking as if the words soured his mouth.
“This is somewhat childish, don’t you think, my dear?”
The woman’s smile was splashed across her face like poison.
“Childish? Whatever do you mean?”
“I hear tell you have but a handful of coppers to rub together,” Leonides said. “If your intent is to embarrass the patriis familia of your own House, are there not less expensive ways to do so?”
The woman smiled wider, and Mia’s stomach sank.
“My thanks for your concern,” she said. “But this is just business, Father.”
“… o, dear …”
“I have told you before, Leona,” Leonides warned. “The venatus is no place for women. And the sanguila’s box is no place for you.”
“Frightened my Falcons might eclipse your Lions, dear Patriis?”
Leonides scoffed. “One victor’s laurel in a backwater stoush does not a collegium make.”
“You won’t mind if I take the bloody beauty, then?”
Leona glanced at Mia. Leonides also turned to stare. Mia stepped forward, pleas roiling behind her teeth. But Mister Kindly’s whisper held her still.
“… remember who you are. and who you are supposed to be …”
The not-cat was right. This was her script, after all, and she had the hardest role to play. If she was to fight on the sands in service to a gladiatii collegium, she could only do so as its property. And property didn’t speak unless spoken to. It certainly didn’t wade into a public pissing contest between father and daughter …
Shit.
Mia stared at Sanguila Leonides. Eyes pleading. She’d calculated it so well. She’d fought like a daemon, won the approval of every blood master in the Pit. She was only a single word, a single bid away from entry into the greatest collegium in the Republic. One step closer to Consul Scaeva’s and Cardinal Duomo’s throats. All Leonides need do was speak …
“Very well, Leona.”
Leonides feigned a shrug, turning his back on his daughter.
“Take her, then. For all the good she will do you.”
Leona smiled, sharp and bright. Mia’s shoulders sagged. Legionaries marched into the ring, the crook-eyed boy slapping shackles around her wrists. She could’ve run then. Hidden beneath her cloak of shadows, slipped from the Pit with only dismayed shouts and prayers to the Everseeing in her wake.
But then she’d be right back where she started. It had taken weeks to orchestrate a clandestine trip to Ashkah, the broken caravan, her sale in the Garden. She’d waste weeks more in trying to get sold to a mightier collegium, and with the grand games so close, they were weeks she simply didn’t have to spare.
She’d ended too many lives, risked so much to be here to simply abandon her plan altogether. And though Leona was an unknown factor, Mia still had faith in her own abilities, and no real fear she could fail. Behind her lay only blood and a Mountain full of treachery. Ahead lay the sand of the venatus, and vengeance.
This was her course now. For good or ill, she had to walk it.
The legionaries parted. Mia looked up to see Dona Leona standing before her. This close, she could see the woman was in her early twenties. Bright blue eyes and auburn hair coiled in gentle ringlets, lightly freckled skin. She wore gold jewelry, a ruby wedding band. Beneath her cloak, her gown was cut of soft Liisian silk. Every part of her screamed “wealth,” save her eyes. As Mia risked a glance into those kohled pools of brilliant blue, she could think of only one word to describe them.
Hungry.
“My bloody beauty,” she smiled. “What a pair we shall make.”
Mia hung still, unsure what to say. Leona glanced at the soldiers, annoyance in her gaze. One of the men drew a truncheon, struck Mia across her legs. The girl cried out, fell to her knees. Teeth clenched, bloodstained hands in fists. But she could feel Mister Kindly, prowling cool inside her shadow, his whisper in her ears.
“… who you are, and who you are supposed to be …”
And so, she stayed there in the dust, eyes downturned, silent and still.
“I am Dona Leona,” the woman said. “Though you will call me Domina.”
The woman extended her hand. Mia saw a golden ring on Leona’s signet finger—a falcon, wings spread, crowned with a victor’s wreath.
The truncheon cracked across her shoulder blades. Mia gasped in pain.
“Show your respects, slave!” a soldier barked.
Mia stared at that bird of prey in its wreath of gold. Just as proud and fierce and wild as she. And yet here she was, kneeling in the dirt like a whipped kitten.
Patience, she thought.
If Vengeance has a mother, her name is Patience.
Mia drew a deep breath.
Closed her eyes.
“Domina,” she murmured.
And leaning forward, she kissed the ring.
Pig’s blood has a very peculiar taste.
The blood of a man is best drunk warm, and leaves a hint of sodium and rust clinging to the teeth. Horse’s blood is less salty, with an odd bitterness almost like dark chocolate. But pig’s blood has an almost buttery quality, like oysters and oiled iron, slipping down your throat and leaving a greasy tang in its wake.
Mia fucking hated it, truth told.
She burst from the pool of red with a gasp, a thudding pulse still ringing in her ears, head spinning. She was naked save for a gravebone stiletto at her wrist, a gravebone sword at her waist, long black hair glued like ropes of weed to bloody skin. A rectangular package wrapped in oilskin was clutched in her fingers. Two Hands in dark robes stood in the pool beside her, helping her to her feet as she gasped and sputtered and pawed the gore from her lashes.
Blinking around the room, she found herself waist-deep in a triangular marble pool of blood, thirty feet at a side—Speaker Adonai’s chambers within the Quiet Mountain. The room was carved with sorcerii glyphs, the heavy scent of butchery in the air. Maps of every city in the Republic were painted on the wall in blood.
Mia licked her teeth and spat, dragged her hair from her eyes.
Looking to the head of the pool, Mia saw Blood Speaker Adonai, knelt on the stone. Though she’ d not admit it to any, her belly thrilled a little at the sight of him. Weaver Marielle could make a portrait of any face, but her brother was her masterpiece—high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. His skin was ghostly pale, his tousled hair snow white. He wore a red silk robe, open at the chest, the troughs and