ABOUT THE BOOK

The Hierarchy still calls me Vis Telimus. They still, as one, believe they know who I am. But with all that has happened–with what I fear is coming—I am not sure it matters anymore. I am no longer one. I won the Iudicium, and lost everything–and now, impossibly, the ancient device beyond the Labyrinth has replicated me across three separate worlds. A different version of myself in each of Obiteum, Luceum, and Res. Three different bodies, three different lives. I have to hide; fight; play politics. I have to train; trust; lie. I have to kill; heal; prove myself again, and again, and again.

I am loved, and hated, and entirely alone. Above all, though, I need to find answers before it’s too late. To understand the nature of what has happened to me, and why.

I need to find a way to stop the coming Cataclysm, because if all I have learned is true, I may be the only one who can.

For my son

I

FEAR, MY FATHER ONCE TOLD ME, IS SIMPLY OUR REALIsation of a lack of control. And that is why when we are afraid, sometimes the only way we can cope—the only way to dull the edge of that lack—is to put our faith in those who appear not to suffer it.

WAIT. RUN.

The words are barely visible beneath pulsing crimson. Blood slides down my wrist, crawls across my palm and flicks dark droplets from my fingertips as I lope after Caeror through the red, flickering, fuzzing tunnel. The circle of bronze blades is long behind us. The Labyrinth not far ahead now. My cuts ache. Ulciscor’s brother tried to explain why I had to make them. It was a message. To myself. In another world.

It’s too bizarre to process yet. It was the steady urgency in his voice that swayed me to action—bloody and surreal and painful though it was. That, and the desperate, desperate need to believe that he truly grasps what is happening here. That he actually knows how to get us out of this nightmare.

That he is in control.

“How do we get past the Remnants?” I pant the words. Still weak from whatever it was that happened to me back there. My voice is small. Deadened by suffocating stone and hazing red light.

“They’re in Res.” Caeror doesn’t look back. “So is the Labyrinth.”

I don’t have time to doubt him: the tunnel ends ahead, and he’s proven right. Nothing guarding the exit. No walls burst from the ground, no waves of chittering obsidian death spring to life as we hurry—me tentatively—out onto the same expanse of stone upon which I was desperately navigating a maze less than an hour ago.

And yet everything is otherwise identical. Same vast, austere hall. Same platform with its red glass balustrade at the far end, which we head straight for.

“Wait. We need to step on at the same time.” Caeror pauses as I position myself beside him. “Now.” It’s a tight fit. “We need to touch the railing together, too. And … now.”

The balustrade glows. We rise, me catching my breath from the run. The hall is quickly replaced by darkness all around, leaving us bathed in scarlet.

Caeror turns to look at me. Dark and wiry, scruffy beard and curly hair framing the violent old scar that stretches from cheek to where his left ear should be. Different from Ulciscor in so many ways and yet with those same intense brown eyes, it’s impossible to mistake them for anything but brothers. “You’re real. Aren’t you?” His smile is suddenly there, a dagger to the tension. Broad and radiant. He’s giddy as he studies me. “Tell me you’re gods-damned real.”

“Yes?” I’m still disoriented. Don’t know how else to respond.

He looks upward, and to my shock, releases a bellow into the devouring abyss ahead. A whoop of unadulterated joy. Relaxing his grip on the railing as he stops, inhales, and then does it again before breaking down into plainly relieved laughter, shoulders shaking. “Yes! Rotting gods, yes! Oh. Yes. Gods-damn. Yes. Seven years. Gods-damn. What’s your name again?”

“Vis.”

“Vis! Vis, when we get out of here I am going to give you a hug. It will last far longer than would normally be appropriate. I apologise in advance.” He laughs again, a sound somewhere between jubilant and manic. “Rotting gods-damned gods!”

I’m nervous and confused and in pain, but something about his pure, near childlike joy is infectious enough to steady me, even as my heart still pounds. “I’m glad you’re happy.” I follow his lead and cautiously unclench one hand from the glowing balustrade. “What you said back there. You said we’re in Obiteum. That this is … another world?” I bark the last in a half laugh of my own. I must have misheard. Aloud, it’s even more preposterous.

Caeror’s smile remains as he calms from his delirium. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. There’s going to be more before I can explain everything, too, but we’re in quite a bit of danger until we get off this island.” Still cheerful, but something about the delivery says he’s serious. “Can we leave the questions until we’re out? I promise you’ll get your answers.”

It’s not really a request. “Alright.”

He gives a genial nod, then sees me rubbing at my arm, which has begun to ache. “Hurting?”

I shrug. “From the cuts, I suppose.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t know. It just started.” It’s not something I’ve had time to focus on, but the way he asks makes me do it now. “The whole thing hurts, actually.”

He nods again, unsurprised, as he draws an object from his pocket. “Strap this to it. Skin to stone.” It’s an amulet of some kind, hung on a leather band that threads through a slot clearly made for the purpose. I squint through the glowering red. An intricately carved scarab beetle, only about an inch across, peers back.

“What is it?”

“Vitaerium.” He holds up his own arm, displaying an identical amulet. “Whatever you do, make sure it’s not loose.”

“Why?” No masking my unease. Vitaeria are for keeping people alive. Usually very sick people.

“It will prevent any damage from Res or Luceum from bleeding through.” Caeror touches the scar tissue over his missing ear meaningfully. “Not to mention that the air here is … shall we say, less than nice to breathe. Outside, without one of these, your throat and lungs are going to start blistering within an hour or so. But Vis?” He raises an eyebrow. “Those were questions, and we’re not out.”

I bite back both an uneasy retort and my desire to find out more, and swiftly loop the supple leather until the scarab sits snugly against my skin. From what little I know, there’s a chance these only work on people who have been through the Aurora Columnae. “The problem is—”

There’s a jolt as the stone settles. A thrill that arcs through my body.

The pain fades.

“Better?”

I massage my left arm. As surprised as I am relieved. “Yes.”

“Then listen carefully.”

The short remainder of our ascent through the void is filled with a combination of hurried explanations of what to expect outside, and simple directives. The air will hurt to breathe, but that’s normal and I’ll adapt. There will be a descent via some sort of platform from the entrance and he hopes, wryly, that I do not have a problem with heights. It’s dawn or not long past, and it will be my job to watch the skies and let him know if I see any sign of movement. Anything at all.

He says that last part three times, and even his evident good mood fades to seriousness in the emphasis.

Caeror pauses for long periods between each instruction, clearly thinking. A half smile locked on his face. It’s his ebullience, as much as anything else, that reassures me. Allows me the composure to suppress question after burning question, and choose to believe that Ulciscor’s brother knows what he’s doing.

“Almost there,” says Caeror suddenly, glancing up.

On cue, the surrounding void is broken by a sheer wall sliding down into the balustrade’s bloody glow; the platform slows, coming to a stop adjoining the narrow opening that I know leads out. I let Caeror take the lead.

“Scintres Exunus.” Caeror calls the words ahead. A deep grinding answers, and dawn floods the stairs in front of us. The light reveals smooth walls to my left and right. No eyeless corpses lining the way.

Caeror notes my surprise. Stops. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” His gaze is a silent interrogation. “There were dead bodies here.”

“Obsidian blades in them?” His expression twists at my confused affirmation. “Another adaption.” His gaze flicks to my bloodied left arm, but he seems to discard the idea as soon as he has it. “Well, we were always going to need a little luck. Nothing we can do now except get the hells out of here ourselves. Come on.”

I follow him. The air has been growing gradually thicker, but about halfway up the stairs it hits me. Dense and cloying, suddenly sharp as it sticks to my lungs. I cough, then briefly panic as I struggle to inhale. My throat burns and closes up.

“The sweet scent of Obiteum.” Sympathy in Caeror’s blithe observation.

I lean with hands balled into fists against the nearest wall. Head down. Teeth clenched. It’s like the insides of my chest are being cauterised.

“Alright.” I eventually rasp it, forcing myself to straighten. I don’t know how long it’s been, but the pain has abated. Not disappeared—every breath is still an act of coarse internal violence—but bearable.

Caeror eyes me. “Your head’s clear?” When I nod, he sweeps a curl of black hair from his eyes and starts up the remaining stairs. Energetic and determined. “Then onward.”

We reach the top, and I see the entrance ahead opening out into the dawn. I slow. Trying to process that empty triangle of morning sky with no end. My discomfort, briefly forgotten.

The verdant hillside from which I entered the dome is gone, replaced by … nothing. Air. We must be a thousand feet up; as I edge toward the entrance, the view reveals miles upon miles of devastated dirt and stone far below. The forests and rivers are gone. Not a hint of green anywhere.

I fight a wave of vertigo. Of terror. Of denial.

Caeror’s claim, for the first time, is real to me.

“Rotting gods.” I whisper it disbelievingly into the expanse. “Rotting gods.”

“Something like that,” agrees Caeror from behind me.

My gaze drifts to the distant ocean. This is still the carcass of Solivagus, I gradually understand, but the white monoliths of the Seawall are all that remain of the familiar. Between them and the beach, water simply ripples and swells, but beyond them … beyond are waves. Dark, lumbering mountains of water. I watch as the closest one hits the line of the Seawall. As it passes the columns it abruptly shrinks, draining away to match the gentle undulation nearer the shore. Where it strikes the stone pillars, though, there are violent explosions of thick, misting spray. It barely has time to settle before the next one hits.

For those waves to be visible at this distance … I can barely guess at their height. A hundred feet? More?

I tear my eyes away. Inch closer again to the entrance’s edge, secure a handhold and tentatively peer out. Up and down. Left and right. In every direction, the red glass walls curve out of sight almost immediately. I hold there a moment longer in a buffeting wind, searching the dizzyingly distant, barren ground.

“My guess is that they tried to destroy it.” Caeror gives me a sympathetic smile, pulling something from his pocket as I slink back to safety. A sliver of what looks like obsidian, triangular and with several needle-thin spikes jutting from it. About the size of a coin.

“They?” I watch curiously. Just as Caeror said it would, my breathing is coming easier now.

“Ka’s side. What you’d call the Concurrence.” He scratches at his scraggly beard as he examines the triangle, then spots my blank look. “Veridius didn’t tell you about the Concurrence? Who we’re fighting? Why you’re here?”

“No. I told you, he didn’t send me. I’m a student at the Academy, and he’s the Principalis. That’s all.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.

“Oh.” Caeror studies me. “Oh.” Not quite dismayed, but definitely taken aback.

He reaches around and presses the obsidian in his hand against the base of his skull, immediately exhaling through clenched teeth and bracing himself against the wall, the motion allowing me a view of the delicate inscribed lines on the triangle’s surface. Writing? Too small to properly make out, but it looks like a series of glyphs rather than letters. Reminiscent of Nyripkian script, I think, but I’ve not had enough exposure to the language of the far north to be certain.

Caeror takes his hand away, back still to me. The obsidian remains embedded in place, no blood, as he straightens, ignoring my concerned look and moving to the edge. Peering downward.

“So this is probably all a bit of a shock,” he says eventually.

I cough a laugh, still a hint of pain in the use of my lungs. “Something like that.”

“What do you actually know about all this, then, Vis?” Continuing to peer over the edge.

“Not much.” He finally glances around at me. “Almost nothing.” He doesn’t say anything, just narrows his eyes. “Well, I knew there was a place called Obiteum.”

Caeror stares, then gives a soft, incredulous laugh of his own. “Then why in the gods’ graves did you run the Labyrinth? I’m going to assume it wasn’t for fun. Or by accident.” He pauses. Thoughtful. “Though, that would be one hells of a story.”

“I was trying to figure out what happened to you, actually.” He leans and gazes out toward the ground again, and I shuffle apprehensively, eyes fixed on his nape. Is it my imagination, or is the writing on the obsidian there glowing a faint green?

Abrupt movement tears me away from my inspection; a four-foot-wide circle of polished black stone appears just outside the triangular entrance, snapping into place level with our passageway. It’s inscribed with those same Nyripkian-like glyphs, larger but no less enigmatic to me. It emits a barely audible, rhythmic whine as it hovers.

Caeror watches it and then, apparently satisfied, gestures accommodatingly toward the floating disc. As if politely offering me to precede him through a doorway.

I look at the reflective sliver balancing a thousand feet above the ground, then back at him. “No thank you.”

“It’s safe.”

I bare my teeth in resistance, but he raises an eyebrow and points until I scowl a reluctant accession, moving grudgingly over to the new, and very small, extension to the ledge. “This isn’t a Will platform.” Caeror’s eyes have remained a calm, clear brown as he watches me.

“Not as you would think of it.” He taps the triangle on his neck. “From the war with the Concurrence. It really is safe. And just to reiterate, we don’t have an enormous amount of time,” he adds, the hint of a concerned edge to his voice.

Vek.

I crouch. The platform’s surface seems to tremble slightly under my examination. The ground I can see beyond is distressingly, breathtakingly distant.

Vek, vek, vek.

I’ve trusted Ulciscor’s brother this far, I suppose.

I place a steadying hand against the slanted doorway, then one cautious foot onto the circle before glancing back, still half hoping I’ve misunderstood. Caeror just nods me on cheerfully. I brace myself and gradually shift my weight forward, until it’s clear that the obsidian isn’t going to move beneath it.

Heart in mouth, I step fully on.

Out from the protection of the passageway, the wind immediately threatens my sense of balance; as soon as I’m completely on the disc I carefully sit, facing away from the exit to give Caeror room, lungs burning again from the close-to-panicking breaths I’m having to take. The surface beneath my palms is cool, uncomfortably smooth except for the furrows of the inscriptions.

A moment later, I feel Caeror’s back settling against mine as he joins me.

It’s only when I finally pluck up the courage to twist, glancing over my shoulder, that I realise we’ve already begun our descent. The shadowed pyramidal hole is twenty feet above us now. A red glass wall fills my vision, curving away, infinitely more vast than my memory of it.

“Don’t forget, Vis. The skies on your side are your responsibility.” Caeror’s voice is taut with concentration as he senses my shift.

“What am I looking for?”

“Gleaners.” He remembers who he’s talking to. “Enemies. Really, really unpleasant enemies. Who can fly. So if you see anything, even just a dot on the horizon, you let me know.”

I face forward again and fix my eyes on the blank blue expanse. “Even if it’s just a bird?”

“It won’t be.” He gives a strained chuckle. “Gods. Birds. What wouldn’t I give.”

An uneasy silence as I process that. “So what happens if I see one of these Gleaners?”

“We hope we’re still high enough that the fall kills us.” A pause, and then he grunts. “Sorry. That wasn’t very tactful. I’m just a little busy.”

I shudder and nod, though I know he can’t see it.

“So you know my brother. And you’re here because of me.” The glassy-smooth dark stone beneath us quivers, sending a panicked jolt through me. Caeror growls. “I … should probably focus on this. Why don’t you tell me how in the hells you got here, while we’re on the way down. And then I can fill in the gaps of what you need to know after. The very, very large gaps,” he mutters to himself.

I heed the tension of his voice and don’t argue, giving him the most straightforward possible outline of my past year as we descend, excruciatingly slow, toward the arid ground. Ulciscor finding me, charging me with investigating what he believed to be Caeror’s murder at Veridius’s hands. My discovery of the ruins, and then the Labyrinth. Ulciscor’s insistence that I run it. It’s easy enough to tell the story without having to reveal my past—another world or not, Caeror was once as Hierarchy as they come, so there’s no reason to risk complete honesty—but I don’t otherwise try to obfuscate. There doesn’t seem to be much need, here.

As I talk, I continue vainly scanning the horizon. The day is clear and unsettlingly empty. No movement higher than the towering, glittering waves in the distance. I don’t dare glance downward.

Our platform shivers again only once, when I first mention Lanistia.

“You knew Lani?”

I regain command of my briefly terror-locked muscles, heart pounding, as the obsidian resumes its smooth downward motion. “She trained me. I can tell you all about—”

“No.” Soft, even through the tension of what he’s doing. “Thanks, but … not right now.”

And then, finally, the grey-brown of the earth is close enough for me to touch. I slide off the glinting circle with a relieved exhalation, luxuriating in the feeling of solid ground beneath my feet. Our platform thuds to the dirt behind me.

I turn. Caeror’s still sitting on it, head bowed. His entire body is trembling. The black stone at the nape of his neck still there.

“Give me a minute,” he mutters between laboured breaths, sensing my concern.

I nod mutely, scrutiny moving on to our surrounds. We’ve descended into an enormous crater of blasted rock and dirt, at least five miles wide and completely devoid of life or landmarks. Its surrounding edges peak at least a hundred feet above us, concealing what lies beyond from view.

The great shadow at the upper edge of my vision soon drags my gaze higher, though.

Blotting out near half the sky above us—its lowest point a hundred feet in the air—hovers an impossible, gargantuan red glass sphere.

I take a half step back. It’s at least … three thousand feet in diameter? More? Nothing supporting it in the air, nothing suspending it as far as I can see. It’s staggering. Disorienting to the senses.

“You didn’t see anything?” Caeror has recovered enough to stand. Wan in the early morning light, the triangular stone still affixed to the back of his neck.

“Nothing.”

Caeror kicks dirt and stone over the glinting circle on the ground until it’s concealed. Some of his former, irrepressible excitement returning as he inspects his handiwork, then beams at me. Cheeks dimpled as he claps me on the shoulder. “Almost there. You’re doing better than I did, when I came through.”

“You had to go through this by yourself?”

“Gods’ graves, no. I had help too.” His expression twists into something sad, so brief I almost miss it, and then he’s moving on.

“How did you know I was coming through today?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been here for … almost two weeks? Had supplies in there for at least another month. A holiday I get to take every year and a half,” he adds with a weak grin.

I consider. “The window for when the Academy runs the Iudicium?”

“Exactly.” He stretches, then beckons. “We just need to reach the ridge over there. Still as quickly as we can, though.”

Our footsteps crunch and shale skitters as we set off westward. Caeror casts a sidelong glance at me. “So what did Ulciscor threaten you with?”

“Sapper.”

His step hitches. “Rotting gods.” He exhales. Eyes wide as he continues, staring ahead in horrified introspection. “Rotting gods-damned gods. Vis. I am so sorry.” Honest apology in his voice, in the slump of his shoulders.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“I did, though. It’s why I tried to tell him what Veridius and I were doing.” He plucks at his sleeve. A frustrated motion that’s eerily reminiscent of his brother. “He always was gods-damned scary once he got his mind set on something. But you should know—that’s not him. Not really. I’m sure he’s been through a nightmare, but he would never, ever do that to someone.”

I just nod. A hint of desperation in his insistence that I’m not going to argue, despite my doubts. I can tell he wants to keep questioning me, to find out more about Ulciscor and the world he left behind seven years ago. But that can wait. “When I got here, you said there was a war? Is that what happened here?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” His brow is furrowed. Deciding where to begin, I think. “I should warn you—some things I know from what Veridius and I translated from the ruins, and some from what I’ve been told since arriving. But a lot of it … a lot of it comes from guessing at the spaces in between, too.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” He lets out a long breath. Loose stone crunching underfoot in the vast hush of the crater. The cheerless slope is getting steeper. “I suppose the war is the easiest place to begin. It started thousands of years ago, against an enemy called the Concurrence. They were bent on enslaving everyone, and from what Veridius and I could tell, at one point they were winning.” His mouth twists. “So our side split the world into three near-identical copies. Res—where we’re from; Obiteum, which is here; and Luceum. Don’t ask me how,” he adds with a wry smile.

I nod a reluctant acceptance. Unfathomable though it still seems, it fits with everything I already know. Everything I’ve seen. “How would doing that help, though?” Then I pause. “Near-identical?” It’s not what he said before, when I first arrived.

“Physically the same, down to the last detail. But the nature of Will was what they were trying to limit. The three worlds were created because they wanted to diminish it, restrict how it could be used. Split its capabilities.” He presses on before I can ask any of my myriad new questions. “People called it the Rending. Afterward, the war continued, but the resistances on the three worlds began to have their own levels of success in the fight. Different capabilities with Will. Different choices. Everything diverged.”

My mind reels as I try to put the pieces together. “Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate,” I murmur. The eerie chant of the eyeless bodies in the ruins. I remember the Rending being mentioned by Artemius and the others guarding the Labyrinth, too. “So the Concurrence won here, and were defeated on Res?” The logical conclusion, given how we’re striving to stay out of sight. Clearly in some sort of danger.

The looming sphere behind is a cold, dead sun, too large in my peripheral vision every time I turn my head. There’s silence, for long enough that I wonder if Caeror has heard my half question, and then, “What do you know about the Cataclysm?”

I pause. “As much as anyone, I suppose?” Momentarily thrown by the apparent veer in topic. “Something happened three hundred years ago that killed almost everyone. The survivors were mostly children, and the records from before that time were lost. Civilisation collapsed. There are theories about how, and why, but no one really knows much more than that.”

“That’s not quite true.” Caeror hesitates. The gentle reluctance of a man about to deliver terrible news. “Those ruins you said you visited, near the Academy? That place was built to stop a Cataclysm. One the architects knew was coming.” He rubs his face, then smiles at me in sincere, rueful apology. “They’re culls, Vis. The Cataclysms are culls by an enemy that everyone on our world has forgotten. That one those architects were trying to prevent? It was the eleventh. The eleventh in three thousand years. And even with all their knowledge, they failed.”

The terrain is more cliff than slope now, and we start to pick our way upward over boulders and exposed rock. Less than five hundred feet to the ridge. I clamber along behind Caeror, trying to grasp it. The enormity of it. No desire to believe, but it’s impossible not to, given where we are. The utter desolation around us. “So the Concurrence somehow just … killed everyone?”

“From everything I understand, yes. And they will do it again. And again.” He says it softly. Pauses to lend me a hand up, then glances over my shoulder. “They didn’t just win the war here, Vis. I think they won it everywhere.”

I stop too, twisting to join him in his inspection. We’re high enough, have come far enough that this is a new perspective. The red glass ball above the centre of the crater hangs implacably, glinting in the morning light.

Slow, uneasy recognition penetrates the shock of what Caeror just told me.

I’ve seen this. The ruins near the Academy—one of those dioramas made of white light. One of the three versions of Solivagus, illuminating eyeless corpses pinned against the wall.

There’s more detail in real life, though. I’d already noticed the jagged lines carved into the surface of the sphere, but they’re easier to comprehend from this distance. Not writing, but not random either. They form familiar shapes in familiar arrangements.

My lingering gaze finds the coastline of Suus before Caeror touches my shoulder. Nods to the crater’s apex ahead.

“I’m sorry. It’s a hard thing to hear, but we need to keep moving.”

I’m reeling, but there’s an anchoring in his calm, sympathetic authority. I take a breath. Nod.

We march on.

OVER THE RIDGE, THE CRATER BEHIND US HIDDEN FROM view, I can see the waves again. Impossible, monstrous from this angle, miles away though they still are. The roar of their shattering thunders across desolate hills.

I gather my scattered thoughts. I do believe Caeror when he says this is another world; the proof could not be clearer. But everything else …

“You said I’d been copied.” I leave it at that. Make it a question. There may be more pressing concerns, but none that have lodged themselves so disconcertingly in my mind.

“Yes. That device you were in—the Gate—it takes what’s inside it on Res, and creates new versions on Luceum and Obiteum. Perfect replicas.”

“So there’s another version of me—the original one—still on Res?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s another in some other world, too? In Luceum?”

“Yes.”

I shake my head. Sick. Refusing to countenance it, even if I’d concluded hours ago that this was what he’d meant. “I don’t feel like a copy.”

Caeror flits another glance at me before resuming his surveilling of the clear morning sky. “Perhaps ‘copy’ is a bit crude. It’s more like …” He scrunches up his face as he reaches for a better explanation. “We’re no less ourselves. Think of it as setting out on a branching path. It’s still you. Just travelling a different road.”

I chew over his words. Kindly delivered, but I find little comfort in them. “And this whole world was copied from ours, too?”

“It might be the original. I don’t know. But … yes. Thousands of years ago now, but yes. That’s my understanding of it.”

I gaze out at glistening walls of water shattering against the Seawall. Distant spray glitters as it explodes upward. “On a different road for a while, then,” I observe softly.

We clamber up another short rise, and beyond, I see what appears to be our destination. A large obsidian circle set into the stone underfoot, only fifty feet away. Polished black notable against the drab surrounds, but it’s the lines of shining silver running through the dark mirror that draw my eye.

Even from here, there’s no mistaking the familiar, three-pronged pyramidal icon pointing out at the distant waves.

“Give me a moment.” Caeror doesn’t hesitate to walk on the glossy surface once we reach it. I trail him tentatively as he moves to the apex of the Hierarchy symbol and draws an amulet from around his neck. Larger than the ones we both wear on our arms, it’s obsidian too. Etched with a single symbol, what appears to be a crossed crook and flail.

He crouches, then inserts the medallion into an indentation at the very top of the pyramid. A quick twist, and a small section of black stone, barely a few inches across, rotates.

“Done.” He scans the horizon, then suddenly grins an irrepressible grin. “Rotting gods, I still can’t believe you’re actually here.” He shakes his head, still smiling broadly.

Several points of illumination just above where he set the amulet begin to appear. Barely visible against the glint of the sun, at first, but steadily increasing in intensity until they reveal themselves as more glyphs, like the ones on the triangle that still sits fixed at the base of his skull.

I don’t return the expression. Watching the light, and then gaze drifting to the desolation around us again. “Is there any way back?”

Caeror pauses, his smile fading, then exhales and walks over to the glyphs. Crouches down and touches several of them in succession. There’s an abruptly growling thrum of building energy, and I flinch as the circle in front of us bursts into motion. The stone, which I thought was a single piece, starts to separate and rise. Sections rotate and slide and snap together in rapid succession, re-forming, building almost instantly into a ten-foot-high triangular archway that darkly reflects the azure sky.

“No, Vis,” he says, so quietly that I barely hear him. “There’s no way back.”

He collects his medallion from its slot and then stands on the silver symbol. The humming sound hasn’t stopped; if anything, it’s intensifying. Caeror motions for me to join him.

I do so uneasily. The base of the jagged obsidian archway in front of us is lightening. Becoming clear, glass-like. As I watch, translucence flows toward the apex.

“The Cataclysm those people couldn’t stop. On … on our world.” Still hard to say that out loud. “You said it was the eleventh. Three thousand years after the first.” The calculation’s not a hard one. I’ve still made it several times since he told me.

There’s an apology in Caeror’s smile. “I’m not here because I thought we had lots of time.”

Vek. “Were they at regular intervals, though?” A little desperate.

“From what Veridius and I translated. Regular enough.”

It’s an expected confirmation. My heart still drops.

It’s been three hundred and two years since the last Cataclysm.

Emissa. Callidus. Eidhin. Aequa and Lanistia and even gods-damned Ulciscor. “But you have a way to stop it.” Veridius was trying to send students here, despite the consequences. Belli’s torn body hangs on the Labyrinth wall in my mind. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“I hope so. I think so. With your help.”

There’s a crescendoing whine and then suddenly, just as the entire archway becomes crystalline, it stops.

Nothing but the distant roaring of waves for a second. Three.

Then, violent and abrupt, a haze ejects from the glass. Slicing away from us, smokelike, leaving an ethereal triangular tunnel in its wake. A million ghostly reflections of the arch that arrow directly at the glistening mountains of water in the distance.

The silver beneath our feet begins to throb with rhythmic white. Getting rapidly brighter.

“How?” My heart pounds in time with the pulses beneath our feet. It’s all I can do to follow Caeror’s lead and stay still.

Caeror’s face is lit starkly from beneath. His deep brown eyes assess me as he issues a crooked smile.

“Easy, Vis. We kill a god.”

The light consumes us.

II

EMISSA SITS BY MY SIDE AS I LIE THERE. SHE STROKES MY cheek absently, murmuring gentle reassurances, and then green eyes dancing as she laughs at something I’ve said, though I immediately cannot remember what it was. Her long dark hair falling over her smiling face. Falling over mine as she kisses me. Never once letting my attention wander.

I know, distantly, that there is something wrong with my arm. I feel its ache through her soothing. But as long as she is here with me, it is bearable. As long as she is with me, I will be alright.

My eyes open once and there’s blue sky. They open again and there are bright stars in a moonless night. I hear waves. The creak of wood, the splash of oars.

Those waking moments, my shoulder afire, all I want is to close my eyes again. I know she is a dream. I know she is not real. I still need her back.

Sometimes, just the fiction is comfort enough.

But eventually, as if a warm blanket has been stolen away, I wake.

Clarity comes slowly. I can’t find the energy to pry my eyes open straight away. There’s a rhythmic rocking, the smell of salt, the snap of a sail, and the gentle slosh of water all around. Damp boards at my back, and a spring breeze ruffling my tunic. Not aboard a large ship, then, else surely I’d be belowdecks.

My drowsing mind strains to catch up. There was that circle of bronze blades, the words carved on my arm. The blocked exit back to the Labyrinth, and then …

And then that strange white rotunda amidst the snow, high on the mountaintop, flickering in and out of reality.

Blood.

My left arm gone.

I exhale shakily. Grief in the act. I don’t have to look to confirm it—the pain there is more than enough—but I prise my eyes open anyway. Squint against the minor agony of the sunlight, twist my head away from the cloud-dotted blue above.

The sodden bandage around the short stump jutting from my shoulder is more black than red. My throat closes at the sight.

“Tá sé ina dhúiseacht.” The growl comes from above my head. I swallow my anguish and try to shift, managing enough to see the form of a man a few paces away. The stranger responds to my movement, coming to crouch beside me. He’s muscled. Clad only in simple breeches. A mass of intricate whorls and patterns cover his torso, startlingly blue against pale skin. “Bheith fós.” He’s addressing me, this time. His tone’s not pleased, but it doesn’t seem overtly aggressive, either.

I moan and shake my head, trying to indicate I don’t understand. I go to speak, but only a dry rasp comes out.

The man disappears briefly, returning with a waterskin and holding it to my lips. I drink too eagerly, choking on the first gulp.

“Mall.” Gruff, but insistent. “Ól go mall.”

I nod, getting the gist, letting the water trickle down my throat this time. It helps. I lie there until I can pluck up the resolve to sit.

The big man growls as soon as I awkwardly move, using a single finger on my chest to force me back down. “Bheith fós.”

I scowl, though there’s more irritation than malice in his act. I’m not bound. I don’t think I’m a prisoner. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” A blank look in response. “Dydw i ddim yn deall?” I venture, trying Cymrian, which to my ear sounds the closest language I know to whatever this man is speaking. It doesn’t change his expression.

Before long I’ve dredged up enough wit to croak out the same thing in four other languages—including Vetusian, which I have the vaguest sense of having heard in that strange rotunda, though I can recall nothing of what was actually said to me through the shocked agony of those awful moments. None of it seems to make a dent, regardless. The stranger proffers the waterskin again. I accept gratefully. That, along with a sharp sea breeze, banishes any lingering mental fog. My breathing eases.

I move to rise again and this time, when the man goes to restrain me, I growl in response. He pulls his hand back in surprise, then barks a laugh and backs off.

After a brief, clumsy struggle into a seated position with my back propped up against the hull, I take stock. Our boat is small: barely twenty feet long and crudely constructed, just a single mast with a square white sail in its centre. Aside from the man I’ve been attempting to converse with, there are only two other occupants.

The second man watches me curiously from the tiller but offers no greeting. Like the first, he looks wild. Fierce. The same long red hair that seems caked with some sort of white substance, allowing them both to spike it high and back, stiff despite the breeze. The same swirling, elaborate blue marks on his naked torso, too. The symbols remind me more than a little of Eidhin’s tattoos, but these are thick and bright. Painted on.

The third stranger reclines near him at the other end of the boat, asleep. Across his chest lies a staff. Wooden and gnarled, intricate carvings that divide it into several distinct sections covering the rowan. Hard to see his features from this angle, but he’s swathed in a white cloak. I have a hazy memory of someone on the mountaintop, just before I passed out, wearing the same. That can’t be a coincidence.

I point. “I need to speak with him.” My vision swims; the staff seems almost like it’s glowing. I shouldn’t have sat up.

“Fos.” Tone and frowning demeanour indicate the answer well enough. I hazard an attempt to stand and immediately collapse back again, to the laughter of the two men. It’s an ugly sound, no sympathy in it.

I revise my earlier assessment. Perhaps I have no bonds because they are simply not needed.

“How did you get me past the Seawall? Where are you taking me?” I mutter it hazily and point forward this time, my gaze roving across the water. The swells sparkle blue. Lush green coastline rises to our right; we’re skirting the shore, though nothing’s familiar over there.

“Bhailcnoc,” says the man closest to me, guessing the query and gesturing in the same direction.

“Bhailcnoc,” I repeat. The name of our destination, perhaps. Or the word for “village,” maybe. Or “city.” Or “home.” Or gods-damned “where we’re going to kill you.” No way to tell.

My gaze drifts to the sleeping man and I consider yelling to stir him, but my initial spurt of energy upon waking has already dissipated. I’m suddenly, unbearably tired. The rocking motion of the boat is too sharp for the waves.

I lie down, to the evident satisfaction of the men watching me, and search again for the comfort of Emissa’s imagined company.

“ÉIRIGH SUAS.”

I groan at insistent prodding, and open my eyes. A perfect starlit sky sways above. Water still slaps wood. I do not know if only the one day has passed, or several.

I haul myself awkwardly into a seated position, almost slipping as I instinctively go to use my left arm. The man in the white cloak stares down at me, his staff retreating from where it was about to jab me once again. He’s approaching forty, slender where the other two are burly, his long red hair curling well past his shoulders rather than spiked up. A thick beard covers his chin. Blue eyes study me.

I recognise him.

“You … remember me? You … speak this language?” I address him hopefully, my ancient Vetusian more than a little rough, but surely good enough to recognise.

His brow furrows. “Cén teanga í sin?”

Vek. “There was a … white … place,” I say slowly, enunciating each word. “In the mountains. Snow. Two others. You … spoke?”

The man just frowns, glancing around at the other two as if to ask whether they understand any better. When he gets only shrugs, he sighs.

“Cian,” the white-clad stranger addresses me again, pointing to himself.

“Vis.” I poke myself feebly in the chest, swaying unsteadily with the motion of a larger wave. Still weak, and worse, without any natural sense of balance.

Cian sees it too and mutters something, digging behind him and producing what appears to be some salted fish along with a waterskin. My stomach growls. I accept both eagerly.

Cian chatters away blithely at me as I scoff down food and water, some semblance of strength returning with the sustenance. From the way the sound of his speech occasionally changes, he’s trying different languages on me. The other two men remain at the far end of the boat and seem to lose interest after a few minutes.

“Do not make words,” Cian says suddenly, so cheerfully and absentmindedly that I almost don’t register that I can understand him this time. “Danger.”

It takes all my self-control not to react. It’s that same awkward dialect of Vetusian. I keep chewing and continue to scan the coastline, not looking at him. The swells are tipped with faint silver. Lush hills rise ahead and to both sides; we’re in a bay, I realise, headed for what appears to be a collection of simple houses surrounded by a spiked wooden barricade. Wisps of cooking smoke drift above it into the faint promise of dawn. A rough jetty protrudes.

“Bhailcnoc,” I presume.

“We were to kill you at the island. I have delayed it. But not much.” A stream of some other tongue, delivered equally cheerfully, me still gazing ahead at our destination. From the corner of my eye, I see no sign of the other two men showing interest in us. “Tonight. Be ready. Cause no trouble before. Touch head if understand.”

I scratch my head absently, still looking out over the starlit water.

Cian throws up his hands in exasperation and calls something across to his companions, who chuckle. He wanders back across to them and engages in what sounds like casual conversation, disregarding me completely.

My mind races, pain and exhaustion and confusion all secondary now. I keep my expression curious, my stance relaxed, as the shore slides closer. I have no idea where I am or even how long we’ve been travelling, but I have an ally. First step is to get away. Worry about everything else later.

We dock, a lone sentry dressed in muted green hauling us in as we drift into the torchlight of the jetty. Cian alights first. His white cloak, I notice for the first time, has intricate green embroidery, interlocking whorls not dissimilar to those painted on the two warriors’ torsos. He offers me a hand as I rise unsteadily, and I accept the help onto solid ground. Balance is going to be an issue for a while, I think.

When I recover enough to set my feet, I have a spear levelled unwaveringly at my chest.

There’s some brief, animated discussion, the woman on guard evidently surprised by my presence, before she steps back and I’m being marched off the dock and past the spiny wooden barricades. The structures beyond are simple affairs, round with thatched straw roofs, the walls made from wattle and daub. The empty paths between them are little more than torchlit, muddy tracks. Where are we? I can’t place the style, and I can’t think of anywhere in the Republic that would be allowed to have kept their town’s defences, however rudimentary.

I stumble several times, a combination of imbalance and exhaustion, until I’m being guided into a windowless hut with a slot for a locking wooden beam across the door. The structure is supported by a single pole in its centre; a smouldering fire in a clay pot, set into the floor, illuminates benches covered with animal skins, but nothing else. I sit without invitation. My breath is short, vision swimming. Even this small exertion has been too much.

Cian watches my struggling, then says something to the two warriors. They eye me and leave, shutting the door behind them.

“They will return in moments.” His detached demeanour vanishes as soon as we are alone, his words barely breathed as he crouches in front of me, producing something from a small pouch on his belt. A vial, green liquid in it. “Drink.”

“What is it?” I whisper too, examining it warily.

“It will help you sleep. Deeply. You will feel restored when you wake.” He sees my lingering suspicion. “You are still weak. You cannot be so if you hope to escape tonight, and tonight is our only chance.”

I take the vial reluctantly. “Not sure I need help sleeping,” I mutter to myself in weary Common, and then, “Why do these men … want … kill me?” Far easier to translate than to dredge the right Vetusian for my own speech, unfortunately.

“Not these. The ones on their way. Ruarc and the Grove.” He hesitates. Eyes meeting mine. “They fear you, Traveller.” A half question hidden in the answer, I think, but there’s a call from outside and Cian flinches before I can say anything.

“Drink. Now,” he urges again.

A hundred more questions bubble through my weariness. The names he just mentioned mean nothing to me; I want to know who they are, where I am, what in all the hells happened to my gods-damned arm in the Labyrinth. But there’s no denying the urgency in Cian’s voice, and for all my confusion, he does seem genuine in his concern for my safety.

“When we are free, I am to take you to meet someone. I do not have their name, but I am told they will be known to you. Will speak your tongue,” the white-cloaked man adds quickly, seeing my doubts. “They will explain all.”

It’s the mixture of determination and reassurance in his blue eyes, I think, more than the sudden hope of the words. I grimly down the green concoction in one swift motion, almost choking at the bitter taste, and hand the vial back.

The door bangs opens a heartbeat later and Cian tucks the empty bottle away, unseen by the warriors at the entrance, before turning to them. “Fós aon rud,” he growls, shooting me an irritable look. “Ná lig aon duine isteach nó amach go dtí anocht.” The latter is an instruction of some kind, I think.

The two men step aside to let him by, Cian leaving without a backward glance. The door shuts.

There’s the heavy thud of the beam outside being dropped into place, and I am alone.

III

DEATH IS A DOORWAY.

It’s echoed too many times, in the day that has passed since I woke in the Academy’s infirmary. My father’s words. The vain comfort of a ghost.

And yet as I silently join the crowd of mourners, fingers brushing against the shape of the wooden ship in my satchel, I cannot help but ponder it once more. Cannot help but wonder again at whether his spectre really was—impossibly—more than just a conjuring of my fevered, melancholy mind.

Here and now, I have never so desperately wanted to believe something was true.

The jagged crest of the Necropolis stands tall in the west, blotting out the setting sun. Hundreds of us gather, hushed, around a pyre. It is a symbol only. Callidus’s body is already interred in the Ericius crypt. When I arrived a few hours ago, I asked to see my friend, one last time. I was told no.

Grief, thick and heavy, threatens to choke me as I stare through the crowd into the flames. I swallow it down.

“Are you going to be alright?” The burly redheaded boy standing next to me murmurs it in Cymrian. He doesn’t look in my direction, but I know he’s seen the way I occasionally sway unsteadily.

“Yes.”

Eidhin grunts. He’s one of the few not casting furtive glances at me, despite us keeping to the back and arriving unheralded. We’ve been elsewhere in Agerus since disembarking the Transvect from the Academy, just sitting and talking in the spring sun, delaying our arrival at Callidus’s rites until the last possible moment. My suggestion. Many of those present will want to speak with me about the Iudicium, but I am here to mourn my friend. Their questions can wait.

“You look like you are about to fall over.”

“Trick of the eye. Not as symmetrical as I used to be.” Flickering orange highlights the dangling, empty left sleeve of my tunic. Quips are my best defence against the hollowness of that particular loss. It still hurts. Still feels like it’s there, half the time.

Up front, silhouetted against the flames, the priest gets everyone’s attention. His voice rings out in the cold.

He makes a solemn libation of wine, and begins my friend’s funeral.

I listen despite how empty it makes me feel, aching as I wonder what Callidus would have thought of all this. There are so many people here. How many knew him? A lot are patricians, judging from their clothes—older men and women, probably a mix of Governance senators and wealthy clients of the Ericius family. Plenty of them simply eager to show support for Magnus Tertius Ericius, no doubt.

The Magnus himself stands at the front next to his wife, head bowed, his two daughters—both younger than Callidus—veiled by his side. I can see Veridius on the other side of the pyre too, a gaggle of sombre and pale-faced students alongside him. Indol, Iro, Aequa. Emissa. The latter catches my examination through the flames. I look away before she can react.

It’s not long before the priest gives way to the Tertius. It’s the first time I get a good look at the man to whom I’ve tied my fate. He’s slender, on the shorter side of average height. Walks with a pronounced limp. Still, even from here power radiates from him. As he turns to face the onlookers, I can see Callidus all too clearly in his angular features and quick brown eyes.

He starts talking of his lost son, so softly that I strain to hear him. Stories from years ago, mostly. Halfway through, he falters and chokes to a stop. Looks away as a chorus of sniffs and sobs fill the abrupt silence. I feel tears welling in response. I know Catenan funerals are seen by some as opportunities to flaunt their grief, a way to advertise the pious bereavement expected of patricians, but I don’t think this is an affectation.

I see only a father up there, still barely countenancing the idea that the son he loved is truly gone.

The Magnus Tertius soon recovers. Finishes. There’s no suggestion in his speech of downplaying Callidus’s importance to his family, nor any hint of embarrassment that he was only a Seventh in the Academy. It’s as expected, but I’m still glad, and not just for Callidus’s memory. If the Censor had moved to distance himself from his son, my hurried reasoning for getting myself assigned to him would be moot.

After him, others speak. A litany of earnest praise, half of which manages to compliment the Tertius as much as my brave, dead friend. Callidus would have found the sycophancy of it all hilarious.

The tributes continue until the last of the light has leaked from the sky. There’s a short procession to the base of the Necropolis, a few final solemn words from the priest.

And then it’s over.

I stand there for a while with Eidhin. Unspeaking. Not really knowing what to do, now. The crowd mills, a sea of low, restrained murmurs surrounding us. Many wait patiently to give their sympathies to Magnus Ericius’s family. I wonder how many just want to ensure that their presence here today is properly noted.

“Vis?”

I flinch at the voice. Turn to find Veridius standing a few paces away, his dark toga blending with the shadows. Alone, thankfully. His dirty-blond hair is, for once, neatly brushed. We haven’t spoken since he left the Academy yesterday—not since I chose to be assigned to Governance, rather than accept his offer to join him in Religion. Not since he claimed that he was trying to prevent another Cataclysm.

“Principalis.”

Veridius answers my cool greeting with a worried smile. His blue eyes are so full of concern, I can almost believe it’s real. “It seems I need to have a word with Ulnius when I get back. You shouldn’t be on your feet yet, let alone here.”

“He told me the same thing. Argued with me about it all the way to the Transvect.” Ulnius could have forced the issue—it would have been easy for him to involve the guards—but the Academy’s physician knew why I was leaving, and is a better man than that. A better man than Veridius. “I have already arranged for a physician to meet me tomorrow in Caten.” Something Ulnius did insist upon, before my departure. “I’m fine.”

“That is wonderful to hear, Vis. Such a rapid recovery is a good sign.” No trace of cynicism from the Principalis. No sign of frustration that I’ve released myself from his care. Just that genuine, caring attitude that I still find hard to believe is completely an act, even with all I know. “I am so pleased that—”

“What do you want, Veridius?” I imbue his name with impatient weariness. I’m no longer a student and in no mood for façades.

Veridius frowns briefly, then sighs and turns to Eidhin. “My apologies, Eidhin. Would you mind if I had a moment alone with him?”

My friend glances at me. “Would I?” He asks it in Common, unconcerned that the Principalis can hear. I’ve been vague about what happened during the Iudicium—partly because I’m not sure how much to tell him yet, and partly because I’m just not ready to talk about it—but he knows I blame Veridius for at least some of it.

“This won’t take long,” I assure him grimly.

Once Eidhin has moved out of earshot, Veridius steps closer. Lowers his voice, though no one is nearby. “Have you thought about what I said yesterday?” No mistaking what he’s referring to. Between that and the wooden toy ship left by my bed, I’ve thought of little else.

“I said I’d listen to what you had to say, when I was ready.” I fight a wave of light-headedness. “It’s been one day.”

“And I thought you would be bed-ridden for considerably longer than that.” Calm and smooth, his sombre-but-compassionate expression unchanging. To any onlookers, simply a mentor consoling his former student. “Your life will be in danger the moment you reach Caten. I’m trying to stop what’s coming, but there are others who I believe very much want the opposite—and if they learn of your existence, you will not be safe.” He holds my gaze. Trying to impress upon me the seriousness of what he’s saying.

“Then you and I will have to make sure we don’t tell anyone.”

“That’s not …” He exhales. “I cannot imagine what you are going through, Vis. I can’t. But I beg of you—don’t let your pain blind you to what’s really going on. You have questions, I have answers, and gods know you’re smart enough to know that you need them. When you’re ready, send word. I will arrange a Transvect to Solivagus from wherever you need.”

I press down the desire to respond with another glib comment, and nod sharply.

As much as it stings, he’s not wrong.

“Good.” Nothing visible, but there’s a release of latent tension in the softly spoken word. Veridius glances around, looks about to finish the conversation, then hesitates. “While we are talking—your friends. They have been worried about you.”

I gesture to the empty space around us. “Evidently.”

“They were desperate to come over the moment the ceremony finished,” the Principalis admonishes. “I asked them not to. I thought, today of all days, it might be more overwhelming than helpful. But if I am wrong about that, I can let them know.”

I stare at him. Not sure how to respond. He’s right. I’m not ready. Not ready to face their sympathy. Not ready for Indol’s questions. Not ready to hear why Aequa didn’t make it to Callidus at the Iudicium. And as far as Emissa is concerned … vek. Every time I think of her, I don’t even know what emotion I’m having. It’s all such a mess.

I hate that Veridius understands that, though.

“Tell them I’ll find them in Caten,” I mutter.

“I will. Don’t underestimate the tensions there right now, though. Divisions are deepening. From what I hear, you may find it awkward to speak privately with anyone outside of Governance.” Veridius smiles soberly, touching my good shoulder. Still maintaining that perfect, caring façade. “Be well, Vis. And truly—be careful in Caten, and don’t take too long to find me again. We need to start trusting each other.” He turns to leave.

My anger, stoked but suppressed until his last sentence, flares. I can’t help myself. Trust.

“Tell me, Principalis,” I call after him. “Did you go to Belli’s funeral, too?”

Veridius stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “I went to all of them, Vis.” Doesn’t look back. “I wept at all of them.”

He walks away.

Eidhin joins me again as I stare after him, my fury dying as quickly as it came, leaving only a confused smouldering. If Veridius truly is trying to stop a new Cataclysm, should I even be angry with him? I’m not sure I know anymore.

The burly boy next to me follows my gaze. There’s silence between us amidst the murmuring of the other mourners.

“He offered to free me from my father’s agreement,” he eventually says in quiet Cymrian.

I glance at him. My anger lost. Sure I’m misinterpreting, somehow.

“He said he had already gained permission. That I could have it in writing, with the Princeps’s seal,” continues Eidhin. His voice is uncharacteristically strained, brow furrowed as he watches the Principalis vanish into the crowd. “All I had to do was win the Iudicium on my own, and my people’s fate would no longer be tied to my obedience. I could do whatever I wished, and there would be no consequences for them. No Sappers.”

He finally looks across at me. “I thought the temptation would be too much. So I said no. And now our friend is dead.” Blue eyes reflect firelight and deep, deep sorrow. “I once told you that it is how they change you. One compromise at a time. That every man has to find his line, and never cross it. Do you still believe that?”

I’m still trying to formulate a response when there’s movement off to my left, and a young man I don’t recognise materialises from the darkness.

“Hail, Catenicus.” His tinted glasses, despite the night surrounding us, mark him as at least a Sextus. He’s either unaware he’s interrupting, or doesn’t care. “The Magnus Tertius wishes to speak with you.” He wheels and walks off, the implication clearly that I’m to follow.

Eidhin glowers at the retreating man, then sighs. “It is alright. Go. We can continue this later.”

I don’t move, still struggling with the enormity of what he’s just told me. I know exactly how much the Hierarchy’s agreement with Eidhin’s father weighs on my friend. Can only imagine the pull Veridius’s offer must have had.

I half turn to leave, then change my mind. Step forward and embrace Eidhin around his thick neck with my one good arm, leaning close.

“Never let them change you, Eidhin. Never. You are more honourable, more of a friend, than any man could hope for,” I whisper fiercely in his ear. “And Callidus would tell you the same.”

I release my grip on him and, without waiting for a response, hurry after the Tertius’s messenger.

The man with the tinted glasses leads me wordlessly away from the subdued crowd and the Necropolis, following the line of one of the carefully tended Eternal Fires that illuminate the valley. We’re not going to the Ericius crypt, then. Part of me had still hoped to see Callidus, one last time.

I try not to dwell on that and use the journey to settle, to clear my mind. It’s not why I’m here, but I thought this might happen tonight.

We walk for a full minute, leaving the susurrus of mourners behind. The fire to our left crackles against the silence as it allays some of the evening’s encroaching chill. Tall, shaped cypresses line the path on the right. The outlines of myriad tombstones lie beyond.

Then we turn abruptly between two trees. Stars alone light our path. Gravel crunches underfoot. My eyes adjust and, just before I can uneasily question where we’re going, I see the Magnus Tertius ahead. Sitting on a bench, surroundings unlit. Staring into the night. Even at a distance, that indefinable sense of power emanates from him.

He stands when he notes our approach. He looks young for his age. In the moment, in the dim, I almost think I see my friend.

The Magnus glances at the man who led me here, who takes it as a dismissal.

“So. Here we are, Catenicus.” Callidus’s father only speaks once we’re alone. Up close, I can see dark stubble covering his jawline. Helpless exhaustion in his eyes. Even the might of a Tertius is tempered by the haunted aspect of a man grieving.

“Magnus Ericius. It’s an honour.” Hierarchy Censor or not, I almost mean it. Callidus spoke well of his father. “And … your son. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. He was a good friend.” A quaver in my voice at that last part, despite myself. I cover it with a rough cough.

“So I am told.” Sombre, but clipped. Not here for courtesies, however heartfelt. “Tell me. Is that why you’ve decided to cause me so much trouble?”

“Sir?”

“Let us be honest with each other, Catenicus. Let us speak our truths here in the shadows while we still can. Your joining us in Governance is a coup. A coup that comes at a time when relations between Governance and Military are unsettlingly fragile. A coup that, as far as I can tell, we did not instigate.” Magnus Ericius’s expression is hard. “You are a Telimus. Catenicus. Domitor of the Academy. Military would have given you any post you asked for, and yet I can assure you that with us, you will start with no special privileges. You gain nothing and lose much by doing this. So if you have any interest in trust, any interest in advancement, then you need to tell me now—why, exactly, are we having this conversation?”

I allow my brow to furrow. Don’t answer for a long few seconds. Not because I’m surprised—I knew this, or something like this, would be coming. My answers are prepared. But it’s still better if I seem taken aback.

Eventually, I meet the Tertius’s gaze. “Because I want to know why Callidus died. And I want to make sure whoever is responsible for it, pays.”

It’s subtle, but Magnus Ericius’s gaze sharpens. “If you wished to pursue the Anguis, surely Military would have been your best option,” he says carefully.

“Yes.”

Callidus’s father studies me, then nods. Understanding in the motion. I don’t believe the Anguis are responsible for the Iudicium, at least not solely.

From his reaction, neither does he.

Interesting.

His hands are clasped behind his back. He wears his pain openly as he considers the stark white tombstones stretching away across the valley. “They tell me you were with him, at the end.”

I swallow. “I was.” My friend suddenly in my arms again, bloody and broken. Struggling for every breath. And then not.

“They say you carried him. All the way back to the Academy.” He finally looks across at me. Gaze drifting to my left side.

“He was my friend,” I remind him softly. My voice does crack, this time.

The Censor’s face twists and he glances away again, reflecting my grief. A display of vulnerability, however brief, that’s dissonant with the unnatural strength radiating from him.

“You should know as well, sir,” I recover enough to press on. “He was only in Class Seven because he was being coerced. He made a mistake, trusted one of the other students—Belli Volenis—with Census documents that showed all the recent deaths in the Iudicium. He was trying to protect her. She took them and told him that if he didn’t drop down to Seven, she would hand them over to her father.” I take a breath. “She died in the Iudicium, and the documents are safe; he got them back a month or two ago. It was just too late to improve his standing. He … he really wanted you to know.”

Tertius Ericius squeezes his eyes shut. “When he slipped so far, so quickly, I assumed there was a reason. A good reason. And if there wasn’t, that he needed a firm reminder that he was capable of more.” He shakes his head. “But I shouldn’t have told him not to join us for the Festival of the Ancestors. I wanted him to come so that I could ask what was going on, but in the end …” His face twists. Regretting past decisions. Mourning time lost that he can never get back.

Then he eyes me. Suddenly suspicious. “And the documents?”

“Still at the Academy, but safe. Hidden. As soon as I can get to them again, I’ll return them to you. No matter what happens between us. You have my word.”

“Just like that?”

“I told him I would.”

He studies me. Brow furrowed, as if I’m a puzzle to be solved.

“They’re going to isolate you, Catenicus. Wall you off from anyone and anything to do with the Iudicium, or Military, or Religion. As well as any easy access to our high-ranking senators. Including me.” He glances around. Alone though we appear to be, we both know this is too dangerous a conversation to have out here. “I understand your aims now, I think. I would like to support them. But it would be difficult to do that for a Sextus.”

Unease settles in my stomach as I absorb the implication. “Sir?” Graduating the Academy as Domitor traditionally should make me a Quintus, with everyone else from Class Three in line for a similar promotion within the next couple of years.

“You will be publicly honoured, of course. Feted for your heroism and sacrifice, as well as your achievement. Well provided for.” The Tertius says it with matter-of-fact calm. “But quite aside from their suspicion, there are many in Governance who wonder how your reduced physical capacity will affect your ability to wield Will. You will be asked to go through Placement, the same as everyone else.”

I don’t say anything for a few seconds, expression carefully neutral. Every Academy graduate has their ability to use Will assessed before being assigned to a pyramid. It’s an important process for most, a baseline measure of talent that is considered an indicator of how far one can rise in the Hierarchy.

But, we were always told, a formality as far as our initial ranks are supposed to be distributed. I’ve barely given it a thought.

Sextus rather than Quintus. Far, far easier to push me to the side. Ignore me.

I’m to be frozen out. Symbolic. Governance in name alone.

“But there is a Quintus position to be had.” Tone calm, assertive and confident. Showing none of my roiling horror at the thought. At the realisation that my injury may yet take even more from me.

“And you are still Domitor,” Tertius Ericius agrees easily. “Continue to rank highly among your peers, and none will have reason to suggest you should be given anything less than what you have earned over the past year.”

His gaze settles on me again. Meaningful.

The issue is that my missing arm is a problem. There is a physicality to wielding Will. We’ve been taught over and over that the more hale the body, the easier it becomes. And, naturally, the inverse.

The Tertius moves on. “I cannot linger, but I am glad to have met you here tonight. Thank you for what you’ve told me, Catenicus. I see now why my son called you friend. Know that you have at least one more in Caten.” He dips his head in farewell, respect in both words and motion. “Stronger together. I look forward to speaking more, once you have been through your ceremony.” He starts with a brisk, ungainly gait back along the path toward the distant Eternal Fire.

“Ceremony, sir?” I call after him.

He throws a puzzled glance over his shoulder. “At the Aurora Columnae? You cannot go through Placement if you can’t use Will, Catenicus.” He chuckles humourlessly at the absurdity of the notion as he turns away again.

I watch him limp back toward the fires, the night cold around me, air smelling faintly of smoke. Of course. I hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but these past few hours had pushed it to the back of my mind. The giving up of the one part of me I’ve kept sacred, all this time. The last, irrevocable step in my becoming part of the Hierarchy.

The line I swore I would never cross.

Stars glimmer above the shadowy mountains. Only the silence of the dead keeps me company. I could still disappear. Right here, right now. Just … not go back. It’s probably my last chance.

But like every other time I’ve had the thought since waking yesterday, I know it’s a choice in name only. I’m done with running.

I square my shoulders. Set myself toward the looming black of the Necropolis.

Follow the Magnus Tertius into the darkness.

IV

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT WAKING FOR THE FIRST time after everything you know has fallen apart. A few beats of blissful, dark ignorance, the amnesia of sleep still in effect. Then the creeping memory of there being something wrong, though the specifics escape you. Confusion and denial as your mind searches unwillingly, hoping to find nothing, but deep down, knowing. Knowing.

Then it all floods back. Shock as you lie there, trying to convince yourself that it was the conjuring of a restless night rather than memory. And finally, the demoralisation of acceptance. The gut-punch of reality.

The understanding that you rise to face a new and uncertain normal, today.

It is dark, wherever I am. Almost pitch-black. The last thing I remember is standing with Caeror just beyond the lip of that crater, triangular glass archway in front, light pulsing beneath us. It all feels like one long nightmare, everything from the Labyrinth up until that moment. But I know it wasn’t. I know. The air is still slightly too sharp in every breath. I can feel the cold stone of the Vitaerium against my arm.

“Vis.” The voice that woke me is closer, and suddenly there’s a hand on my shoulder.

“Caeror?”

“Sorry to wake you early, but I really need you to come with me.”

I lever myself up and scrub my eyes with my palms before squinting blearily around at the gloom. It’s a fairly small space; I can just make out the rough walls ten feet away to my left and right, illuminated by the slightest trace of light filtering through an entrance demarcated by two pillars. A shelf to one side, the vague outline of pottery and small figurines. I can perceive markings covering the walls, too. Pictures of some kind, though I can’t discern the details.

“Where are we?” My stomach growls. The air in here is warm; my tattered clothes from the Iudicium are gone, replaced by only a coarse, knee-length linen skirt. Otherwise, I’m barefoot and bare-chested, the scarab amulet strapped to my arm my only other adornment. “Gods. Early? How long have I been asleep?”

“Qabr, and long enough. Let’s call it a week.”

“A week?” I stagger to my feet, and Caeror’s silhouette quickly braces me before I fall. Muscles stiff, which is unsurprising given what I’ve just been told.

“That device we used to get here is called a Channel. It’s safe and it’s fast, but it shuts down your mind for the journey. You need a … fairly long rest, after.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“Oh, I definitely did.” His cheerfulness echoes through the dark. “Come on. We can talk more on the way.”

My eyes are adjusting a little now; I let Caeror guide me forward, toward the glimmer of light and past the two pillars—square columns, strange paintings of people and animals covering them—guarding the entrance.

I stumble to a stop.

“Qabr,” says Caeror, spreading his hands in an overly grand gesture at what lies before us.

The crevasse into which we’ve emerged is enormous. From where I stand it’s a hundred feet down to the ground and at least that distance again higher, the roof eventually narrowing into snaking fissures and cracks that barely allow for the feeble hints of day seeping inside. The opposite wall is less than fifty feet away, revealing a dozen levels of carved walkways and stairs and hundreds of shadowed, painted entrances. All of which, as far as I can tell, are roughly mirrored on this side.

The line of crypts stretches out to the left and right for as far as I can see, vanishing into the dim. There are no torches, no lanterns or lights to relieve the unrelenting gloom.

I turn. Peer back into the dark from which we’ve just emerged. “You put me in a tomb?”

“It’s a very nice tomb. One of our nicest,” Caeror assures me, nudging me to a start along the walkway. He’s dressed similarly to me, though a thin black blade hangs at his waist. “I don’t think there was even a body in there.”

I stare at him, and he grins.

“You get used to it. Sleeping in there and … everything else, around here.” He leads me onward, and I hear faint snatches of what sounds like tense conversation somewhere ahead. “Qabr is what the locals call this stretch of crypts. But more generally, back home, we’d say we’re somewhere in eastern Nyripk.”

I trail him dazedly down a narrowly carved set of stairs until we reach the rocky chasm floor. Nyripk. As north as it gets. More than six thousand miles from Solivagus.

We draw closer to the voices ahead, some of which are clearly raised in argument. At first I think they’re speaking a language unknown to me, but eventually I start to pick out words. It’s Vetusian. A form of it, anyway. Thickly accented and filled with parts that don’t sound right at all, but I can grasp a little as I slow and try to focus on the conversation. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet. But if it’s what I suspect, I’m going to need to go outside. Which means that you should come with me because the Qabrans are …” He sighs. “Let’s just say they take a while to warm to outsiders.”

“Alright,” I say uneasily.

The murk ahead clears enough to reveal the shapes of at least a dozen men and women crowded around something. The debate between them is hushed, but no mistaking the strain of anxiety to it. They as one wear loincloth-like skirts similar to mine, scarab amulets attached firmly around their throats by thin collars, and nothing else.

I avert my gaze, flushing slightly. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Keep your hands by your side. It’s important they can see your chest. Do you know any Vetusian?”

“A little.”

“That’s good, but don’t try and communicate with them unless you think you have to. They won’t take kindly to it. Wait here.” He slows, just for a second, as he looks across at me. “And … just … don’t panic, alright?”

He bares his teeth in a rueful grimace and before I have a chance to respond to the worrying request, hurries forward.

My eyes are beginning to adapt; even in the dim I can see the stares of the crowd as they notice Caeror’s approach and then, one by one, me. The worried chattering stops. Stony, nervous faces are fixed in my direction. Several of the group hold edged weapons tightly at their sides.

On the ground in their midst is an entirely naked man, the only one unmoving. Sightless eyes are fixed on the distant cracks of light above. A massive dark smear stains his chest.

“Did you see it?” Caeror’s Vetusian snaps out, breaking the stillness and drawing the crowd’s attention back to him. He appears to be in charge, or at least an authority when it comes to whatever has happened here.

“He was running. Near side of Duat, in the valley. We don’t know where to, but he must have come from the city.” The reply is from a younger man. Thin, hard eyes and a wispy beard. Not more than a few years older than me. “The Gleaner chased him down, used its blades, and left him. That means he gave it something important.”

“Or that he’s infected. They know we watch that area.” Caeror’s statement is greeted with a mutter of agreement. “How long has he been dead?”

“Almost three hours.” The man holds up a scarab medallion, just like the ones we’re all wearing. “We found his khepri discarded nearby, but we didn’t want to risk putting it back on.”

Caeror’s grimace is barely visible. “It was the right choice. We don’t have enough time to move him again, though, and we don’t know anything about him. I think it’s too dangerous.”

A rumble of disagreement. “We need another purgatius.”

Caeror doesn’t like it, but seems to relent. “Have the Gleaners started a sweep?”

“Not that we saw.”

As the conversation has progressed, I’ve been intensely aware of people’s gazes darting at me. Faces sunburned and dirty, bodies uncomfortably thin. I remember Caeror’s warning, and though I don’t understand it, keep my hands by my sides.

Ulciscor’s brother acknowledges the young man’s statement, waving aside the nearest of the crowd and kneeling by the corpse. He draws a strip of cloth from his pocket and binds the body’s wrists together behind its back. Gently, but he checks the strength of the knot three times. Then he uses another strip to form a blindfold over its sightless eyes.

Once he’s done, Caeror breathes deep and places his hand on the corpse’s forehead. His face is a mask of concentration.

His eyes flood to black.

With a rasping gasp, the dead man sits up.

V

“SO,” CALLS CAEROR OVER HIS SHOULDER WITH WHAT I am quickly coming to recognise as his default good humour. “Impressed, or terrified?”

It’s been minutes since he somehow brought the corpse back to life. Minutes since he argued, almost violently, with the others before hurriedly fetching light cloaks for himself and me, and marching us away. Since then, we’ve been walking the gloom of the chasm floor, me paces behind, after Caeror apologetically insisted he first had to speak to the dead man. They’ve been conversing in hushed Vetusian, whispers consumed by the hundreds upon hundreds of shadowed tombs we’ve passed, ever since.

“Can I be both?”

“I’ll allow it.” He continues to steer his prisoner gently. The massive glistening blotch over the man’s chest is mirrored, dark and thick, on his back. Red-black dribbles trace lines from it almost to his waist. He seems completely unaffected by what should clearly be a mortal wound.

“He was dead,” I observe eventually.

“Djedef here is dead.” He says it sincerely, no trace of humour this time. “They’re called iunctii. They don’t need to eat, or sleep, or breathe. They don’t age or bleed. They do still remember who they were, feel things the same as you and I—but they cannot do it without the Will of the person who brought them back.”

“Oh.” I don’t really know how else to respond. Gaze around again as I collect my thoughts. Qabr is reminiscent of the Necropolis in a lot of ways. Not maintained, though. Far less grand. The painted images are faded and cracked. Some entrances have carved symbols above them but more than a few of those have been scratched off, completely defaced. Where they have not, I can see the script is rudimentary, functional more than artistic. “So that was Will. Gods. When you said its effects were different, here …” I laugh awkwardly. Still not really believing what I’m implying.

“I know. It’s hard to grasp, at first.” Caeror’s sympathetic response confirms it anyway. “Mechanically, everything works the same as on Res—ceding, self-imbuing and imbuing. Except that back home, you imbue in order to strengthen and manipulate. Here, you do it to restore and sustain. In this case, as long as you can give enough Will to account for someone’s injury—and little enough time’s passed that their mind is still intact—they wake up a iunctus.”

He delivers it simply and mildly. I reel regardless. “So it heals them?” I look again amidst all the blood smeared across Djedef’s skin. There is a wound there. Pulled tight, closed. But still visible. Still raw.

“No. If I take my Will back, the injury that killed Djedef will open again. It’s compensating for what’s wrong with him, not fixing it. Think of it as giving his body the ability to ignore the injury. And only barely doing that, in this case,” he adds softly. “I didn’t have much to spare. He’s not showing it, but he must be in great pain.”

Djedef says something I don’t catch, and Caeror gives him an affirming squeeze on the shoulder. “I should talk to him some more. He’s a little disoriented.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Caeror grins back at me. “Arguably not quite the same, though.”

I accede with a reluctant chuckle. Uneasy though I am and grim though this place is, Caeror’s amiable energy is hard not to find reassuring.

I almost say nothing more, but my gaze drifts to Djedef’s bindings, and I find myself asking before I can help myself. “Is he dangerous?”

Caeror’s smile dims. He examines the blindfolded man as if trying to make a decision.

“I hope not,” he says eventually. “That’s why we’re going outside. There’s a way to find out, but we can’t do it in here.”

Caeror resumes his conversation with Djedef after that. Low and gentle, still mostly inaudible to me. I catch snippets as Djedef talks about his life, his family. Some sort of escape. There’s sadness in the man’s voice, and I hear it crack more than once. Whatever he’s saying, it seems personal enough that I find myself trying not to listen too closely, despite my curiosity.

The crevasse has begun to taper and finally, ahead, its rocky end emerges from the dim. Caeror doesn’t pause, pushing forward until it’s almost too narrow to continue. Then he crouches.

“In here,” he tells me, indicating the barely waist-high opening.

I stare at the hole. So small and lost in shadow I’m not sure I would have even noticed it on my own. “How is he going to get through?” I ask, indicating Djedef.

“He’ll have to shuffle on his knees. We’ll take it slow.” He murmurs something to the man in Vetusian, then ushers him forward, helping him kneel before he hits his head on the stone. I crouch, peering in after him. His awkwardly shambling progress is quickly lost to the utter pitch of the tunnel.

“Other than the Channel, it’s the only way out of Qabr.” Caeror’s seen my expression, makes the explanation understandingly before kneeling and disappearing after the dead man. Clearly expecting me to follow, no matter my misgivings.

I wait a few seconds longer. Not fearful, exactly. The last time I was in a tunnel this tight was more than four years ago, and it was underwater the entire way.

My little sister’s ghost blurs my vision. Gods. I haven’t thought about her in so long. I haven’t remembered her nearly enough.

“Vis?” Caeror’s voice, muffled and twisted.

I swallow the moment of melancholy, kneel, and crawl after him into the dark.

WE INCH THROUGH THE ABSOLUTE BLACK FOR MINUTES, me feeling my way forward and following the sound of Caeror’s sliding and scrabbling. The tunnel is never so low we have to drop to our stomachs, but several times my head painfully grazes rough rock. Caeror warns me of any sharp changes in direction in a calm, clear voice. Accustomed to this journey, I suspect.

It’s no small relief when I realise I can see the outline of my hands in front of me; a minute later and we’re scrambling out through the crevices and crags of a low cave. Strong, natural light floods the entrance, and I drink in the sight of it greedily. The cloying, burning air, which I’ve largely adapted to, is noticeably worse up here. Immediately harsher and thicker. But in the familiarity of what I’m seeing, the relative normalcy of it, the sting is a minor inconvenience.

“Alright.” Caeror exhales it in Common, extending a hand and helping me through the last narrow section. Djedef is already standing out in the sunlight ahead. I squint and shield my eyes as I emerge into the blinding white. Ulciscor’s brother waits until I’ve straightened, and then hands me a long, heavy robe that was stowed between some rocks. “We’re going to walk in single file now. Spread this out and drag it behind us. We both need to watch the skies, too. Same as Solivagus. You see movement, you tell me.”

I almost don’t hear him. The midday sun pounds down upon an ocean of white sand. A hot, dry wind sweeps along the dunes of the desert that stretches away before us. My bare skin is immediately, uncomfortably aware of the heat. It’s not even close to an embrace in the way it used to be on Suus during the summers. This is an assault. Dry, and harsh, and instantly unpleasant.

In the distance, in a valley below that’s cut in two by the glitter of a snaking river, lies a massive black pyramid that glints and glimmers and wavers in the heat.

“That’s Duat,” Caeror says quietly, following my gaze. “It’s a Concurrence city.”

“I’ve seen it before.” I stare at the pyramid, reluctantly examining the memory. Increasingly certain.

“I doubt it.”

“No. I’m sure.” Those surreal moments at the naumachia are engraved on my mind. Stylus to Estevan’s throat. “Not this exactly. But there was a pyramid just like that one. A bridge across the entire harbour with statues along it. And the waves were enormous. Like they were at Solivagus.” The last realisation only comes to me as I say it.

A surprised silence. “There is another city where Caten would be. Similar to Duat. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard it described.” He casts an uncertain glance at the pyramid in the distance, then back at me. “Where did you see this?”

“It was just a glimpse. I was caught in an attack by the Anguis, last year. They had some strange weapon, and the air started to vibrate and I … I saw it.” I keep the details vague. Now the connection’s been made, I don’t want to think about it any further.

Caeror studies me. Wanting to know more, I suspect, but he can see my reluctance. “I’d like to hear the details later, if you’re willing,” he says gently. “For now, though, I’m guessing you have a few more questions of your own?”

“Just a few,” I agree wryly, grateful for the chance to move on. My gaze switches to Djedef as we start along the sand, Caeror guiding him once more. “You said you imbued him, to bring him back.”

“That’s right.”

“But … gods. What happens if you lose sight of him?” Keeping an object imbued means maintaining an accurate mental image of its form: slight deviations can be accounted for, but larger changes need to be observed to keep the imbuing. The constantly shifting profile of a human body would surely fall into the latter category.

“Nothing. The iunctus’s mind takes over much of the cognition load. They maintain it internally.”

I wipe a bead of sweat away, already flagging beneath the unrelenting roasting of the day. Sand cascades in small white waves from our footsteps as we crest a dune and start picking our way down the other side, hiding the valley and black pyramid behind us. “But … it’s your Will,” I say eventually, making my confusion plain. That’s one of the cornerstones of imbuing: only the imbuer can control it.

“And it stays that way—you can always take it back through physical contact, and if you die, it dies with you—in those respects, it’s just like back home. But here, once Will is imbued outside your own body, it can be … meshed, I suppose, with someone else’s. Like adding it to a common pool. ‘Adoption,’ my mentor used to call it.” He sees my disbelieving expression. “I know, but remember what I told you about the Rending? You have to understand that things are fundamentally different here. Take that Vitaerium on your arm as an example. If you were in the Academy, then you must have studied them. You’d know that nobody has any real idea how they work. And why is that?”

I chew my lip. “Because Will shouldn’t be able to directly affect a living person.” I say it slowly. A reluctant concession. “Their body’s already controlled by their own Will, so it should be impossible to imbue them … you’re saying that Vitaeria come from this world? That we’re being imbued right now?”

“All Vitaeria were created by someone using Obiteum’s form of Will, at least. And yes. We’re being imbued. It’s how our lungs are being preserved against the air out here.”

I feel sick. Resist the urge to pull the gods-damned scarab off my suddenly itching skin. “Where’s the Will coming from?”

Caeror grunts. “That is a good question. If you ever find out, let me know.” He twists to look back at me, nodding apologetically to my uncomfortable expression. “I don’t like it much either, Vis, but the people out here know almost nothing about all this. These amulets let them survive, but they believe it’s the favour of the gods. They don’t like being told otherwise, either. Trust me.” He turns back, steadying Djedef again as we start another plodding descent. “The good news is that these Vitaeria we’re wearing are stronger than the ones back home—and thanks to Adoption, the excess doesn’t have to go to waste. They make us somewhere between a Septimus and Sextus, from what I’ve been able to tell. You could self-imbue right now, if you’re getting tired.”

He means it as a comfort. I’m glad he can’t see my face. “I haven’t even been through the Aurora Columnae.” A protest, albeit a weak one.

“Actually, you have, now—the Gate on Solivagus is a kind of extension of them. That’s why it won’t work on anyone who’s already been through the ceremony.”

Only the slow crunching of our laboured footsteps and the chasing swish of my erasing them. Fine white sand flows over my exposed toes as I trudge, too hot where it touches. Barely noticeable next to the sick, slinking feeling as I again resist the urge to rip off the amulet on my arm. I’ve worked all my life to avoid Will. I’m not ceding, not part of one of the Hierarchy’s pyramids. But it doesn’t feel right, either.

Vek.

I walk in silence for a while, Caeror letting me digest the information as he murmurs the occasional reassurance to Djedef. Eventually, though, we reach the bottom of yet another dune and he slows. Looks around and then stops, bringing Djedef to a halt as well. “This is far enough.”

“For what?” I frown around. Bleached waves tower in each direction, concealing everything of note from view. We’ve barely walked fifteen minutes from the cave. “Why do we need to be out here?” A concern that’s been a distant second next to rearranging my understanding of how the world works, but still.

“Ka—the Concurrence—has a way of controlling the minds of iunctii. He leaves slivers of Will in their bodies, and a command to do something if we bring them back. Sometimes escape, report back our location. Sometimes murder everyone in their sleep. No way of knowing.” His voice is filled with distaste as he checks the bindings on Djedef’s hands. “You already had a small taste of it at the Labyrinth, I assume. If Djedef isn’t infected, he can be useful to us. To everyone’s survival. But we have to check.”

“Out here?”

“Yes. Only one way to know for sure, but it’s too dangerous to do it in Qabr.” Caeror, to my increasing dismay, draws the obsidian blade from his belt. Shows it to me. “You said you’d been to the ruins near the Academy. You know how the Instruction Blades work?”

“How they work?” I frown at the sword, not understanding.

Then, with gradual unease, worried I do.

“There are more pleasant things,” he agrees, seeing my troubled recognition and nodding regretfully. “I wish there was time to explain all of this more thoroughly, but just being out here like this is a risk. Stand back, and don’t say anything until I’m done.”

Then he steadies Djedef, and plunges the blade through his back.

VI

I MUTE A CRY AS DJEDEF LETS OUT AN AGONISED GROAN. The glistening tip of the obsidian sword juts from his chest. Caeror has one hand on his shoulder and the other firmly on the blade’s hilt, holding him in place from behind. “Say nothing except to answer my questions. Tell me what happened when you died. Be truthful. Leave nothing out that I would want to know,” he says in thick Vetusian.

I clench my fists. Shock, and the desire to do something, warring with Caeror’s warning. Djedef is evidently in pain and yet he doesn’t fall, doesn’t try to get away. If any blood seeps from his new wound, I cannot see it.

“I was … a few hours out of Duat. Heading east. Told … there would be someone out there … who might help.” He gasps the words but speaks slowly enough that I can follow without great difficulty. “One of those … things … came from nowhere. Didn’t … see it until it had seen me.”

“You were told someone would be in the desert?” Caeror’s interest is sharp.

“In … a message.” Djedef stumbles a little, but Caeror’s grip on him never wavers, not allowing him to move away. “Someone called Netiqret. He … supplied my khepri. Got me out. We never … met.”

Caeror breathes out, clearly dissatisfied. “And when the Gleaner killed you, it questioned you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell it?”

“What I … told you.”

“That wouldn’t be enough.” Caeror is frowning now. “What did you say to make it leave you so urgently?”

“I don’t know.”

The response changes something in Caeror. There’s a slight slumping of the shoulders. The barest tensing of muscle, though not so much that Djedef would notice.

“What time of day was it when you died, Djedef?”

“Morning. Not long before noon.”

Caeror nods, unseen by the man. Almost ready to relax again, but then he cocks his head to the side. “How many days have passed since the last restday in Duat?”

Djedef is suddenly moving. Jerking forward, physically hauling himself off the obsidian through his chest. Caeror yells for him to stop, tackles him to the ground, barely keeping the weapon embedded. Djedef writhes, tries to use the sand against his face to strip off his blindfold.

“Be still!” Caeror shouts it; as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Djedef goes limp. “Do not move. Do not speak.” He’s on his knees, one hand still on the blade’s hilt.

He steels himself. Lets go.

“We were in a—”

Djedef’s rapid words are cut off as Caeror grasps either side of his head, and twists. There’s a sharp snap. Djedef lies still.

Caeror watches him and then exhales, movements heavy. “A broken neck is almost always too much for Will to compensate for.” He extracts the obsidian sliver from Djedef’s chest and then rolls him over.

Positions the blade beneath his throat and then quickly, regretfully, slides it into his skull.

I take a shuddering step back as Caeror pulls the weapon out again and gets to his feet. He turns to me and holds out a hand in what he evidently means as a reassuring gesture.

“Why?” I whisper it.

“The Instruction Blades were originally Ka’s; using one on a mind he’s infected creates a kind of connection back to him. Using them for this isn’t ideal, but it’s still better than having Djedef wake up one night and try to murder us all.” He crouches, stabs the blade in the sand to clean it. “Ka can make iunctii forget things, but he can’t give them false memories. Which means that everything Djedef just said was the truth, but they must have caught him a day or two ago. Brought him back to Duat, then commanded him to reenact his death when they thought we were watching. They haven’t tried that for a few years.” Pulls the blade out again. Inspects it. “At least Ka will know he has no utility now. It should reduce the resources he’s willing to waste in finding him. Means they’ll give up sooner. Now help me cover him.”

I numbly do as he asks. We start kicking sand and piling stones over Djedef’s corpse. “But if he’s of no use—”

“The Gleaners will have already started a sweep when the body went missing, and now Ka has a direction. They’ll know we’re outside and can’t be more than a few hours away on foot. It’s not a big area for them to cover.” He talks quickly and urgently, all seriousness now. “Our tracks won’t be easy to spot, and the wind will help—but if they find the body in the next half hour, it could still be enough of a starting point for them to follow us.”

The last grains of sand conceal the remnants of Djedef’s face. Caeror steps back to give the nondescript mound a critical examination, then glances up at the sky. “Let’s move. Slow and steady. Erase our tracks like last time.”

He sets off, and I follow.

The sun is almost touching the horizon as we trudge up the shadows of dunes and then down through its deep orange light, Caeror’s intent visage leaving me in no doubt as to the danger. We’re only ten minutes in—surely not far from the cave entrance, though I have no easy point of reference—when he slows to a dismayed halt. Points to the sky in the west. “There.”

I follow his finger. Dark spots against the purple glow of sunset above Duat. Moving gradually apart. Getting larger. “What do we do?”

“We can’t make it. Not without leaving tracks.” He comes to the decision swiftly. “We have to hide.”

“How?”

“This way.” He jags off to the left, directly toward the oncoming specks. I move carefully after him, gaze twitching between my job and those distant blots. I still don’t know exactly what the Gleaners are, but I believe Caeror’s fear of them well enough.

Within a half minute we’re suddenly scurrying across sand that’s shallow, hard and uneven underfoot, small pools of white contained by craters of wind-smoothed rock. Harder to traverse quickly, but I can immediately see the advantage. I follow Caeror’s darting footsteps as he leaps from one solid surface to another in a crouching run.

“Here.” I gasp my relief as Caeror brings us to a skidding halt after another two minutes. The shapes in the sky are larger against the dying violet light, but still not enough to make out detail. They’re swinging back and forth, I think. Tracing a systematic path toward us, rather than a direct one. “Lie on your stomach. Arms forward, cloak over your head to create an air pocket. I’ll cover you.”

I go where he points without hesitation. We’re somewhere in the middle of the rocky surface, and I’m quickly prostrate in one of the smaller white-filled breaks, about ten feet wide. “Will this work?”

“Wind’s enough that most of our tracks will be gone. And dusk will help.” Not the most comforting answer. He starts frantically kicking sand over me. It’s fine and still hot and trickles everywhere. “I’ll let you know when it’s safe. Until then, whatever you do, stay perfectly still,” his muffled voice warns me from the dark.

The soft crunch of fading footsteps, then silence.

I lie there in tense discomfort. Muscles cramping. Breath thick and painful. There’s a constant tickling at my skin from the shifting grains trickling their way beneath my clothes. There’s no sound.

Long minutes pass. Ten, at least. Maybe twenty. The acidic air starts to taste stale. I begin to wonder if something has gone wrong.

A particularly strong gust of wind. A flash of dim light as the corner of my cloak is tugged from my aching fingers. Sand slithers in. Then another gust before I can snag it again. My protection folds away. My head is exposed.

I lie there, frozen. I’m facing west. At first there is only horizon and the embers of sunset. Then something shifts in the sky. Floating soundlessly. I clamp my teeth together.

It’s a person.

They’re at least a hundred feet off the ground. Looking in the opposite direction. Upright and arms at their sides, as if standing, but nothing to support them. Swathed in a covering white robe, which flows behind them unsettlingly as they hover.

I watch, not breathing, as the figure drifts to the side. A controlled movement as they observe the horizon. Its arms are all wrong. Too long, too thin.

Then it turns slightly to the north, the dying light glints off a polished surface, and I realise they’re not arms at all.

They’re two blades.

I can’t take my eyes off them. Symmetrical and yet different from each other, I recognise numbly. Obsidian on the left. What looks like granite on the right. Not being gripped, though. Just hard surface up to the elbow, then some sort of stone sleeve affixing them to each bicep. Nightmarish, razor-thin replacement limbs.

I repossess myself enough to slowly, ever so carefully, find the hem of my cloak. Gradually, gradually draw the covering back over my head with a trembling hand. Squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath and pray that whatever is outside won’t spot the exposed linen.

An eternity of thudding heartbeats, and then my cloak is abruptly being pulled aside. I sputter and hack and flinch away as sand rains down.

“They’re past.” Caeror’s voice is low as he drags me to my feet, helping me brush off the worst of the grit as I spit more. The sun has completed its descent below the horizon. “Wind blew some sand off your cloak. You were lucky.”

“It blew the cloak off my gods-damned face. What …” My voice is shaking, though I have the presence of mind to match Caeror’s near whisper. “What was that?”

“You saw one?” Caeror chokes an aghast laugh as he takes in my affirmation. “Rotting gods, Vis. Lucky doesn’t begin to describe it, then. That was a Gleaner.”

“But it was a person.”

“A dead person. Well. Most of a dead person. Those blades aren’t gloves.” He pats me on the back reassuringly as he examines the darkening sky. Unperturbed. Just a fact of life, out here. “They’re a kind of iunctus, controlled by Ka. By the Concurrence. There are dozens, maybe hundreds of them. All connected somehow. Able to share information with one another, instantly and over vast distances.”

“Gods’ graves.” I shudder, anxiously scanning the horizon myself. “Where does all the Will to imbue them come from?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I suspect from other iunctii. They can cede—and you can bring them back for less than you gain from their ceding. Which as I’m sure you can imagine, has absolutely no potential for abuse by Ka.” He doesn’t give me time to take in the horror of that concept. “We’re safe to move. Keep covering our tracks, but we don’t need to be too worried: they never sweep the same area within a few hours, and the wind will have erased everything by morning.”

I don’t respond. Don’t know what I can say, to that. We walk for a while without talking, my mind racing.

“On Solivagus,” I eventually say quietly. “When I asked how I could possibly stop a new Cataclysm, you said I was here to kill a god.” The statement’s been hanging over me, even through the insanity of all this.

“Hyperbole. Sort of.” Caeror leans into his climbing of a dune. Sand cascades back down behind him where his feet dig in, an almost luminescent white series of waves in the last of dusk. “Most people here believe Ka is a god. I can’t really blame them given that he’s ruled the cities, controlled every inch of vaguely liveable ground in this world for thousands of years. Not to mention has complete command of the iunctii.” He shakes his head wryly. “It wasn’t a leap to realise he must be the Concurrence.”

I’m quiet for a few steps. The desert is rapidly becoming chilly. The grit that wormed its way inside my clothes while hiding sticks to my cooling sweat, every movement chafing. “You’re saying all of this—the Cataclysms, the way this world is—it’s because of one man?” No hiding my incredulity.

“One man and a lot of dead people, I suspect.” He sees me still struggling with the concept. “Those ruins you went to on Solivagus. The ones Veridius and I found, with all the iunctii pinned with Instruction Blades?” He taps the obsidian blade on his belt. “Those people were put in there to become a kind of interconnected machine, built to try and circumvent the security measures on Res that kill anyone who goes through the Gate. And based on what we translated, those measures were put in place by one man. A man who would remain untouchable so long as he alone was present in all three worlds, because it meant he had dominion over Will. Would be the only one who could control it as it had been before the Rending.” He glances at me. Assessing. “Synchronism, they called it.”

I try to swallow my unease. “I’ve heard that before.” The darkness is almost complete now; stars have begun to shimmer in the east. “The husks—the iunctii—who had the control bracers for the Labyrinth. They said they were being punished because they attempted to ‘gain synchronism and remove the seal to Obiteum.’” I don’t have to work to dredge up the words. That eerie mantra is burned into my memory.

“I still don’t know what the last bit means. But, yes. People have been trying to access the Gate for centuries.”

“And I’m the first to succeed?” I know the answer as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

He gives me a look, eyebrows pointedly raised.

I snort. At least he’s not trying to coddle me. “Fine. But you think I have this ability. Synchronism.” I don’t feel any different. “And the plan is for me to … what? Kill someone with it?”

“The plan is to stop Ka, no matter what it takes. Veridius will undoubtedly be trying to do the same to his counterpart in Res—and perhaps if he realises you’ve made it through, the version of you there will end up succeeding before you ever have to do anything here. But we can affect only what we have in front of us. If we remove the Concurrence from this world, he is no longer Synchronous in Res. It stops the Cataclysm. And that is all that matters.”

I give a soft, bitter laugh. “‘Remove’ him. You make it sound so easy.”

“I know what I’m asking, Vis. I know. But if we’re right, it’s the life of an evil man who has lived millennia past his time. One life, in order to save millions. And you may be the only one who can take it.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if killing this Ka doesn’t stop the Cataclysm?”

“Then we will have saved one world rather than two. You saw the Gleaners. What we had to do to Djedef. Life here is a nightmare, and at worst, we help people finally wake up from it. Give them a chance at something else. Something better.” Caeror glances at me. Compassionate, firm conviction in his voice. “I can’t force you. This has to be your decision. But I do need you to at least hear me out before you make it. Please.”

The last of the sun is gone from the sky. Beneath starlight, I can see the black pyramid of Duat down in the distant valley, an ocean of undulating white in between. I’ve never wanted, let alone planned to kill someone before. I revile the idea. Resist it with every fibre of my being.

But if Caeror is telling the truth—if there’s even a chance that he’s right—then … I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I breathe in the stinging air, and shiver against the abrupt chill of the coming night.

“I’m listening,” I say quietly.

VII

A FIRM HAND SHAKES MY SHOULDER, STIRRING ME FROM a deep, dreamless slumber. I move to swat it away. Nothing happens.

Heavy remembrance comes, and I open my eyes.

Ruddy torchlight illuminates a thatched roof above the face of the burly stranger staring down at me. His nose is squashed, blond hair worn up and spiked like the warriors from the boat, though this man is unfamiliar. He grunts as he sees I’m awake, then straightens from his crouched position by the fur-covered bench I’m lying on.

“Tar.” He jerks his head toward the door, where another warrior waits, spear in hand. No need to guess what he’s saying.

I struggle upright, bracing for pain but pleasantly surprised to find it largely gone. My shoulder is freshly bandaged. I’m in clean clothes, a simple tunic covered with a green cloak. Parched, but the feebleness I felt when I arrived has completely receded. How long have I been asleep? It was mere minutes after Cian left that I closed my eyes, dawn barely on its way. Now only torches break a blacker darkness outside the door.

Vek. Anxiety races through my veins as the memories return. Cian said tonight was our only chance to get away.

“Do you have anything to drink?” I make the appropriate motion, though the rasp of my voice probably conveys what I want just as well. Delaying in order to gather my wits, as much as anything else. The blond man tosses me a waterskin that I only barely manage to catch. I slake my thirst as slowly as I can, thinking furiously.

“Tar.” Impatient. Cian also said not to cause trouble. I reluctantly nod, take a quick last mouthful, and hand the skin back before trailing after him.

The blond man retrieves his spear from by the door and prods me out into the darkness. It’s raining. A steady, miserable drizzle. The other warrior, lithe and dark-haired, watches me warily as I pass and then takes up position behind me too. Neither man’s weapon is raised, but there’s no mistaking their role.

We walk in silence. Torches placed at regular intervals fizz and hiss as drops of water hit. The muddy paths between huts squelch underfoot, treacherously slippery at points as I try to adapt to my missing arm. There’s nobody around but there are voices in the distance. Laughter. Faint strains of music. Some way farther up the gentle slope I can see a wooden structure that’s much taller and longer than any of the others, torches on poles arrayed around it, light spilling from within. A barn, next to any of the towering architectural wonders of Caten, but notable in its current surrounds. I think that’s the source of the merriment.

We’re heading obliquely to it, though. I don’t know whether to be pleased about that or not.

There’s a mutter behind me; I risk a glance over my shoulder to see the blond warrior straighten from where he’s stumbled. The other laughs something in response but the sound is too loud. A slur to it, evident even in the language I don’t know. Are they drunk? I didn’t get that impression a couple of minutes ago. But perhaps this is an opportunity.

“Stad.” The word is growled; I turn to see both men stumbling at me, expressions a strange mixture of anger and torpor. The latter abruptly wins for the dark-haired one and he collapses into the mud. The other’s eyes go wide and he looks at me. Clearly blaming me for whatever is happening.

“Conas atá tú ag déanamh …” He goes to his knees. Lip curled in a snarl, barely able to summon the words.

Then he’s slumping forward and lying still, too.

I stare at them. They’re breathing, I think. Just unconscious.

I have to run, obviously. Stupid not to. Really stupid. But I don’t understand what’s just happened here, I don’t know where I am or what I’m up against or where I would run to.

Vek.

“Traveller.” The quiet voice comes from behind; I spin in alarm to find Cian striding calmly toward me, using his symbol-covered rowan staff as a walking stick. He is alone. “Assist.” He grabs one of the men by an arm.

I quickly take the other arm; we drag him off the path and into the shadows between two huts. I slip twice, my strength and sense of balance frustratingly diminished for even this simple task. “What … harmed them?” I dredge the words. Much easier to translate what I hear, than to remember how to say something.

“Not harmed. But they will sleep, for many hours.” He either misunderstands or ignores my question, speaking Vetusian and, like before, enunciating each word carefully. Whether for my benefit or because he’s also not comfortable with it, I don’t know.

We repeat the process with the other warrior. By the end, I’m breathing heavily.

Cian assesses our work, then me. A gentle condolence in his look. “Walking?”

“I can walk.” I hesitate. “My talking is not good, but I understand your words well.”

He accepts it. “Speak, if you need rest. There are horses. Not far. We need only reach them.”

“We go to meet my … person I know?” No way to verify he was telling the truth about that, but I cling to the hope of it. Academy or Caten, friend or simply acquaintance, just someone I can query without a language barrier will be a relief.

“Yes.” He sees I still have qualms, seems to sympathise. “King Fiachra and his warband now feast, and plan how to negotiate your death with Ruarc. Who will arrive to collect your body before first light. In this moment, only this moment, most of the Caer is occupied.” Calm, but an undercurrent of urgency to the explanation.

I gesture for him to lead the way.

We leave the two unconscious warriors and angle downward, away from the lights and laughter. My heart pounds; Cian moves with swift purpose but never anxiously, pausing now and then but confident in his leading, despite the sound of voices echoing to us a few times from uncomfortably nearby. We pass more rudimentary huts, straw-filled pens of pigs and fowl. Faint, flickering light filters from a few windows, but most are dark. The occupants either asleep or at the feast, I assume.

We hurry for several minutes without interruption before the inside of the wooden palisade presents itself up ahead. We’re in the narrow space between two huts, still a hundred feet to the wall. I can see a gate built into it. Unmanned. Twenty more seconds and we’re out.

Cian pulls me to a stop.

We stand there in the shadows for almost a minute; I want to ask, feet itching to keep moving, but it’s clear Cian is watching for something. I don’t see anything but suddenly he puts a hand on my chest, glancing back at me meaningfully.

“Trust,” he whispers, then strolls into the open torch-lit space between the huts and the log wall.

Moments later there’s movement and three large, curly-haired dogs trot up, surrounding him as he scratches behind their ears. They’re calm, tails wagging. Evidently at least passingly familiar with Cian, but also well trained. I carefully sink further into the shadows.

A door opens somewhere I can’t see, and then there’s a voice calling out. Questioning, but cheerful rather than suspicious. Another man in a white cloak appears. He’s older than Cian by at least twenty years, tall and thin, a tired shuffle to his gait. He has a staff similar to Cian’s, too, leaning on it heavily as he wanders over in unhurried fashion.

I mentally urge Cian to do whatever he’s doing faster. Those two guards were taking me somewhere; surely they’ll be followed up soon enough. If someone realises I’m missing before we’re past the walls, I doubt we’ll make it far.

Cian responds to the newcomer’s hail with a friendly wave and grin; the two greet each other with an embrace and then proceed to chat in what seems to be frustratingly idle fashion. The dogs have settled onto the ground around them but are still in my line of sight. Still seem alert. I do all I can not to move.

A tense minute passes as I watch, both men appearing completely relaxed, the older at one point saying something that makes Cian bark a laugh that feels like it would be audible for miles. I can hear their conversation well enough, but aside from the genial tone, I understand none of it.

Then, at last, the other man is clapping Cian on the back, scratching each dog affectionately on the head as he prepares to depart. Cian gives the animals a pat too, and then embraces his companion again in farewell. The older man makes his way with painful lassitude up the slope away from the wall, finally rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.

The dogs, worryingly, remain.

Cian looks in my direction. Beckons. I emerge from the shadows, eyes fixed on the animals at his feet. They’re even larger up close. They see my approach and wag their tails agreeably.

“Ruarc’s men have arrived. Our time is limited.” Cian starts toward the gate, more urgency to his step this time.

We make it halfway to the wall before the command rings out behind us.

“Stad!” No doubting the meaning of the word, or who it’s intended for. I turn to see a redheaded young warrior hurrying toward me, spear half raised. Cian steps smoothly in front of me. Into the path of any potential attack.

The man stumbles to a confused halt, recognition in his eyes. He says something to Cian, who just shakes his head, stepping forward. He says it again, a little more forcefully. But he’s backing away and Cian is advancing calmly. Hand outstretched. He’s twenty feet away. Ten. The warrior is tall and muscled and armed. Cian has only his staff.

The other man turns to run, only to be brought up short by the dogs that have circled behind him. They remain eerily mute, but their lips are curled back, revealing a healthy number of teeth.

Cian’s staff takes the stranger in the back of the skull. He crumples to the ground.

“Come.” The white-cloaked man sounds frustrated as he leaves the man in the mud. The dogs remain around the motionless figure, ignoring our departure.

Silence as we stride for the gate. Slip through it. I wait for shouts of discovery, but still the only sounds from the township are the faint strains of music and raised, exuberant voices. We hurry away from the torchlight down a black trail that splits a field rippling with wheat.

After a minute, the gloom reveals two sable horses tethered beneath a lone tree. Neither has bridle or saddle. Cian unties them and indicates one.

“I will not be able to … direction.” I whisper it, despite the distance between us and the town now. I don’t know the Vetusian for steer.

“You just need to stay on. Can you?” He sees my hesitation. “Honesty only.”

I chew my lip. Shake my head. I was always a competent rider, but I know what it will take, especially bareback. I am still weak, and my balance is barely good enough to do more than walk.

Cian nods with calm acceptance, swinging himself up on the larger of the two animals and then offering me his hand. I scramble awkwardly up behind him, clutching tightly with my knees and wrapping my arm around Cian’s waist.

“Ready?”

I brace myself. Even with Cian to cling to, this is going to be exhausting. “Yes. How far?”

Behind us, there is a commotion from the town. Shouting. A clanging of some kind of bell. I see new torches flare along the walls.

Cian spurs the horse to motion. “Far.”

We gallop into the night.

THERE IS A UNIQUE, BUILDING FEAR TO KNOWING YOU are being hunted. Some distant part of me still remembers playing hide-and-seek in the palace at Suus. Running the hidden passageways and expansive halls, fleeing my giggling sisters. Heart hammering as their footsteps drew nearer, balled up behind some couch or pressing myself flat against a wall, hoping they would somehow pass by without noticing. It was just a game and yet there is nothing that induces anxiety more than wanting to be hidden, and knowing you are about to be found.

It is the years after which made me familiar with the true dread of the feeling, though. Which allow me now to press past it and think.

I spend most of those first few wretched hours doing just that, struggling with every thumping jolt of our steed, turning everything I know over again and again, until I finally have to admit I simply don’t have enough information for conclusions. My thighs burn. My arm feels heavy and the other still feels as though it’s there, begs me to reach around and secure myself properly. The questions I have for Cian, I have no breath to ask.

Not that he appears to have idle time to talk, either, with his attention clearly consumed in getting us away from our inevitable pursuit. I am inclined to let it be.

I have little spare focus of my own to take in the countryside as we ride; it passes in a vague blur of rolling hills and vast meadows and rustling forests, all muted and obscured by the constant drizzling damp that beats miserably down upon us. No cities or towns, only the torches of one small village that we’ve passed through almost before I realise what it is. Not even many farms, as far as I can tell. The road is mud and little more than a worn track at points.

Some part of me keeps watch for a landmark. I see nothing I recognise. Still no telling where I am, how far from Caten I’ve been brought.

Finally, just as another downpour eases and I’m certain my aching, freezing muscles are about to give out, Cian slows our lathered horse. We pull a little way off the road to stop in a copse by a brook. Cian dismounts and I try to follow without thinking, only remembering halfway through that it will be a far more awkward process without my arm; my rescuer was already moving to assist, but I fall far more than alight, slipping clumsily in the mud and pulling Cian down with me.

I lie there and groan as he uses his staff to regain his feet, staring down at his mud-stained cloak. Then he offers me his hand.

“Graceful,” he observes solemnly.

I allow the ghost of a smile. Nod ruefully, and accept the help. “How long … we rest?”

“Minutes.” Cian checks I’m alright and then leads our heaving horse to the water, patting it reassuringly. “They will track us, if they are not already. We need to reach the border before they catch up.”

“It has been … raining. Hard raining. These roads are … have lots of tracks … from other horses. And we have … crossed? … several streams—”

“It will not matter.” He cuts off my awkward attempt.

“Why?”

“Because Ogan, the man I spoke with earlier, is skilled—and he knows I am helping you.” His mouth twists at that. “I will say when we have to leave. Now drink. Dry out. Stay silent and rest while you can.”

He takes his own advice, sipping water from the stream and then moving a small distance away to sit on a fallen log, not quite out of sight but clearly chasing privacy. After that, he spends some time wringing out his cloak before settling into an almost meditative pose, head bowed and eyes closed. I find a seat where I am and start methodically expunging the water from my own clothes, grateful for the pause, however brief it might be.

Not more than a minute later, I hear the distant sound of hooves.

“Cian.” I hiss it; when the man doesn’t stir, I scurry over. We’re hidden well enough here in the darkness of the trees, but we haven’t encountered a soul on the road in either direction since we set out. “Cian, someone comes!”

He doesn’t react. I shake his shoulder. When there’s still no movement from him, I frown, crouching down. His eyes remain shut.

“Cian. Are you well?” I shake him again, then carefully pry one of his eyes open.

Even in the shadows, I can see it’s completely black.

“Vek.” I let the eyelid flop closed. He’s using Will, but I’ve never seen anyone unresponsive like this before. The riders—there’s more than one, from the sound—are close now. Nothing to be done about it.

I crouch low, praying our horse won’t snort or stamp or neigh. The outline of three cantering warriors appears; I’m too far away to make out faces in the dim, but there’s no mistaking the distinctive, spiked horse-mane hair on all of them.

I barely breathe as they approach, but I needn’t have worried. The men pass heedlessly, splashing through the stream and looking neither to the left nor right. Intent on a destination. If they’re after us, they don’t expect to find us around here.

Once they’ve passed, I go back to Cian, squatting down in front of him and reaching my hand cautiously out toward his face again. Just before I touch him, his eyes snap open.

I flinch backward, almost overbalance. “Rotting gods.”

“Is something wrong?” Cian frowns at my cursing in Common, then stares around.

“There were … men. Men,” I repeat, squaring my shoulders to indicate a warrior’s build and pointing toward the road.

“They were not after us.”

“How do you know?”

“Because those coming for us will have dogs leading them. And they will not miss us in the trees.” He stands. “It is time we kept moving.”

“What were you … doing?” When he looks at me questioningly, I scowl. “You would not … speak.” I point to my eyes. “Black.”

“It is of the draoi.” He says it firmly. “It is sacred. Not for your knowledge.”

Draoi. I dredge the vaguely familiar word from my time in Letens’s Bibliotheca. What the druids of the area called themselves, before they were wiped out. “I know this … strength,” I say impatiently. “I have spent … year … learning. In the … place you took me … away from?”

The druid eyes me consideringly. Surprised, I think, despite his attempt not to show it. “I will speak of it with the others, then,” he allows. “We will not be far from where you could be tested. But for now, you are not draoi, and my vows have not changed.” He swings up onto the horse. “We do not have time to talk of it further. They are no more than an hour behind.”

The certainty in his voice chills me. “You are sure?”

“Yes. But we are not long from the border.”

“That is where we go?”

He nods. “Rónán’s lands. King Fiachra will not risk war by pursuing us there. And Rónán has no love of Ruarc, either. We will be able to meet in safety.”

The slightest of hesitations to the answer. He’s not telling me everything.

My mind races and thighs scream in protest as he helps me up behind him again. He was using Will to check on our pursuers, somehow. An imbued object on one of them? That would allow him to determine direction and distance with reasonable accuracy. But that’s just a mental process, not the act of imbuing itself. His eyes shouldn’t have turned dark.

“The one … trying to kill me. Ruarc. Who is he? Why do you … fight him?” While I have the energy, I want to understand at least that much.

Cian’s lip curls. “He is a powerful new voice within the Grove. That is the draoi High Council,” he adds, guessing I won’t know the term. “His influence these past years has become too great, too quickly. He asks the Grove to ignore the Old Ways, and they do. It is his hand that guides their deal with King Fiachra. Do you remember the tempeall albios? The … white place?”

He’s speaking faster and using more complex words than he was—from anger at the subject matter, I think—and it takes me a moment to catch up. “Yes. There were … two others. A man and a woman. Like you.” Memory still hazy of the bloody chaos of the white rotunda, but clearer than it was.

“The Grove is intent on killing all who come to the tempeall albios in the way you did, because Ruarc has convinced them to. And they hide this shame from the other draoi. He asks them to kill without trial or explanation, and they obey, against all sacred duty.” The disgust in his voice is thick as he urges the horse beneath us to motion. “He has made them fear where you come from, what you may mean, what you may be able to do. He has made them so fearful of the unknown, of what may be, they have abandoned what should be. It is a corruption of all the draoi are meant to be. And so, I fight.”

I try to parse what he’s saying but it’s almost too much, too quick and indignant, for my exhausted mind to properly grip. “They think I am … a threat, to them?”

“Yes. No. It is …” He grunts. “The ancients’ tongue is difficult, to tell this well. Better, easier, if the one we are to meet explains.” He scans the way ahead. “Who we will not reach if we do not keep moving.” He presses our horse to a canter.

I silently agree with the first part; he’s been using increasingly sophisticated language, and properly translating is getting harder by the second. “What will … happen to you if … Fiachra’s men catch us?” A last, breathless inquiry, already weary again from the tension of clinging on one-armed.

“To me?” Cian seems surprised by the question. “They will escort me back to Dun Bhailcnoc. Hold me until the Grove passes judgement on my actions here.”

“But they will not … harm you?”

Cian stiffens, his horror unmistakeable even from behind. “I am draoi.” As if that settles a matter that should never have been raised.

Silence after that; though the rain has stopped, the sheer effort of staying on the horse saps my ability to think properly, let alone pose more questions. We ride for at least another two hours. The light of a false dawn brightens the east.

We stop one more time, and again Cian moves off by himself, eyes closed. When he returns, he is grim.

“No time to rest,” is all he says.

A half hour later, we’re splashing our way across a river ford; when we reach the other side, Cian glances behind him.

“That was the border. We are in King Rónán’s lands,” he says quietly.

“We are safe now?” I peer over my shoulder, across the water. There’s no sign of pursuit.

“Yes.”

He’s facing away from me, but I can hear the doubt in his voice.

He urges our horse back to a gallop.

VIII

MY WEARINESS IS BONE-DEEP. TIME PASSES IN A BLUR OF damp discomfort and unease and fitful drowsing as I cling to Cian. His claims of safety grapple with the relentlessness of his pushing on.

Dawn is brightening the sky at our backs when the white-cloaked man spots smoke colouring the skyline. “We can rest here.”

I give a half moan of relief in response, watching eagerly as the village comes into view. It’s not much. A dozen or so huts tightly grouped together along the muddy road, the same rounded design and thatched roofs as in Dun Bhailcnoc. No defensive walls. Open fields to the horizon in every direction. A dog loudly announces our arrival.

By the time we’re drawing level with the first of the structures, two men have emerged. One holds a scythe. They regard us warily as we approach.

“Síocháin leat.” Cian calls the words in a genial tone.

“Agus tú féin,” replies the unarmed one warily, shielding his eyes against the sun behind us. He’s tall and lean, older. Perhaps in his fifties. Grey streaks his black hair and beard.

A conversation ensues, which once again I can frustratingly only follow through tone. Things at first seem destined to go poorly, both strangers clearly wanting us to move on without stopping. Then we draw close enough for them to spot Cian’s staff and cloak. The entire atmosphere changes. There are smiles, apologies and cordial greetings; the men call out and others emerge from the surrounding houses. Women wave at us, children peer up at Cian with undisguised mixtures of curiosity and awe. One man hurries off and returns with a staff of ash carved with symbols, though not divided into sections like Cian’s; he offers it to the druid, who takes it in what looks like a formal acceptance of something. Before long we’ve dismounted and are being ushered inside one of the houses, a simple but hearty breakfast placed in front of us.

“They are happy you are here,” I observe with weary cheerfulness between mouthfuls. The couple whose hospitality we’re enjoying—a weathered man of about forty, and a lean blonde-haired woman—stop beaming at us only to scold their children, who alternate between running around excitedly, staring at my missing arm, and smiling shyly at us.

“They have likely never seen one of the draoi before.” Cian looks more relaxed than he’s been since we met. “I will perform some rites this morning, perhaps resolve some disputes before we move on. Our presence will be a tale they tell their grandchildren.”

I eye the two staffs leaning against the bench. Cian’s is certainly more intricate, but they’re not so different from each other. “How can they be … sure you are who you say?”

Cian almost chokes. “No one would dare pretend to be a draoi.” He’s almost as offended as when I worried about him being harmed by our pursuers.

I find it hard to believe, but I’ll have to take his word for it. My body aches, yet the flight already seems a distant memory. Safety and warmth and a full stomach are combining to make my eyelids impossibly heavy.

“You should sleep,” observes Cian. When I nod wearily, he says something to our host, who leads me to a pile of furs in the corner. Beds don’t exist in this country, apparently, I note mournfully. Nor bedrooms.

It’s a soft, lumpy mattress. The chatter between Cian and the others continues only a few feet away. I barely notice once I lie down. I’m asleep within moments.

SHOUTS WAKE ME.

I scramble awkwardly to my feet, muscles groaning in protest. I can hear tension in the voices outside. The two young children are still in the hut, looking frightened, but there’s no sign of their parents or Cian. Early morning sun streams through the clearing clouds and in the east-facing window. I’ve been asleep for a couple of hours at most.

“What’s happening?” I ask the boy in a low voice, despite knowing he won’t understand. Before he can answer, the door bangs open, making both children cry out and me flinch.

Cian strides in, a staff in either hand. His eyes are clearing from black to their bright blue. “They are coming.”

“King Fiachra’s men?”

“And Ruarc’s. Too close to run,” the redheaded man adds soberly when I glance toward the door. “But help is on its way.”

“What can I do?”

He studies me. “Tá súil agam leis na déithe go bhfuil Ostius ceart. If you are truly the strongest of the three, perhaps …” It’s an absent, thoughtful mutter, mostly to himself, even as he remembers halfway through to speak Vetusian for my benefit. Then he comes to some sort of frustrated decision. “No. Stay in here, and keep this for me. Run if you must. I will delay them.”

I fumble the rowan staff he tosses me, force back my confusion at his musing and acquiesce; with my arm, and not knowing the language, there’s nothing much I could do anyway. Cian whirls and exits, looking determined. I creep to the window.

What must be most of the village has gathered behind Cian, who has taken up position on the road and is facing eastward, the staff of ash in hand. It’s mostly women and older men with him. None are armed with more than clubs or scythes. If they’re a farming community, it’s possible the men who greeted us earlier have already left for the day.

Beyond in the distance, a dozen warriors on horseback approach, the rising sun behind them. No spiked hair or blue paint, but the deliberate intensity of their movement, the way their eyes scan the way ahead, leaves no doubt that they’re hunting.

It’s not them that causes me to freeze, though.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I make out the three large wolfhounds prowling in front of the entourage. The same ones as from Dun Bhailcnoc, I think. They’re not being led, nor do they appear to be following a scent. Yet they form a perfectly spaced line along the road in front of the warriors. Loping toward the village in silent unison as they lead the group.

I shiver, sliding down out of sight again, Cian’s staff across my lap. Thinking furiously.

“Naimhde,” murmurs the curly-haired boy who has been peeking out beside me. There’s more fascination in his serious green eyes than fear. When I glance at him questioningly, he points in the direction of the oncoming warriors insistently. “Naimhde ag teacht.”

I smile reassuringly at him and pat him on the shoulder, as if I understand completely. Dogs. Enemies. Danger. He could be remarking on the fact the rain has stopped, for all I know.

How does Cian intend to delay them? The people out there only marginally outnumber the warriors, and certainly will be no match for them. It will take minutes, if that, to search these simple abodes. Perhaps he’s going to face them directly and use Will. Perhaps he’s going to try and make some sort of deal, or invoke some of this druidic privilege he seems so confident in.

I just have to hope he knows what he’s doing, because even if I had two arms, his staff would be no weapon against the spears and blades coming toward us.

I hurry to the next window for a better vantage, careful not to attract attention. Cian is watching calmly as the men and their dogs draw closer. I recognise none of them. Foremost is a massive, dark-haired man. His silver torc gleams as it encircles an impossibly muscular neck. He looks almost comical atop a roan horse which, while larger than any of his companions’, still appears pony-like beneath him.

“Níor chóir duit a bheith anseo, Mel ap Mor,” calls Cian sternly as the party reaches the first of the houses. “Tá tú ag briseadh an chonartha.” If I had to guess, telling them to turn around.

The dogs stop. All three of the animals watch Cian with motionless, unsettling intensity. Behind them the men pull to a halt as well, and their leader dismounts. “Cá bhfuil sé?” Flat and insistent. He has a long blade strapped to his waist. Almost a broadsword.

“Cas timpeall, Mel ap Mor.”

“Cá bhfuil sé?” The warrior walks calmly forward. The pointedly repeated question indicating he’s ignoring whatever cautioning Cian is giving him. His men are still mounted, but splitting off. Spreading out.

Cian sees it but stands his ground, unafraid. “Ní ghortóidh sé seo ach Fiachra.” Gently chiding.

“Cá bhfuil sé?” The dark-haired warrior stands in front of Cian now. Dwarfs him.

The druid is forced to peer up to meet his gaze, yet there’s no questioning the confident authority in his posture. “Ní féidir leat—”

A flash of steel. The ash staff is cleaved in two and clattering to the ground, Cian’s severed head rolling next to it as red blood sprays. There’s a breath where no one moves.

Screaming. Chaos. Dogs snarling, attacking, though at what signal I cannot tell. The villagers scatter as the warband urge their horses forward, weapons in hand. I’m biting my tongue to stop from crying out. The boy next to me is still staring out the window. Disbelieving. His whole body shakes. His sister is crying. They both saw.

“Follow me.” My voice surprises me by how steady it is as I use Cian’s staff to push myself to my feet, beckoning for the children to cross to the far window. We’re at the edge of the village, and a verdant forest lies only fifty feet away. The druid overestimated the respect these men would have for his position, but I don’t think it was arrogance; druids are clearly revered here. And if King Fiachra’s men were willing to kill him so casually, I doubt they are intending to leave witnesses.

This house won’t be the first they search, but we can’t stay here.

When neither child moves, I tap the boy with the staff. “Tar.” I surprise myself with the hissed word. “Come,” I’m fairly certain, though I immediately second-guess myself. Cian must have used it enough for it to seep into my subconscious.

Thankfully whatever it means is close enough that it draws both children’s focus, and they rush over. I point out the window to the forest, but even as I do, a rider canters into view. Spear drawn. Eyes searching.

“Rotting gods.” I sink from sight and yank the children down as well, putting my fingers to my lips insistently. The boy, who’s perhaps five or six, nods a brave understanding. After a moment the girl, maybe a year older, does the same.

The door opens behind us and I whirl, only breathing again when I recognise the man slipping inside as the children’s father. They rush to him, and he murmurs something comforting to them, still holding his scythe like a weapon.

He spots me. His gaze goes to Cian’s staff. Some mixture of confusion and anger crosses his face, though both almost instantly clear. Whatever he sees, it’s not as exigent as events outside.

He says something to the children and points out the window closest to the forest. I wave to get his attention. Shake my head urgently and beckon him over, showing him the warrior waiting not twenty feet away. Screams continue in the background. Fewer now. More desperate. The first traces of smoke hit my nostrils.

Vek. They’re not searching all the buildings. They’re just burning everything, and letting the people inside come to them.

The father looks at me in desperation. Then at his children. He knows what is coming.

I get his attention. No time to second-guess myself. “They’re after me.” I know he won’t understand, but I do what I can to convey my intent through gestures. “I’ll let him see me. You wait behind the door.” I point to him, then the corner. “He comes through …”

I make a stabbing motion.

He looks at me. Fear well hidden for his children’s sake, but I see it. He’s no warrior.

He nods.

I don’t wait to ensure he’s understood; the men torching the village can’t be far. I lean out the window, as if I haven’t seen the guard. Far enough that my missing arm is obvious.

A shout; I let my eyes go wide in panic as I appear to notice him and vanish back inside. The thudding of rapid footsteps. A smarter man would have alerted his comrades. Would have set fire to the hut and forced me to come out. But he can see me through the window, against the wall far from the door, and believes me trapped. Probably wants the credit for my death.

He bursts through the door. All muscle and confidence. The children shriek. He pays them no heed, eyes fixed on me. From the shadowed corner, the farmer steps forward and swings his scythe. A solid strike, weight and speed behind it.

But it’s not accurate.

The warrior snarls as he catches some glimmer of iron from the corner of his eye and twists at the last moment; the curved blade catches him on the left arm, scoring a long, deep cut, but not enough to stop him.

The invader twists. Angry, but in control. His spear licks out and swats aside the farmer’s tool as he tries another swing. I charge forward at the same time, even as I know it is too late.

With a casual thrust, the warrior pierces the farmer’s heart.

A scream from the boy as the scythe clatters to the floor, and he skirts the fighter as he runs to his father’s side. The girl is just silent. Staring. Not understanding. The life drains from the man’s eyes as he watches his children. His gaze flickers to me. Pleading.

I take the attacker in his injured shoulder, but I have one arm and only Cian’s staff. He’s skilled enough. He brushes off the attack and slams me around. The butt of his spear cracks me along the side of the head. There are spots across my vision. Then there’s pain. Sharp and bright and enough to elicit a scream from me.

His spear in my side. Deep, slicing through muscle.

I stumble back. Just enough awareness to place myself between him and the children. Smoke is drifting into the house now. I think the roof is on fire. “Run!” I shout it at them, knowing they won’t understand, gesturing frantically to the window behind me even as I ready myself to defend. Perhaps I can keep him at bay long enough for them to reach the forest. Perhaps, at least, my death can be not in vain.

“Cróga, ach gan phointe.” Deep and low. Wry, almost sorrowful. As if he’s asking for forgiveness, though it’s more of an amused apology than a heartfelt one. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it too. I should be running. This isn’t a fight I can win. This isn’t even a fight.

He’s so focused on me, though, that he hasn’t seen the children’s mother slip through the open door. Her green eyes wild. There’s a gash on her bicep. Her entire arm glistens red. She sees her husband and aching pain races across her face.

She picks up the scythe. I circle to the side, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the attacker’s. Drawing his gaze so that his back is to her, and not giving him any hint of her presence.

One of the children—the girl, I think—gives a cry of hope, but the warning comes too late for the warrior.

The iron flashes with the gathering flames above. There is a sick, wet sound. The scythe detaches with a spray of blood; the man slumps to the floor, the light chased from his eyes as his head lolls at a ghastly, unnatural angle.

The blonde woman drops the bloodied implement next to him. Trembling, but glaring briefly at the body as if daring it to rise again before rushing over to her children, whispering a stream of quick, comforting words to them. She does not look at her husband’s body. The girl clings to her.

“The way is clear.” I get her attention and point urgently to the forest. She understands, quickly issuing instructions to her children as we work together to boost them out the window. The boy coughs as he follows his sister, the smoke thickening. There is a crackling above our heads now. Heat. The thatched roof is catching all too easily.

The two children are out, running low for the forest. They make the tree line. Vanish. The woman motions to me. She wants to help me out the window.

I shake my head, looking back at the two dead bodies.

“They’re not going to stop,” I say, knowing it’s pointless but voicing it anyway. Cian was so sure he was inviolable. “Not until I’m dead.”

The licking flames are visible now. I move a step toward the half-decapitated warrior. Stop. The fire will hide a lot of things, but not enough. The warband out there will want to identify him, will probably recognise his height, maybe other features that cannot be burned away.

The woman is watching me. She hesitates. Kneels by her dead husband. Kisses him on the lips.

Then she picks up the dripping scythe and hands it to me. Nods, tears in her eyes. And vanishes out the window after her children.

The heat is intense, now. Smoke almost too thick. The screams have been replaced outside by the shouts of men. Calm. Communicating. I hold the cloth of my shirt to my face. No time for second-guessing or squeamishness.

I shrug off my cloak and bend, arranging it carefully around the farmer’s shoulders. Mouth a silent apology.

Then I raise the scythe high, and aim for the corpse’s left shoulder.

IX

THE TELIMUSES’ CATEN ESTATE ECHOES, A HOLLOW shell, in the predawn light that drifts through the atrium roof. Torches crackle around us. I grit my teeth at an artistic interpretation of Etrius on the wall opposite as I sit, naked to the waist in the chill, while Kadmos unwinds the bandage around my chest. The stringy-haired Dispensator is gentle. It still hurts.

“You really should not be here.” Kadmos says it mostly to himself, another version of something he’s already muttered several times since he let me in.

“Sorry to inconvenience you.”

“You know what I mean.” He snaps it, though his annoyance isn’t at the mild joke. “This isn’t some cut you can just ignore, Master Vis. You need rest. You should have been forced to rest.”

“Would you have let them, in my position?”

The portly man accedes with a reluctant twist of his mouth. The last of the stained cloth strips fall away and Kadmos bends, studying the raw stump.

“You said this happened a week ago?”

“Eight days.” I note his frown. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He hesitates, then carefully pushes at it with a finger. “Pain?”

“A little.” It’s tender, certainly, but not especially so.

“Hm.” Kadmos’s brow crinkles and he brushes a strand of limp black hair from his eyes, probing again. “Here?”

“Same.”

He lets go. Leans back, obviously puzzled this time.

I give him a pointed look.

“It’s healed more than I would have expected.” He’s evidently confused, but eventually shrugs. “Better is better, I suppose. How is your balance?”

“Improving.” I’ve spent every spare second in private since the Necropolis on my feet. Walking. Jogging. Jumping. Testing myself, pushing myself. I fell over a lot, at the beginning. I rarely do anymore.

“Good,” Kadmos murmurs thoughtfully. He applies some ointment and starts on a clean bandage. “I hear you’re going to the Aurora Columnae after this.”

It’s not as if I’d forgotten, but a renewed rush of sick anticipation forces me to take a moment before I respond. “Yes.”

Kadmos nods carefully. “And then you are to work for Governance.”

“I had to go where I thought I could make a difference.”

“That is all any of us can do, Master Vis,” the Dispensator says quietly. “But I hope you will remain a Telimus, regardless.”

I shuffle. “I cannot imagine Ulciscor will be particularly keen for that to happen.”

“Ask, Master Vis, if you wish it to be so. Ask anyway.” He keeps bandaging. “I have known your father all his life. He is prone to mistakes and fixation and rash decisions, but he does care for you.”

“He’s not my father.” I regret it as soon as it comes out. Petty and small and stupid, knowing how it will hurt only Kadmos here. Still. Ulciscor’s betrayal in making me run the Labyrinth is a bitterness that has only feasted on events since. Without that, I still have my arm. Without Ulciscor’s obsession, I maybe still have my friend.

Kadmos pauses in his ministrations. He looks at me and there is sadness rather than anger in his gaze. Wisps of smoke from the nearby torch drift between us.

“I sometimes forget that you are still young, Master Vis,” he says softly. “Ulciscor may not be the one that you want. But fathers rarely are.”

I say nothing to that, letting silence speak my gratitude to his kind reaction. I remember him talking about his own father, once. A hard man. Loving, I gathered, but hard. Unappreciative of Kadmos’s evident academic talents. The Dispensator’s experience growing up in Sytrece was so very different from my own.

“Thank you for doing this,” I say eventually. The stringy-haired man could well have refused to see me, after the schism I’ve caused by choosing to join Governance over Military.

He snorts. “You are a Telimus,” he says by way of dismissal, squeezing me gently on my other shoulder and standing. “Let me prepare you some tea before the ceremony, too. It would not do to have Catenicus stumble with the eyes of the city upon him.”

“Thank you, but no. Not today, Kadmos.”

He pauses. Frowns his surprise. “Your recovery is remarkable, young master—I was expecting to insist that you not attend this morning—but you cannot tell me you are not still in pain.”

I lock gazes with him. “I can’t. But not today.”

His brow’s still furrowed, but he nods slowly. Despite his own acceptance of the Aurora Columnae, I think he understands.

“Perhaps before your Placement exam for Governance, then, at least?” he says eventually. I told him about that a little earlier.

I nod. Placement could be months away, but it’s still a good idea. Any way to mitigate my disadvantage on those tests, I should take. “If you give me the recipe—”

“You can come by when it’s time.”

“Alright.” I give a half smile to show I didn’t really think he would. He’s refusing out of care, has always warned me against leaning too heavily on his concoction. And we both know that giving a way to make it to a man in my position, with my injury, is needlessly tempting.

Before Kadmos can respond there’s motion to the side, and Ulciscor fills the doorway. His pristine white toga is slashed with purple, formal attire befitting what’s to come this morning, identical to my own except the colouring. A trio of young Octavii slip through behind him carrying filled plates and glasses, setting them on the table with practiced precision before scurrying off again. Ulciscor doesn’t pay them any mind, but nor does he speak until they’ve vanished.

“Kadmos. All’s well?” He ignores me.

“Yes, Dominus. Our boy is recovering splendidly.”

Ulciscor quirks a half smile at the affection in Kadmos’s voice, which is no doubt at least partly an attempt to thaw the sudden chill in the room. “Good. If you could check in on Lanistia, too?” He makes a small motion, indicating his head.

Kadmos frowns worriedly and nods, giving me a last, encouraging glance before leaving us alone. The only sound is the fountain burbling in the atrium’s triangular pool as we seat ourselves at the table.

“Is Lanistia alright?” Not how I intended to open the conversation, but there was evident concern in both Ulciscor’s voice and Kadmos’s response.

“Headaches. More than a week, now. They seemed particularly bad this morning. Still insisted on coming today, of course.” His delivery is odd. Not awkward, exactly, but certainly less comfortable than I’m used to from him. He reaches over and pours me some watered-down wine before doing the same for himself. “Now. We only have a few minutes before we need to leave, but let’s at least get started. Tell me what happened at the Iudicium.”

I take a sip, then carefully set the cup next to me and meet his gaze. “No.”

“No?” Ulciscor’s expression darkens.

“First there are things we need to discuss. Things I want to make clear. The most important of which is that I am here because I choose to be. You no longer dictate my movements. You no longer give me orders. You have no hold over me, and I owe you nothing.” I thought a lot about how to approach this, on the Transvect here last night. Smart man though he is, Ulciscor is still a Magnus Quintus. He can’t just know I’m no longer pliable. He needs to be shown.

“Nothing? I took you from an orphanage and gave you the name of one of the most powerful families in the world. Nothing? You’d be cowering in some hole or in a Sapper right now, if not for me.” Ulciscor sneers his surprised response.

“You sent me to die.”

“I sent you to find out—”

“YOU SENT ME TO DIE!” I roar the words. Abrupt and violent. Stand and swipe my near-full cup from the table next to me, sending it shattering across the floor. “You valued your dead brother’s reputation over my life!” A step forward. “Because of you, I lost a gods-damned arm!” Another step. I’m pointing at him. Hand trembling. “Because of you, I had to make decisions that ended with my friend DYING!”

Planned though the outburst is, there’s no need to fake my fury.

Ulciscor’s still seated. Shocked, I think, before he recovers enough for his own anger to respond. Broad frame looming as he rises, eyes blackening. “You think you can speak to me like this in my own house? I am a Magnus Quintus.”

“I don’t care. I never cared.” I don’t back down, but eventually I take a breath and look to the side as if calming myself. Deescalating. “I will tell you what happened, Ulciscor. I will tell you what I know because to not would be petty and cruel. And after that? I think we may still have reason for an alliance. But it will be an alliance, this time, if we choose that path. Equal footing. No more orders.”

There’s grim silence as I lock eyes with him again. The illusion of power too often becomes power, my father used to say. I cannot let Ulciscor believe he has even the faintest remaining hold over me.

I can see him weighing my words, my actions, as wine spreads across the mosaic like blood. He still thinks of me as the hot-tempered youth he saw fight in the Theatre, but I’ve come a long way since Letens. My fame means I could survive losing the Telimus name; if anything, my defection to Governance would make disinheriting me an expected move. And others would rush to fill the void.

An eternity later, Ulciscor nods. Curt but resigned. The scales of our relationship shift.

“Which one of you is being the idiot this time?”

Both of us turn and I summon a genuine grin at the sight of the lithe woman entering the atrium. Lanistia’s familiar dark glasses flash at me, reflecting the dawn’s intrusion past the hanging plants and into the courtyard. She’s more elegantly dressed than I think I’ve ever seen her be.

My smile slips a little as she approaches. She looks distinctly wan.

“Lanistia!” I move to embrace her but she stops a distance away, uncharacteristic uncertainty in the motion. I falter. “It’s good to see you.”

Ulciscor looks at her worriedly. “Did Kadmos—”

“He did. I’m fine.” Her usual, vaguely reassuring brusqueness in the response. “Don’t we have a ceremony to get to?”

Ulciscor’s mouth twists, and he exchanges a glance with me but we both just nod. He knows as well as I do the benefit of arguing with her.

“You can tell us what happened on the way there,” he says to me, gesturing to the door. “After, we can talk.”

Lanistia leads us out. She glances over her shoulder as we exit the villa into Caten’s cobblestone streets, which are already seeing plenty of bustle. “It’s good to see you too, Vis.”

We head for the Aurora Columnae.

X

AWAY FROM THE DISAPPROVING EARS OF OUR PARENTS, Ysabel and I used to sit on the western cliffs of Suus and complain about the lands across the strait from us. Who would be so stupid as to readily enslave themselves, no matter the foe? What justification could a person possibly give themselves before handing over their very Will to the nebulous control of the Republic? Everyone over there must be facile. Blind. Cowards. Probably all three.

We knew the truth, of course. Had been subjected to a hundred lectures dissecting why people submitted to the Hierarchy. Fear, naturally, played its part—but not always. Sometimes it was greed loosely masquerading as ambition. Sometimes it was misplaced faith that others would behave fairly and rightly. Or social pressure, the inevitable belief that the majority cannot be wrong. The reasons were complex and many-faceted and unavoidably varied from person to person. But we never mentioned those during our childish vents as we watched the sun set over the domain of our enemy. Easier to despise than understand. Easier to mock than empathise.

We would laugh a while, and then Ysa would eventually fall silent. Contemplative as the darkness came. Older and wiser than I.

“I’m glad we’re not like them,” she would say as she stared across the waves. Long dark hair tied neatly back, never a strand out of place. Always with a wistful smile that I never really understood.

I try to picture her face, now. It’s there but it’s a blur. Like looking through water. The absence of detail aches.

My fading memory feels almost as much a betrayal as what I’m about to do.

The Aurora Columnae towers against the clean, early morning skies of spring; everything around the Catenan Forum is grand, but it’s the obelisk at its head, cordoned off by a massive, thick chain and encircled by a dozen green-cloaked Sextii, that inevitably commands the eye. White granite stands a hundred feet tall, a single, perfectly quarried piece of stone, tapering to a pyramid at the very top. The symbols inscribed everywhere on its surface—still mysterious to the Hierarchy, despite their best efforts at translation—glow a distinct, pulsing gold.

“Have you seen it before?”

I look across at Ulciscor. Plenty of others here wearing the purple across white, but his status as a Magnus Quintus—and mine, as both Domitor of the Academy and Catenicus—has ensured that we are first in line today, despite arriving later than many. “Not this one.”

He glances at me. At my back. Grimaces his remembrance.

Both Lanistia and my adoptive father have been mostly taciturn since we arrived. Contemplative. They feel the surliness of the city too, undoubtedly. People sidle past with suspicious sideways glances. Clump in the mouths of alleys talking in hushed voices, or argue loudly and angrily in poorly insulated houses. Caten broods. A far cry from the joyful, festive nature it exuded last time I was here.

Of course, I’ve also given them plenty to ponder, spending much of the walk here—almost a half hour trudging through the dawn—reliving the Iudicium for them. The journey to the dome, the Labyrinth, the ring of bronze blades. The slaughter that followed.

“It’s brighter than the one at Letens.” I make the observation abruptly. It was the first thing I noticed. That golden light was present, back then, but only barely visible during the day.

“It’s not. They’ve all been getting brighter.”

I frown. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“It’s not talked about much, but twenty years ago they barely glowed at all. The prevailing theory is that it’s related to how many people have been through the ceremony.”

“Nothing to be concerned about, no doubt,” I mutter.

He grunts, but his mind’s elsewhere again. Almost certainly turning over what I’ve told him—as is Lanistia, given the way she’s completely ignoring our conversation—but I’m not worried. My lies were few and carefully crafted. I said nothing of the man with the scar, the one working with Relucia, who seemed able to vanish at will. Instead, I explained that I overheard the Anguis talking about how people high up in the Republic were helping them, just as they had at the naumachia. I never implicated Military, not directly. But I gave them the name Navisalus. I know Ulciscor will follow it. I know where it will lead.

My adoptive father is many things, but he is not an evil man. When he realises Military are involved, aware that I will be pulling at the same threads, he will warn me.

And if he does not, it means he truly cannot be trusted.

Otherwise, my deceptions were simple and only by exclusion. I avoided mention of the strange pulses in my head that helped me evade the Anguis; though they no longer echo, they were odd enough that I feel the need to investigate them myself first. Emissa’s attempt to kill me, I simply awarded to an unknown attacker. Part of me feels foolish for the last. I don’t owe her anything.

Everything else, I related in as much detail as I could. Expounded when needed. Answered Ulciscor’s questions, which were many once I reached the Labyrinth, even as Lanistia remained grimly quiet.

My voice cracked as I told them about Callidus, despite my best efforts.

I finished with Veridius’s outrageous claim about stopping a new Cataclysm; since then, Ulciscor has said little. The way he looks at me now, I think perhaps he’s finally feeling the weight of what he forced me to do. There’s sorrow, there. Maybe even guilt.

Dismay too, though. I haven’t given him answers about Caeror. If anything, I’ve furnished him with even more questions. More threads at which to worry.

We lapse into tense silence again, letting the uneasy murmuring of the Forum fill the gap between us. We’re at the head of an orderly queue, mostly consisting of Octavii and their children, the majority of whom seem around twelve—the earliest age at which this ceremony is allowed. Many, parents included, bashfully look away when I turn. I’ve heard the too-loud whispers of “Catenicus” more than once since we arrived.

I ignore them, an art I’ve quickly had to learn since arriving in the city yesterday. When I was last here, people knew only my name. But word of the Iudicium has spread as only lurid news can. More heroics by the great Catenicus, and this time at great personal cost.

I resist the urge to rub the itching nub of my missing arm, and stare ahead bitterly.

“Ulciscor! Vis!” The female voice pierces the Forum’s susurrus, causing all three of us to turn.

“Relucia?” Ulciscor looks as surprised as I feel, if not as concerned.

“Husband!” The dark-skinned young woman with the curly brown hair all but throws herself into Ulciscor’s arms, kissing him fiercely before dancing back and assessing me with hands on her hips. “And Vis! My dear, brave boy.” She embraces me with exaggerated gentleness, as if worried she’ll cause my other arm to fall off. “How are you holding up? Don’t answer that; I am so sorry for what happened to you. And we are so proud to call you family. Even if you have decided to work for Governance. We will have to talk about that later. But what you did at the Iudicium was incredible. Are you fully recovered? I could barely believe it when Ulciscor told me your ceremony was to be today. I thought you would need months to heal! Does it still—”

“What are you doing here?” I interrupt the onslaught of questions. Manage to make my own sound bemused rather than angry.

Relucia laughs delightedly. “I timed my stopover on my way to Lyceria. Surely you didn’t think I would miss an event this important? You’re family, Vis!”

“Of course.” I smile, as if responding to a compliment. She knew about the Iudicium. She helped plan the attack that killed my friend. My fury flares a brief, threatening white before I drive it back into its usual icy ball. The Anguis are confident they own me now, and an enemy is never so vulnerable as when they think they are in control. So I’ll go along. Act the part. Eventually they’ll forget I’m against them. Eventually, I will get the names I’m after. “Thank you for coming. We must have dinner before you leave again.”

She beams at me. “My boy, I would have it no other way. A celebration of today. Of all your achievements! Lani, you’ll come too, of course?”

Lanistia’s attention, as it has been for the entire morning, is elsewhere. She glances over at her name, then shrugs and nods disinterestedly.

Relucia starts chattering away blithely to Ulciscor, and I take the opportunity to look around again. There are other familiar faces behind me now, though none approach. No surprise there; the Academy values students who wait to perform this ceremony. There are a few Sevenths. Ianix and Leridia from Six, Felix and Atticus from Four. Even Iro, some distance back. He catches my recognition and glowers back in customary fashion.

I find myself scanning the crowd for Emissa, though I know she won’t be here. My proof that she has already been through this process is undeniable.

“It’s been like this for weeks.” Ulciscor has joined me in my observation, saying it quietly enough that only we can hear. Relucia has moved on a short distance away to Lanistia, who is weathering the barrage of frivolous chatter with her usual impassivity. “And I fear it is only going to get worse.”

He’s mistaken what I’m looking at, but it’s not hard to gather his meaning. Just like the rest of Caten, the Forum mutters and glares its tensions. It’s in the way everyone stands, groups distinctly and deliberately apart from one another. In the wary glances and near universally lowered tones.

“Divisions in the Senate?”

“Divisions everywhere. Governance and Religion telling Military to disband the armies because of their cost. Generals telling Military they need to find their veterans land as reward for service, but Governance won’t even talk about it unless Military takes the first step, so now there are factions within Military that support and oppose land reform. Half the provinces are agitating for Citizenship, saying they’re being pushed to the limit by knights collecting their tax contracts. The knights are claiming they can’t collect their taxes and so there’s a shortfall in the treasury, which is why we can’t pay the gods-damned armies. Now some of the generals have started to privately finance them. Did you know that?” He shakes his head. “And then the Iudicium happened, and the Anguis very publicly haven’t claimed responsibility. It doesn’t matter that we’ve announced they were behind it. What you told me earlier … it doesn’t surprise me. It wouldn’t surprise the people of Caten. And that’s a whole other problem.”

I watch the crowd. Relucia in the corner of my vision. Unsettling, how well the Anguis have judged their moves.

“How do you think it will turn out?” I ask eventually.

“Not well.” Ulciscor’s tone is heavy. “Not well for anyone.”

Silence again, and then my gaze is drawn up toward the Temple of Jovan as the magistrate administering the rites today emerges. Everything else is forgotten beneath a moment of surreal, light-headed denial at the sight. As if part of me still believed there would be some last-second reprieve.

“Ready?” Ulciscor’s noticed my abrupt tension. He may not understand why I’m doing this, but he knows exactly how hard I’ve struggled to avoid it up until now.

I don’t answer, focusing instead on the approaching magistrate. A man in his fifties, his station signified by two narrow purple stripes. He adjusts his white toga as he reaches the top of the stairs leading to the Aurora Columnae, beckoning us up.

Ulciscor, Lanistia, Relucia, and I climb, then I alone pass through a gap in the massive encircling chain and inside the protective ring of green-cloaked men and women. The Aurora Columnae are supposedly indestructible—no steel or stone able to even scratch their surface—but the Hierarchy maintains a meticulous record of everyone who can cede, and there’s nothing particularly mystical about this process. Without guards, it would be too easy for people to perform the rites themselves. Form their own pyramids. Make their own decisions.

As I come to a stop, the radiating glow of the obelisk before me feels like it’s something more, something powerful. An almost physical force. I do not know if it is my imagination.

“Let the Benefactor announce his name.” The magistrate’s mellifluous tone is practiced, his serene gaze fixed firmly on me. He knows exactly who I am, but in Caten, all religious rites must be perfect to the word.

“Vis Telimus.” My throat is dry.

“Vis Telimus. Do you come freely to commit yourself under Vorcian? Under Pletuna? Under Mira?”

A hesitation I can’t avoid. “I do.”

The magistrate’s brief frown accentuates the crags in his face, but it’s not enough of a deviation for him to have to begin again. I only half listen after that as he drones on. A monologue on how I am contributing to the greatness of Caten. He offers sacrifices to Vorcian for my hard work; Pletuna for my harvests; Mira for my strength. Time crawls. I stand there through it all, despising the show of it, dwarfed by the monstrosity before me, the eyes of the Forum on my back.

And then the talking has stopped. I’m being nudged forward. I’m standing right beside the white granite, can see the individual grains in the stone between the emanating lines of light.

“Place your hand against the Aurora Columnae.”

Vek. My breath comes tight and fast. I do as he says.

As soon as my skin touches stone, everything changes.

I stumble, almost fall at the violent influx of sensation. Pulses from all around me. Like motion or sound, but not quite either. As if some other sense has been switched on in my head.

“Vis. Are you well?” It’s Ulciscor’s concerned voice.

I suck in a shaky breath, leaning against the obelisk. I haven’t felt … whatever this is since the Iudicium, but it’s the same thing. The only difference is that out in the forest, there were only one or two pulses at a time. Now I’m overwhelmed. Bombarded with hundreds upon hundreds of them at once.

“Just a little light-headed.” I call the lie out with what I hope is a convincingly embarrassed smile, still trying to sort through the chaos in my head.

“That’s normal,” the magistrate assures me, trying to drag my focus back to him. He places a hand on the obelisk, alongside mine. His fingers glow pink from the light seeping through beneath them. “Try to relax. It will feel strange, at first, but don’t worry. All you need to do is say the words, and the rest will happen naturally. It will be over in moments.”

I glance around. Lanistia, I notice, is staring at the ground, shaking her head. Muttering something unintelligible. Ulciscor’s glancing back at her concernedly.

I push her to the back of my mind, along with the pulses. The confusion in my head is settling into something disconcerting but manageable. The magistrate is looking vaguely displeased.

“Now say that you give your Will freely.”

This is it. The point at which they could never make me proceed. Last time there were two Sextii restraining me, another holding my hand forcibly to the cold stone. Whip cracking in the grey silence before dawn as the Matron screamed at me to say it, just to say the words and then it would all be over. The stripes along my back burn. Every muscle is rigid. My jaw cracks in protest as it opens.

“I give my Will freely,” I whisper.

I lean heavily, trying to ignore the pulses buzzing in my head. Waiting for half my energy, my drive, to simply drain away into this stranger. It doesn’t matter that he’ll return it straight away. I want to throw up.

Nothing happens.

The magistrate is frowning. Puzzled more than anything else. “Say it again.”

“I … give my Will freely.” It comes out easier, this time.

“Lani.” It’s Ulciscor, behind me. Concerned tension in his voice. I look around. Lanistia is focused on me. Moving forward, past the chains, too close to the surrounding green-cloaked guards. They step into her path. She pushes against them.

“Lanistia?” I frown at her. “What’s wrong?”

She bares her teeth at me. It’s not anger. It’s confusion. Desperation.

“Complete the journey, warrior,” she says sorrowfully.

She has a dagger in her hand.

The two guards in front of her aren’t expecting it, never have a chance to react. She’s so fast. A blur as her blade slices again and again with barely a pause in between. A frozen tableau as everyone watches, myself included, trying to understand. It’s as if nothing has happened at first except that the two men are suddenly letting her walk past. Then bright red lines bloom on throats. Their hands go to their necks in eerie unison as they collapse.

“Complete the journey, warrior,” whispers Lanistia again as she stalks toward me, knife dripping, as the screams begin below.

Then everyone moves.

I have trained with Lanistia for hours upon hours upon hours. Countless mornings on the grass outside Villa Telimus as she sparred with me again and again.

She is better than me. She has always been better than me. And now I only have one arm.

“Complete the journey, warrior.” The knife slices the air in front of my eyes once. Twice. I back away. “Complete the journey, warrior.” She says it desperately. Like it’s being ripped from her lips.

A guard comes at her from behind and she sidesteps. Twists casually. Kills him. A Razor flies at her, and she flicks her blade up just as it would have taken her in the back of the neck. The obsidian shatters, shards dropping to the ground, imbuing lost. Another green-cloaked man rushes at Lanistia, thinking to take her from behind. He dies as quickly as his companions.

Ulciscor and Relucia are both yelling her name, but their voices are lost amidst the outraged shouting in the Forum below. Bodies everywhere. Blood glinting gold staining the stones beneath the Aurora Columnae. More dash at Lanistia. More die. She is so fast, and they do not understand that she can see them coming no matter from which direction they approach.

“Wait!” I hear Ulciscor’s screams as Lanistia slices more Razors from the air; he’s stepping in between her and a fresh wave of oncoming attackers, though whether to protect her or them I don’t know. It’s all in the background though, all a blur. I stumble back again and again, ducking and weaving and blocking and hoping desperately for an opening that never comes. She is too good.

“Lanistia.” I gasp her name. “Please. Lanistia. It’s me.”

“Complete the journey, warrior.” Her knife scores a burning line along my cheek. “Complete the journey, warrior.” A cut along my remaining arm. Her formal clothing is restricting her movement, just slightly. It’s the only reason I’m alive.

Above the screams, there’s a massive, clanking rattle. Motion in the corner of my eye.

The massive chains that surround the Aurora Columnae rise. Rip free of their posts.

Fly at Lanistia.

She dives and twists but the chains are too long and too quick, even for her; one snags her ankle and then wraps itself around her, again and again. She struggles wildly, teeth bared. Hissing the words over and over now as she scrabbles in my direction. Silhouetted by the obelisk’s light. “Complete the journey, warrior.”

And then she’s down. Completely encompassed by the mass of metal. I come to a trembling halt to see Ulciscor thirty feet away, eyes midnight as they focus on Lanistia. One of the green-cloaked guards sprints in toward the bound woman, his blade out. A chain flicks up and hits him in the head. He crumples.

“She is not to be harmed!” Ulciscor roars the words, audible even over the shouts and sobs of the crowd. He is racing toward Lanistia. Chains whip around her. Protecting her now.

Lanistia’s glasses have fallen off. Her eyeless stare bores into me.

“Complete the journey, warrior,” she gasps, so softly that only I can hear it. She weeps it, this time. As if it is an apology.

Her body goes limp as the squeezing chains finally rob the last of her breath, and she passes into unconsciousness.

XI

IT TAKES LESS THAN A WEEK TO REALISE THAT EVEN COMpared to those miserable months after Suus was taken by the Hierarchy, life among the tombs and grey rocky clefts of Qabr should be as grim as any I have yet lived.

The first couple of days are the hardest. Bitterly cold nights fade to waking in a musty blackness that is panicking in its totality. First breaths always the hardest as my lungs remember the impurity of the air. The sarcophagi of the tombs are our beds, cut stone softened only by what we are wearing. During the second day, I learn from Caeror that most of the Qabrans remove the dead and sleep inside the sarcophagi themselves, using tattered body wrappings as bedding and detritus from the sepulchres to form makeshift coverings. I think it’s macabre. On the third night, I reluctantly try it myself. It’s significantly warmer. I sleep that way thereafter.

Dawn in the massive crypt comes well into the day, when the miserly crags of the roof finally allow enough light to risk navigating the narrow ledges of the chasm’s walls. Though Caeror says there are upward of fifty people living down here, the morning murk is suffocating in its silence. When I do see someone, it is always brief and always ends with their immediate flight. To a one they are disconcertingly thin and hollow-eyed. Their unrelenting caution, and my ongoing isolation, feels like another kind of toxin permeating the air.

And yet, it is not the crushing existence it could so easily be.

My time with Caeror, and his determination to extract some small joy no matter our surrounds, alleviates much of the despondency of this place. He is quick and clever like his brother, but different to Ulciscor in so many other ways. Open and unaffected in his conversation. Sympathetic as I struggle with what has happened. Cheerful when I need easy company, and morbidly witty whenever we talk of the iunctii, helping to ease my horror at their mere existence with jokes that I half suspect he’s been saving for years.

On my third day he decides to tell me a series of stories about Ulciscor as a boy. After the final one my bursting laughter ricochets down the chasm, and its echo startles me with the purity of its genuine, simple enjoyment.

And so, remarkably, I do not dread the days as I should. I have no doubt that it is partly Caeror’s seven years of adaption that allows him his attitude. But there is also a deliberateness to his levity. The kind of man who is not just upbeat, but who actively considers how he might best make others feel the same. It is impossible to be near him for any significant amount of time and not, even reluctantly, smile.

It helps. Gods, it helps.

Today, light seeping down the rocky grey walls and illuminating the distinctive paintings covering the tomb entrances, begins just like the others. I’m fetched by Caeror. We walk for a bit and then sit on some steps, perched above the gloom of Qabr.

And he helps me try to comprehend this new reality.

“Sleep alright?” He hands me a bowl of barley gruel and a cup of water as we make ourselves comfortable.

I nod my thanks, carefully savouring my first bland mouthful. This will be all I get until tomorrow. The Vitaeria we all wear mean we only need a fraction of a normal meal per day to subsist. Which is fortunate, because though I haven’t seen the garden yet—where Caeror says the Qabrans have figured out how to coax some meagre life from the underground soil—I know its crops are constantly stretched to breaking point. “Better. I think my body’s finally getting used to what passes for daytime down here.” I finish and take a sip of water, trying not to make a face at the unpleasant brackish taste.

“Good. You’ll rotting hate it when you have to adjust to the sun again, though.” He gives the cheerful half smile that is his near constant expression, and pushes some strands of curly hair from his eyes. Even in the dim, the scar crossing his face back up to his missing ear is marked.

Then he places his obsidian sword carefully between us, the black blade clinking against stone.

Silence for a few seconds as I stare at it. The Instruction Blade, as Caeror calls it, is almost two feet long. Thin, obsidian polished to a glassy finish. I haven’t seen it since that first day when he used it on Djedef.

“I know you still have questions,” Caeror says quietly. “But I think it’s time to talk about why you’re here.”

I nod slowly. A pit in my stomach, though I’ve known this was coming, could sense his impatience yesterday as we danced around the subject. “Ka. The Concurrence. You want me to kill him, before he causes another Cataclysm.”

“Yes.” He understands it’s hard to hear, but doesn’t shy away from the reality of it.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Of course you can. I realise it will take time to come to terms with it, Vis, but what’s the alternative? Living here in hiding for the rest of your days, and wondering if you’re responsible for the deaths of everyone you love back home? No,” he says firmly. Calmly certain. “And though I hate to admit it, we cannot wait for you to feel ready, either. If Ka discovers you’re Synchronous—on any world—he’ll hunt you down. Or worse, he’ll decide to trigger the Cataclysm early. We need to start our planning now.”

I close my eyes. As much as I want to argue, I know he’s right. Inaction picks a side. Estevan was wrong about many things, but not that. I’m no assassin, don’t want to do this—and I will find another way, if it’s possible.

But there’s no ignoring the position I’m in.

“Tell me about him,” I say heavily.

Caeror exhales, leans back slightly. Relief written plain at my implied acceptance. “The man himself? We don’t know a lot,” he admits. “The people in the cities worship him, but he never actually shows himself. It’s his priests who hold power, for the most part. Keep his systems in place and everything running. But there’s a great pyramid in the middle of Duat that’s almost certainly where he lives. It’s the only one of its kind among the cities. Considered holy ground, and heavily protected.”

I frown at the description. “You don’t even know if he’s there?”

“He is. There are few places to hide on this world, Vis. And there are none more secure than that pyramid.”

I don’t suggest I’m convinced, but let it slide for now. “Well. Sounds easy, then.”

Caeror chuckles. “First, you’re going to need to get into Duat itself. The entrances are locked and watched constantly. Iunctii are sometimes sent beyond the walls—mostly to the mines—but they are recorded on the way out and checked when they return. Sneaking in that way is simply not an option.”

I chew my lip. “But you have a plan.”

Caeror nods, tugging at his sleeve in absent thought. Then he twists, picks up the Instruction Blade, and carefully offers it to me.

“Iunctii are Ka’s lifeblood. His eyes and ears and limbs. The backbone of his rule,” he says slowly. “Stab one of these through the heart of a iunctus you’ve imbued, and you can command them—as long as your hand is on the hilt. And then the command remains only while the blade is in. Limited utility, for us. But Ka … Ka has a way of controlling his iunctii through lasting connections. Distant, permanent connections. It has to be something to do with his imbuing them. Something only he can do.”

I stare at the cold black stone in my hand. Lighter than it should be. An uneasy suspicion slinking through me. “Except now you think I can do the same.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how it works.” Bluntly honest as he meets my gaze. “But, we need to test if you’re actually Synchronous, anyway. And rotting gods. If you can?”

I examine the wicked, polished stone. The blur of my uncertain gaze reflecting darkly back at me. “So how do we find out?”

Caeror gives a tight smile. Apologetic.

“Experimentation.”

“AGAIN,” SAYS CAEROR. HIS TONE CONVEYS NO EXASPERAtion, no impatience. Only the gentle, unrelenting confidence of an instructor who knows his student is capable of achieving his goal.

After three hours, though, my own energy and forbearance—not to mention stomach for this process—is waning fast.

We are standing in Qabr’s gloom, the sound of rushing water the only accompaniment to our work, perhaps a half hour’s walk from the collection of tombs that houses the core of the tiny community down here. The entire journey was along the chasm’s rough stone floor, passing rows upon rows of darkened entrances and empty ledges and narrow stairs. A thousand thousand men and women buried down here from a war more than four thousand years old. Even now, I struggle to comprehend it.

We finally stopped here, just short of the first branching path I’ve seen. Along the right fork, the tombs continue. To the left a narrow waterfall pours from a hundred feet up, its contents splashing into a narrow pool before trickling down and vanishing again into a crevasse, crashing onward somewhere in the deep dark. Drawn underground from the massive river that flows through Duat. I’ve been thoroughly warned not to drink from it, or step in it, or even get too close. It won’t kill me while I wear the Vitaerium, but apparently even the light spray it creates can be painfully acidic.

I swallow the faint taste of bile and nod to Caeror’s instruction, turning again to Tash. He’s tall. Spindly and blank-faced as he stares fixedly at the ground. Or possibly at the Instruction Blade, which is buried in his shirtless chest up to the jagged hilt. “Ready?”

My Vetusian causes his eyes to flicker in momentary dismay at Caeror, who waves him down apologetically. “Vis.”

“Sorry.” It’s still hard to remember that even that much attempt at interaction makes the Qabrans uncomfortable, their rules surrounding strangers to their community incredibly strict. I gaze grimly at the blade. Delaying. I was the first to use it, today. We needed to start by ensuring I could actually imbue Tash, could correctly perform the process that I’d learned so much about over the past year, but never had occasion to try.

So I did it. Imbued the man using the excess Will from my khepri amulet, stabbed him and then commanded him to say things, do things. No matter that he had experienced an Instruction Blade before, or had volunteered for this. No matter that the initial command Caeror suggested was to tell him to feel no pain, so the agony of the wound would be brief.

After I succeeded, after Tash first found himself unable to resist obeying anything I told him, I emptied my stomach.

Since then, Caeror has taken over control of the Instruction Blade, telling Tash to be silent and still; my task has been to try and circumvent those commands—or at least add new ones—through imbuing alone. As my new instructor points out, the only way any of this will be of use is if I can reliably turn Ka’s eyes and ears against him.

The problem is that, hours later, I am still unable to make it work.

“How in the gods’ graves did you figure all of this out, anyway?” Not willing to start again, just yet.

“Yusef.”

I give an unsurprised grunt to the brief response. Yusef, I’ve learned this past week, was Caeror’s mentor. The man who rescued him from Solivagus when he first came through the Gate. The one who showed him how to use the Channels, and taught him almost everything of what he now knows of Duat. “How did he do it, though?”

“I don’t know the specifics, but I imagine it was passed down to him. The Qabrans have been in hiding for generations. Slowly dwindling, slowly dying out.” He chews his lip. “Yusef wanted to change that. He dedicated his life to finding out what he could about Ka, his weaknesses. Most people out here just survive, but Yusef … Yusef always wanted more.” A hint of melancholy. They were evidently close. “He had ties to other communities, too. Met with them, now and then, to exchange information. They may have given him hints as well.”

I stop. Genuinely interested. “There are other people hiding out here?” Caeror has told me a lot, but there’s still so much I don’t know about this place, this world.

“Of course! But I don’t know where, or how to contact them,” he adds, seeing I’m going to pursue the subject. “And the very few Qabrans who do won’t tell me. Perhaps when one of their children comes of marriageable age, or if there is some crisis they cannot overcome alone, they will take the risk. But caution is life out here, Vis. Each of us already holds the fate of one community. More than that is unnecessary.”

“Except there’s an entire network of resistance out there that we can’t access.”

“Except for that.” He shrugs and issues that crooked smile of his at me.

I give a soft, frustrated laugh. “Gods’ graves. Fair enough. One day I’ll find something that bothers you, though.”

“One of my teachers back home once told me that sometimes, the only thing we can control is our attitude. And sometimes that can be enough. It’s always seemed especially needed, here.” He winces. “Not getting on your nerves, I hope.”

“No. Gods, no. I admire it.” I do. Obiteum is a nightmare, but Caeror accepts it with such sanguine grace that it’s hard not to try and follow suit. “I wish I could be the same way.”

“Give it a few years. You are doing far, far better than I did in my first week. Believe me.” Caeror’s rueful smile is encouraging. “Now. I suspect Tash is getting bored, so …”

I sigh and nod to the gentle admonishment at my delay. Reach out and put my hand on Tash’s bare shoulder.

“Try one of the variants of the Caecilius visualisation. The one he suggested for Harmonic Reaction,” says Caeror, pacing around us as if trying to see the connection I’m attempting to make.

I consider, the iunctus’s unnaturally cool flesh utterly motionless beneath my grip. “Using myself as one of the Harmonic objects? And Tash as the other?” That feels wrong, but then so many of the things we’ve tried this afternoon feel wrong.

“Worth trying.” He sees my expression. Softens from academic curiosity to sympathy. “I know. Look, we only have about an hour of light left anyway. If you need to stop—”

“No.” I snap it out, more harshly than I mean to. The idea of leaving without making any progress whatsoever, knowing I’ll have to come back and start again tomorrow, is harder to face than continuing. “It’s a good suggestion,” I add, modifying my tone.

I turn away before he can say more or I can change my mind. Focus on Tash, burning his gangly image into my mind once again: a strong mental representation is the start of almost every Will-based process on Res, even if Caeror says it may not be necessary here. The frustrating thing—or the most frustrating thing, at least—is that while I know all the theory, excelled at virtually every practical aspect of the Academy, I’ve never actually used Will in any of these advanced ways before. I have no way of knowing whether my failures are from methodology or execution.

I’m fumbling in the dark, and the worst part is that I’m not even sure what I’m trying to find should feel like.

“Caecilius. Harmonic Reaction.” I mutter the words to myself. We focused on this in Class Four. A few gods-damned months ago. A Harmonic Reaction ties two objects together: if one moves in space, so must the other. But crucially, their weight becomes that only of the heavier object—which is why Harmonics are so key to the Hierarchy’s machinery. “Weight paralletics,” they call it. The reason things like Transvects can work.

Of course, I’m not concerned about how heavy we are, here. And in Res, people can’t be imbued. And a Harmonic Reaction with oneself isn’t possible. And Harmonics have nothing to do with somehow connecting to the gods-damned mind of another person.

But nothing else I’ve ever heard of does, either. So we may as well try.

XII

I KEEP MY GAZE FIXED ON TASH, AND MY HAND ON HIS shoulder. Our faces a foot apart. Harmonics. I conceive of myself—usually done to self-imbue, and, I’ve always been told, the easiest of skills—and then mentally try to link myself to Tash. Visualise us as the same thing. “Let me see through your eyes.” Vetusian. “Let me see through your eyes.” Common. It’s the command and method Caeror suggested, though I’ve tried others. The Instruction Blade operates off intent, not the language or even wording used, but I have no idea whether that will be true for what I’m attempting. So I say it in both. Trying to create the deepest possible understanding for both Tash and myself.

We stand there like that for a minute. Two. I strain to connect us, to truly see us as the same. Employ every technique that I know.

“Nothing.” I let out a heavy breath and release the mental construct. It’s no surprise: in Harmonics the initial connection is by far the hardest part, with more disparate objects needing more mental discipline and initial Will to link. It’s why Quintii and above are tasked with it back home; it’s theoretically possible for a Sextus, but I’ve never heard of any actually doing it. Even with objects that are physically identical.

Caeror nods slowly. Pacing again. Gaze distant and thoughtful. “You used Caecilius’s actual philosophy? Not just standard Harmonics?”

I go to confirm, then frown. Consider. Caecilius was the one who coined the term Harmonics; he described it as more than simply visualisation but rather something deeper, almost empathetic in nature. Not to think of the two objects as the same, but to find their hearts and imagine those as inseparably joined. He said an axe could be Harmonically joined to a log because they looked vaguely similar, certainly—but it was better joined because one was made for the other. Or from the other. Either way a more profound, philosophical link.

“I suppose not.” Caecilius never talked about trying to link to another person—why would he?—and it’s a largely ignored area of his thesis, but I can see what Caeror is saying. I turn back to Tash. “Let me see through your eyes. Let me see through your eyes.” I think about him. The man, rather than the physical form in front of me. I do not know him. Do not know much about his life here. But I can understand that this must be confusing, for him. How unsettling it must be. And I can certainly guess at how he must feel with the gods-damned blade sticking through him, no matter that he’s been told to ignore—

Terror.

I have moved without moving. I am staring at my face. My eyes black. Hand on my shoulder above a blade that juts from my chest. It is a moment in time. A heartbeat. Dread to the point of nausea. I have so much fear but I cannot scream. I have so much fear.

And then I’m on my knees. I’m blind. Retch, gasp for air, retch again. Try to rise in panic and stumble, only for someone to catch me and lower me to the ground again.

“Easy,” Caeror murmurs, concern thick in his tone as he manages my agitated thrashing. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

My vision clears. Tash still standing there, motionless, the Instruction Blade protruding. Caeror is crouching, confusion and genuine worry written on his face as he examines me. He sees me register his presence, and places a hand on my shoulder. Calming, despite his own concern. “Are you alright?”

My stomach threatens to try and futilely empty itself again. I tremble at the aftershock, the disorienting wave of horrific sensation that I can feel as keenly as if it were still happening. “I’m not injured. But no.” I push away his hand, propping myself up and looking over at Tash. “Rotting gods. Rotting gods. He’s terrified, Caeror! Gods-damned unable to breathe utterly fearful of what we’re doing to him. And helpless to stop it.” It’s the only explanation I have. A sense. But I’m certain I’m right.

Caeror runs a hand through his tousled black hair. A strange mixture of horror and excitement in the motion. “That’s awful, but Vis … it worked?”

“I can’t do it again.”

“But it worked. We can use the Instruction Blade to tell him not to be afraid. We should have done that beforehand.” Caeror looks distressed at the thought. “You felt what he felt?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw …”

“Yes.” Bile again. Me with black eyes. Embedded blade jutting between us.

Caeror’s compassion battles with his initial enthusiasm, but the former wins out. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually, brow furrowed. Addressing it partly to me, partly to Tash, though the other man would have no way of understanding the Common. “He volunteered, so I just assumed … I only thought about the physical pain. That was …” He exhales, shoulders slumping as he realises. “Gods’ graves. I’ll talk to him. Give us a minute?”

I wander as Ulciscor’s brother pulls the Instruction Blade from Tash’s chest, refusing to watch as the gaping wound pulls tight again. Not healing—not regrowing flesh or knitting together—but sealing itself thanks to the scarab disc wrapped tight around the iunctus’s arm. There are four iunctii in Qabr, apparently. The amulets we wear imbue more than enough to bring someone back.

Though if they lose theirs, the consequences for them are much more immediate.

I wait a distance away, leaning against the grey stone between tomb entrances. Caeror’s arm is around Tash, their heads bowed close. Then Tash nods. Embraces Caeror, a tight hug that holds more emotion than anything I’ve seen from him. He starts back toward Qabr.

“I think that’s enough for today.” Caeror says it quietly as he joins me, wiping gore from the obsidian.

“And tomorrow?”

“You know the answer.” Apologetic.

“But it barely worked. Harmonic links are supposed to be the difficult part, and maintaining the linkage easy. I was only connected to him for a moment, and—”

“A moment longer than anyone else I have ever heard of, except the Concurrence.” He fixes me with a look. “Vis. You did it. It doesn’t matter how long it lasted. We have our starting point. Next time, we’ll tell him not to feel that way. We can work with this.”

Fear. Fear. I can’t shake it. “I’m just … not sure I can do it again. Even if we tell him not to feel those things, Caeror … he’s still a person. He’ll still remember. He’ll still have to live with it when the blade’s not in him. The horror of knowing he is so completely and utterly under someone else’s control.”

Caeror rubs a hand across his face. “He was afraid,” he says slowly, “but he is willing to keep going. Yes, Vis. He was terrified. But this is exactly what Ka does to thousands of people, what Tash has spent his entire life, and death, hiding from. He understands the importance of what we do here. Why we do it.”

There’s a heavy silence. My hands are still shaking.

“Let’s head back,” says Caeror gently.

We leave the crashing of the toxic waterfall behind us, its echoing chasing us into the gloom of the chasm. Neither of us say anything for a while. Caeror, I suspect, is letting my frayed nerves settle.

“You are wondering what you are becoming,” he says eventually.

“I’m training to kill someone. There’s not a lot of wondering to it.” I kick a loose stone ahead of me. It skitters into the hush. “A friend once told me that we needed lines we cannot cross. Are you sure there is no other way?”

“This isn’t some clever application of Will that some other clever application of Will might be able to counter. Ka wields the power that split the world into three. He has done it for thousands of years. And people have tried to stop him for thousands of years.” Benignly delivered, but no doubting his certainty. “I prefer for you to think of it as impossible, than think of it as optional.”

I nod slowly. Take a deep breath. It’s an acceptance I’ve already made, but I make it anew.

Caeror sighs. “You should know—there is something else we need to test. It’s about getting into Ka’s pyramid in Duat. The walls are guarded not just by iunctii, but by a … kind of barrier. It’s the main reason that you, specifically, need to do this. Yusef believed that only people who are Synchronous can survive contact with it.”

Another lull as I digest it. The black mouths of the tombs wide around us. “You didn’t mention this earlier.”

“I wanted to be confident that you were Synchronous. It’s not a second-chances kind of thing,” he adds dryly.

“And you think we should test it now?”

“If you’re capable.” Caeror’s reluctance is thick, his tone rueful, but it’s all threaded with determination. “We have to push. Weigh prudence and your comfort against the time we have.”

I feel like nothing more than sleeping. “Alright.”

Neither of us speak for a while as we walk. I study the glyphs carved around the paintings on the tombs we pass. My initial impression was right: according to Caeror, it runs very close to the Nyripkian language back home. There are hundreds upon hundreds of different characters.

“What do they say?” I ask it absently as I inspect them. Trails of sand drift down the crags and catch the fading light, shifted by some gust of wind above. My voice echoes into the gathering dim.

“Names. Their lives and deeds. Their families.” He joins me in my quiet scrutiny. “The paintings show what they wish to do when they reach Aaru, the Field of Reeds. Their afterlife,” he adds, though I’d guessed that much.

“It’s a strange style.” Faces always in profile, bodies always drawn from the front. Everything simple and defined, a sense of orderliness and balance to it all.

“Yusef said they didn’t care so much about what something looked like, but rather what was it was like—not drawing for creativity or expression, but to give something permanence and meaning. So once they worked out how to depict the essential qualities of what they were representing, consistency was more valued than originality.” He sees my inspection of one tomb in particular, the symbols on it clearly scraped away. “I don’t know why some of the names are scratched off. Sometimes people don’t like monuments to the past, I suppose. I don’t think it happened recently.”

We press on; after a while we’re getting close to where we started this morning, and I’m just beginning to wonder whether Caeror’s forgotten, when he abruptly stops in front of an opening to our right. “In here.”

The tomb entrance looks like any other. Carved stone pillars on either side, etched with symbols I do not understand. I trail after Caeror. The mausoleum is as utterly dark as any of the others, and three steps in I slow, despite hearing my guide’s footsteps echo ahead. “I can’t see.”

“Just wait.”

Nothing for a few moments, and then I’m holding up a hand to shield against the abrupt pain of bright, eerie green light.

“Rotting gods.” I grit my teeth against the ache behind my eyeballs. Wait to adjust. The light is outlining a doorframe, I can see now. More specifically, it’s coming from a series of glyphs etched into it. Each one pulses with a deep jade radiance, surrounding Caeror as he stands in front of the closed door. “What is this?”

“Old machinery. Made by the same people who built the Channels. Another leftover from before the war.” He starts pressing symbols in a seemingly random order, though his silhouetted motions are quick and sure. Each one he touches flashes briefly.

Then the barrier in front of him suddenly shifts, folding away to reveal a passageway beyond. It’s lit by a thin, pure white line along the centre of the roof. Everything else—floor, walls, and ceiling—glimmer darkly.

“Come on,” says Caeror, stepping inside.

I follow. Frown at the mirrorlike black stone, brushing my fingers along it. “Is this obsidian?”

“It certainly looks like obsidian.” He pauses, then draws the Instruction Blade and slashes with abrupt force against the wall; there’s a sharp cracking and sparks where the two collide and I flinch back, startled. Caeror grins contritely and holds up the sword. “No damage. To it or the wall. We haven’t found anything that can even scratch it.”

I consider. On Res, obsidian’s one of the easiest substances to imbue, but otherwise it’s naturally somewhat fragile. “Is it imbued?” That’s how the Praetorians ensure their Razors don’t constantly break.

“I don’t think so. Otherwise we’d be able to adopt the Will from it. Same with the sword.” He presses on; the short passageway suddenly opens into a massive room, and my questions about the obsidian are quickly lost.

“This is the garden,” he adds, somewhat unnecessarily.

Rows of carefully tended crops fill my view for hundreds of feet. Beans and other legumes, for the most part. I rub my eyes; the light in here is a shade softer than in the passageway, faintly warm against my face, perfectly straight lines of it striping the roof between the reflective black stone. It’s the leafy greenery that I can’t stop looking at, though. I find myself oddly moved by the sight. I haven’t seen anything growing since I got here.

A half dozen people move between the rows, harvesting or replanting. All naked to the waist, just as everyone here seems to live. A few of them pause at our entrance, and I can’t avoid seeing their anxious expressions as they spot me, though they’re quickly back to work, heads bowed.

“This light. It mimics the sun?” I stare up at the stripes along the ceiling.

“It’s not as effective. Or as warm,” says Caeror, a little regretfully. “But it’s enough for things to grow.”

“It’s incredible.” I cough a short laugh. “Rotting gods. This is really from the war?”

“It is. Four thousand years old. If only we had a fraction of their knowledge.” Caeror stares around, almost wistful, then notes someone waving to him a short distance away. “Give me a moment? I just need to talk to Khensu.”

I watch as Caeror greets the stranger with a smile and affectionate slap on the back, acutely aware of how far I am from any such interaction. Then, as their conversation seems to be an earnest one, I let myself wander. Examining the room, the lighting. It’s a marvel.

I round a tall row of plants and come face-to-face with a thin girl, maybe fifteen, surreptitiously stuffing her mouth with beans. She stands as soon as she’s aware of my presence, swallows and hides full hands futilely behind her back. We stare at each other.

“Vis.” I point to myself. Smile what I hope is my most nonthreatening smile.

Her eyes shift and lock on mine, instinct to flee momentarily arrested. A frown. Hesitation. And then, carefully, “Nofret.”

“Nofret.” I nod to her hidden hands. Still smiling. “I will not tell,” I assure her in solemn, conspiratorial Vetusian.

We both jump as someone nearby calls out something that very clearly ends with her name.

Nofret puts a finger to her lips, and I nod gravely at the universal sign. Slowly—as if I’m a wild animal that may suddenly attack—she reaches out and picks a few lentils, stuffing them with comically gradual movements into a pouch at her waist. Then, deciding I’m not going to betray her, she pops one in her mouth and, with a grin, tosses me one too before scurrying away.

I catch the stolen legume, allowing myself a chuckle before trying it. It’s bland, vaguely nutty. I make sure I chew and swallow before I emerge back toward the garden entrance. Nofret might get away with sneaking an extra bite or two, but with the way the Qabrans still look at me, I doubt I would be treated with the same leniency.

Caeror is already on his way back when I retrace my steps. Sees something in my expression. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He raises an eyebrow, then shrugs and gestures for me to follow.

We leave the garden behind and move down a series of polished black stone corridors, each lit with a single clean line of white light that never flickers. We walk for minutes, silence broken only by the muted echoing of our sandals.

And then there’s something else.

It’s the sound that hits me first. So low and faint I think I’m imagining it, that something else has triggered the abrupt, instinctive tightening in my chest. My footsteps falter.

“What is it?” Caeror slows, turns back to look at me.

“That hum in the air.” I rub at my ears. My hands are shaking.

“You recognise it?” He examines me curiously. “Where from?”

I lick my lips. “The Anguis attack I told you about. When I saw the pyramid that looked like Duat.”

I don’t want to go into it, and I think he sees that because despite his evident interest he just nods. “There’s no danger here,” he assures me gently. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

He moves on without waiting for an acknowledgement and I force myself after him. The air is suddenly thick, too heavy. Hot. Everything feels distant, vague. I’m light-headed.

We turn the corner, and the end of the passageway is in sight.

I stop, a few paces behind Caeror. Feet arrested. Eyes fixed on the door at the end of the corridor.

It’s made entirely of gold. Etched with hundreds of glyphs surrounding a dominating, intricately inscribed cross comprised of what looks like a crook and a flail, similar to the symbol on the amulet Caeror used to activate the Channel from Solivagus. The entire door seems to emanate its own warm, ethereal light that’s amplified by the polished black walls and floors.

And it flickers and fuzzes and blinks in and out of existence. A hundred times a second. Quivering and pulsing and dizzying to the eye.

Thrum.

I cannot move, cannot take my eyes off it. The glyphs around the cross are too small to make out from this distance, impossible to properly perceive as they shiver and shift and fade.

Thrum.

And even without seeing it, that sound. That low, pulsating sound. I hear it too often in my nightmares not to recognise it. My hands begin to shake. I am there again. Frozen. Hopeless screams echo in my head. Stands coated in red. The smell. It hits me so suddenly and so hard that I don’t know what to do, how to react.

I am afraid, and though I know it is irrational, I do not know how to make it stop.

“Vis, you’re safe.” Caeror is peering at me. Deep brown eyes concerned. Brow furrowed. “It’s disorienting, first time. Breathe. Just breathe.”

I breathe, and breathe again. I am straining toward Estevan. Screams and blood and roiling dust and burning wreckage. Thousands dead and the certain knowledge that I am next. My heart pounds and I shake uncontrollably. It is a dream. A memory. But I cannot be sure. It feels so real.

Thrum.

It is too much. Too much.

With a wordless cry, I flee.

XIII

MY EYES RELUCTANTLY OPEN TO A THATCHED ROOF and the steady patter of rain outside. Confusion for several seconds as I lie there, trying to sort through the chaos of memory and place myself at the end of it all. The village was attacked. Cian died. A searing pain in my stomach reminds me of the warrior’s spear finding its mark. The rawness of my lungs from the smoke. I crawled out the window, away from my pursuers and toward the forest, but I was so weak, losing so much blood.

Nothing, after that.

“Tá tú beo.” The voice comes from somewhere to my side; I find the energy to twist enough to see a blonde, lean woman sitting on the ground against the wall, watching me. She twitches at my movement. Wary.

I stare at her fuzzily. “You.” She’s the mother of the children. The one who slew the attacker. I groan and shudder as the memories come flooding back. I check my good arm. Sure enough, burns scar its length. Painful, but not crippling. A small mercy. “Where are we?”

“Ní thuigim.” She spreads her hands helplessly.

“Ah.” I look around. We’re in a hut; it’s small and crude, but undamaged. Outside, I think I can hear voices. I am on a straw mat covered with sheepskin, blankets made of soft animal pelt covering me. Cian’s symbol-covered rowan staff lies in the corner. There’s not much else to the place. “Not in the village anymore, I take it. Unless I’ve been asleep for a gods-damned long time.” I say it more to myself, to hear the sound of something I understand, than in the hopes she’ll respond. Predictably, she looks at me with confusion.

“Thank you,” I say eventually, putting as much gratitude into my tone as my pained state will allow. This, she seems to understand. She smiles uncertainly. Nods. “Go raibh maith agat.” Earnest. Returning the sentiment, I think.

“Go raibh maith agat,” I repeat carefully, trying to replicate the lilting sound of the language. It really does sound like Cymrian, even if I recognise none of the words.

She brightens. “Ceart! Ceart,” she says encouragingly. Her curls fall around her shoulders. Aside from the gold of her locks, she reminds me vaguely of Belli.

I cough, throat rasping, and mime an entreating drinking motion. She scurries off. I use her absence to collect myself, better assess.

There’s motion at one of the nearby windows, and I see a rain-damp curly mop of hair peeking over the rim, followed by a small, rotund face. The boy’s eyes are wide as he takes me in. I grin at him.

He lets out a little gasp, and vanishes.

The woman returns a minute later with a wooden cup. I take a swig without thinking, then almost cough the concoction back up again as it burns down my throat. The woman hides a laugh as I sputter.

I chuckle ruefully with her. “Not water,” I observe, forcing more of it down.

After a minute, I’m awake enough to brave pushing aside the blankets to look at my injury. I have only underclothes on. My stomach is thoroughly bound, but even through the layers I can see black stains edging through. There’s some sort of greyish poultice flecked with green leaves seeping past the cloth, and buried in it I can see what looks like a small charm, the symbol of an intricate, interlaced knot carved on a wooden disk.

The smell makes my nose wrinkle. Whatever ingredients were used, I don’t recognise them.

The woman watches my inspection silently, then suddenly leans forward and indicates herself. “Gráinne. Gráinne.” Then she points at me, eyebrows raised.

My lips form to speak.

I hesitate.

I still have no idea where I am or exactly how I got here, but it’s clear I’m beyond the bounds of Caten’s reach. Callidus, Eidhin. Emissa. I’m not sure exactly how long it’s been since the Iudicium, but they must assume I’m dead, by now. Vanished in the wilderness of Solivagus, just as Callidus warned.

I ache at the thought, but there’s a hope in it too. A fresh start. No Hierarchy. No ceding. No lies.

“Diago,” I eventually rasp, pointing to myself weakly. “Diago.”

I DRIFT IN AND OUT OF CONSCIOUSNESS, THAT FIRST DAY. Every time I open my eyes, I fear what I will see. But it is always quiet. I am either alone, or Gráinne is there. She gives me water, and once a meal that consists of mushrooms and berries along with a sloppy porridge that I slurp down greedily straight from the bowl, spilling some over my chest in the process. I’m not sure how long I’ve been like this, how long it’s been since I ate. But I’m gods-damned hungry.

In the background, a couple of times, I see the boy and girl I helped escape. They peer at me with wide eyes around the doorway, or through the windows. Uncaring if they’re seen, just fascinated by my presence. Whenever Gráinne notices them, she shoos them away sternly. The only other sounds are the occasional bleating of animals in the distance.

It’s dark outside when I wake again to find Gráinne and her two children eating at the table, a fast-burning candle made of some kind of rush the only interior light. It does little to banish the encroaching chill of night. An older man is with them, large, perhaps in his fifties, with a ruddy complexion and a mass of golden hair that reaches to his shoulders. From the way they chatter and are sharing a meal—not to mention the striking resemblance between him and Gráinne—I’m guessing it’s her father, or maybe an uncle. He sees me stir, looks over at me with a glower and grunts. I’m too weary to worry about him. The next morning, he’s gone again.

The following few days after that pass in a haze. I learn the words for water, and food, and thank-you, and yes, and no, and rest. I learn the names of Gráinne’s blond-headed children—Róisín and Tadhg—and her father, Onchú. They all call me Deaglán, and though I weakly try to correct them at first, I eventually infer that they think it’s better for me to have a name familiar to the locals, and so I accept it. Through awkward, painful miming, I gather that we’re on Onchú’s farm and were here for almost a week before I woke; Gráinne rescued a cart and hauled me here herself. She also insists that the warriors chasing me left after discovering the body with the missing arm. I don’t know how she knows, but the third time after I anxiously get her to confirm it, she growls something with such force that it’s clear she’s sure. Given the consequences for all of us of her being wrong, I have no choice but to trust to the truth of it.

Gráinne changes my bandages daily, tending my wound with a gentle hand. Despite the severity of it, it seems to be healing rapidly, and at first I think it must be whatever poultice Gráinne is putting on it. But each day, she exclaims excitedly, and as I take note of how the skin is stretching and knitting together, I can see why. This injury was at least as bad as the blade I took in the side when the Transvect was attacked last year. That took me weeks to recover from. It’s only been half that time, and I already feel little more than a mild ache.

I only get stronger as I rest. Even my missing arm bothers me less each day, at least physically, though I know I will never stop mourning its loss. I recuperate enough to venture outside, now and then, the sunlight burning my eyes the first time I do so. We’re on a farm, just as Gráinne had conveyed. Rolling hills carved into paddocks by low stone walls for as far as the eye can see. No other houses nearby. That’s good. Presumed dead as I may be, word of a one-armed man convalescing anywhere near the destroyed village isn’t something I want getting around.

On the fifth morning, I wake before dawn and register that the rest of the family are curled up together on the makeshift bed of reeds in the corner. The bed I’m lying on, such as it is, must be Onchú’s. And when I watch the family eat together that evening, I notice how much less Onchú and Gráinne are eating than the children, and how much less the children are eating than me.

On the sixth day, sun shining outside, I rise.

“Rest.” Gráinne hurries over as soon as she sees what I’m trying to do, the word a rebuke. She follows it with a string of something equally stern, though I don’t recognise any of it.

“No.” I push away her attempt to usher me back onto the sheepskin again. Not unkindly, but firmly. I point at the bed. “Onchú. Gráinne. Róisín. Tadhg.” I point at the reeds in the corner. “Deaglán.”

She cocks her head. Nods slowly. “Rest,” she repeats, this time shoving me gently toward the reeds.

I shake my head. My wound is itchy but in no danger of breaking open. I’m a little tired, unused to standing, but once I fetch Cian’s rowan staff—which has lain untouched in the corner since I woke—I’m steady enough on my feet. Gráinne eyes the staff uneasily, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Work.” I say it in Common. I point to the sickle in the corner and mime using it with Cian’s staff. “I want to work for you. To repay you.”

“Obair?” She looks at me dubiously. At my missing arm.

“Obair.” I make the motion again. My enthusiasm is undone slightly by the fact I have to quickly bring the staff down again to keep my balance, almost cracking her in the face in the process.

She squints, then suddenly calls out through the window; I miss most of it, but her children’s names are clear enough. A few moments later the two of them appear. She issues them a stream of what appear to be instructions, then turns back to me and points to her eyes, then her children. Then me.

“Really?” It’s not exactly what I had in mind.

“Obair,” she says emphatically.

“I suppose.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Yes,” I add in her own language.

She smirks, as if she’s won some great victory, then adds a few words to her children and leaves.

I SPEND THE NEXT WEEKS LARGELY WITH RÓISÍN AND Tadhg, Gráinne disappearing early in the morning to work with her father and not returning until the sky begins to darken. Róisín is a bright girl, energetic and rosy-cheeked much of the time, constantly talking. When she laughs, I see Cari reflected somewhere in her eyes. She can’t be older than eight. Her brother is the opposite in many ways; smiles from him are rare, but when they are earned, they are infectious, regardless of whether I understand their source. He talks to me in a solemn, slow voice and acts the older of the two, but based on their sizes, I suspect he’s the younger by at least a year.

They drag me around the house and surrounding hillside for most of the daylight hours. The late spring is wet one day and bright sunshine the next, but never unbearable. I help them glean in the wake of Onchú’s scythe, and feed animals, and clean pens, and act as scarecrows, and do a hundred other menial jobs around the fields that never seem to end. Many tasks are made harder by my absent arm and still-recovering body, but I manage.

Throughout, the children chatter away at me. Explaining what we’re supposed to be doing even as they demonstrate, or patiently teaching me new words, or relating stories of which I catch only the vaguest outlines. But it’s simple, unaffected company. Simple, physical work. They call me Deaglán, and I hear it as their version of “Diago” and do not flinch and look around nervously when they do. There is no sign of danger, no sign that the men who were pursuing me are anything but convinced of my death. Whoever I was meant to meet surely thinks the same, but I find the thought troubles me less and less. The pressure that has weighed on me since Suus, and maybe even from my life before, sloughs away.

My body recovers. I adapt to my missing arm. I wake eagerly in the mornings, and cannot remember the last time I felt so light.

As the day outside fades, we all sit at the table and eat around flickering rushlight. These adult conversations help me start to get a feel for the grammar, the way words should fall on the ear. The more I hear, the more I start to recognise similarities with Cymrian: it’s not the same, not even a different dialect, and yet it still feels as though the two have sprung from a common source. I have always been good with languages. I pick this one up faster than most.

Sometimes, especially early on, the discussion gives way to glistening eyes and broken pauses, and I do not intrude, knowing they are missing the husband and father who gave his life for his children. Around those moments, though, Gráinne and Róisín and Tadhg seem to enjoy my company, and I enjoy theirs. Onchú, I can tell, still has his reservations. But he is never anything but polite.

One evening, my comfort with both the company and language grown, I spoon down some broth and wipe my face with a sleeve. Hesitate. I have left Cian’s staff within easy reach, as I often do, but when we sat, I noticed how carefully Róisín skirted it. Made sure not to come into contact with it at all. They’ve all been a little strange around the staff, but I’d assumed it was the unease of it belonging to the man they saw beheaded.

“The druid’s staff.” I point to where it sits in the corner. Divided into nine clear sections, each with a different symbol carved into it. I still use it often as a walking aid. “It is … not to be touched?”

“Yes.” Onchú replies before any of the others. Simple and blunt and emphatic.

I nod slowly. “I should not touch it?” I put my concern into my voice. I would hate to be doing something that is offending them, even if I don’t understand why.

“The druid gave it to you. It is well.” Something in Gráinne’s tone belies the words, but she says them sincerely.

I nod again absently, trying to think of how to convey what I want to ask. “Why will you not touch it?”

“It is draoi,” says Onchú simply.

“It is draoi,” agrees Gráinne.

I accept the statement, though it’s far from satisfying. It certainly doesn’t explain the faint glow I sometimes feel like I see from the wood. I want to ask whether they see it too, whether they’ve noticed anything about it, but their discomfort over the topic is so obvious that I do not feel I can press.

“You will say when I must leave?” I smile at Gráinne’s confused look. “I do not want to be a … heavy,” I finish, somewhat lamely as I reach for the word for burden. “Trouble! Trouble,” I correct myself as a better alternative comes to mind.

Gráinne smiles quizzically at me. “You are not trouble, Deaglán.” She speaks slowly and clearly for my benefit.

I dip my head gratefully. “I am glad. But is there more I can do to help?”

“You already do much.” She nods across the table to the children. “You make them lazy.”

I laugh. “I only do as you ask.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I asked only that you watch them.”

I pause mid-bite. “What?”

She grins. Róisín and Tadhg grin. Even Onchú allows some amusement.

“You are a good slave,” Tadhg adds solemnly.

I mock-growl at him. He shrugs.

“Are you sure?” I press my point, loathe though I am to. These people have taken me in, cared for me, when they already have so little for themselves. I love being here, but I cannot abide the thought that I am taking advantage of them. “If there is still danger …”

To my surprise, Onchú stirs. “Stay.” He says it gruffly, as always, but there’s honesty to it. “You are welcome here.”

Gráinne smiles across at her father, who pretends not to have seen. I give him a deep nod. Show him how much I appreciate him saying so.

And the small hut and surrounding fields start to feel like a home, in a way that nowhere in the Hierarchy ever did.

The rest of them sleep not long after dark, little to light the nights. In those silent times, my thoughts often turn to what I’ve left behind. To Emissa, to Callidus and Eidhin. I’ve surely been declared dead, by this point. I wonder who won the Iudicium. What the consequences of my disappearance might have been. I grieve for the loss of my friends, and the pain my apparent demise would have caused them.

But as time passes, I dwell on them less. Not because I do not miss them—I do. But because they belong to another life, now.

I lose track of the days. My body becomes lean again: not in the same way it was at the Academy, perhaps, but strong and balanced and as whole as it can be. One evening I tell a joke, and Onchú laughs so hard that broth dribbles from his nose. He asks me to help him in the fields the day after, and I do. Hard, physical work, especially with one arm, but I feel more useful than I have in weeks. We travel into town together that night, despite some lingering reservations on my part, and he introduces me to a friendly community of mead-loving farmers. We drink together at the tavern. The night ends in a blur of rowdy songs and the promise of matching headaches in the morning.

The next day, the druid arrives.

XIV

MY FORMER LIFE IN LETENS FEELS IMPOSSIBLY DISTANT, here in Caten. Ulciscor’s appearance in it an eon ago rather than the year and a half it’s actually been. But as I deposit my imbued access seal through the outer chute of East Caten Prison, then exchange pale blue sky for the gloom of its guard room—so similar to the one in which I spent hours with old, grizzled Hrolf—it all comes flooding back. The featureless stone walls. The grim quiet. The secondary locked door that I know leads down into a pit of human misery that too few in the Hierarchy truly know about, and too many experience for themselves.

“Charming,” murmurs Relucia too loudly as she walks in beside me. Ulciscor’s dark-haired wife adjusts her blue silk stola, looking entirely out of place. Just the right amount of displeased and uncomfortable for a snobbish patrician, though I have no doubt she somehow orchestrated Ulciscor’s message for me to meet her here this morning. At least, with me restricted to Governance-guarded quarters since being whisked away from the Aurora Columnae, this is the first time I’ve had to worry about her in almost a week.

One of the two guards rises. A woman approaching forty, lanky and lean. A veteran, I’d say, from the hardness in her eyes and the stiff-but-assured movements that speak of an old injury. I wonder what mistake she made, getting assigned a job like this.

“Who are you here to …” The dusty-blonde woman trails off as she sees the space where my arm should be, previously hidden by my cloak. Stops. “You’re Catenicus.”

“And this is my mother, Sextus Relucia Telimus. As our paperwork says.” I take the lead, Relucia content to stand in the background and smile blithely. My calm response belying the enormous capital Ulciscor must surely have expended to get us this access, and keep it quiet. “I assume everything is in order, Septimus?”

The guard’s mouth twists and she exchanges a look with her counterpart before checking our documents more thoroughly, but they’re impeccable and the access seal impossible to argue with. “My apologies, Catenicus. Who are you here to see?” She knows the answer already.

“Lanistia Scipio.”

“North 122. First floor.” Doesn’t need to check her logs. “Marcus will show you the way.”

“That won’t be necessary. My mother will accompany me as a Military observer. We’re only here to talk,” I add sincerely.

The guard’s frown says she doesn’t believe me. Why would she? The rumours are already flooding Caten. Lanistia, the woman who tried to assassinate me. A Military Sextus aiming to kill the Domitor of the Academy after he defected to Governance. No matter that it was extraordinarily public. No matter that it made no sense to do it that way, if that was her intent. No matter that I have already emphasised to everyone who will listen that I don’t believe it was anything to do with politics. The tension between the three senatorial factions in the city was already thick. Now it is close to exploding.

But the guard is just a guard, too. A Septimus who knows she doesn’t have the means or authority to stop Relucia, even if she thought she could stop me. “The way is signposted. Please knock when you return.” She unlocks the inner door.

I take the lantern she offers, and we start down the stairwell.

“Well that was easy.” Relucia loses her vacuous demeanour the moment the door closes behind us. It’s frightening how quickly she can turn it on and off. “Familiar surrounds, Diago?”

I don’t respond. The name sending a shiver of panic through me, utterly alone in here though we are. She’s right, though. My past echoes off these walls.

Seeing she’s not going to get a rise out of me, the young woman smiles. “Come, now. Don’t be so taciturn; I’ve been dying to talk to you since the Aurora Columnae. Any idea why Lanistia attacked you like that?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I did.” I glance at her. “Do you?” A suspicion I couldn’t help but have, given the consequences, however unlikely Anguis involvement seemed.

“No.”

I nod, careful to keep my expression smooth. I told Lanistia and Ulciscor all about the Labyrinth on the way to the Aurora Columnae, including what the dead men and women kept telling me as they chased me from it. Complete the journey, warrior. Relucia, as far as I know, is unaware of that part of my time in the Iudicium. I want to keep it that way. “Is that why you convinced Ulciscor to send you?”

“It didn’t take much convincing. People are already angry about her not being in a Sapper; if he comes to visit, it looks even more like she’s getting preferential treatment. No. I’ll admit to some curiosity, but the fact is, this might be the only opportunity we have to speak for a while.”

No surprise there. Relucia showing up at the Aurora Columnae meant she wanted to make contact, and Governance’s protectiveness since has made private meetings a lot harder. “How upsetting. What do you need me to do?”

Relucia rolls her eyes. “Not me; I’m needed elsewhere for a while. Someone else from the Anguis will be in contact. Tall man. Thin. He has a scar along here.” She traces a line with her finger from her forehead to her chin.

I trail my fingers along the damp stone wall. “So you’ve come out of your way to tell me that someone else will be telling me what to do?” I’m playing for time; I recognise the description immediately. I saw him with Relucia at the Festival of Pletuna, spoke to him at the Iudicium. He’s the one who’s able to somehow transport himself through space.

“Despite how naturally trusting I know you to be? Yes.”

It’s a fair point; without her description, I could use suspicion of another Anguis contact approaching me as an excuse not to obey. Still. There’s something about the way she says it. Something about the way she’s looking ahead, not paying attention to my reaction.

“What is he going to ask me to do?”

“I don’t know. That’s why he’s doing the asking.” It might be that I’m looking for it now, but just enough indifference to her tone that it feels a veneer. A pause, and then she adds, “Though he did say that he needed it to be you.”

There it is. Delivered casually, but this has to be why she’s really here. The man from the Iudicium did seem out of step with the Anguis despite what he was doing, dismissive of them and all too happy to reveal their plan to me. She’s trying to figure out what he wants from me.

“Well. As long as he doesn’t need me to vanish and reappear the way he does, I suppose that will be fine.”

The slightest twitch in Relucia’s step. “So you’ve met.”

“He spoke to me during the Iudicium.” I give an uncomfortable shrug. “He said not to say anything,” I lie, “but he didn’t exactly come across as Anguis.”

“Oh?”

“He called you his ‘little revolutionary.’ Said you just did what you were told and that you ‘dreamed too small.’”

Relucia snorts. “Don’t play games, Diago. It will not end well.”

“I’m not. Look—I don’t like my situation, but you surely have to see that I’ve accepted it. I did what you wanted. Won the Iudicium. Abandoned Military and chose a position in Caten, though I could have gone to Jatiere like I wanted. My fate and the Anguis’s are intertwined now. So I’m telling you this because there’s no gods-damned point in holding it back, and I’m worried this man you want me to listen to is doing his own thing.” Quiet and quick. Trying to convey both earnestness and urgency. “He told me the whole plan, you know. Leave one of your own to be caught after the attack, so that they could imply Hierarchy involvement. Sow more dissent within the Senate by making it clear that someone was trying to strip Religion of their control of the Academy. But he made it sound like the whole thing was a game to him. Like some sort of sideshow for his amusement.”

The curly-haired young woman says nothing for a few seconds, leaving only faint dripping sounds and the echo of our footsteps.

“That is good to know,” she says eventually. A hardness to her that I’m not sure whether comes from her doubting my words, or the man we’re talking about. “But let me be clear, Diago. He is working with the Anguis, and he is doing what we need him to. Anything he asks of you, I am asking of you.”

“Understood.” Not quite obedience, but no effort to push further. Best to just scatter the seeds, for now, and see what grows.

We’ve reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs. The layout here is marginally different to Letens Prison, but it’s all familiar enough. The stench of the Sappers in the Eastern block—those in temporary storage of less than a month, not the Deep Cells—hits like a physical wall as we emerge into grim passageways. Relucia noticeably falters, her eyes lingering on the darkness to the right before we forge straight ahead, our lighting now supplemented by occasional flickering torches. The air clears as we move farther in, fading to just unpleasantly musty with faint threads of smoke. Only holding cells, in this quarter.

It’s still dim down here and our lantern-light does little to brighten the insides of the cells; there’s occasional shifting and scraping as our passing causes someone to stir, but for the most part the prisoners keep to themselves. They know that poor behaviour is only likely to increase their chances of being moved somewhere worse.

We reach Cell 122. Like the others, the torchlight in the corridor outside does little to illuminate its interior.

“Lanistia?” I call her name cautiously, raise the lantern a little higher. Not concerned for my safety, of course; the massive stones that comprise these cells are always pre-imbued for any prisoners who may be able to break or manipulate them. My fear is of a different kind.

I’ve been desperate to talk to Lanistia. I’m just worried, after the Aurora Columnae, that the woman I know may not be able to talk back.

“Vis.” A lack of surprise from the darkness. “You shouldn’t be here.”

My heart unclenches. “Neither should you.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.” Lanistia walks forward, into my lamplight. Her gait’s a little unsteady, one hand hovering in front of her. Dark glasses gone, revealing the scarred hollows of her eye sockets. She looks naked without them. “I suppose you want an apology.”

I wave my hand casually. “No, it’s fine! Happens to the best of us.”

Her mouth quirks at the corners, attention flinching in surprise to my left as Relucia pipes up. “Lani!” Simpering persona back on full display. “Oh, gods. It’s awful to see you in here. How are you holding up?”

“Relucia. They’re treating me well. Thank you for coming.” There’s a pause as she waits for another greeting, though she gives no sign of disappointment when there isn’t one. “Thank you both for coming.”

“Of course. Of course. But whatever were you thinking, my dear?” Blithe and straight to the point. “Everyone is wondering. Ulciscor is sure there is more to the story, and I am as well, but you must know how it looks to—”

“Relucia.” Lanistia’s tone is wryly accustomed to cutting through Relucia’s babbling; I’d probably have to hide a grin if I didn’t know it was an act. “I imagine Military have been told that Vis is here visiting me by now, so our time is short. Could I speak to him privately? There are things I would say to him alone.”

“Alone?” The perfect amount of uncertain protest from Relucia. She’s only here to deliver her message to me, but she’s undoubtedly still wondering what we have to say to each other.

“It’s fine. She’s in a cell and past the trying-to-kill-me phase, I think,” I interject. Relucia glares at me, the demand for a reversal in her eyes. “And Lanistia’s right. Those guards will have contacted their superiors as soon as we left. We don’t have time to argue.”

Curiosity battles with practicality, and there’s a twist of the lips from Relucia as the latter wins out. She had to have suspected this would happen; for all her familial ties, she’s mostly a stranger in Villa Telimus. “I understand, Lani. Be well.”

She gives me a meaningful look, and leaves the two of us alone.

XV

I WAIT UNTIL RELUCIA’S LIGHT HAS VANISHED FROM VIEW before turning back to Lanistia. “She’s gone.”

“Good.” She keeps her voice as low as mine. “The cells nearby are occupied, but we should be alright if we speak like this.” She sighs. Silence for a second. “Well. Here we are. I can’t see you, by the way, in case you didn’t realise.”

I’d gathered. “You gave your Septimii back their Will?”

“It was the right thing to do.” A casual shrug, as if the loss of her sight and freedom is a small thing. “So. You know it wasn’t me?”

“The weird chanting was a pretty good hint.”

Lanistia nods. Relief in the motion. “I knew what I was doing. I remember it. I just couldn’t stop.” A hard bluntness to the statement that, knowing her as I do, says she’s steeling herself against the memory. “I know you told us about what happened at the Iudicium. What the … dead bodies trying to kill you said. But it wasn’t that. I wasn’t remembering it. It was … just something I had to say. That I had to say to you.” She pauses. “Before I killed you.”

“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond to that.

“But I taught you well enough to stop that from happening, too,” she adds, straight-faced. A hint of the woman I know in the statement.

“I suppose I owe you my life, then.”

“Call it even,” she says magnanimously. Her rare flash of humour fades. “I think there was something wrong as soon as I saw you that morning. In the back of my mind. Like an itch I couldn’t scratch.” She speaks slowly, still trying to figure it out even as she says it. “I feel it now, too. Barely there. But …”

I don’t allow myself to take an uneasy step back. “But what?”

“It got worse when we got to the Forum.”

“You were acting a little strangely when we arrived. Distracted,” I agree quietly. I’ve thought about this a lot too. “But it seemed to trigger when I went up to the Aurora Columnae.”

She nods. Reluctant, but she’s reached the same conclusion. “As soon as you touched it, I wasn’t in control anymore. I wanted to stop. But there was this voice. Booming in my head. And I couldn’t ignore it.” There’s a slight tremor to her words, at that. I can only imagine the horror. “I couldn’t.”

“I believe you,” I assure her. “Any idea what could cause something like that?”

“Not any application of Will that I know of,” Lanistia agrees with my unspoken assessment. She indicates her empty eye sockets. “Based on what you told us, it has to be something to do with this. With what happened when I was at the Academy.”

Same conclusion I’d come to. The reason I’m here, and we both know it.

“I remembered something, too.” She breathes it, almost as if she can barely dare to believe it herself. “When you touched the Aurora Columnae, just before the voices started. Just a flash. That room you described in the ruins, with all the bodies? I think I went there, once. I was saying a phrase. Miseram pacem vel bello bene mutari.”

I stare at her. “That’s Vetusian. Something like … ‘war is better than an unhappy peace’?”

The note of hope in her voice is discordant with her surrounds. “I don’t know what it means. But it’s something. I can’t find out more in here, but—”

“Of course. Of course I’ll look into it.” My mind races. “Veridius still wants to talk, I’m sure. Governance has all but banned me from leaving Caten until after Placement, but once that’s done …” To keep me safe until I’m properly situated in a pyramid, I’ve been told. As if I’m helpless without Will at my disposal. The exact day of the exam is being kept secret until just beforehand, but it’s probably still months away.

“I didn’t mean ask him directly.” A poisonous edge in the warning as she speaks of the man she holds responsible for the death of the one she loved.

“I know. But I can get myself invited back to Solivagus.”

Silence, then, “No.” Lanistia finally shakes her head as she understands what I’m suggesting. “No. Even if you managed to get away from Veridius, there’s every chance that place is where I lost my eyes. Using that phrase might be what caused it.” Her voice is firm. “I forbid it, Vis. You have access to the Catenan Bibliotheca now. And there are a hundred scholars in the city who would be more than thrilled to talk Catenicus to death about ancient Vetusian phrases. So academic research only. Promise me.”

“You do know you’re in a prison cell, right?”

She stares at me impassively.

“Fine.” I wave my hand. “Research only. But I am going to talk to Veridius.”

She grunts. “Then be careful around him.” She knew it would be a necessity. “And tell Ulciscor what you’re doing. He might be able to help.”

“If I’m allowed to speak to him at all, after this.” We’ve been exchanging messages coded the way he and Caeror used to communicate, given that both Military and Governance are likely reading them in transit. The first came only a couple of days after the Aurora Columnae. Warning me that the Navisalus was tied to Tertius Ciserius, and that Military may have been involved.

But even seemingly innocuous messages may no longer be allowed, now. I had to sneak away this morning to come here. There will be no hiding this visit, nor the fact that Ulciscor and I collaborated to make it happen.

Lanistia taps the stone wall with a fingertip. “You two are working together again, though?”

“For now.”

“He regretted what he did, you know. Making you run the Labyrinth. From the moment we left Suus, he knew he shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

I scoff. “He said that?”

“No, but I know him.”

“Even if you’re right, it doesn’t change that he did it.”

Lanistia dips her head. “And I am not defending it. But you have to realise—finding out what really happened to Caeror is what’s driven Ulciscor for the last seven years. He lost his brother, and he knew, he knew, it wasn’t suicide. But his family didn’t want to hear it, wanted to just move on from the shame. And everyone else? They turned his conviction into something sad. They turned it into a joke, Vis.” She licks her lips. More earnest than I think I’ve ever seen her. “Ulciscor is a good man but Caten broke him, in that way. When it comes to his brother, people have only ever been obstacles. And if those two ever had one thing in common, it was how they treated obstacles.” A fond smile. Wistfulness in her voice. I think this is the first time she’s ever spoken of Caeror voluntarily.

I take my time in responding. I knew all of this, of course. Had gathered it from conversations both with Ulciscor and others, and it doesn’t change the anger I feel over what he did.

“That tells me why he did it,” I say eventually. “Not why he wouldn’t do it again.”

“Because he spent four months after Suus fretting over whether he was finally going to get his answers, or about to go through the same pain all over again. As much as he wanted to think of you as a piece on the board, he never really could. He was so relieved when he heard you were alive. You remind him of Caeror more than he wants to admit.”

I nod slowly. “He told me that, once.” Hesitate. “Do I remind you …”

“No. Gods, no.” Lanistia makes a face as though she’s tasted something unpleasant.

I laugh. “Fair enough.”

There’s a quiet moment, the relief of us having said what we needed to say evident, even as we both know I shouldn’t linger. Then Lanistia pats her left arm. “Does it hurt?”

“Less each day.” A heartbeat when I consider leaving it at that. “Still feels like it’s there, sometimes, though. Especially when I wake up.”

“Give it time. It gets easier.”

“Thanks.” I mean it. For this, I put more stock in her counsel than anyone else’s.

“Have you thought about what you might be able to do, once you’re a Quintus?”

I pause. Not understanding the progression of the conversation for a second. My distaste for Will has meant that I’ve barely given it a thought; before the Iudicium I had no intention of wielding it, and since … since, there has been too much else to focus on.

“You should,” continues Lanistia, taking my silence as an answer. “Talk to Ulciscor about that, too. When I lost my eyes, he found some theories about how to increase efficiency when you’re replicating natural functions. It helped.”

“I will.” Suddenly it’s all I can do to keep from focusing on the possibilities, rather than the current situation. But I’ve lingered long enough; the guards will have passed on my presence here, and there’s less chance of trouble if I can be gone by the time Military arrives. “I hate to say it, but I think it’s time to find Relucia and get out of here.”

“I know. It’s fine. Careful around her, though, Vis,” Lanistia says quietly. “She’s sharper than she lets on.”

I nod again, though she can’t see it. “I’ll come back when I can.” Start to walk away.

“Vis.”

I pause. Wait.

“They’re going to put me in a Sapper, eventually.”

“I won’t let them.”

“They have to. You have to. Men died. Not to mention that the guards told me what’s going on out there. If Military don’t, it’s as good as saying they sent me to kill you.” A quaver in her voice I’ve not heard before, but she presses on. “This is not on you. Do what you can to find out what happened to me, get me out if you can. But don’t do anything rash, and don’t you let Ulciscor do it either. Promise me.”

I look at her. Fists clenching and unclenching by my side.

“You know me, Lanistia,” I say, forcing a smile into my voice. “I’m never rash.” I walk on.

“Vis?” She calls after me.

My echoing name is her only reply.

IT’S AT LEAST A MINUTE OF WALKING BACK ALONG THE torchlit corridor, lost in thought, before I realise I still haven’t come across my adoptive mother.

I frown, half surprised to realise she wasn’t trying to listen in. There aren’t a lot of places she could have gone, anyway; I follow the straight path until finally I find her silk-draped form standing just past the stairwell in the eastern section, facing away from me. Staring motionless into one of the open green-lit cells. Past her, inside, is a woman. No older than Relucia. Stringy, unkempt hair splayed across her face. Pallid and naked as she’s slumped against the gentle slope, chains stretching upward from her wrists and ankles so that she can be safely winched away from the stone when her time is done.

Relucia is saying something quietly to her. Too softly for me to make out. She stops when she hears me coming. “You’re finished?” She doesn’t turn. Voice cold and hard.

“Yes.”

“They’re going to put Lanistia in one of these, you know.”

“I know. So does she.”

She nods. A slow, reluctant motion, as if she’s processing my words. “Can we stop it?”

She turns to me, and I am shocked to see red eyes. Glistening streaks down her cheeks.

“I … we’re going to try. Of course.”

“Do better than that.” She half raises a hand, as if to signal farewell to the cell’s occupant. Perhaps she knows her? But that seems unlikely. This isn’t long-term storage, isn’t where they would keep one of the Anguis.

“You want me to cause even more trouble between Military and Governance.”

Anger flashes across her face. “I want you to do what’s right.”

I cough a disbelieving half laugh. “You’ll forgive me if I think we might have different ideas of what that entails.”

She doesn’t smile. “Not when it comes to this, Diago.”

My own smile fades. I resist the urge to continue disdaining her apparent concern, and nod. Perhaps it’s real.

We start back up the stairs, Relucia pulling a cloth from some concealed pocket and carefully clearing her face of any sign of distress. “Did Lanistia say why she did it?”

“She said she felt compelled by something. A voice in her head.” I affect confusion. “I believe her, I think, but … have you ever heard of anything like that?”

“No.” Was there a hesitation, there? “I cannot imagine it’s an excuse that will go over well with the Senate.”

“I can’t imagine there is one that would.”

“True.” Relucia chews her lip. “How did she seem, otherwise?”

“Normal. Fine, given the circumstances.”

Relucia nods again. Lapses into thought for a few steps.

“You should be wary, while you’re in Caten,” she says suddenly. Changing topic. “You’re more famous now than ever, and a lot more recognisable. Melior’s death was necessary to place you here, but it resulted in some … fractures. Most of the Anguis have been told that you’re too high profile a target, for now. But there are still elements that want revenge, people we haven’t been able to contact. And you remember the naumachiarii who escaped?” I nod. “They’re being led by a man called Vulferam. They’ve pledged their allegiance to Melior’s memory, not the Anguis.”

“Naturally,” I mutter. I remember Vulferam. A monster of a man, dwarfing those around him as he leapt across decks and swung his weapon with horrific, manic force, sending opponent after opponent into the roiling vortex of red lanterns above. “And Melior’s memory, I suppose, probably doesn’t like the fact that I’m a hero for killing him.”

“Safe to say,” agrees Relucia dryly.

“I’ll be careful.” Governance has already made arrangements for my security; my housing is guarded and I usually have men hired to accompany me around Caten. They would be here today, except I slipped away without telling them where I was going. Probably the last time I’ll get away with doing that.

We’re nearing the top of the stairs, and Relucia brings me to a halt before we get close to the door. Keeps her voice to a whisper. “I meant what I said about following your contact’s instructions, Diago. Whatever he asks. To the letter.”

I issue a curt, irritated nod.

We are let out by the still displeased-looking guard—apparently having beaten any response by Military to our presence—into the early morning light of Caten. Already the city is bustling. Will-powered carts move smoothly along cobbled streets. Weary-looking Octavii trudge to work. This prison—there are several, in the Republic’s capital—is a distance from the harbour, but I can see water sparkling, the slope falling away to provide an intimidating view of the thousands upon thousands of buildings between. I’ve been living here for more than a week. The size and scope of the place still dismays me.

Relucia parts ways almost immediately, embracing me enthusiastically and murmuring all the excited and heartfelt things she’d say if she was really my mother. She’s so proud of me. So glad I’m alright. She cannot wait to see how I perform during Placement. There aren’t too many people around, but she puts on the show anyway.

I take it all with good grace. Play the part too. I don’t have a plan, yet—too much has happened too fast, and I need time to get my bearings—but I’ll need the Anguis’s trust before all of this is over.

I watch as she walks off, then sigh and face southward, in the direction of the harbour. I’m already getting glances from passersby. This gods-damned arm is much more than just a physical impediment.

I’m so lost in thought that I almost don’t register the figure that rises from its seated position, detaches from the shadows across the street from the prison. When I do, I stop short. Heart clenching. Suddenly, painfully unsure what to do.

“Hail, Vis,” says Emissa with a nervous smile.

XVI

I STARE AT EMISSA. SURPRISED. DELIGHTED. FURIOUS. Panicked. So tangled up in myself that I don’t respond for several seconds. The dark-haired girl in the middle of the street just watches me. Lit by the dawn. Smile painfully uncertain.

“Emissa.” I finally get the name out. “What are you doing here?”

It comes out harsher than I mean it to, and Emissa winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to ambush you like this. We can talk another time. Or not,” she adds with hesitant insecurity. “But I know you have a carriage just around the corner. Could I ride with you? Just give me until you get home.”

It’s less than ten minutes to my apartments. “Alright.” It’s not alright, not entirely, but I can’t avoid her forever. I don’t want to avoid her forever. I think.

And while I don’t believe she’s still intent on killing me, it doesn’t hurt that the driver will be a witness to her company.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I’ve been trying to contact you since the Columnae attack. Even Veridius couldn’t get you a message.” She fidgets with her clothing. “I knew you’d come to see Lanistia eventually, though.”

Of course. Given both her father’s position and her sway as Military’s top graduate, it wouldn’t have been hard to arrange word of my visit. “Veridius sent you?”

“Not exactly.”

We pass a clump of grim-looking Octavii. They glance at us sourly before one of them brightens, whispering something to her companions; suddenly they’re all nodding and murmuring “Stronger together” to me as they pass. I force a smile back in acknowledgement. A common occurrence. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I wanted to see you, and Veridius wanted me to pass along a message. But mostly, I wanted to see you.” Sincerity in the emphasis.

We reach the carriage and I just grunt as we get in, the driver eyeing Emissa but making no objection. I’m still too disoriented, too twisted up, to know what emotion I want to display. Brusqueness is a convenient shield at the moment.

There are only the sounds of waking Caten around us as the Will-carriage begins to roll. So much that needs to be said, to be explained, but I don’t think either of us know where to begin.

Eventually, Emissa speaks into the awkwardness.

“I thought you were already dead. That you’d died and been replaced by something very dangerous.” She doesn’t look at me. Her brow is furrowed, long brown hair falling over her face. Her calm façade vanished. Or perhaps this is the façade. But I have never heard her sound so vulnerable or small or sad as when she makes the admission. “When I stabbed you, that night. I really thought …” She trails off.

“What?” I whisper it. Shake my head. Spread my hands to show my utter confusion. “Why would you think that?”

“It was your blood. Veridius said you’ve been to the ruins near the Academy—been underground?” She takes a breath. Steadies. Meets my gaze long enough to see me confirm it. “Then you saw those bodies in there. The ones with the swords through their chests, but that can talk.”

I shudder. “Yes.”

“I thought you were one of those. ‘Iunctii,’ Veridius calls them. Already dead, but … not. He warned me that there are more of them out there, and they’re not always like that. Not always obvious. They can move around. Even pretend to be the people they once were.”

I think of the husks chasing me from the dome. Complete the journey, warrior.

Vek. My stomach twists as more connections come. “Gods. Lanistia …”

“She’s not. Military have already had her blood tested.” My heart unclenches. “But the way they test is by seeing how blood interacts with an imbued object. Obsidian, usually. Normal blood does nothing. The blood of the dead causes a kind of interference. It’s easy to spot, if you know what to look for.”

I think about what she’s saying. Replay that night up on the tower, as I already have so many times.

“Your blade. You used it to cut away my shirt. It had my blood on it.” That was the moment it all changed. She was protecting me, so concerned about my injuries. And then, suddenly, not.

“There was something wrong with it,” she says. Utter, painful frustration at the memory. “So obviously. I didn’t want to act on it. You have to know I didn’t want to. But that’s why those things are so dangerous, why Veridius trained me to spot them in the first place. Why it’s so important to strike first,” she finishes softly.

I stare at the opposite seat of the carriage, just trying to grasp it. “If that’s true, then what changed? How do you know I’m not …” I gesture.

“There are things the dead can’t do. Like heal.” Her eyes go to my empty sleeve. “You were tied up for the first few days when you got back to the Academy, but then you started to get better. Veridius … I think Veridius was looking for it. He said you must have run the Labyrinth in the ruins on the other side of the island. He figured your blood must have been contaminated in some other way. I think he knows how, but he doesn’t trust me enough to explain.” She locks eyes with me. So much pain and sorrow in them I can barely stop from looking away. “It was a mistake, Vis. A terrible, terrible mistake that I wish every day I could take back. I am so sorry.”

I don’t tell her it’s alright. I can’t. “So you’ve been working with the Principalis.” I say it gently enough that she understands I’m willing to continue listening, at least.

Emissa struggles to find the words for a few seconds. Fighting the urge to say more. Apologise more. The newly healed scar along my stomach itches.

“For him.” It’s a correction she’s not happy at having to make.

“Willingly?”

She takes some time to think about it. “Yes.” Not as confident as I would have expected, though. “I know he’s told you about the Cataclysm, and I believe him.”

“Why?”

“The things he’s shown me.” She shakes her head with a rueful smile at my expression. “No. If I tell you what I know, you’ll decide it means there’s no need to go and see Veridius. And Vis? You really need to go and see Veridius.”

I don’t say anything. She knows me well.

“He’s been trying to get a message to you for days now,” she adds, seeing I’m not going to respond. “A warning. When are your Placement exams?”

“They’re not telling us exactly, but probably in a couple of months. Same time as yours, I assume,” I say slowly.

“There’s going to be a separate test, just before you get ceded your Will. They’re going to check your blood.”

I swallow. Remembering Sextus Valerius, the strange man who came to the villa after the naumachia and took samples of my blood. Showed me those pictures. “I’m not going to pass, am I.”

“No. And they’re going to kill you because of it.”

I close my eyes. Part of me doubts her, can’t just accept her word the way I used to. I know how gods-damned good a liar she is now. But it feels real. “How do I avoid it?”

“You don’t. You can’t. It’s being mandated by the Princeps.” She takes a slow breath. “But there is a way you can fool it.”

“Which is?”

“You could cede to me before taking it.”

Silence, and then eventually I just laugh. When she just looks at me steadily, I throw up my hands. “You want me to become your Octavus?” Even the words make me sick.

“Only just before the test, and then I’d release your ceding as soon as it’s done. Before Placement. The timing would be tricky, but we could do it.” She sees the disgust warring on my face. “Veridius says it’s something to do with your Will being different, not your blood by itself. If you don’t have enough Will to begin with, it won’t trigger the reaction they’re looking for.”

I run a hand through my hair. “You’re sure that will work?”

“Veridius is sure. And I trust him on this. He wants you alive. So do I.” She watches me. The carriage rolls through Caten’s streets. Outside, the faint cries of hawkers are already echoing in the early morning. “It’s not enough, is it? You don’t believe me.”

“No. I believe you.” No reason for her to lie about this. Trust, though. That’s another issue. “Thanks. I’ll find a way.”

Her nod to my tacit rejection of her help is hurt and unsurprised. “What about talking to Veridius?”

“I’ll go and see him if he guarantees me unrestricted access to Solivagus. No chaperone.” Even before speaking to Lanistia, I knew I was going to have to talk to him eventually. But Emissa doesn’t know I’ve already made that decision.

“You know he won’t do that.”

“If he won’t trust me, then I see no reason to trust him.”

She stares at me. Frustrated. Seeing through me, I think, but enough has happened and she’s unsure enough that she’s not willing to gamble. The carriage is passing Lordan’s Column, not far from my apartments now. “What if I could get you in to see the prisoner from the Iudicium? Would you agree to go and see Veridius then?”

I blink. Taken aback. “I … didn’t know there was one,” I eventually lie. Officially there was no one captured after the Iudicium, though there have been rumours swirling. And I’ve been isolated since the Aurora Columnae attack, haven’t had a chance to speak to anyone with senatorial access. If not for my prior knowledge of the Anguis’s plan, this would have been a startling revelation.

“It’s been kept quiet. My father says Military made a big show of having the Dimidii from Religion and Governance in on the first interrogation, but it didn’t go well. The senatorial pyramids have been keeping their own counsel on it ever since.” She examines me. A sort of fond sadness in the look. “Gods, Vis. You can tell the Senate whatever you want, but I know you chose Callidus’s father as your patron because you want to find the people behind the attack. I do, too. I want to help. But this thing with Veridius is even more important.” She sees the flash in my eyes at her priorities, and shakes her head. “They were my friends too,” she adds softly.

I make a conscious effort to release my unjustified anger, and nod. Willing to share at least this pain with her. And willing to take this bonus. It may not end up being useful—I already know what the prisoner is meant to reveal, how he’s meant to sow division between the senatorial pyramids—but it can’t hurt, either.

The carriage is slowing. Drawing close to my rooms. We don’t have much time left. Emissa knows it too.

“So we’re agreed? I get you in to see the prisoner, you talk to Veridius?” Not showing her desperation, but I know it’s there. “It will have to be after Placement. They won’t let either of us in unless we’re at least Sextii.”

“I’ll let you know.” Eking this from her feels wrong. Feels like I’m deceiving her about something new, something I don’t have to. But that’s dangerous. I can’t even know if what she’s told me thus far is the truth. “If I change my mind, about the ceding. Where are you staying?”

“Military apartments on Vicus Caeseti. Fourth floor. Turn right at the top of the stairs and it’s the second door.”

“I’ll need an access token, then. You know they won’t let me in otherwise.”

She holds my gaze. Hesitates, then produces a small stone disc and presses it into my palm. Folds my fingers over it.

“This will let you into any Military housing.” She smiles ruefully, finally letting go. “But you already knew that.”

The carriage pulls to a stop, and the door opens. We disembark, and I look at her. I want to say so much. To yell. To make her understand what she broke. “You’re sure about the blood test?”

She nods. Looks like she wants to step forward and embrace me. Then to say something more, something important.

“Be careful.” Mournful eyes linger on me, and then she turns and walks away.

THE NIGHT AIR HAS A CHILL TO IT. EVERYTHING’S SILENT. No one else in sight. I keep my hood up and cloak loose around my left side anyway, doing what I can to disguise my shape as I tentatively rap on the door.

I’m on the third-story balcony of a building in Aventilus District. It’s mostly brick. Ground floor dedicated to shops around the open courtyard. Similar to the one containing my own apartment, and virtually indistinguishable from the hundreds of others in Caten that house the vast majority of the city’s million-odd inhabitants.

Except, of course, that the occupants here are mostly Military Sextii and above. Not a group that will keep their mouths shut, if they spot me.

There’s no response from inside. I hold my breath and knock again, a little harder.

The scraping of a chair. Heavy footsteps. A sliver of dim light filters out onto the balcony.

“Vis?” Eidhin opens the cracked door wider in recognition. Dressed and fully awake, I’m pleased to see. He always did prefer to stay up late. My redheaded friend frowns out in wary puzzlement, then bends his hulking form aside to allow me through.

“Sorry for coming unannounced. And so late.” I keep my voice low and talk in Cymrian, even after Eidhin shuts the door again. This is an affluent area but the walls are still made of wood. Not thin, but not thick enough to discard caution.

“How did you get in? You need a …” I flash the access token, and he rolls his eyes. “Of course you have one. Come in. Food? Drink?” Speaking Cymrian too. Understanding immediately.

“A drink, if you’re offering.”

Eidhin grunts and busies himself pouring as I look around. The apartment’s small: just two rooms separated by a bead curtain. A couple of chairs and a candlelit table in this one, with a bench for food preparation and cupboards beneath. A bed dominates the other.

“Better than the Academy,” says Eidhin, seeing my observation. “Not as pleasant as whatever Governance have provided you, I am guessing?”

“I was wondering where all your fountains and gold mosaics were.”

“We cannot all be Catenicus.” He presses a mug into my hand. I take a swig without thinking, then almost choke as cheap wine burns my throat. “It did not feel like this was a visit where water would suffice,” he adds, straight-faced as always.

I half glare and half chuckle, taking a more prepared draught this time. “You’re not wrong. I need a couple of favours.” I slump into a seat.

“Are you alright?” Simple, genuine concern. Brow furrowed as he examines me.

“No.” I don’t realise it’s true until I utter the word. There’s suddenly a lump in my throat. Weariness combining with the emotion that has drained me today, this whole past week. My missing arm and aching heart. I put my head in my hand. The tension that has been with me since talking to Emissa this morning finally leaking out. “No, Eidhin. No. I’m not alright.”

There’s a massive hand on my shoulder. I look up to see Eidhin crouching in front of me. Eyes locked to mine.

“Whatever you need,” he says quietly.

I grin at him. A couple of tears leaking down my cheeks but I’m not ashamed. He sees I believe him, nods. We settle opposite each other, the low-burning candle on the table between us.

“So.” Eidhin locks his gaze to mine. “You need my help.”

“What gave it away?”

He spreads his hands. “I am very good at reading people.”

I smile. A proper smile, this time. It’s an expression I haven’t felt much, recently. “I saw Emissa today.”

“Oh.” He shifts. He knows she attacked me during the Iudicium, left me for dead. I had to unburden that much on him before Callidus’s funeral.

“Oh,” I agree grimly. “She tried to explain herself.”

He studies me. “I am worried that you said that as if it is not a joke.”

“She was very apologetic.” I give him a half smile and he snorts, the equivalent of a laugh from him. “Don’t worry. I haven’t suddenly decided all is forgiven. But …” I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

So I tell him. He already knows about the ruins near the Academy, but I relate my journey to the other side of Solivagus, to the red dome and inside it. Ulciscor’s drive to find out what happened to Caeror. The Labyrinth beneath the mountain and Ulciscor’s threat to put me in a Sapper if I didn’t run it. What happened beyond it.

It’s awkward, at times, as I search for the right words and phrases in Cymrian. Stilted both by the language and the emotion of what I’m reliving. But I’ve already told Ulciscor almost all of this. I hold myself together well enough.

I want to keep going. Tell him the final piece of the puzzle about Relucia and the Anguis, my birth, my real identity. My real name. But trust is not just earned by individuals. It cannot always be simply parcelled out. I liked Emissa. Maybe even loved her. And she was hiding things from me just as surely as I was hiding things from her. Telling Eidhin would unburden me in the short term. Perhaps help him understand me more deeply. But he does not need to know.

I don’t for a second believe he would betray me, but some secrets are simply best left buried. So about my true self, about the Anguis, I say nothing.

I finish with Veridius’s claims about the Cataclysm, then what happened at the Aurora Columnae, then Lanistia and my encounter with Emissa today. What she said about the blood test. It helps, I realise as I finish. Juxtaposed with the utter madness of everything else I have been through, her claims—Veridius’s claims—feel at least as though they could be legitimate.

Eidhin doesn’t speak throughout, doing little more than nodding occasionally. By the end, my mouth is dry and throat raw.

He considers me for a few seconds once I’m done.

“Huh,” he says eventually.

“It’s a lot.”

He processes for a little longer. Stands. “Another drink?”

“Please.”

He pours us both a glass. Hands me mine and then sips his, an oddly delicate motion from a man his size. Still thinking. “Perhaps this is why the Principalis was so interested in the ddram cyfraith,” he says suddenly.

I frown. The “Right to Death,” roughly translated. The code Eidhin’s people lived by, before the Hierarchy. “What do you mean?”

“He asked many questions about it, at the Academy. As did Sextus Carcius. Over the course of many months and always as part of another conversation, but enough I thought it was strange.” He says it calmly, but I can hear the reluctance in his voice, the resistance to even mentioning this to me. “The ddram cyfraith speaks of the Cataclysm as a cycle. An inevitability of balance. Veridius wanted to understand its history. How its tenets came about. But for that, I didn’t know enough to help him.”

“Who does?”

“My father.”

Silence. I shift. Hesitant to bring it up, but I am his friend. I should ask. “Have you spoken to him, since the Academy?”

“No.” He looks intent on leaving it there, then sighs. “When I am forced to speak with him again, I will see if there is anything to find. Now. To more pressing matters. This testing of your blood. They are going to do it just before Placement?”

I let the blunt change of subject go uncommented. “That’s what Emissa said.”

“And you trust her?”

“I don’t think she’s lying.”

The burly young man across from me grunts. Acknowledgement of both statement and prevarication. He still has all the anger I had toward Emissa for what happened, and none of the latent feelings. There won’t be forgiveness there for a long time. Maybe ever. “Tricky. We would need to meet again straight after. Otherwise your ceding will be obvious during your exam.”

I haven’t asked, haven’t even implied that’s what I want from him, though I had been hoping. “You’re willing?”

His look is disdainful. “To help you avoid death for something that is entirely not your fault? Yes.” He waves his hand as if I’ve asked him to pass me a drink, not commit what the Hierarchy would consider fairly close to treason. “I am guessing this will all take place in the Governance compound.”

“I have an idea about how to get you in. But … it may involve you blackmailing a Quintus.”

“May?”

“Not may,” I admit. “But you don’t have to—”

“We are talking about your life.” Calm. Unyielding.

I laugh softly. Shake my head. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

“Truth.” Eidhin’s chair creaks as he leans back. “Now. Tell me what has to be done.”

I spend the next few minutes outlining Quintus Elevus’s indiscretions. Not how I know—my spying on Military’s meeting at Suus is too hard to explain, even now—but make it clear that I’m confident in the accuracy of the information. Eidhin absorbs it all in grim silence.

“He has contacts in Governance. His mines in Jatiere provide a lot of the raw materials for Transvect construction; Magnus Quintus Marianus works in infrastructure, so they need to communicate frequently. A Will seal from Marianus should get you into the compound, no questions asked,” I finish quietly.

Eidhin flicks his hand idly through the candle’s flame, which has burned down almost to a nub. “A dangerous business, blackmail,” he observes after a while. “Weigh down a man with his secrets, and there is no telling if he will bend or break. I assume your father is not an option?”

“Even if he had the contacts, I don’t trust him enough. Not for this.” I study him. Heart sinking a little. “I know this is an … unpleasant thing to ask. I meant what I said, earlier. You do not have to do it.”

Eidhin passes his hand through the flame again. “It is unpleasant, but this is the world you and I live in, now. Men must be bought or compelled, rather than relied upon to do the right thing. I will make sure Quintus Elevus does the right thing.” He nods slowly to himself. “This is a small favour, but he will worry we will ask something larger of him later.”

“And he’s right to. But he won’t believe you’re anything more than a messenger—there’s no way you could have found out this information yourself. He’ll watch you, I expect. Hoping to find whoever sent you. But nothing more than that.”

There’s a contemplative hush, and then finally Eidhin stretches. Looks across at me. “You said two favours.”

I frown at him, then puff out my cheeks a little as my memory catches up. “Ah. Yes. It’s … something else to ask of Elevus, I’m afraid.” The Quintus’s interests include several iron mines. Iron that, once it arrives in Caten, flows to a myriad of different ends.

There are other ways to do this. Easier ways. More direct ways. But none that will be as reliably discreet.

Eidhin grunts. “Given what we know, I suspect one more thing will be fine. What is it?”

I roll my left shoulder, watching the limp sleeve of my tunic flap slightly with the motion.

“I need him to lend me a blacksmith,” I say quietly.

XVII

THE EARLY SUMMER SUN IS OUT IN FULL FORCE THIS morning as I hoe lines into the fertile soil, Gráinne trailing after me and sowing millet. Onchú’s a distance ahead: more efficient than me by far, and apparently feeling no ill effects from our carousing the previous night. He laughed as he dragged me, groggy and red-eyed, from sleep.

“Is it this all day?” I pause to lean on my implement, wiping sweat from my brow. My head still thumps and the light still seems too bright.

Gráinne grins at me, then indicates the sweep of the field gently rolling away below us. “All. Day.”

I groan good-naturedly, and resume.

We chat as we work, companionable spurts of idle conversation between bouts of physical effort on my behalf. She hints again at curiosity about my origins; I once again tell her that I ran from somewhere far away, but that it is still too difficult—emotionally and literally—to fully explain.

It doesn’t sate her, but she doesn’t press. I’m glad. I’m not going to lie to her, I trust her, and I will tell her everything one day. But my life here has become precious, and my story will sound … far-fetched, to say the least. I’ve confirmed plenty of times that the name Caten means nothing to her, that Will is unknown and the Republic not even a whisper here. Wherever this is, the mere concept of the Hierarchy would seem beyond fanciful, and certainly is beyond my currently limited capability to explain properly.

Besides, I am wary of speaking of Caten too freely. Based on what Cian told me, there’s a chance Ruarc does know about the Republic; if he were to somehow catch wind of my enquiries, it would surely expose my survival. And even if word instead reached whoever Cian and I were originally on our way to meet—whatever my lingering curiosity, whatever answers I might get from them, it’s not close to worth risking what I now have here.

Our conversation today slips toward the surrounding country; though it’s a discussion we’ve had before, I’m finding that I glean more from the same topics as my grasp of the language grows. This land—Tiroedd Rhydd, she calls it, and it seems to span everything she knows—I gather is divided into numerous small fiefdoms, and has been for living memory. These clans raid and clash at the borders and have blood feuds that run deep, but rarely actually go to war. In fact, it seems there are regional kings who act to settle major disputes between the chieftains, and then a High King for disputes between the regional ones. Though rumour also has it that High King Úrthuile has been ailing these past months. And is without a direct successor.

Gráinne talks at length about King Rónán, the regional king here. I get her to explain words like “just” and “noble” and “powerful.” It’s fairly clear that he would be her choice to replace Úrthuile.

“King Rónán,” I say as we start ambling back toward the hut for a brief midday meal, Onchú joining us. “He lives in a …” I don’t know the word for city. “Place with many people?”

She nods. “Caer Áras. I have been once.”

“How many live there?”

She licks her lips. “Many. Many.” I’ve only learned up to about the number fifty in her language, and she knows this. Her brow furrows. She says a word I don’t know and then clarifies, “Forty groups of twenty. More.”

Eight hundred. The way she emphasises the “many,” the way she spreads her hands wide to try and encompass the concept, it’s clear that so many people gathered together is astonishing to her.

I think of the Catenan Arena. A hundred thousand people in its stands. Thirty thousand dead in front of me in minutes. I wonder if she would ever believe such a thing was possible. Can I? It feels a lifetime ago, a world away.

Onchú, walking just ahead and half listening to our conversation, stops so abruptly I almost walk into his back.

“What is it?” Gráinne asks.

Onchú has stiffened; he points grimly to the copse of trees on the far hill. My gaze follows his finger, roaming before finally spotting the three dark shapes hovering at the edge of the shadows.

Wolves. Very, very large wolves.

They’re alupi.

“Mactirmor,” murmurs Gráinne, sounding disturbed.

I gaze at them, heart pounding. They’re five hundred feet away, but I know just how fast they can be. “Are they hunting?” Onchú has mentioned the need to protect the flocks from predators. I wish desperately for Cian’s staff; it’s not much of a weapon, but it’s an improvement on the hoe I’m holding.

“Mactirmor do not hunt.” Onchú is shaken. “They are a manadh. A sign,” he adds, for my benefit.

“A sign,” I repeat, trying not to make it sound disbelieving.

Onchú looks at me, and any humour I may have found in his superstition is lost as I see the genuine fear in his eyes. “This evening, we must iobairt to the déithe.” He hurries on toward the house.

I turn to Gráinne, whose gaze hasn’t left the motionless alupi. “He says we must give to the …” She hesitates, then gestures all around. “The ones in control.”

And so, as we start trailing after Onchú, I learn the words for sacrifice, and gods.

The alupi never move.

AT DUSK WE GATHER WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS INTO THE lake to the east, and as the last of the sun fades from the sky, Onchú solemnly utters what appears to be a ritual incantation to someone called Dia Fómhar and tosses a beautiful, intricately marked bowl into the deep water. I watch with interest as it sinks from sight, and wonder how much it cost him. How many treasures have been wasted here.

But I say nothing and observe in respectful silence. For all my doubts, the alupi unsettled me, too. Gráinne assures me that they are not common, and true to Onchú’s observation, none of the livestock appear to be missing.

I cannot help but think of the one I named after myself, back on Solivagus. I was under the impression that the creatures were found only on the island.

After the simple ceremony, both Onchú and Gráinne seem more at ease, and we return to the hut for dinner. The meal passes comfortably enough, though more than once I catch Gráinne or Onchú glancing through the window into the gathering gloom, gazes searching.

The rushlight burns down. We sleep.

I do not know what time I wake, but cold silver still filters through the window.

I lie there for several seconds, eyes open, trying to put my finger on what has disturbed me. There is only steady breathing from the other side of the hut. I hesitate, then roll and lever myself one-armed to my feet. Peer out the window.

Moonlight coats the serene rolling hills. Distant treetops sway in a gentle breeze. Otherwise, there’s no movement out there. I shuffle across to the other window. Nothing there, either.

And yet there’s something. A sense, an unease I can’t shake. It’s not just an unsettled echo from the alupi earlier today. I’m sure of it.

I grab Cian’s staff. It’s the only weapon to hand. It again almost seems to pulse faintly, though it’s so subtle that I cannot help but wonder whether it is simply my imagination.

I shrug my cloak around my shoulders with a practiced flick, and slip out the door into the open air.

The night is ice against any portion of exposed skin; once the sun has gone down, the air here bites even worse than it did at Solivagus. I shiver and cautiously stalk the short perimeter of the hut. There’s nothing obviously amiss, nothing to excuse the steadily deepening feeling of dread that’s urging me to action.

I face the woods, and with an apprehensive shiver realise what’s bothering me.

There’s a second, slightly discordant pulse in my head now.

It’s different from the one coming from the staff in my hand. Just as hard to discern but this one is stronger, simply coming from much farther away. The last echoes of a distant shout, rather than a whisper. But I can still tell its rough direction.

I study the black of the tree line. Menace radiates from it. What I’m sensing feels much more remote, but …

“I know you’re out there,” I call softly.

Nothing for several seconds.

Then three men emerge from the shadows.

I’m not sure if I’m imagining it at first; the strangers look ghostly in the ethereal light, move noiselessly as they stalk toward me. Two are bare to the waist, blue whorls and lines covering their skin, hair slicked and spiked up. They are broad and muscular and each look as though they could deal with me without the long spears held loosely in their hands.

The third, trailing just behind, is garbed in white. His cloak flows out behind him. At first I think it is the ghost of Cian, but as he nears I can see he is solidly built and older, grey shot through his blond beard and shaggy hair. His staff is similar to the one I hold—carved into distinct, symbol-covered sections as well—but darker beneath the markings. Oak, I think, rather than rowan.

They’re not the source of whatever it is I’m sensing out there, though, I realise dimly. That’s still somewhere far behind them.

“Who are you?” I call the challenge loudly and clearly.

No answer. They keep coming, and from the expressions on their faces, they do not have friendly intent.

“Gráinne! Onchú!” I call the names urgently while not looking back toward the house, even as I take some wary steps of retreat. A few months ago, I might have backed myself here. But no matter how well I’ve recovered, no matter how well I’ve adapted to my injury, I know I am diminished. This is not a fight I can win.

There’s a sleepy call from inside, but any help will be too late, and Onchú and Gráinne will not be enough against warriors such as these. I need to give them time to get away. I step forward, positioning the staff roughly as I would a blade, letting the excess rest against my forearm. It’s unwieldy, unbalanced. The sort of weapon that requires two hands to be used with any skill. Still, my knowledge of how to generate power from my core remains relevant. There are techniques I can use here.

They won’t serve me well for long, though. Especially if these men know how to use those spears.

The druid’s eyes bulge as he sees what I’m doing. He points at me with fury, pace increasing. “On your knees, fealltóir na slí,” he snarls.

I don’t know the last words, but they’re definitely not a compliment.

The two warriors are less than ten feet away; they look angry too, but also confident. I take advantage. Reverse my slow backpedalling into a lightning dart forward, pivoting as I do so to bring the entire length of the staff around at the head of the bearded, lithe man on the left. My weeks of using farm implements one-handed pay off; there’s a surprised cry of pain as the wood whistles through the air and strikes him hard on the shoulder, his flinching back the only reason he avoids a cracked skull.

I keep moving past and twist, grinning fiercely at the surprised rage on their faces. Leading them away from the house again, willing Gráinne to see what is happening and grab the children and run. “Come and get me.” A children’s taunt I’ve heard more than enough to repeat.

There’s a growl from the man I hit. A look that promises violence on the blocky face of the other. Both grip their spears in a far more ready manner, this time.

The druid sees it too, snarls an instruction I don’t quite understand to them. Something about needing me for answers, I think. The warriors’ lips curl, but their stances alter.

They come forward as one. Quick and flowing and skilled. I fend off one strike, two, dance away, dodge a pursuing third.

I don’t see the fourth until my legs are being swept from beneath me. I hit the ground hard.

“Wait!” I vaguely hear Gráinne’s voice as I try unsuccessfully to roll, another strike glancing off my ear and causing the world to spin. The men don’t heed her; a foot finds my stomach and the air explodes from my lungs as I curl into a ball, desperately protecting myself. Another blow and then a weight across my body, my arm pinned. My hair, growing long now, is grabbed and my head slammed violently back into the ground. Again. Onchú’s voice is there too, protesting. Ignored.

The assault stops. The druid is next to me now, crouching next to the man subduing me. He wrests Cian’s staff from my feeble grasp.

“There will be justice,” he spits.

I realise, before his final punch to my temple, that his eyes have gone black.

I AM ON THE FLOOR OF THE HUT, GOLDEN-HEADED Gráinne washing blood from my face, when I wake.

Iron spear tips appear and hover inches from my chest as I stir; Gráinne bats them away irritably, snapping something up at the two bare-chested men glowering down at me. They ignore her. Onchú and the children watch on in the corner. Onchú looks worried. Róisín and Tadhg are glaring at the men as though they might try and attack them.

Unharmed, though, I’m relieved to see.

“Who are you?” I dredge up the words, head still fuzzy.

An uttered command from somewhere behind the warriors, and they step aside so that I can see the druid.

He is sitting, the only one in the hut doing so. His staff is in his right hand, Cian’s in his left. At least fifty years old, I think, based on his weathered features. Hale and strong. He leans forward in his chair, intent blue eyes solely on me.

“You recover quickly.” He’s enunciating his words and speaking simply. He’s been told I don’t know the language well.

I glance at the window. It’s still dark outside, the moonlight pouring in roughly at the same angle as it was before. It can’t have been more than a few minutes since the attack. I can’t sense anything unusual from out there now. “Who are you?” I repeat.

“My name is Lir.” He twitches his left hand, indicating Cian’s staff. “You stole this. Confess”—I know that one from Gráinne scolding her children—“so that death may be swift.”

A small cry from the corner, and Onchú holds back a furious Tadhg. Róisín looks close to tears.

There’s a sharp look from Gráinne to her children, and both subside. “It was given,” she says, continuing to dab at my forehead. It stings, but I have more pressing things to focus on.

“Cian told me to keep it safe,” I confirm, smoothing any trace of aggression from my tone. Lir seems to have calmed, seems willing to talk. And I am in no position to fight. “Just before he died.”

“Cian of the draoi gave you this. Freely.” The druid is openly doubtful. His voice is deep, dignified. He takes in my missing arm, my awkwardness with the language. “How did he die?”

“He was killed.”

“How? By who?”

I lick my lips and look helplessly at Gráinne. Any attempt I make to explain what happened will be broken at best, and I don’t know what this man wants to hear. Have no idea what is best to admit, and best to obfuscate. “My words are not good, yet,” I explain, a little desperately.

“I was there.” Gráinne picks up what I’m asking her to do easily enough.

She starts talking, relieving me of the burden.

I am not fluent enough yet to understand the nuances of what she is saying, but I get the gist. She explains about the attack. How Cian was brutally killed in front of the entire village, and then everyone was slaughtered in order to cover it up. The druid listens with narrowed eyes, as do the warriors flanking him. At the description of Cian’s death he physically stands, as if unable to grasp the horror of it before slumping back into his seat again. His knuckles are white around Cian’s rowan staff.

Gráinne, I note, does not mention my arrival with Cian. Nothing about faking my death, either. In fact, she seems to be claiming that I arrived in the village days before Cian, though she’s not sure exactly when. And that I lost my arm in the defence of her and her children.

When she’s done, ending at our flight here, there’s a long, heavy pause.

“The blood price for Fiachra’s cowardly raid has already been extracted. This is known,” the druid says eventually. Slowly. “But there was never mention of a draoi being slain. The Grove has heard no such claim. And even if your story were true. Why?” He finally stirs, brandishes the staff in his left hand. “Why would Cian give this to you?”

“I do not know.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“Only a little. I knew less words, then.”

Lir grimaces. “Where are you from?”

I gesture vaguely. Foreigners are rare, according to Gráinne, but they almost exclusively come from the north. “Iber.” It’s the name she told me to tell Onchú.

Lir seems familiar enough with it, because he gives an unsurprised nod. “You run from the plá.” He studies me for long seconds. A puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

The warriors with him haven’t uttered a word to this point, but now the bearded one stirs. He’s not much younger than Lir. Scarred along the shoulder from some sort of blade, a straight line of pinkish-white tracing over sinew and vein. His spear is the one pointed at my chest, and it has never wavered. There’s something hard and angry in his eyes that hasn’t faded during Gráinne’s explanation.

“The pionós for ag iompar comhlánam is death. It is clear.” He speaks fast and uses words I don’t know, but the way his muscles bunch, the way the sharp iron hovers over my heart, makes his intent clear. I still my breathing. Don’t take my eyes from him. I can’t win a fight, but I gods-damned well am not going to lay still while someone tries to end me.

“Wait.” Lir holds up a finger, still staring at me. The command in his voice seems enough to stay the warrior’s hand. “Have you had tinneas cinn?”

I look at him blankly, then turn to Gráinne for assistance. She thinks.

“Pains in the head,” she explains, tapping her skull.

“No.”

This seems to intrigue Lir. “What about voices in the head?”

“No,” I say slowly, wondering if I’ve misunderstood, but fairly certain I haven’t.

“Hm.” Lir considers me, and the silence drags. “We are not far from Fornax. I must comhairliú the garrán ionadaí at Caer Áras. Deaglán, is your name? You will come.”

My heart drops. I look at Gráinne but I can already see the answer in her eyes, in the way her shoulders slump slightly. Whatever authority Lir has, he’s completely within his rights to demand I go with him.

It’s a step up from execution, I suppose.

“Yes,” I accede quietly. “I will come, Lir.”

The statement seems to break the tension of the room. The warriors lower their spears, even if they seem no less angry; I suspect they disagree with Lir’s decision, but they will abide by it. Gráinne smiles tightly and in the background, Onchú nods, even as there’s a sniffle from Róisín and clenched fists from Tadhg.

The next few minutes pass in a morose haze as it becomes apparent that Lir has no desire to wait around, despite the sky outside only barely beginning to lighten in the east. I gather my one simple change of clothes, then turn to Lir.

“May I talk … alone?” I ask it awkwardly, gesturing to Gráinne and the family.

He eyes me, hesitates, then nods brusquely. “Be quick.” He jerks his head, and the two warriors follow him outside.

I wait until the door is shut, then give Gráinne a sad, apologetic smile. “I should have asked more. About Cian’s staff. I should have gotten rid of it. I hope I have not brought trouble.”

“No trouble. For us,” she clarifies as Onchú and the children come to join us. “And he gave it to you.” She emphasises that with a quiet ferocity, willing me to understand how important it is. I nod.

“You go to Caer Áras. Those who killed the druid are King Rónán’s enemies. Find a way to serve him, and he will protect you.” She fusses with my shirt. “You will be safe. Even with your arm, long enough has passed that no one will be looking for you. It is an unusual injury, but not unheard of. Stay small, and you will be fine.”

I breathe out, taking solace in her assurance. Nod, then pause. Searching for the words that would have been hard, even with mastery of the language.

“I am …” How to say “in your debt”? I trail off.

“Stupid?” suggests Gráinne.

“Ugly?” pipes up Tadhg.

I narrow my eyes at them. “I owe,” I say eventually. “I owe.”

Gráinne smiles a sad smile. Onchú watches as the two children break past him, wrapping their arms around me.

“I will miss you,” says Róisín. I hug her.

“I will miss you doing our work,” says Tadhg. I hug him hard around the head until he wriggles free of my one-armed grip, grinning.

Onchú hesitates, then steps forward himself and puts a hand on my shoulder. Locks his gaze with mine. “Always room for you. Family do not owe.”

My smile tries and fails to convey the depth of my gratitude. “I will come back.” I say it to all of them. A promise. “I have been … happy. Happy.” A lump in my throat as I realise how true it is.

Before I am overcome with emotion, I smile tightly and stride to the door, not looking back.

The druid and one of his men are waiting just outside; a quick call from Lir and the other appears from around the side of the house, apparently having been sent to ensure I didn’t try fleeing out the window. Lir eyes my clearly almost empty bag, then shrugs and starts walking.

“How long travelling?” The few clouds dotting the sky are turning pink as the sun hovers just below the horizon.

There’s immediately a muttered complaint from the taller of the warriors, something I don’t catch, but Lir silences it with a look. “Two weeks. Perhaps three.”

“Three weeks,” I repeat slowly, sure I have misunderstood.

“Time enough for us to talk,” the druid observes.

I want to ask exactly where Caer Áras is, fathom why the journey will take so long, but I know the answer won’t mean anything. Eventually, I just nod.

“Time enough,” I agree, trying to keep the unease from my voice.

XVIII

THE DESERT TRICKLES BENEATH MY TUNIC, ITCHING AND burning in equal measure as I lie all but submersed on the edge of the dune. The baking mid-morning heat assaults my back through my thick robe and the heavy layer of sand. I ignore it all. Remain motionless. The object of our observation today, the shimmering black pyramid of Duat, lies only five miles away. The chances of Gleaners passing overhead are far greater than usual.

“Go over the layout again.” Caeror doesn’t move his head, eyes firmly fixed on the city. We’re both hooded, blending nearly perfectly with the harsh white of the sand. “Eastern quarter of Neter-khertet. How many access points to the tunnels?”

“Three.”

“Where?”

“First is an obelisk near the river, about a hundred feet from the water. Second is in the temple near the centre. Third …” I close my eyes. Envisaging the detailed sketches Caeror has made me study of Neter-khertet—the name of Duat’s massive western district, where the city’s thousands of servile iunctii are apparently housed—and then draw from memory over and over again. “Third is hidden behind a statue at the end of a colonnade. It’s near a main thoroughfare. Probably the hardest one to get into unseen.”

“Excellent.” I can’t help but feel some pleasure at the quiet approval in Caeror’s voice, reward for near two months of exhausting work. From waking to sleeping, the lonely gloom of Qabr has been filled with a training as intense as anything I went through at the Academy. Not just memorising sections of Duat’s vast layout, or the entire network of tunnels beneath it that will apparently provide a far more discreet means of its traversal. Trying to grasp maat, the city’s name for its complex system of laws and customs, and one of the Concurrence’s many means of control. Learning to understand and roughly mimic its peculiar dialect of Vetusian. Gathering a basic knowledge of the writing system that covers the walls of the Qabran tombs, so that I might recognise at least some of the fundamental symbols I will inevitably encounter.

And throughout it all, doing all I can to understand exactly what it means to be Synchronous.

We spent the first couple of days focusing on a task that Caeror firmly believes I should be capable of: using Will in the same way that it can be used in Res. However, I soon found that while I can imbue objects, I cannot make them move or do anything else unexpected. We talked long into the evenings about the issue, sometimes arguing, sometimes speaking over one another as we excitedly extrapolated on each other’s thoughts. Perhaps it is a question of intrinsic capability, and my Obiteum-centred Will is simply manifesting its powers more easily. Or perhaps my copies in Res and Luceum need to be able to use their form of Will, first, before I can here. Or perhaps it is dependent on some extra mental process that changes Will’s fundamental nature before use, like water being transformed into steam or ice to serve a different purpose.

In the end, though, we bandied a thousand different variations on the same few theories between us without practical success. While Caeror has his guesses, we don’t even know for sure what Will from Luceum is supposed to do.

And ultimately, advantageous though it would certainly be, we do not need any of it for what is to come.

Since that somewhat grim realisation, our focus has turned to spending hours of every day with Tash, experimenting with my ability to control iunctii. Testing its limitations. Practicing what I know I can do over, and over, and over again until it becomes as natural as breathing. The process still makes me sick to my stomach, and I know Caeror finds it just as distasteful. But reluctance cannot ignore necessity. We have spent countless hours debating how I might infiltrate Duat, and I have come to the same conclusion as my patient, ever-optimistic mentor.

This is the only way.

“You’re certain the layout won’t have changed?” The maps that Yusef left to Caeror are astoundingly detailed. But they have also clearly been collated over the course of centuries of resistance, some of the papyrus scrolls I’ve been looking at dangerously brittle from age.

“There was a defector from Duat, not long after I arrived.” Ulciscor’s brother is patient, despite having made this assurance before. “She confirmed what she could, and if those maps didn’t noticeably change in a thousand years, I don’t know why they would have in the past five. But more importantly, you have to remember that the entire core of it—every tunnel and at least half the city—is made of the same stuff that protects the Qabran garden. Same stuff as the Instruction Blade. It’s unbreakable, as far as we can tell. Except for maybe by mutalis,” he adds quietly.

It’s the first time in a week that he’s mentioned it. His name for that pulsing, revolting power infusing the golden door in Qabr, the one that supposedly only the Synchronous can survive contact with—despite my insistence to him that I did, long before I ever came to this world. Even just the name conjures a queasy feeling.

He thinks—or rather, Yusef thought—that there might be something beyond the door that utilises mutalis. A weapon, or something that could be used as one. Given what I have seen of the power previously, it would come as no great surprise.

The silence settles for a while as we focus on Duat.

“Still connected to Tash?” Caeror asks absently.

“Yes.” I check the representation of the iunctus sitting in the back of my mind anyway, but it’s as strong as ever. As Caeror suspected, my time at the Academy has proven invaluable; Will’s effects may be different here, but the techniques to use it seem effectively the same.

“What’s he doing?” Caeror hears my frown. “Perfect now or dead later, Vis.”

I grimace in irritation I know he can’t see, close my eyes, and mentally send the command. I established the link with Tash before we left this morning—the key to the initial connection, I’ve found, is a sort of empathy, the ability to identify with something that he’s also experiencing in a given moment—but this is much easier. Controlling the iunctus is not greatly different to the way we were taught to control objects. A forceful imposition upon the image in my mind.

“Working in the garden. Harvesting legumes.” I watch hands that aren’t mine placing thin green pods into a simple stone bowl. Slow, practised movements. I see what Tash sees but exert no influence over where he looks, nor attempt to access any of his other senses. Sight is easy, as long as I keep my eyes closed, but commingling other senses gets unpleasantly confusing.

“Can you imbue some? Keep them fresh?”

“Probably not.” We’ve discovered that if I initially imbue Tash with enough Will, I’m then able to use him to imbue other objects. Small things, thus far. And relatively pointless, given how Will works here. But as Caeror keeps pointing out, it’s a good mental exercise for improving my efficiency.

“Alright.” Ulciscor’s brother is sanguine about the refusal. “Then tell him to take a handful to his rooms, and forget that he has. But that after we return and you drop the imbuing, he should go and fetch them for us.”

“That won’t work.”

“We’ve observed patterns. We need to make sure they’re rules.”

I exhale, but Caeror’s right, and I order Tash as he suggests. Watch as the iunctus pockets some legumes, stands, and leaves the garden. We’ve been doing these experiments regularly for the past couple of weeks; it’s important to know whether my instructions will remain, or whether they last only as long as I’m imbuing. Instructions to forget something seem permanent, regardless of whether I’ve maintained the connection. But commands to perform a task after the imbuing is removed haven’t yet worked.

“How’s your loss ratio today?”

“Better.” Harmonic connections are difficult, costly to establish. It’s likely one of the reasons Ka seems to directly control only Gleaners and another type of iunctii called Overseers, while the remainder in the city, apparently, remain nominally free. “Still using most of the Vitaerium’s Will, though.”

“But you’re alright?”

“I’m alright.” It was hard, the first day we did this; using so much Will meant that my body was far less protected from the toxic atmosphere and blistering heat, and I found myself struggling for breath several times. The fact that I’m not today is an encouraging sign of progress. “I think I’ve—”

“Vis,” interrupts Caeror, his tone suddenly intent.

It takes me a few moments to refocus from Tash’s vision to my own, then spot the line of dots we’ve been waiting for crawling away from the massive black pyramid, little more than specks from this distance. Most of the tiny figures shuffling along beneath the burning sun are swathed in white, making them even more difficult to make out. Only a single one, leading the column, is clothed in black.

“A dozen?” I guess.

“At least. Looks like they’re a mining excursion.” We watch as the line drifts placidly along, and I spot the empty sled as it’s hauled behind them.

“Any chance we can use that? I could try and sneak in with the group as they go back. I need to pretend to be a iunctus anyway, once I’m in there.”

“We could wrap you in white and get you onto the end of the line easily enough, but it won’t matter. Even if you somehow managed to get to the Overseer without the real iunctii saying anything—and they absolutely would—the entrance itself is sealed. Guarded by more Overseers who will check the faces of everyone coming in and out. You’ll either be a captive or a fugitive the moment you try.”

The distant black blight rises sharply against the ocean of white, broken only by the river winding through the valley. The Infernis, Caeror says is its name. It vanishes into Duat itself before reappearing out the other side. No greenery grows around its edges.

“What about the water? From what you’ve said, a Vitaerium should let me get by without breathing. And it flows right through the middle—”

“Poison. So much poison.” Caeror’s interruption is certain. “Even with a Vitaerium, it will melt the skin from your bones. And if you had enough Vitaeria to survive that … you know the Seawall around Solivagus?” I nod. “Yusef said there are similar columns across the Infernis, both its entrance and exit inside. So if you tried, you’d end up trapped at the bottom of the river. In agony. Possibly for a long, long time.”

“So you’re saying it’s a maybe.”

“Let’s call it a secondary option.”

I give a small smile, though he won’t be able to see it. This place is a true nightmare, all heat and horror and constant, terrifying threat. And yet even after seven years of living it, seven years of waiting, Ulciscor’s curly-haired brother has handled my training with nothing but grace and encouragement and genial wit.

Patient consideration, too. Silence when it’s been needed. He hasn’t pressed me about my reaction to the golden mutalis door. Hasn’t insisted that I try again, though I know how important it is. It’s become something of a symbol, between us. We both know that when I finally go back and face it, I will be telling him that I’m ready.

I was a prince of Suus, eleven years old when he got here. Eleven. And he is still pushing, still driven to stop the deaths of the people he loves, even though he will never see them again.

I have trusted unwillingly, miserly, from necessity alone. But he has earned more than that.

I come to a decision.

“There was a naumachia, last year,” I begin quietly.

NEITHER OF US SPEAK FOR A LONG TIME, AFTER I HAVE finished. The hot, covering grit trickles and itches. My role has been truncated in the retelling, morphed to become much more of a passive observer who found out the details later. No need to explain Suus or the Anguis. No need to give Caeror cause to doubt me, doubt my desire to help save the people we left behind. But the rest I lay bare. There is no lie and no exaggeration to my trauma.

“Gleaner patrol,” says Caeror suddenly, alert.

I switch hurriedly from introspection to mark the dots rising ominously from the great pyramid in the valley below. Watch as they swing away westward. “Three of them?”

“That’s what I make.” His eyes flick to the position of the sun. “Unscheduled. It has to be our people. But three is still too many.”

“We can work with three, though,” I point out. “Set up a secondary disturbance to drag one away from the initial group. The timing would be trickier, but we can experiment. If they’re really so predictable—”

“Predictability isn’t the issue. It’s time. We can’t run these sorts of experiments too often, or they’ll realise they’re being tested and adapt.”

We watch the dots disappear on the horizon.

“I wondered how you’d adjusted so well, you know. How you could look at what this world has become and not be overwhelmed with the horror of it. It took me months. Yusef was the only one who would talk to me, and we were living in those tombs, and … I thought it was the worst thing that could happen to someone.” Caeror’s voice is soft. “Gods. Vis. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“You couldn’t have.” I exhale. Something easing in my chest. I’ve wanted to talk about this for a while. “But if it’s the only way into where Ka is, I’m going to have to face it eventually.”

Silence again from Caeror. I can almost hear his desire to argue, to reassure me that I don’t have to confront my demons. “If you want to try again, then try. It may be wise. I can be there, or you can do it alone—whichever you prefer,” he says eventually. “But necessity is different from practice, and you are already subjected to so much. Whatever you choose, I know you well enough now to have faith that when the time comes, fear will not keep you from what is needed.”

I give a small, genuine smile at the encouragement. Despite everything, it’s impossible to help but believe him.

“You said that mutalis might be able to break Duat’s walls.”

“I only know what Yusef and now you have told me. Anything it touches, it destroys. Unless you’re Synchronous.” He sighs. “I know what you’re thinking, but that’s a bad option too. Worse than what we’ve already discussed. If you could make a hole into the city, based on what you’ve said it would be loud. You would be swarmed by Gleaners and Overseers, and even if the mutalis works as you say, they are stronger and far more numerous than you. All it would take is for one to reach you.” He pauses. “And worse. Those walls protect against the poison in the air. Perhaps Ka would be able to seal it in time. Perhaps not. But there are thousands of people living in there.”

“Not an option, then,” I agree quietly. I hesitate. “What about the stylus I mentioned? Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

“You say this man who stopped the attack. He coated it with his blood, and he was immune to mutalis?”

“That’s what Ulciscor said.”

“No.” Caeror’s voice is curious, but sure. “Yusef never mentioned anything like that. And I am certain he would have. I am certain that if such a thing existed here, it would have already been used to try and get to Ka. I am sorry,” he adds gently.

“It’s alright.” I feel better, better than I have since I saw the fuzzing golden door. I still wish I could talk with Aequa. I wish we had talked about it while we had the chance, during those long days of training before the Iudicium. A few times I almost started the conversation and a few times, I suspect she almost did. But it never quite happened.

We wait, after that. And wait. Caeror questions me as distant Duat wavers in the heat, probing the gaps in my knowledge as we watch for the Gleaners to return. I move only to take slow, careful sips of water, the taste still foul despite my thirst and despite a month of growing accustomed to it.

“Good,” says Caeror as I finish a long sentence in Vetusian, mimicking the sounds of the Duatian dialect as best I can. “You’re quick. Never seem to make the same mistake twice.”

“Had a good teacher to make sure of that.”

“Ulciscor?”

I hesitate. “Lanistia.”

“Oh.” He says it quietly. Curious and not wanting to know, all in one. I’ve mentioned her again only once since Solivagus—told him that she was helping Ulciscor, that they were working together to figure out the truth behind his murder. He immediately shied away from it. Insisted that I say no more on the matter.

“Is she happy?” He asks it eventually with about as much reluctance as anyone could ask such a question.

“You said you didn’t want to know.” I make it a gentle reminder. “You said she needed to be dead to you.”

A long pause, then, “I’ve changed my mind.”

I think about the woman I knew, back on Res. Don’t really know how to answer the question properly. “Happy? She was always a bit closed off, to me. But she’s strong. Rotting gods, one of the strongest women I’ve known. She was an abomination of a teacher. A constant pain. I owe her. I liked her.” I take a breath. “She’s alright, Caeror.”

He half smiles at that. Wistful. “I bet she liked you, too.”

I don’t say more as we look out over the desert. I think for him, knowing that much is enough.

“I always thought I would be the one left in Res, you know.” He says it abruptly. “I knew that going through the Gate would copy me to Obiteum and Luceum. Or I thought I knew that. But in my head, I was going to be the one who stayed. It never really occurred to me that I would be the copy. Be here.” There’s rawness to the admission. Pain, even now.

“But you lived.”

“But I lived,” he agrees softly. He gives a gentle laugh. “I cannot tell you how many times I’ve cursed the other, clearly less capable versions of me.”

I’m silent, for once not responding to his efforts in lightening the morbid strangeness of our situation. The intensity of the days has meant I’ve barely had time to think about my own copies. About what they might be doing. The lives they might be leading.

Or not.

“Would I know? Straight away, I mean.” I ask it uneasily. “If one of my other selves …”

“Yes.” A long enough pause that I think he’s going to leave it at that. He’s said as much before. Clearly reluctant to go further. But then he takes an audible breath. “It feels like a part of you has been ripped away. Physically, and emotionally. All you can do is lie there and weep. I thought it was from coming through the Gate, the first time. It was only when it hit me a few weeks later again that I understood what it meant.” He admits it with his usual gentle, soft candour.

I lick my lips against the hot, acidic air. Say nothing.

“You’re a smart man, Vis. Assuming that’s not a recent development, your copies will be just fine.”

“Sure.” I give a bitter chuckle. “Four thousand years of people trying, but I’ll be the first.”

“You could be.” Caeror’s stern against my cynicism. “I don’t tell you this enough, but what you’re doing—what you’ve already achieved—is incredible. Truly. What has been asked of you and what I am still asking. The weight you not only bear but you are willing to bear, without complaint, without flinching. And to know what you’ve been through even before this …” He trails off. Faintly laughs. “Just … gods, man. At least let yourself admit you’re doing alright.”

I chew my lip, then shake my head and smile. Genuinely, this time. Caeror’s optimism is a lot sometimes.

But his exhortation still buoys me. Still matters.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

The sun beats down, and we talk more as we wait for the Gleaners to return. In hushed tones and intermittently, returning often to my training, but even those interactions feel somehow more companionable than before. Our company had always been friendly, but there was still a wall. That has gone, now.

Three distant dots eventually disturb the endless horizon. We make note of the time, and hold our position until the relative cover of dusk.

And as we return, for the first time, I feel like I might be capable of doing what needs to be done.

THE GOLDEN DOOR FLICKERS AND FUZZES AND PRESSES on my mind. I stand at the end of the corridor and stare at its hazing glow. Motionless. I am here, not at the naumachia. I am here, not at the naumachia. I am surrounded only by obsidian. Clean and smooth black rock. I am here, not at the naumachia.

I breathe. Look away. Look back. Breathe.

It’s been hours since we got back, and I know I should be asleep. Resting in preparation for tomorrow’s training. But I do not want to waste today’s conversations. I do not want to wake having lost this new resolve.

I take a few hesitant steps. The sound creeps louder, still evoking a dread I can’t describe, weakening my knees in ways that are as frustrating as they are inevitable. Logic should overcome my fear. I am a rational person and this is not rational. My brain still struggles to make my legs move.

I take a step. Another. Another. I will do it, this time. Touch the golden surface through the mutalis. Prove that I am Synchronous, and accept what needs to be done.

“Do not open it.”

I flinch around with a combination of shock and relief at the intrusion. It’s Nofret, the girl I caught sneaking food. I’ve seen her around a few times since, but always at a distance, as with most of the Qabrans.

A moment to recover from the breaking of my mantra, and then I realise she’s looking at me. Talking to me. Anxiety in her eyes, her stance, but there’s no one else here. The first person outside of Caeror to address me directly in nearly two months.

“Why?”

“It is dangerous.” Her Vetusian is simple and clean; combined with my constant lessons with Caeror, it’s easy to understand.

“I know.” I relax a little. Smile encouragingly. “I’m special. Probably,” I add, mostly to myself. “It won’t hurt me.”

“No.” She licks her lips. “It is dangerous. Cursed.” Her brow is furrowed, seeing I’m confused more than convinced. “Do you not know of this? To open this door is to unleash the end of all things.”

“Nofret?” Another voice above the thrumming. Male. Worried. A second later a man appears, immediately identifiable as Nofret’s family, probably an older brother given his relative youth. His eyes widen as he sees me, sees Nofret. He strides forward without looking at me again. Grabs the girl with a stream of Vetusian that’s both too low and too furious for me to make out.

Nofret struggles briefly and says something back I don’t quite catch, but the young man is stronger. He pulls her around the corner.

“Do not open it!”

The girl is dragged from sight. Her begging shout fades.

Within moments, I am again surrounded by the deep, unsettling thrum, and alone.

XIX

WILL, WE WERE TAUGHT OVER AND OVER AT THE ACADemy, is a gift. Not just in the sense that it is something good and wondrous, but that it is literally a gift: it can only ever be given, never taken.

Another of the great lies of the Hierarchy. Possibly their greatest. And yet, perhaps, also their greatest truth. Like any power, it can be coerced. Fought for. Demanded. Requested under false pretences. But in the end, it is always the giving that is the important part. It can be reluctant. It can be because it is expected, pressured. It can even be a last resort against death itself.

The reasons never matter. It is always a choice being made. Always a personal responsibility.

As I’m ushered by my lictor through a surprisingly large mob calling my name and beyond the massive sandstone walls of Governance’s Alta Semita compound, a sharp summer dawn scything across Caten, that knowledge weighs on me. I’m not a fool; I know the alternative would have been as unacceptable. Running away, hiding from the murder of my friend, pretending my abstinence was worth more than justice. This is the only way I can understand what happened on Solivagus. This is the only way those responsible for Callidus’s death, and the deaths of so many others, will get their due.

It doesn’t make today, or the long two months leading up to it, any less a nightmare made real.

I trail after the burly, shaggy-haired Sextus who accompanied me here: one of a rotation of lictors on loan from Tertius Ericius who have been serving as both bodyguards and frustrating shadows, castigation for my visit to Lanistia. My hollowness is exacerbated by a strange pain in my chest this morning, not to mention the physical heaviness to my limbs, the mental torpor that has accompanied my ceding. Sneaking out last night, seeing Eidhin again, went as smoothly as I could have hoped. But there is a part of me missing. Even knowing it is being held by my friend, I cannot escape the pain of being so diminished.

The courtyard entrance is wide and grand, surrounded on all sides by multiple tiers of balconies rising above poplars and fountains. A massive blue Hierarchy symbol is inlaid into the cobblestones in its centre. It is largely empty as we enter, and I don’t recognise the few who mill in its corners. That’s not too surprising. This is a massive walled complex, taking up almost five acres of Alta Semita, comprised of many different entrances and interconnected structures. The Sevenths and Sixths from the Academy all went through this a few weeks ago, too. I doubt I’ll even catch sight of Aequa and the others I know, today, until we’re gathered in the central gardens for the Placement exam.

Behind us, I hear the booming sound of the compound gates closing. The thunk of them being barred.

“Why is the gate being shut?” Unease skitters across my mind.

“I don’t know, Catenicus.” The lictor, Darius, responds with the same cool politeness and lack of information as he does to most of my enquiries. He, and his five peers, have made no secret of the fact that they disapprove of how they are being used. Tradition dictates that they guard no one but Tertius Ericius. It seems that as suspicion and distrust increasingly permeates the city, though, many such time-honoured roles have begun to morph into something more utilitarian.

On the far side of the courtyard, three figures emerge from between the poplars. Two are men, near identical with their short-cut black hair, imposing physiques, and tinted glasses. They loom behind the third in the group—a girl, younger than me. Perhaps sixteen. Vaguely familiar, though I can’t place her.

“Catenicus?” she calls, her gaze focused on me.

“Yes.” I look around. The name has drawn eyes, the few people around pausing in their conversations to cast surreptitious glances in my direction. “Where is Magnus Tertius Ericius?”

“He’ll meet you for your ceding ceremony.”

“Isn’t that what happens first?” I can’t let on that I know about the blood test. I make my step energetic, put everything I have into feigning alertness and excitement. I slept for almost ten hours after ceding to Eidhin last night, a luxury few Octavii ever get. I still feel as though my sandals are made of lead.

“Not today. Please. Follow me.” She pauses, softening into something apologetic and infinitely warmer as her gaze lands on the lictor behind me. “Darius, do you mind waiting? No one’s allowed in or out until after this is done.”

Vek. I barely manage to keep my face smooth as Darius departs for some other section of the compound. “You’re shutting down the entire complex?”

“Now that you’re here. You’re the last to arrive.” No further explanation, and from her tone, none forthcoming. Another security measure? Tensions have been higher than ever in the city, and given that the timing of today’s test was meant to be unknown to the general public this year, the crowd outside the gate was far larger than I expected.

In the end, though, its purpose doesn’t matter. Its effect does. Eidhin won’t be allowed in.

My sluggish mind struggles as we walk, the frustrations of pointless weeks of tightly controlled schedule and blurred repetition threatening to bubble up and overwhelm me. Up before dawn each day, an hour of lonely physical training in an empty courtyard. Slowly, slowly learning to adapt to my missing arm. Then mornings spent being shown the intricacies of Caten’s runnings. The Senate and its interminable, showy debates in the Curia Caten that hinge far more on oratory performance than argument. The judiciary, which is even worse. One day in the Temple of Jovan, we watched the trial and subsequent sentencing to a Sapper of a man who tried to protect his daughter from ceding.

Some small part of me died when I didn’t stand up, didn’t announce my objection to his punishment. But it was his choice to be part of the Hierarchy.

Same as mine.

I squint at the familiarity of the girl leading me toward the farthest structure. Have I met her? It’s certainly possible. My afternoons for the past seven weeks have been filled running minor errands for Governance’s elite, shaking new hand after new hand. Tertius Ericius’s way of giving me a chance to make contacts. I’ve been studious enough in that endeavour, but it’s had the added benefit of my slowly getting to know the unsettled morass of Caten. The dark corners of Praedium, the deceptive heights of Alta Semita. Every district has its own flavour, its own expectations. In Esquilae, I hide my missing arm because I know I will be mobbed if I am recognised. In Sarcinia, I hide it because if I do not, Military Praetorians are more likely than not to deliberately delay me without provocation.

And that knowledge, in turn, has let me move around unnoticed in the evenings. Find my way to the tucked-away smithy in Sarcinia that Quintus Elevus arranged access to and, exhausted though I’ve been, work late into the nights without being seen or interrupted.

“Wait.” I start as my recognition of the girl in front of me clicks into place. Her long brown hair is braided, but the few strands that are loose curl. She’s not as gaunt as either her father or Callidus, but still slimly built. Dark skin and sharp, appraising brown eyes. I caught a glimpse of her at the funeral. “You’re Callidus’s sister. Livia?”

“Yes.” That same stiff formality, closing off the possibility of a conversation.

I try anyway. “It’s nice to finally meet you. He spoke of you a lot.”

Her prim façade twitches, but quickly reappears. She doesn’t respond otherwise.

I tamp down a weary flash of irritation—it’s too easy to lose control of my emotions, in this state—and follow Livia beneath the stylish pyramidal archway that allows us indoors, then through an atrium and down a yawning flight of stairs. Thick sandstone continues to line the way ahead. Torches crackle as we descend.

“Where are we going?”

“There is to be an interview before your induction as Sextus.”

“Your father didn’t mention that.”

“No, he didn’t.”

We emerge into a long hallway. It’s wide and high, well lit, as inviting as an underground passageway can be. Heavy-looking doors line it.

“In here.” Livia stops outside one and steps to the side, indicating I should enter.

“You’re not staying?”

“No.”

I wait for more of an explanation, but none comes. A quick glance back reveals only the burly forms of the two Sextii, standing just close enough to show there’s no retreat. Livia waits mutely.

I push open the thick oak-and-steel door, and enter.

THE ROOM ISN’T LARGE, PERHAPS TWENTY FEET WIDE. IT smells of smoke and dry dust. A lantern on the table in its centre illuminates three strange banners on the wall—one white, one blue, and one red—each embroidered with angular patterns, dense designs that seem almost complementary yet don’t quite fit together.

On the opposite side of the table sits a small, wizened man with dark glasses. Only a few wisps of white hair still cling to his head. He must be a Sextus—no one would dare wear those glasses, otherwise—but it’s surely in a retirement pyramid. There’s another seat on my side. Nothing else in the room.

The door shuts behind me with an echoing boom. As it slowly fades, it’s punctuated by the metallic click of a turning lock.

“Sit, Vis Telimus.” The old man’s voice creaks into the trailing hush.

“Who are you?” I do as I’m asked.

“You may call me Quaestor.”

“Just ‘Quaestor’?”

“Yes.”

I settle into the uncomfortably hard wooden chair, and don’t have to pretend to the unease that would surely be expected of me. “What is this about?” The implements for taking my blood are on the table. Emissa was telling the truth.

“First, your signature.” He pushes a piece of paper across the table with a single finger. It scratches in the silence.

I scan it. “A Silencium?”

“It covers everything that may pass here.” Quaestor leans forward and gives the sheet a single, slow tap. “And it will be enforced.”

It’s not as if there’s much choice in the matter, though the dusty certainty in the man’s voice gives me pause. A trip to the Sappers is the consequence of breaking a Silencium. And I’ve been through the Aurora Columnae, now. I’m as vulnerable to them as anyone else.

Excessive, for what we are about to do. But I sign the document. Quaestor tucks it away with slow, deliberate motions. Then he picks up the scalpel. Behind his low-perched glasses, black floods his eyes. “Hold out your arm.”

I do so, not showing any of the reluctance I feel.

“The burns on your hand.” He observes them as he makes a small incision and blood begins dripping into the obsidian vial. “They look recent.”

“Boiling soup. One arm.” I flex the injury with a grimace. It’s red and raised in a line from the knuckle of my thumb to the back of my hand. A hair off blistered.

“Hm.” He doesn’t look convinced, or suspicious, or even particularly interested. An absent question, nothing more. That’s good. Anyone with smithing experience would probably be quick to guess at the real cause, and while I have done nothing technically wrong, it will be far more useful to keep what I’m doing hidden.

A few tense seconds pass as Quaestor frowns, his attention now on the obsidian vial. My stomach twists as weariness drives my anxiety, heightens it. I’ve been assuming that my ceding will satisfy this test. But I only have Veridius’s relayed word for it.

The old man’s eyes clear from their brief darkness, and he uses a bandage to cover the small wound. “Thank you.”

I ensure my face shows more confusion than relief. “That’s it?”

“That is a beginning.” Quaestor finishes my dressing and clears his implements with unhurried motions, then reaches into a drawer. Pulls out something and places it between us.

“A Foundation board?” No need to fake confusion, this time.

“I assume you know the rules.” He starts taking the red and white pyramid stones from a leather bag and placing them in their starting positions. Every movement slow and deliberate as he sets stone against stone. Click. Click.

“Uh. Yes. Of course.” I hate the slowness of thought that comes with being an Octavii. “You … want a game?”

“To pass the time, while you answer a few questions.” Click. Click. “There. You may have the first move.”

I stare at the completed board. Foggier than I want to be. Is this part of Placement, now?

Nothing I can do about it. I make an opening play.

The craggy-faced man observes the board for an unnervingly long time, then swivels and sweeps his arm at the banners behind him. “Do you recognise any of these? Look closely.”

My brow furrows, but I bite my tongue and obey. The patterns on the banners are dizzying to the eye, all sharp corners and interwoven lines, similar and yet somehow distinct from one another. None of them mean anything to me. “No.”

Quaestor picks up a pen, dips it in the inkwell on the table, and writes. Slowly. The scratching of words being committed to parchment fills the room.

Then he moves his first stone. Click.

“What was the last thing you wished to do on your own?”

I blink. “Pardon?”

Quaestor looks up. His eyes are a faded grey over the rims of his glasses. “What was the last thing you wished to do on your own?”

“Um.” It’s a strange question, but one I don’t particularly see any benefit to avoiding. “I suppose … pay my respects to my friend.” A lump in my throat accompanies the answer.

Head back down, revealing a liver-spotted pate. More scratching. “Make your move.”

I do. He looks up. Studies it. Makes his own again, slow and measured. Click. “If the sea is the sky, what does that make a shark?”

I resist the urge to make him repeat the question. Repress my confusion. “Uh. An eagle, I suppose?” I shift a stone before he asks, this time. The first few moves are always easiest, and he’s playing a standard opening.

He writes again. Stops. Click. “Can a man go a hundred days without sleep?”

I pretend to study the board, this time. My foggy mind trying to discern what these questions could possibly signify. I answer as I push the next stone. “No?”

Click. “Today I feel the colour of a blue sky. What does that mean to you?”

I turn a disbelieving chuckle—the man’s grim delivery is starkly at odds to his statement—into an awkward cough. “I suppose that you’re happy?” I can’t help but pose my answers as questions in and of themselves.

Pause. Write. “Malum. Terreo. Carina. Lapis. Vinculum. Luteus.” His gaze flicks up. Watching me more intently than before.

“Is that … Vetusian? Something about a stone, and … something orange?”

He grunts. Writes more. “Make your move.”

“What are these questions for?” I let irritation into my tone, in part to cover my increasing anxiety. This seems frivolous, meaningless—but it’s surely not. Not knowing its purpose means I don’t know how to answer. Don’t know what I’m revealing. The blood test, I expected. This is something else.

“Make your move,” Quaestor repeats. No change in intonation. Calm and dry.

I scowl, and do. He ignores my irritation in favour of the board. Click.

Then he moves a gnarled hand to a face-down frame next to him. Flips it over and pushes it in front of me. “Tell me what you think of this.”

It’s a painting. A city of some kind, the structures black and mirror-polished. There are people walking the streets, but to a man they appear downcast. All of them have their faces covered. Everything is tinted a garish green.

The artistry is incredible; combined with the surreal landscape, it instantly calls to mind the sketches I was shown after the naumachia last year. This feels like the same, immensely skilled hand at work. And their proximities to the blood test cannot be ignored.

“It’s very strange,” I say noncommittally. Make my next move. More slowly, this time. The game is entering its next phase. Clashes and counter-clashes, attack and reaction. I am diminished, but I’m still going to do my best.

He jots it down. Click. “Why do people enjoy competition?” That same creaking voice. That same rhythmic, almost mechanical tone.

And so it goes, and on, and on. Some questions are riddles I’ve heard before. What can be held without touching it? Move. Click. What is so fragile that its name will break it? Move. Click. Some are deeply personal. Describe your earliest memory. Move. Click. Tell me the most influential event of your life, and then describe how you feel it is affecting you right now. Move. Click. The latter type of questions, I often have to lie. I have no idea whether he notices.

Those are interspersed with more pictures. More ancient Vetusian. More questions that could at best be described as abstract. And throughout, that dry, unsettling scratching as he records my answers. That same, slow, deliberate picking up and placing of his stones.

The interview continues interminably, the passing of time impossible to gauge down here. I hold my nerve. Barely. Twice more I try to ask what these questions are for, what their purpose could possibly be, but I’m met with the same lack of response. Quaestor simply moves on, the old man ignoring my confusion with infuriating, indifferent calm.

I begin to lose the game of Foundation. I am not making categorical mistakes, but the fog across my mind—not to mention the added pressure of the questions—makes it difficult to see more than a couple of moves ahead. And Quaestor isn’t a particularly dynamic or creative player, but he is very clearly skilled. I fall one piece behind. Then three. He plays conservatively but inexorably.

And then I am defeated, his final stone’s click as dry and precise as all the ones before. He observes the end state of the board. Scratches something more in his book.

“A final question, Vis Telimus.” He taps the board, just once. “If you had not made any mistakes, would you have beaten me?”

I shake my head slowly.

“I may have beaten you,” I tell him quietly. My father’s words echoing on my lips. “Foundation is like life. You can make no mistakes at all, and still lose.”

He studies me. Filmy grey eyes curious. “Hm.” Head down, one last note. “You may go.” He finishes, then begins packing up the board with considered, rickety care.

I stand uncertainly. Shuffle across to the door, knock, and the lock’s click quickly echoes. One of the two burly Sextii waiting outside gestures for me to leave.

I hesitate, wanting to demand answers even as some part of me knows I should obey, grateful I have apparently not stirred suspicion. Quaestor just writes, head bowed, pen scratching. He doesn’t seem to feel my glare.

I stalk past the waiting Sextii, and back out into the underground hallway.

“TERTIUS.” AN INEVITABLE EDGE TO MY VOICE AS I JOIN Tertius Ericius and his daughter in the main courtyard. The grey of the overcast morning glares down, heat reflecting off the stones underfoot despite the clouds. The interview can’t have taken more than an hour. It feels like days have passed.

The Hierarchy’s Censor dismisses the Sextii trailing me with a flick of his wrist. “Hail, Catenicus.” His gaze slides briefly from me to the compound’s entrance. Still barred. Still guarded. “I take it you’ve completed your session with Quaestor.”

I try not to look. “I have. It was … unusual.” I want to ask outright, but Catenans—cultured Catenans—are rarely so blunt. I’ve learned to play the game better than I’d like.

“A request from Princeps Kavius. I have to admit, I am curious to know what they asked of you. A shame the Silencium I assume you signed prevents you from saying anything.”

“A shame,” I agree carefully, answering the question he’s really asking. So he doesn’t know the details. Interesting. “One day, I should tell you about the tests I underwent after the naumachia.” A little clumsy and forward, but it’s the best my weary mind can conjure.

He doesn’t look at me, though there’s a sharpening of his gaze as he watches the men and women in the courtyard. “That sounds intriguing, Catenicus. One day soon.” He exhales and then claps me on the back. “But right now, come. They’ve been waiting. It’s time for the exciting part of the day.” He glances at Livia, who nods and jogs ahead of us.

I hide the turning of my stomach, and trail after the limping Tertius across the courtyard.

The cobblestoned space is still fairly empty, save for the group Livia is now talking to, gathered over by some decorative poplars. Five men and a woman. They have been watching us—watching me—with keen interest. As we walk toward them, I spot more crowding the tiered balconies above, hanging over the edge in apparently indolent conversation. Though I also notice that as soon as the Tertius and I emerge from the shadows of the archway, many of those conversations falter and fade away.

“This is a strong group. These Septimii are all talented enough to imbue independently, and their Octavii have all been carefully vetted. You won’t find a better base outside of a Magnus’s pyramid.” Callidus’s father says it quietly as we walk. “I’ve done all I can to help, Catenicus. The rest is up to you. Prove yourself this afternoon.”

“I will.” Resisting the urge to show my cynicism. The most favoured get the strongest pyramids. The best chance. Even here, the game is rigged. I do all I can to quell my discomfort as I examine the people whose Will I’m about to take. The Septimii return my gaze with variations of eager smiles.

Livia moves to stand with the group, facing us. I don’t understand for a few seconds. Then frown, an extra layer of queasiness washing through me.

“Tertius?”

“Livia is here through merit, Vis, not favour.” The Tertius is firm. “She is old enough and strong enough. She would have attended the Academy next cycle, if we were still intending to send our best.”

“As you say, Magnus Tertius.” I tuck away the information about the Academy, unsurprising though it is, and focus on the more immediate. A hedge against my loyalty, and an acknowledgement that there is a very real chance I won’t succeed this afternoon. If I’m not reporting directly to him, he wants a way to keep an eye on me.

Livia, for her part, watches me coolly. A willing participant, but unlike the others, not an enthusiastic one. I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse.

“Linus. Step forward.” The Tertius isn’t wasting time. A man of around thirty separates from the line, all but bounding up to me. “Vis, this is Septimus Linus Manius. His father is the proconsul in Tensia.”

The latter’s unnecessary; I know who the Manius family is. “A pleasure to meet you, Septimus.” Linus is tall, gangly. His fairer skin and blue eyes betray his southern heritage.

“And you, Catenicus.” He’s eager, almost shy, despite the difference in our age. His black hair recedes at the front. “An honour.”

“Are you both ready?”

I confirm it as the other man does the same. Brace myself, emotionally and physically. Accepting Will is meant to be just as simple as ceding it, but after the strangeness of the Aurora Columnae, I have no idea how this might go.

“Catenicus. Extend the worthy right hand.”

I extend my hand; Linus clasps it, hand to wrist. He takes a breath. “I freely give my Will.”

My skin tingles where it meets Linus’s and then everything sharpens. My harrowing morning, washed away in an instant. Energy in my limbs again. I feel good, even as I despise that I do. Every part of my body lighter. The nub of my missing arm suddenly, blessedly, no longer aches.

It all happens in a moment; when I focus again on Linus he’s still smiling, but some indefinable part of his verve has diminished, the spark in his eyes gone. He may still have twice the Will of a regular person, but I’ve taken something from this man.

I let go of his hand as if it were burning me. Nothing changes.

“Stronger together,” says Linus as he steps back, giving me a respectful smile before rejoining the others. He seems fine. Emotionally unaffected. I wonder if it’s a façade.

Callidus’s father calls out the next name.

The ceremony passes in a kind of horrific, sick slow motion after that. Excited Septimii stepping forward before the silent, fascinated crowd on the balconies above. We clasp hands. They utter the words. Their strength, their life, flows into me.

I don’t know what I was expecting. It should not feel like this. A celebration. Smiles and good cheer and respect. They have not dreaded today. This is something they simply accept. Have looked forward to, even.

For my part, physically, it is what I have been taught. A small jolt each time and then more clarity, as if I’ve suddenly gained the benefit of a good night’s rest. More energy and strength and awareness. There is no tangible sense of the extra power I now have at my disposal, otherwise.

Finally, only Livia remains. She stands in front of me, and while nothing about her expression is different from the others’, her eyes are cold. She grabs my wrist as if it’s the neck of a dangerous animal.

“I freely give my Will,” Callidus’s little sister says dispassionately.

It happens as easily as with the others, though it feels like it shouldn’t. A flush, and then her Will is just … there. Augmenting me.

She drops my hand as abruptly as she took it. Steps back.

“Welcome to Governance, Catenicus,” Tertius Ericius loudly congratulates me.

There’s a smattering of applause from the balconies above; I look up to see even more onlookers now. My Septimii are clapping too. Smiling.

I fake a smile myself, raising a hand in acknowledgement. Head still buzzing. Skin still crawling.

The Censor limps over. His mood is jovial, though I suspect at least some of his grin is for the spectators. “Congratulations. Spend some time getting to know your Septimii, and then Darius will take you and Livia to your Placement.”

“It’s not being conducted here?” Vek. On the one hand, it means that Eidhin won’t need to find another way past that locked gate. But I’m not going to be able to steal away from Darius for any unexplained detours, either. Eidhin will be waiting just outside, planning to enter as soon as he’s allowed. He’ll have felt the extra Will passing through me to him. It will only take a moment of physical contact for him to stop my ceding. I just have to make sure he knows I’m coming out.

“Not this year.” A breath of hesitation. As if he wants to say more, but can’t. “Do well, Catenicus.”

“As you say, Tertius.”

He studies me. Nods. Limps off, and leaves me to the lionizing attentions of my new Septimii.

XX

“I NEED SOME AIR.”

I’ve spent the better part of the last hour getting to know the people who have just given me half their Will, now. They’re unfailingly polite; a couple are uncomfortably fawning. I’ve put up with the latter with as much good grace as I can. It’s a formality, anyway, as Livia is undoubtedly the intended representative of the group. Chances are, I won’t have a lot of direct contact with any of the others once we finish here.

“We’re in a courtyard.” Livia looks disinclined to care.

“Just a couple of minutes. The adjustment to having this much Will was harder than I thought.” Show some vulnerability. Sometimes it helps.

“You’re not supposed to leave.”

“Then come with me.” I give her what I hope is a charming smile.

“You know that would still be leaving, right?”

“I suppose.” I shrug, still smiling. Make my tone light. Vek. “Just wanted to clear my head before Placement.”

“A clear head’s not going to help if you’re dead.” Her tone is a hair short of scolding, despite her age. Not that I can blame her. It’s an obvious objection, just one I’d vainly hoped she wasn’t confident enough to make. “Placement being today was supposed to be a secret, but that crowd out there is here for you. You don’t think that’s strange? It’s a good way to hide an assassin.”

“So that’s why the gates are still locked?”

“I would imagine.” She squints at me. I’m not sure whether it’s suspicion or something else. “Take a walk around the complex, if you have to, Catenicus. But we leave in fifteen minutes.”

I take the advice with a nod, wondering again at her brusqueness, especially by comparison to everyone else. Livia wanders away, and I slip through an archway into the shadows of the colonnade before anyone mistakes solitude for availability.

Fifteen minutes. Rotting gods.

Assuming the Will-carriage is driven as others are in Caten, it will move quickly as soon as the compound gate is open and just expect the crowd to jump out of the way. I could trail my arm out the window, possibly. If Eidhin was in position, it would be enough. But he doesn’t even know Placement is being held elsewhere; he would have to spot the carriage, realise I’m inside, and get close enough among the crowd to touch me, all within a few seconds of our appearing.

I jog up a flight of stairs, then another, as I picture the outside of the building. Ground and second floors had no windows but on the third, there was a balcony. Small, but definitely there.

There are a few people walking the inner terraces, but no one pays me any attention as I try the first door. Peer through. Open, but only windows here.

The next is Will-locked. Vek. No getting in there.

The third has a long glass door at the far end. I can see the stone balustrade just beyond.

I slip inside. Hurry to the balcony. The milling press below is even larger than when I arrived, crowding the already busy Catenan street. I scan the swarm for any sign of Eidhin—usually he stands out, with his red hair, pale skin, and massive bulk—but I can’t see him. Not that it means he’s not here. If he is, given Caten’s current divisions, he’s probably very wisely keeping to the outskirts and hoping he doesn’t get recognised as being from Military.

Behind me, the door clicks shut. “Quite the popular man, Catenicus.”

I flinch around. The newcomer saunters toward me, white scar from chin to forehead twisted by a cheerful grin. My hand twitches to the empty spot on my belt where a dagger would normally be. “You.” Deep breath. Force down the momentary rage that threatens to boil over. Relucia said he would make contact, but this has to be the worst possible moment for it.

“Indeed.”

“What do you want? Someone will be coming to find me soon.”

“Not to fear. We shan’t be long.” He paces. Restless, constantly in motion. Knife in hand. The same one as from the Iudicium, I think. He plays with it absently. Sharp metal flowing between his fingers. Studying eyes never leaving me. “I did intend to time our little chat to coincide with your test this morning, at first. But it turned out you had it entirely under control.” He smiles approvingly.

“You knew about that?” Caution briefly forgotten. “I was warned about them taking my blood, but what were all those questions?”

“It was a mendax animus test.” He sees my blank look. Waves a casual hand. “Difficult to explain. The important thing is that you passed. And now, you need to succeed in Placement.”

“That’s the aim,” I say curtly, recognising that my curiosity isn’t going to be rewarded with a follow-up. Not that I have the time to waste, anyway. Less than ten minutes until I’m meant to be driven out that gate.

“Of course. Of course. But you are … lessened. It will be difficult.”

“I know.” It hurts not to argue it, but Will requires physical conditioning to wield. The disadvantage is undeniable.

“I may be able to help, if you are interested.”

“How?”

He tuts. “Manners, dear boy!”

My jaw clenches. I was never sure if this man actually killed some of my classmates, or whether he was simply with the people who did. But I have no time, and he’s right. If he can help … “Please.”

“Hmm.” He raises an eyebrow. “Unconvincing, but I am curious to see what you can do. Are you still able to sense the Will around us?”

Part of me wants to ask, or dissemble, but I already know what he’s talking about. I’ve thought about it a lot, this past month, and it’s the only thing that makes sense. “No. It faded after the Iudicium. Though it did come back briefly, when I touched the Aurora Columnae.”

“It will return in time, as you learn to look for it. Assuming all remains well in Luceum.” He sighs. “It’s not necessary, but it is an excellent counterpart to an ability you have called Adoption. Adoption allows you to take control of any Will imbued into something, no matter who imbued it.”

I cough a disbelieving laugh. Certain I’ve misunderstood and then, under the man’s steady gaze, certain he is insane. “That’s not possible.”

“Nor is being able to sense concentrations of Will. And yet you have experienced it. Along with many other ‘impossible’ things, recently, no doubt.” He shrugs. “Believe me or do not, Catenicus. But if you touch an object that has been imbued, you can use the Will within it.”

Silence. My mind races. It goes against everything we learned at the Academy. “How?”

“From what I understand, you simply need to make physical contact, and keep the object in your mind as if you were the one imbuing it. Other than that?” He shrugs again. “The joy of discovery, my boy. I never had the ability, myself.”

I glower. “Very helpful.”

“And yet worth knowing, given your situation. Especially if you’re not going to reclaim the rest of your Will from whoever you’re ceding to.”

I hold my breath. “He should be outside. In the crowd. But they barred the gate, stopped anyone from coming in. I don’t know how to get to him.” Perhaps he has a way to help.

The man’s mouth twists. Amusement as he glances out the long window. “Ah,” he says apologetically.

I stare at him. The implication clear enough. “It was you? You told people I would be here?”

He spreads his hands. Not so much regretful, as an indication that he thought it was necessary. “Locked gates mean lax security. Fewer eyes. More spaces for conversations such as these. And I did think this morning would be more complicated.”

I exhale. Frustrated. Feeling the seconds tick away. He’s not going to help with Eidhin. Gods, he still seems more amused by the whole thing than anything else. “How did you convince so many people to come?”

“Convince them? My boy. I only had to whisper your name; Caten already talks of little else. The thrill of a storied hero presented with yet another challenge. Can he overcome? Has he been wronged, the way his prior victories have been so thoroughly ignored? Will his youth be swallowed by the political maw of the Senate?” Theatrical, revelling in the drama of the questions. “You know of the divisions between Governance and Military and Religion, of course, but do you think those truly matter to the Octavii and Septimii who work the fields and mines? No. They watch in fear. They wonder when the ambitions of their betters will lead to the deaths of their children. And then amidst it all, is you. The man who saved them. The man who survives. These people are desperate for a hero, Catenicus. Hidden away though you have been, your popularity only grows.”

I’m silent after he finishes. Mind racing. He’s right; I’ve been so shut away that I have no idea what people think of me now. What he’s describing is far from definitively beneficial: every senator inside and outside of Governance would be wary of such popularity.

But it may have its uses, too.

The stranger waves a hand as he continues to pace. “Our time grows short, so listen carefully. In five months, at the Festival of Pletuna, there will be a gathering at the Forum as there is every year. You need to be in attendance, and you need to make sure everyone sees you. Really takes note of you. You’ll also need a way to conceal your identity that night, when the time comes. A mask. Something to hide your missing arm.” He pauses. “And you must ensure you have learned how to perform Adoption before then.”

“Why?”

He chuckles. “You know better than to ask.”

I feel my hand ball into a fist. This list he’s given me … it doesn’t sound promising. “And if I were to refuse?”

His smile fades. For the first time, he stops moving. “You know better than to ask.”

My breath is tight. This man’s hands are as bloody as Relucia’s, but unlike hers, they do not seem to be that way for a reason. “So this is all for the Anguis again?”

“I suppose. But for much bigger things than that too, Catenicus. For the world. Have you seen the way the Aurora Columnae glow so brightly? Time is running out.” He glances toward the door. “But if it helps to sweeten the deal—once you have done what I ask, I will give you every single senator who agreed to our little adventure on Solivagus. The names of every man and woman in Caten who knew your friends would die.”

I freeze. The time pressure forgotten. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I no longer need them. But I do need you.” His smile shows too many teeth. “Until then, Catenicus.”

The air warps and before I can move, before I can say anything, he is gone.

I PACE. FIVE MINUTES, IF THAT, UNTIL LIVIA INDICATED we were to leave. The conversation with the man—I still have no name for him—has left me reeling, especially his parting words. But I don’t have the time to digest it.

I steel myself, and walk out onto the sunlit balcony.

Nothing for a few seconds. Then a shout. A single cheer, joined and then joined again until it becomes an excited wave of noise. Someone has caught sight of me, spotted the absence in my sleeve. Fingers point and voices raise; people are calling out to me, enthusiastically trying to ask or tell me things, but individuals are lost in the cacophony.

I study them desperately. They’re too packed in, too animated to spot if my friend is down there. But what I can see is their weariness. Even at a distance, even through their excitement at my appearance, they wear it in every shout and every line. It’s recognisable only for how commonplace it is.

“Hail, friends!” I shout it, holding up my arm for a lull which is quickly granted. Morbidly thankful for the Will of my Septimii, allowing my mind to move fast enough for this. I have always despised speaking in public. “Thank you for coming. My time is short today but I wanted to tell you this directly. I wanted you to hear it from me because it’s you who are the heart of our great Republic and it is you, in my eyes, who are most deserving of its provision.” I make full use of the oratory skills that have been drilled into me over the past year. The strategic fluctuations of voice. The dramatic pauses. The emotive hand gestures, though some I cannot perform effectively for obvious reasons.

A murmur of disgruntled agreement into the hush. Faces upturned toward me, even more intent than before.

I continue. “As I was recovering from my wounds two months ago, I was introduced to a man who had suffered an injury similar to mine. He had just returned to Deditia after serving for twenty years. Butaria, then Nyripk, then Aquiria. Twenty years.” Some part of me aware I could still stop. Probably should stop. Good though this cause is, supporting it isn’t going to do me any favours within the Senate. “As a young, newly married man, he had been promised riches and promotion. He found neither. Instead, he came home still a Septimii, to find his family starving and his wife forced to sell his farm to the very senators who had sent him away.”

It’s made up, but common enough that no one will question it. I see eyes straining after me, down below. Attention rapt. They hear their own tale in my words.

“Since that day, I have walked among you here in what is meant to be the greatest city in the world. I have walked her streets and I have heard your stories, stories that are frighteningly alike that first one. I have seen your faces and I have seen your pain and I have wept.” I take a deep breath. Long enough. If Eidhin is down there, he must surely be paying attention by this point. “So I pledge this to you now. I will put my support behind Magnus Sextus Aquila and his demand for land reform. Cerbyd nawr. I will add my voice to the thousands that already cry out for the fair redistribution of property, so that you may once again earn the fruits of your own labour.” I pause. Let silence wash over them, just for a second. Then I raise my fist in both solidarity and farewell. “This I swear to you. I stand with you. Stronger together, my friends.”

I turn, and step off the balcony.

“CATENICUS!” The roar chases me back into the room. Rattles the glass as I shut the door. “CATENICUS!”

My heart pounds. Cerbyd nawr. “Carriage now.” The Cymrian is clumsy; the entire attempt was clumsy. But if I’d let the entire crowd know I’m about to leave, Eidhin’s task in getting to me would be infinitely more difficult. And Cymrian’s officially a dead language, one that surely won’t be recognised or easily remembered by any of those below. Unless I am unlucky, those two words will be discarded as something that simply wasn’t heard correctly. Forgotten in any retelling.

The door bursts open almost as soon as I’ve closed the one to the balcony, and Livia glares at me. “Were you just making a rotting speech, Catenicus?”

The chants outside continue echo my name.

“Ah. Well …” I bare my teeth in a sheepish approximation of a smile.

“Gods’ graves.” She shakes her head in disgust. Unamused. “Come on. Time to leave.”

We make the walk back to the courtyard, where a well-appointed Will-carriage waits, sharp-eyed Darius in the driver’s seat. Livia gets in with me. Within a minute, the gates are opening and we are lurching into motion.

“You should draw the curtain,” observes Livia.

“It’s important that they see me. That they know I’m not hiding away.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue.

The carriage trundles into the crowded street. We’re already gathering speed, our driver aiming to scatter the gathered onlookers.

“Catenicus!” The single shout goes up and then more voices. I lean out the window and grin, raise my hand and thrust it out. Accept the enthusiastic slaps and briefly clasped hands of the crowd as the carriage slows to turn, and they swarm.

And then, energy.

It floods to me in a moment, an instant. I don’t even see Eidhin, though he must be close and he’s not a small man. But suddenly, my blood is racing through my veins. Everything is sharp.

I lean out for another few seconds, then slide back into my seat. Face smooth. Concealing any sign of my utter, utter relief.

Livia eyes me with disdain, then turns and stares out her own window at Caten rolling past. I study the back of her head. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Sciacca.”

“Why?”

“Politics.” A breath, and then as a concession, “I don’t know the details.”

The sound of stone beneath wheels fills the space between us; I’m tempted to let it continue, but I’m going to be working with Livia for the foreseeable future. I need to establish some sort of rapport. “So. Have you been through these tests?”

“Of course.” Dismissive. Treating it as a stupid question rather than me trying to open a conversation. I try not to bristle.

“What were they like?”

“Simple enough.” Still not turning from her inspection of the city slipping by. I think she’s going to leave it at that, then she sighs. “You’ll need to demonstrate your strength. How much you can lift when you self-imbue. Then whether you can imbue objects, and how many at the same time. Whether you need line of sight to maintain it. That sort of thing.”

“Those seem like strange skills to test for Placement. They can all be improved with training, can’t they?”

“The point is to measure your natural ability, before you can practice.” Her impatience says this should be obvious. “Think of Placement as measuring your … ceiling, in terms of talent. The results will follow you for the rest of your life.”

“Sounds like I should make an effort, then.” I force a grin.

It doesn’t have the desired effect. Livia’s eyes narrow. “Everything you do from now on is a reflection on Governance, Catenicus. On my father. So yes. You gods-damned well should.”

The creak and clatter of the carriage settles between us once again.

“Have I … done something to offend you?” I’m at a loss. I didn’t expect to be treated like family, but I was her brother’s friend.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because … you seem to be a little … confrontational?”

“Would you prefer I was intimidated?”

“Would it make you more civil?”

Livia’s lips twist into a scowl. She stares ahead grimly.

I throw up my hands. “Look, we have to work together. If you have a problem with me, now is the time to air it.”

“My problem?” Livia doesn’t look at me. Her cheeks are flushed with anger. “My problem is that I don’t trust you. Not even slightly.”

“Your brother did.”

“And now he’s dead.” She finally turns to glare at me. Her eyes glisten. Her voice is ice. “He’s dead, Catenicus, and you are using my father’s grief to get revenge for it. You may be a hero. But what is the point of heroes if they don’t save the ones you love?” The crack in her voice is sadness and frustration and emptiness. She turns back to her window, and every line of her body is stiff with pointed disinterest in my presence or further conversation. “It doesn’t matter. You will fail today, your star will fall, and soon enough you will be gone from my family’s lives forever.”

I watch her. Open my mouth to speak. Think better of it. Nothing I say will help, right now. Sometimes people simply need time.

And sometimes, not even that works.

We roll toward my Placement examination in grim, uncomfortable silence.

XXI

OFTEN, RECENTLY, I HAVE FOUND MYSELF THINKING OF the month Emissa and I trained together on Suus. She would beat me at so many things. Again, and again. Despite all I’d achieved until that point, I would struggle to keep pace, and through even the joy of her company, knowing just how much I needed to improve would so often weigh heavy.

One day on the golden beach below my ancestral home, she came upon me lost in a moment of bleak introspection. Saw the expression on my face before I could hide it. “Are you alright?” Our friendship strong enough to ask. Our romance too new for anything but a tentative enquiry.

I gave a grin that was mostly unforced, thanks to the sight of her. “Just respecting the work ahead.”

“‘Respecting.’ Of course.” Her eyes reflected both her smile and her empathy. She sat next to me in the soft, warm sand. Hip and shoulder to mine. “None slower than the impatient, you know.”

“What?”

“Sorry.” She gave a deprecating half laugh at herself. “Just something my tutor used to say. Usually after my father passed through for his weekly critique. He used to tell me that I was so worried about being good enough, it was distracting me. That I was so focused on where I needed to be, I couldn’t see the space in between. ‘Improvement is not a destination,’ and all that.” She shrugged. Light and casual and dismissive of her own wisdom. “I don’t think that’s you. But it doesn’t hurt to be reminded, now and then, either.”

We sat for a while after, and I stared out across the glittering Aeternum in contemplation and memory. Then we went back to training, and though she had not said anything I did not already know, she was right. Step-by-step is the only way to progress. I felt calmer for the reminder.

Gods. Long hours in that perfect sun with her. They passed so quickly. They felt like they were never going to end.

The Qabran twilight strains its last grey rays across the hollow tombs. Caeror and I sit side by side on a stair, the toxic waterfall hissing its way into the darkness a hundred feet away. Tash has already departed for the day. Stoic as always in his abjuration of both comfort and dignity. I admire him more with each passing session.

“Thinking of home?” I glance across at Caeror’s question, and he smiles remorsefully at obviously having guessed right. “I’ve worn that look too often not to recognise it.”

I chuckle. Breath, as always, slightly too sharp in my chest. “Truth.”

He stares out over the gloom again. “You know, it was always the thing that struck me most, that first year. How often I found myself wishing I’d appreciated what I had.”

My humour fades.

“Truth,” I repeat softly.

Silence as we think about things that might have been, and then I stir. “How long until you think I should go?”

He doesn’t react. Plays absently with the Instruction Blade, takes a couple of casual swings at the air in front of him. “A Cataclysm every three hundred years, and it’s been three hundred and three now. I won’t send you off just to die, Vis. Everyone in there thinks Ka is a god, so you will only be able to depend on yourself. But I don’t think we can wait until you’re guaranteed success, either.” He exhales. “Not long.”

I inwardly agree, even as the expected admission punches me in the stomach. His candour, his directness, makes all the difference in these discussions. “I went back to the mutalis door, last night.”

“Really?” Caeror brightens. Understands how big a step that is, for me. “Did you touch it?”

“I got interrupted. The girl—Nofret? She told me not to. Said it was cursed. Something about it unleashing the end of the world.” I make it a question. “I would have asked more, but a very angry young man dragged her away before I could.”

“Her brother, I imagine.” Caeror laughs, amused rather than concerned. “Gods. She talked to you? Apparently I need to work on my charm. You’ve been here a month, and I didn’t get a word from anyone for at least six.” He subsides. Waves his hand. “Look, if that’s what stopped you, I wouldn’t worry. Nofret is a child, and the warnings Yusef used to give her would have scared anyone. Gods, they scared me. I can’t imagine she knows anything we don’t.” He sees my hesitation. “But, no harm in being sure, either, I suppose. Ask her. It’ll be a good excuse to have the others see you two talk. They dote on her, so if she’s warming up to you, they may just follow.” A hint of familial affection to the last.

I nod. Vaguely relieved. I’d assumed much of what Caeror just said, but when it comes to the mutalis, there’s no benefit to leaving anything to chance. “You really think that will be enough to stop them being so afraid of me?”

“Probably not. But I’m going to hope anyway.” He shrugs. “I’ve been here for seven years, Vis. They’re family. Backward and frustrating sometimes, but … family. I’d like them to be able to at least make eye contact with the man who’s trying to save them.”

I chuckle. “It’s alright. I’m not offended.”

“I know. But I am. You’re family too, you know.” He grins ruefully, then dips his head at the gathering dim. “Come on. We should get back before the light goes.”

We stand. Start walking. The hiss of tainted water rushing by withers into the darkness behind, leaving only our muted footsteps as I think about our conversation. About the work still to be done.

And about the fact I’m asking my friend to weigh my preparedness for a task that will leave millions dead if we wait too long, and me if we go too soon.

“Caeror?” He looks at me. “You will tell me when I’m ready, won’t you.”

He nods slowly, hearing the real concern in my voice. Chews his lip as he studies me. “There’s an old saying, Vis. The young know they will die—”

“But only the old believe it,” I finish. “I know. And I’m old enough. I am. I don’t want to go unprepared; gods, I don’t want to do it at all. But we both know that this needs to happen.”

Silence, and then he nods again. “I’ll tell you, Vis. Truly.” We walk on, and after a few seconds, he chuckles. “After you got out of the Labyrinth back on Res, I really hope you and Ulciscor made amends.”

I glance across at him. “Why?”

“Because I know him and no matter what he forced you to do, I’d gods-damned bet he likes you.”

He slaps me on the back, and we head on into the last of the light.

MY TOMB, AND QABR BEYOND ITS ENTRANCE, IS STILL UTterly black when I wake to one hand clamping my shoulder and the other my mouth. I lurch from sleep to panic, writhing and twisting futilely against the cold stone until the soft, urgent voice penetrates. “Vis. It’s me. Quiet. Quiet.”

I constrain myself to Caeror’s warning; a moment of stillness and then the pressure is cautiously lifting from my mouth. I sense it hovering, ready to stifle a yell, before finally being withdrawn.

“What’s going on?” I manage to keep it to a weary whisper. It feels like only an hour or two since I fell asleep.

“Gleaners.”

The single breathed word banishes any lassitude. I sit up, panic pounding through my chest before I force a steadying breath. “Where?”

“They’re going tomb by tomb. A couple of dozen of them.” A pause. “Half from the entrance. The others flew past toward the Channel. I’m guessing they’re sweeping from the opposite direction.”

Vek. “They know we’re here.”

“Yes.”

I’m on my feet. “Can we get to the garden?” Our first point of refuge, in the event of a Gleaner incursion. The symbols to open the door shouldn’t be known to the Concurrence.

“Maybe. But we need to go now. They’ve lit their blades, so they’ll be easy to spot.” Scuffling in the darkness, and then someone positioning me, guiding my hand to a shoulder. Then a hand gripping my own shoulder. “Let Tash lead. He grew up here, doesn’t need to see to get around.”

“Tash is here?” The iunctii quarters are a distance away, in the opposite direction of the garden.

“He’s the only other one who knows what you can do.”

I swallow. Of course.

Tash moves beneath my touch, and I follow.

We walk out into the utter darkness, only Tash’s sharp turn and the vaguest sense of open space to my left suggesting that we’ve left my tomb. We’re on the third level up, and I find my heart hammering not just from the threat Caeror has woken me to run from. A fall from this height will kill as surely as a Gleaner.

We make our way with excruciating caution down steps and along the rocky, uneven floor. I count my steps but even after months living here, it’s impossible to tell how far we’ve come. I hold my breath, half the time. Ears and eyes straining. None of us talk.

And then faintly, ahead, the symbol-covered walls bleed into view. A crimson, flickering light, its source still hidden by the natural twists and turns of the chasm. Tash stops. Silhouetted now.

“They can’t have cleared all the tombs to here,” I mutter back to Caeror.

“Advance scout,” he agrees in my ear, grip steady on my shoulder.

We take refuge in the nearest of the tombs as the reflected light grows rapidly brighter, pressing backs against the cold stone by the door. There’s no sound as the shadows sharpen and direct light spills briefly through the doorway before sliding on.

I’m in a better position; Caeror nods to me and I move with breathless caution, peering out.

The Gleaner is already thirty feet away, its back to me. It floats silently along the middle of the chasm, bladed arms at its side. Both swords seem to smoulder, deep red casting a bloody illumination that retreats as the iunctii glides around the next bend. Caeror’s told me it’s how they navigate at night—some sort of coating on the blade that burns for hours. This is the first time I’ve seen it in person, though.

“It’s gone.” My whisper shakes. “What was it doing?”

“Probably checking for ambushes. Communicating about what’s ahead to the others.” He motions, barely visible now in the rapidly vanishing glow. “Hopefully everyone else realised the same; as long as they didn’t get spotted when it passed, they should be waiting for us in the garden. Let’s move.”

We venture once again into the dark, our progress as fast as the lack of visibility allows. Five minutes. Ten. Even adjusted as they are, my eyes make out only the blackest of shadows, the vaguest of outlines that suggest where walls might be. My heart never ceases to pound.

And then more light ahead. Too soon.

We slow, but this illumination doesn’t seem to be coming toward us so we creep forward, hugging the wall. Caeror wordlessly directs Tash to wait in the nearest tomb—the iunctus’s entire body is trembling, a miracle he’s made it this far—and then slips past me, peering around the rocky corner of the next chasm bend.

“Oh, gods.” He whispers it. Sinks back against the stone for support, white. There’s agony in his voice.

He motions desolately with his head for me to see. Heart dropping, I carefully position myself and then peek. Parallel red lines near either wall provide much of the light, the substance from the Gleaners’ blades inscribed somehow onto the chasm’s floor for at least a hundred feet. Clearly showing everything in their radius.

The bodies are arranged neatly between the two.

There are at least a few dozen of them; it has to be the majority of the Qabrans, maybe all of them. We’re close enough to see the glistening crimson patches on their robes, the angry slices across their faces and arms. I recognise most by sight, though I do not know their names.

A half dozen Gleaners hover thirty feet up, motionless as they keep guard. Facing away from us, standing on the ground amongst the corpses, is another. As I watch, it raises its red-pulsing blades. Brings them both down sharply into a woman’s chest.

She gasps, and bucks against the burning stone piercing her body, and begins to talk.

I shudder and pull back. Look at Caeror. He is staring into nothing. For the first time since I’ve met him, the light utterly gone from his eyes. I don’t know what to say to him.

“We can’t get to the gardens.” Every part of me wants to show my empathy but we don’t have time to dwell, not now. “They’re waiting right outside.”

“Some of the Gleaners must have come straight here. They knew. Someone got caught. They knew.” Caeror breathes the words into the void, and then seems to come back to himself. Blinks and clenches his fists and straightens. “Gods. We’re trapped.”

We huddle back into the shadows of the nearest tomb, though it will do us little good. Doing our best to think through the fear. “You’re sure there’s no other way out?”

Caeror nods, grimly certain. I risk another look around the corner. The Gleaner has moved on from the woman, now listening impassively to a man twitching and moaning his secrets as the blades skewer him clean through. “What will happen to them?”

“Same as anyone they catch, I assume,” says Caeror hollowly.

“So they’ll take them back to Duat.”

He looks at me. “They’ll spear them with their Vitaeria, to make sure they’re still viable after the journey. Carry them back with a blade through the heart.” He’s seen what I’m thinking. “It won’t work, Vis.”

“It might if I can command one before it tries.” My mind races. Sick to my stomach, terrified at what I’m suggesting even as I say it. “I take control of the Gleaner, and I get it to take me. It’s not that different from what we were thinking.”

“The Gleaners will all fly back together. As a swarm. It’s why we planned to separate one out. The others will notice you being carried.”

“Not if I get it to stab me too.” Kadmos’s lessons often involved medicine and the body, those months leading up to the Academy. “A chest wound won’t kill me, not if it’s from a Vitaerium sticking through me. I just need to make sure nothing vital gets hit. Which I can tell the Gleaner to do, if I’m controlling it.”

“Rotting gods, Vis. It will be agony. And you’d have to pretend to be dead. The entire time.”

“I know.”

We stare at each other, and I can see him wanting to tell me no. But he has no answers. No alternatives. In the end, silence becomes his affirmation.

“We need to lure one away. It won’t work if one of the others sees,” I note quietly. Dazed that this is really happening, but aware I don’t have time to second-guess myself. “We need to do it now, before any of the ones still out there get back.”

“I can do that.” Caeror exhales. Grim and reluctant, but he sees the necessity of it as clearly as I. He indicates a tomb. “Hide in here. Tash and I will draw it past into the next one. You’ll have to imbue it, and tell it not to communicate anything is wrong, before it realises you’re there.”

I give him a look; we’ve discussed how I might control a Gleaner more than anything else since I arrived. He gives me a wry, nervous grin. Claps me on the shoulder. “Alright. Alright. Luck, Vis.”

He pauses as if to say more, then grimaces and ducks away.

I conceal myself in the darkness of the tomb Caeror indicated; there’s a minute as he presumably informs Tash of what is happening, and then a cough. Not loud, even in the emptiness of Qabr. But enough to faintly echo.

Nothing for five seconds. Ten.

Then red light creeps across the entrance by my feet.

My heart drums a painful beat. Only one Gleaner, I’m fairly certain; no overlapping shadows to indicate different sources of light. The illumination slows and then pauses, as if the thing outside is looking around.

The lightest scuffling of foot against stone from the tomb next to me. The light moves again, darting this time. Brightens considerably as it narrows to a sliver, angle sharp. The Gleaner moving into the entrance of the next tomb.

No time to waver. I stride out soundless and purposeful. A broad figure stands just inside the doorway, scanning the room, blades burning by its sides. Caeror and Tash will be hiding behind the sarcophagus. Certain to be discovered as soon as the creature proceeds.

Three steps. No hesitation. Grasp its shoulder.

It’s not easy. This is not like practicing on a calm and compliant Tash. The muscle beneath my grip immediately tenses and it’s all I can do to hang on as it flinches, twists. But my constant practice this past month, all my hard work at the Academy and my training at Villa Telimus before that, pays off. I push through. Imbue it and do all I can not to see it as a monster, but a man. Just another man, surprised.

Connection.

The Gleaner is there. I can’t sense its thoughts—I never could with Tash, either—but I am aware of it, in a way that is uncomfortably personal. Its senses are all there, if I want them.

“Don’t do anything that could draw attention to us. Stay where you are.” I choke out the words in a whisper. Jerk my hand away once I’ve said them. Stumble back, fear menacing my focus as I wait with pounding blood and held breath for any sign that my attempt has been unsuccessful.

The Gleaner just stands there. Motionless.

I exhale. Are you still connected to the other Gleaners? Nod for yes. I think the words as if I were saying them out loud. Imagine I’m directing them at my mental image of the creature. It’s harder, to send these nonverbal instructions as clear thoughts. But prudent.

It nods.

Do you have a name? Tell me softly, if so. Knowing, having a word that the iunctii identifies as itself, seems to help.

It opens its mouth, and a faint, wavering groan comes out. I clench my fists. I can’t risk looking, but it sounds as though it has no tongue.

Then, to my wary surprise, it uses its burning obsidian blade to illuminate something on the nape of its neck. A tattoo. Neat and small and black. I look closer.

Duodecim is your name? I grimace as it nods. Written out rather than the number, but it means “twelve” in Vetusian. I doubt it’s a birth name. Check the next few tombs without looking at me, Duodecim. Do it as slowly as you can without arousing suspicion. I can’t risk it laying eyes on us in case Ka is watching through them.

I wait until Duodecim has moved obediently away before whispering into the renewed darkness. “It worked.”

Caeror and Tash’s silhouettes emerge from behind the sarcophagus, and I feel as much as hear my friend’s excitement as he grips my shoulder in enthusiastic celebration. “Well done.”

“Now we just need you two safe. I could tell the Gleaner to distract the others in front of the garden, draw them away so you can—”

“No.” Caeror’s interruption is gentle. The creature in the tomb over finishes its checking quicker than I’d have liked and emerges, red light temporarily splaying over us as it moves to the next. Caeror’s expression is taut but sure as the darkness reclaims it. “Too risky. They’ll know something’s wrong, and you getting into Duat is too important.”

“Then what?”

“I have an idea, but we don’t have time for explanations. Every second we wait is one that the other Gleaners might notice this one’s missing.” He unloops his Vitaerium from his arm, presses it into my hand. “You’re going to need this.”

I shove it away. “So are you.”

“There are a couple of spares past the garden. And if I can’t get in there in the next hour, I’m dead anyway. But if you want to survive what you’re planning …”

I hesitate, caught between the need to argue and the frustration of knowing I can’t. I conceal his Vitaerium and then mine by strapping them to my thigh, shivering at the fresh flush of power. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ll take my job over yours.” He chuckles shakily. As terrified as I feel. His rictus grin briefly lit crimson again as the Gleaner slides to the next tomb over. “And Vis? What you’re about to do? It’s all that matters. You have a chance to save the people we love. You have a chance to save worlds, and if there was anyone I would choose to give that responsibility to, it is you.”

He embraces me briefly and fiercely, then rips himself away and retreats with Tash into the darkness of Qabr.

I am left alone in the shadowed archway, and though I know what I have to do next, fear arrests me.

A pain promised is often worse than pain itself, my mother used to say. Dread anticipation makes me vacillate, red light ebbing and receding as Duodecim moves on yet again. I surely don’t have long before its absence becomes suspicious.

I retreat into the tomb. Focus on the link in my mind.

Come back and search the first tomb again, Duodecim. I crouch down behind the sarcophagus. Look thoroughly, and when you find me, act as you normally would, but stab me so that I survive. Make sure it looks to anyone watching that you’ve killed me. I convey the spot on my chest I think it should aim for. Missing lungs and arteries. Not obviously far from my heart. Then put me with the other bodies and when it is time, make sure to get me to Duat alive.

Seconds pass. Then red light slinks into the room. Creeps across the stone. I huddle farther into the shadows of the sarcophagus, despite myself. Mouth dry. Breath painfully short. I am living a nightmare from which there is no waking.

The Gleaner fills my view, its red blades blinding. I scramble back. Fiercely resist the urge to change my mind, to command it just to leave and hope I can find another way. Caeror is gone and everyone else here is dead. This is my only chance not just of getting into Duat, but survival.

It strides forward and I put my hands out in an instinctive defence; it bats them away, slicing deep, leaving stinging gashes across my arms that match the wounds of those I saw earlier.

Then it raises its granite blade and with a smooth, swift motion, spears it into me.

I try with everything I can not to react and yet still release an agonised, shocked shriek. Fire pulses through my chest. I taste blood as I bite down on my tongue, reducing the sound to a low moan. True panic clouds my mind along with the pain. This won’t work. This won’t work.

I am being picked up by my skewer; the blade cuts deeper and a soft moan escapes my lips. Every muscle screams against the instinct to bunch up, to shift and try to ease the injury the blade through me is doing. But I do all I can to school myself to stillness. Take a shaky, shallow breath, though even that allows the razor edge of the stone to cut new slices in my flesh. The pain is still there but it’s encroached upon. Not fading, but more overwhelmed by the rush of fresh vitality that flows from the blade into me. Through me. Pooling around the injury, in particular, and sealing it as best it can. The worst of the agony suddenly washes away, even if the burning remains a searing discomfort.

I allow myself to go limp. Let me see through your eyes, Duodecim.

The stomach-churning twist of vision, the disconnect between what I’m seeing and what my body is doing. But I’ve practiced this too. I watch as the Gleaner dispassionately delivers my bloodied form to the line, pulling its burning blade from my chest and then rising, rejoining its peers in guarding the space again.

I lie there. Seeing myself distant below. My Vitaeria keep me awake, keep the wound from being fatal. Every breath is cautiously shallow and strained and agonising. At least one rib is cracked. Cuts that are smaller only relative to the chest wound cover my arms. Bright red lines that refuse to bleed, thanks to the imbued Will in me.

I feel obvious, but none of the other Gleaners even glance at me, their questioning of the dead apparently done with for now. There is pain for longer than I can say, and then movement. Other Gleaners, collecting some of the far forms.

Before I can panic, Duodecim is descending. Claiming me. Too far away from any of the others for them to hear the low, agonised gasp that escapes my lips as he stabs me once more.

We rise into the air. My breath is short, the pain worse and I can feel consciousness slipping away, but I hold on fiercely. Close, now. This is it.

I float in a haze of torment through desolate Qabr. Am dragged through the narrow tunnel, every part of me scraping roughly over stone, and then into the icy night of the desert.

I do not know how I survive. Some part of me takes refuge behind the eyes of the Gleaner, though it does nothing to dull the pain. We move as a pack, a swarm, the sky darkened with twisted forms carrying bodies impaled by glowing red. Mostly I allow Duodecim to control its own body, but occasionally I command him to watch the others, assessing their movements, their actions. More than anything, trying to distract myself.

There is not much to see, though. They are emotionless, stare straight ahead and move as one, each motion eerily similar to their neighbour’s. Just as Caeror insisted. Reliant on human senses, but not human. Copies of one another that are predictable in action and reaction, only the various strengths of their respective bodies acting as variables.

Monotonous silver sand. Sharp chill slicing my bare torso and face. Every moment is an age in which all I want to do is move, shift to try and find some position that doesn’t leave my chest screaming in agony.

But I endure.

And then, finally, we reach the glinting, moonlit obsidian of Duat.

XXII

WILL CAN BE USED BY THE ONE TO WHOM IT IS GIVEN, and them alone. It is a foundational truth of the Hierarchy, the underpinning of almost every rule, every method and every calculation I have been taught over the past year and a half. Something mentioned only in passing even to the Sevenths at the Academy, so self-evident has its truth been since the discovery of ceding by the Catenan Republic one hundred and fifty years ago.

I’ve had much of the carriage ride here to think about what the nameless stranger told me, back at the compound. “Adoption.” The ability to not only sense other people’s imbued Will, but to take it. Even after everything I have seen, I would have dismissed it as madness were it not for the fact that I have experienced what he described. The extrasensory perception that saved me during the Iudicium when the Anguis were hunting us. And then the same again, just before Lanistia attacked me at the Aurora Columnae.

But perhaps most importantly, on top of that tower with Emissa’s blade embedded in my stomach. I’ve tried so hard not to think about that night, that moment, that I’d almost forgotten.

Falling. Flailing desperately, instinctively, for anything to haul myself back up.

The Heart of Jovan snapping into my hand.

So over the past half hour, I’ve resolved myself to the truth. Used the awkward silence since Livia’s outburst to focus on the carriage beneath us. For the first time, really tried to recapture that sense that I first had in those nightmarish hours after running the Labyrinth.

It took a while, and it’s faint, even now.

But it’s there.

The noonday sun is blistering as I swing down onto crunching gravel. I’m greeted with a sharply sloping village that has sparkling views out over a protected bay. Our carriage has stopped on a clifftop above all the houses; beyond the white stone roofs below, the shallow water is clear and calm and a deep, vibrant blue.

Livia is stalking in the opposite direction toward the statue-lined entrance of a massive structure, clearly expecting me to follow. Carriages identical to our own line the roadside. Some drivers nap; others call out idle conversation to one another. Darius looks to do neither, alighting and waiting for me to move. There are only a few Octavii hurrying busily ahead, but the low grumbling of a distant, unseen crowd touches my ears.

I want to call out after Livia. To say something to her, respond to her outburst earlier. But like the entirety of this painfully awkward trip, I don’t know how without making things worse, so instead I jog to catch up and pretend as if all is normal. “This is Sciacca?”

“The Circus Sciacca.” She sweeps back a stray strand of curly brown hair, staring pointedly ahead as she marches. A curt gesture up to a carved inscription over the archway ahead confirms her statement.

As we enter the grand colonnade, a man in a gold-striped toga spots us and strides over. He’s in his fifties at least, hair and neatly trimmed beard peppered with grey, deep lines in his broad, sun-weathered face. His hands are clasped behind his back. “Catenicus?”

“Yes?”

“I am Sextus Caeso Tullius, your examiner for today. You’re late.”

“Hail, Sextus. My apologies.” Contrite but direct. I don’t try to offer excuses. We’re technically the same rank now, but he’s my elder and about to test me. Best to show respect.

He grunts. Studies my empty left sleeve with open doubtfulness, then sighs and jerks his head. “Come.”

The entrance into the Circus Sciacca is unsurprisingly grand, all archways and domes, frescoes and mosaics and intricately carved reliefs. The Sextus directs Livia and Darius away up a staircase to the right, and then I’m being led through the main passageway and out the other side, into the glare of the midday sun and the reflected heat of bright sand.

I shield my eyes, and squint out at the scene before me.

The circus is easily a couple of thousand feet long and perhaps five hundred feet wide, its centre split by a long, low stone wall with two large columns at either end. It’s a familiar enough sight from the occasional race I used to watch after Victorum in Letens, though there are no chariots in sight. Instead, people dot the sandy breadth of the circuit in pairs, an observer making notes on a wax tablet while the other performs a task. A young man lifts a boulder the size of my head and hurls it thirty feet. Two plates hover in front of a woman as she’s blindfolded; a few moments later they wobble violently and then smash to the ground, accompanied by low laughs from some of the onlookers in the stands nearby. Several participants are sprinting around the outer edge of the track, not against one another, but glistening with sweat nonetheless. One comes close enough to see her completely black eyes.

There are a lot more examinees than I expected.

I stop, trying to make sense of it. There are hundreds more people scattered around the stands that ring the track, too, though they almost make the stadium seem more empty given that the circus’s capacity must surely be in the tens of thousands. Many of the spectators are clumped in groups, talking in low tones and gesturing at what’s taking place below them.

I trail Tullius out farther, and my arrival causes a wave of vaguely excited murmurs from the stands, which in turn draws pauses and curious glances from those undergoing their assessments.

I stare back coolly. The others being tested are mostly my age, though a few are older; one even looks in his early forties. Not just newcomers to a pyramid here, then, but anyone who has been moved up a level during the latest review. Even so, there are definitely too many.

Then my step slows as, for the first time, I pay attention to faces. Shaggy-haired Felix is over toward the centre, torso bare, eyes black as they meet mine. Marcellus is not far from our path, avoiding my gaze with the pretence of focusing on the fist-sized stones in front of him. Leridia, a girl from Class Six, half raises a hand in greeting before falteringly letting it drop to her side again. A few others I recognise here and there, too.

I scan further. Iro and Indol are on the far side of the track, preparing to run. Indol smiles when he catches my gaze. I give a small nod back. Iro, typically, ignores the exchange.

And then there’s Aequa.

She’s a few hundred feet away, but we practiced together for weeks leading up to the Iudicium: the way her long black tresses are tied back, her lithe athleticism as she moves, is impossible to mistake. She’s running holding a stone block while two more hover steadily in front of her. She either hasn’t spotted me or is too focused to spare me a glance.

There’s a discomfort in seeing her, in particular. A queasiness. We were friends. Are friends. But I’m going to have to ask her about the Iudicium. I sent her to protect Callidus. I have to know why she didn’t. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

I expected to see her here, even if the location is a surprise. The others, though …

“This isn’t just Governance,” I realise belatedly. Iro’s father is a Tertius in Religion. Marcellus’s father is a Religion senator. Indol, assuming he went through with his defection, is Religion too.

Tullius eyes me. “I hope your imbuing is more impressive than your powers of observation, Catenicus.”

A quick scan confirms that it’s only Religion and Governance here as far as I can tell. I can see a few others I recognise from the Academy—Fifths, mostly—and none of them are from Military.

“Is this usual?” I know it’s not, but I ask the question anyway. Tullius doesn’t dignify it with an answer. Many of the spectators in the stands, I note, wear the purple stripe on their togas. Senators. There’s no easy way to tell which are from Governance and which are from Religion, but from how some groups are huddled together, talking intensely—and blatantly ignoring the goings-on down here—I have to assume that matters other than our assessments are being discussed.

Even from down here, the mood of those conversations feels grim.

“Let’s start with a few questions.” Tullius has stopped us in a clear space. “How much Will are you theoretically able to use right now?” When he sees my look, he allows a chuckle. The smile reveals a gap in his front teeth. “I know, I know. But you would be shocked at the number of fresh candidates who think they’re ready to wield Will, and don’t even know their own potential strength.”

“Alright. I’m holding the strength of about eighteen and a half people.” Each Octavii cedes half their Will to their Septimus, giving them the equivalent of four extra people’s Will—as well as their own, to make five. Then they each cede half of that Will to me.

“About?”

“It’s an estimate, not a measurement. My actual strength will depend partly on my efficiency in using Will, and partly on my Octavii and Septimii. Their own individual strengths. Their drive. Their willingness to cede. Their health. Any other number of factors across any given day.”

“Good. Many fall into the trap of thinking about how many are ceding to them, and not about the quality of their pyramid.” Tullius nods to himself, making a note on his wax tablet. “Have you been asked to put your Will toward a specific task within Governance?”

“No.”

“Discretionary,” murmurs Tullius as he writes, the answer clearly an expected one. “And you agree not to use your Will for personal gain or for activities that are illegal, in particular any that might violate Birthright?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“Good.” More scribbling. “Enough questions, Catenicus. Now to the tests.”

I trail after Tullius as he moves us across to a pile of boulders. They’re irregularly shaped, a couple of feet wide and perhaps one in width and height. They must each weigh at least a few hundred pounds.

“First, we’re going to see how well you self-imbue. I want you to throw one of these as far as you can.” Tullius stands with his tablet and stylus at the ready, looking at me steadily.

I swallow a protest; it’s an immediately more difficult task with only one hand, but this is the test. The rocks are all a similar shape and size, and undoubtedly chosen to be of almost identical weight. How far I can throw one will be a relatively objective measurement of both my strength, and my ability to apply it.

I crouch beside one that’s a little broader, fairly smooth. Easier to balance. “How far do I have to get it?”

“The average for a Totius Sextus would be thirty feet.”

“What’s the best throw today for a Totius Sextus?” I clarify.

“A little over fifty.” I can almost taste the doubt in Tullius’s tone.

I exhale. With two hands, I might be able to grip the stone and spin, releasing it with momentum. With only one, simply balancing myself while lifting is going to be an issue, no matter how much extra strength I have flooding my body.

Still crouching, I touch the stone. Focus.

Beneath the sun-warmed surface, a gentle pulse brushes my mind. Just barely. That makes sense: a simple object can’t be imbued with more than one person’s Will, and moving something through imbuing is far more efficient than physically throwing it. This is the only way to ensure that no one cheats.

I consider. Study the shape of the stone and memorize it, even as I feel the eyes on me. I cannot show even a hint of this Adoption ability, if it works. Gods. Forget my real name, my real origins—the Hierarchy would have me executed, buried, and all memory of me erased within an hour of realising what I can do.

“I’m waiting, Catenicus.” Tullius says it firmly, if not unkindly.

Vek. Vek, vek, vek. I don’t need to look around to know everyone’s watching; the way the hubbub everywhere has quietened is proof enough. I straighten. Glare at the stone, then around. “From that line?” There’s a semi-circle scored in the sand nearby. In front of it is a demarcated space that is evidently meant to be kept clear.

“Yes.”

No choice. A poor display here might be safer, but what would be the point? I would be alive, and part of the Hierarchy, and in no position to do anything.

I close my eyes and for the first time since making sure the ceding had truly worked this morning, let myself feel the entirety of the Will within my grasp. Let it flood into my body, washing like a tingling, cold wave through my veins. Just like before, I am revolted only by how easy it is and how good it feels. No hint of the disgusting sensation I always imagined, but instead, invigoration. An infusion of pure, clean verve, no matter its source.

I take care to keep my mind clear. Carefully apportion the extra strength throughout my body, allowing more into my hips and waist, where I’ll generate the majority of the power for my throw. It’s possible I’ll instinctively reassign any excess Will to there when the time comes, anyway—we were taught at the Academy that much of self-imbuing comes from reflex—but this way will be more efficient. Prevent any last-second imbalance from the adjustment.

It all happens in moments, less than a second. I feel lost and wonderful. Sick and invincible. I try not to imagine my eyes, how I must look to everyone watching on.

Then I brace myself. Bend down and position my hand beneath the boulder, let it settle onto my palm and feel its weight. Every inch of my body is tense with the effort of balancing.

I reach out for a second. Two. Five. Picturing the stone in my mind. The Will in it is right there. I strain after it. Hoping. Hoping. Relucia’s contact had no reason to lie to me.

Connection.

With a roar, I scoop the enormous rock up, launch forward, and throw.

XXIII

FOR ALL MY TIME SLAVING IN THE ACADEMY, FOR ALL the Praeceptors who spent countless hours droning on at us about mechanics and metrics and formulas, it was my childhood tutor Iniguez who most accurately summarized the concept of strength of Will to me.

“In a fight between two men,” he asked of me one day, “who will win?”

His question was in response to my own, wondering how best to calculate the relative strength of individuals’ Will. We were walking the clifftop paths of Suus. Sun shining. Aeternum glittering below. Years before the Hierarchy’s invasion, the subject entirely academic.

“That depends.” Tempted to answer with a philosophically glib “neither,” but Iniguez’s lessons always had a certain tempo to them. One that you disrupted at your own peril.

“On what?”

“On who has the advantage.”

“And what constitutes an advantage?”

“Size. Strength. Agility. Age.” He waited for more, so I gave it. “Weapons. Armour. Training. Positioning. Foreknowledge of the fight.” Still silent. “Experience with the type of opponent. Knowledge of the specific opponent. External support. Fatigue. Wits. Determination …”

He finally chuckled, allowing me a nod. “And more. We see a small man and a big man; we assume the big man will win. Then we see the small man holding a blade; we think the smaller will win. Then we learn the big one has beaten a hundred likewise-armed men before this, and perhaps we change our minds again. And so on, and so on. Back and forth. Nothing changing in the variables, only our knowledge of them.”

He gazed across the strait, as if Caten was right there. “We all fumble in the dark for ways to say that one man is better than another, and the Hierarchy fumble more than most. Their formulas and measurements make sense in the broad strokes; in the building of infrastructure, in the arrangement of an empire, averages are an acceptable metric. But men are still men. Strong and flawed and unpredictable, day to day. To weigh their potential without knowing their spirit … it cannot be done.”

It is a truth that no matter how hard the Hierarchy strives to deny, all know.

Now it is a truth I have to turn to my advantage. To sell the brazen lie that my missing arm doesn’t matter.

The power surging through my body is incredible as I release the boulder, every muscle taut as I fiercely focus on maintaining balance against the throw. Even executing this perfectly, even with such a strong pyramid in support, I know I shouldn’t be able to toss the boulder much farther than the average. Time seems to slow. I can still sense the Will in the rock as I let go. As I watch it arc through the air.

I can feel it. Feel it in the same way I can feel the Will still coursing through me.

I push.

There’s a thud as the stone rejoins the ground, sand spraying from the impact. I barely manage to stay upright on my follow-through, pouring Will into my legs as I flail and skid to a stop. Appearances are as important as results, here.

Murmurs from those up on the hill. Silence from those nearby. I don’t look at them, instead staring intently at the stone. Mentally measuring, even as Tullius starts pacing it out.

“Forty-eight.” He calls it, ostensibly to me but undoubtedly for the benefit of those watching, too. There’s undisguised surprise in his tone.

Forty-eight feet. Not the farthest today, but close enough. I nod calmly as if it were entirely expected. Erase the mental image of the boulder from my mind, and feel another flood of profound relief as my sense of its imbued Will vanishes.

It worked. Vek. It worked.

“Show off.” I’m started from my internal shock by the voice, looking up just in time to see Indol’s grin as he jogs past. I stare, then grin back. Steadying. No sympathy, no malice, no hesitation in Indol’s remark. Just a friendly, admiring jibe from one Third to another. Exactly like we would have a few weeks ago.

It helps.

I draw a breath. Bring everything back into focus. Tullius is on his way back to me. Many others around the track are still watching, as are almost all the spectators in the stands. Clumped senators motion at me as they discuss my result. The reactions all seem impressed, though, not suspicious; the arc of the throw looked natural enough to me, and there’s no other way they could tell what just happened. Besides—even if it did look odd to any of them, it would be an absurd thing to accuse me of. I think I’m safe.

Aequa’s finished her task and looking at me too, now. I catch her eye. She smiles. I smile back.

“Good start, Catenicus.” Tullius’s tone contains worlds more respect as he arrives.

The next half hour is gruelling as I’m put through a series of physical challenges by Tullius under the unforgiving sun, what feels like half the Senate looking on. I smash through varying thicknesses of wood and stone. Leap as high as I can. Run for a quarter hour at full speed around the track, completing nine full laps before being told to stop. All require me to allow extra Will to adjust for my arm, to let me keep my balance, to push back the pain that much of this exercise brings.

None of it is as mechanically difficult as the first test, though. And my results, while never outstripping the best of the day, continue to be among the elite; each time Tullius announces my score, a murmur goes around the track as it’s relayed. Gradually, the weight of eyes and expectations falls away as I adjust to the unwanted attention. Become increasingly confident. For the self-imbuing portion of the assessment, it’s as good a result as I could have hoped for.

“Have a drink, Catenicus,” says Tullius as I come to stand beside him, panting and drenched in sweat after my interminably long sprint. He offers me a cup and motions to a barrel of fresh water, then waits patiently as I drain several long draughts before dousing myself in more of the liquid. Will increases my stamina in rough accordance with my strength, but that only means I can push myself for longer, not that I don’t get tired.

“What’s next?” I ask once my breathing has sufficiently slowed.

“That’s all for self-imbuing. Take a few minutes to recover, then meet me back here.”

I bob my head, and stride for the low wall at the edge of the sand, making sure to walk straight and tall despite my exhaustion. A short rest will be welcome, but I need to show everyone here that I’m still worthy of being called Domitor. Still worthy of being made a Quintus. The less I appear strained by all of this, the better.

I sit on the wall, back to the onlookers. Exhale and close my eyes.

“You’re incredible.”

I look up to find Aequa sliding into place alongside me. A sheen of sweat glistens on her pale skin. Cobalt-blue eyes glance up at me hesitantly, as if checking her presence isn’t going to upset me.

“You look like you’re doing well, too.” It’s not just a polite observation. Every time I’ve seen her undergo an assessment today, she’s excelled at it.

“I didn’t nearly die a couple of months ago, though.”

I give a soft, humourless chuckle. “Well that’s simply not true.”

“You know what I mean.” A tremulous smile. A pause. “I’m sorry about your arm.”

I nod. Not much else either of us can say about that, really.

We watch the activity out on the sand. Many of the assessments appear to be over; there are only a dozen or so people left attempting their tests. Felix and Marcellus are separately displaying their ability to imbue, both navigating the task with ease. Indol and Iro must have already finished, because I can’t see them anywhere.

“This is all to send Military a message.” I make the observation without taking my gaze from the proceedings. As much to help me think it through, as to discuss it with Aequa.

“It has to be,” Aequa agrees quietly. “I know you’ve been cut off, but you must have seen what it’s like in Caten. And my father says things in the Senate have been bad lately, too. Worse since the Iudicium.” Her lips twist at the mention. “I don’t know what’s changed, exactly, but for us and Religion to hold these assessments together … it’s a show of unity.”

“It’s more than that. It’s a warning.” I’m more certain of the fact as I say it out loud; this all must have been shrouded in secrecy to have avoided an official Military protest in the Senate. “Not a subtle one, either. Military’s done something to upset everyone else.”

Not hard to guess what. The Anguis prisoner’s existence may be being kept quiet, but he’s clearly served his purpose well.

“Scary,” murmurs Aequa.

“Scary,” I concur grimly.

Another silence. Awkward. We both know what needs to be discussed. She wants me to ask. I don’t know how.

“They spotted me. At the Iudicium.” I can barely hear Aequa as she eventually says the words. She sounds ashamed. “I was heading for Callidus, and one of the Anguis teams saw me crossing a valley. Surprised me, even though I was being careful. I barely got away.” She touches her forearm, drawing my eyes to a long, wicked scar.

“I ran. For … an hour, at least. And they chased me,” she continues, even as my gaze is still fixed on her injury. “When I was finally sure I’d lost them, I’d … I’d lost the tracker. Callidus’s tracker.” She hangs her head. “So I went back to the Academy. I’m so sorry, Vis.”

There’s a lump in my throat as I process it. Grief again, but something else, too.

Relief.

Relief that I don’t have to be angry. Relief that my friend didn’t simply leave Callidus to die through fear. I know Aequa, and I believe her. I think I always believed it had to be something like this, something simple and miserably unfortunate. But knowing, finally knowing, hits me like a wave.

“Gods’ graves, Aequa.” I cough in a vain attempt not to choke out my eventual, firm response. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. Hear me?”

“I know. I’m sorry anyway.” She smiles across at me, and I can see the release in her teary eyes too. “I’d hug you, but we’re both kind of sweaty.”

I sling my good arm forcefully around her shoulders, squeezing her close against my drenched tunic. She laughs as she feigns struggling before embracing me back. “Disgusting.”

“Catenicus!” It’s Tullius, beckoning me back onto the sand.

Aequa releases her grip and I stand. “You’ve already finished, I take it?”

“I have. But I’ll happily stay and watch you almost beat me.”

I narrow my eyes at her as she grins, then jog to catch up to Tullius out on the track.

XXIV

THE SUMMER DOWNPOUR HAS TURNED MY CLOAK SODden, leaden skies barely revealing an afternoon turning to dusk, when the wooden palisade of Caer Áras finally appears on the horizon.

As Lir, Kegan, Aodh, and I shield ourselves from the deluge and continue to skirt the lake across our path, its water dimpling and dancing in the rain, I rub again at the persistent aching of my chest and study the region’s largest community—and the residence of King Rónán—from beneath the shadow of my hood. The hill fort looks large, at least compared to the several villages we’ve paused at during our meandering travels of the past few weeks. Guards man the torch-dotted walls and gate. From this distance, I can see the tops of huts farther in, and at the very crest of the hill a grander structure, which is surely the king’s hall. The thin plumes of cookfires are faintly visible through the rain.

It’s still no larger than most mid-sized towns in Caten and its provinces. The wooden barricades look sturdy but would be susceptible to fire. The residences beyond, too.

“Almost there.” Lir calls the observation to me. The hem of his white cloak is brown with splashed mud, but he doesn’t appear to mind.

Kegan—the younger, muscled warrior who seems to be enjoying this weather far more than the sunshine we had yesterday—laughs and says something he clearly thinks is funny to Aodh, though I don’t catch enough of the words to know anything more than that it’s clearly about me. The grizzled older man with the scarred shoulder grunts dismissively, his standard response, as he scans the way ahead. He always looks as if he expects an ambush. Perhaps he does.

“Will it be long before I am …” I search for the word; Lir has used it before several times. “Judged?”

“No.” Not unkindly, but with customary bluntness.

I nod a silent acknowledgement and press on into the deluge, unsure whether I’m glad or anxious to finally be in sight of our destination. Our path here has been a circuitous one as the druid fulfilled his various obligations in the surrounding countryside; it’s been hard to properly assess but if we’d come directly, I suspect this journey would have taken mere days. I’ve been treated well throughout, at least, even if my status as a prisoner has never been anything but clear. Always watched by at least one of the two warriors and never allowed to wander off alone, even to relieve myself. Not that I could make it far, or blend in if I did, with my missing arm. But my companions haven’t taken any chances.

When Lir has not been bestowing blessings or hearing disputes, the days have passed in travel. Rolling hills and mist-shrouded moors and deep, still lakes. We’ve rarely seen others on the road. Wet though it often has been for what is supposed to be summer, the landscapes here have a tranquil beauty to them, one that lends itself to long periods where it feels almost sacrilegious to speak into the calm. There is a serenity in them that I have never seen elsewhere. Not joyful like the natural wonders of Suus, but a true, imperturbable peace.

“Have you thought of any more to add to your story, Deaglán, before we arrive?” Lir draws closer through the rain, walking in almost companionable fashion side by side with me. “Once we walk through those gates, our chances to speak will be few.”

I glance at him. A warning, no doubt, but what seems like genuine care in the question as well. I’m not surprised. While Aodh and Kegan have all but ignored me, Lir engaged in conversation more than I expected as we travelled. My understanding of the language has continued to improve, and for all he’s been trying to squeeze information from me, he has been patient in correcting my mistakes and teaching me new words and phrases. Evidently still angry over my keeping of Cian’s staff, and mistrusting of me generally, but he’s nevertheless been nothing but considerate.

“I have told you everything,” I promise, affecting my usual earnestness when it comes to the question. I’ve been careful to follow the tale Gráinne and I originally gave him, presenting myself simply as a foreigner who met Cian by chance not long before his death. When Lir asked about my homeland, I told him that I fled it and did not wish to speak on it further. Whether through respect or the idea of having to battle a language barrier on top of my reluctance, he did not press.

I’ve not mentioned the strange pulse that warned me of his arrival, either. If I’m being honest, I’m no longer even certain it wasn’t just my imagination. Aside from the occasional flicker of something similar from the staffs Lir carries, I haven’t felt it again.

The druid brushes droplets from his forehead and accepts the statement, even if his eyes suggest the affirmation still lacks conviction. An intelligent, learned man, and yet I’ve discovered through careful questioning over the past month that just like Gráinne, he has never heard of anything resembling the Catenan Republic. It continues to make no sense. I haven’t described Solivagus to him—that feels too risky, given it’s where King Fiachra’s men found me—but I did, at one point, get him to sketch me a rough map of the surrounding lands.

According to him, we’re in Tensia. A part of the massive southern country near the Lycerian border that I never visited, admittedly, and from what I know of the area, the weather and landscapes certainly seem right. But Tensia was conquered by the Republic more than fifteen years ago. It’s hard to imagine anyone here could be unaware of Caten’s existence.

I’ve been tempted on several occasions to say more—Cian was bringing me to King Rónán’s lands for a reason, after all. But he also said that the draoi were divided. And I went to great pains to ensure my pursuers believed I was dead. No need to jeopardise the safety of that falsehood.

In some ways it’s not so different to Caten, I suppose.

It’s late, properly dusk by the time we reach the fortified town. We approach the gates along the road, which is little more than deep, puddle-ridden ruts left by carts. The earth surrounding the walls has been dug away even more sharply than the natural incline of the hill, forming a steep ditch everywhere except for the road. Defensible against raids, I suppose, which Gráinne indicated is usually the worst trouble between neighbours here.

There are shouts from the torchlit, open gate as we approach, which quickly turn cheerful as Lir is recognised and his name called in joyful tones. The conversation moves too quickly for me to catch much, but it seems Lir hasn’t been here for a while. He’s clearly welcome, though; we’re ushered through, and I’m barely given a glance.

Lir doesn’t hesitate once we’re inside, heading along the main dirt road up the hill. The smell is of cooking and animal dung; alongside several huts I can see the dark shapes of farm animals shifting, the occasional bleat or bray echoing into the night. Aodh and Kegan are all smiles—clearly home, now—and yet they also walk a step closer to me. Hold their spears tighter. Keep one eye fixed on me as they call out greetings to friends.

For my part, I take note of everything I can as we walk the muddy roads. Do my best to memorise the layout, pay attention to potential hiding places in amongst the shadows. I’m not intending to escape—the fact is, I haven’t deliberately done anything wrong, and I still don’t know enough of the language to blend in anyway. I have to believe I can talk my way out of this. But it doesn’t hurt to have the information.

Eventually, we stop at a hut that looks little different from any of the others, and Aodh and Kegan take up positions by the door as Lir leads me inside. It’s a one-room affair: dirt floor, and completely empty bar the animal-skin bedding in the corner, a table, and two roughly made stools. Lir shakes the water from his cloak and sits on one, gesturing to the other as the door closes behind us.

“Deaglán.” His demeanour seems different as I sit. Not friendly, still, but somehow less distant than it has been the entire time we’ve been on the road. “King Rónán and his warband will return in a couple of hours. Tonight will be a cuirm. A … big meal,” he clarifies, seeing I don’t know the word. “I will present you for judgement then.”

“And they will … punish me, for possessing Cian’s staff,” I confirm, even now having to keep the frustrated cynicism from my voice. Lir has assured me many times that the mere touching of a druid’s staff is a serious offense, though he refuses to say why.

“Most likely. There will be much disputing of your tale. Some will call for your execution.” Not new information, but the words still twist my stomach.

“You?”

Lir considers me. “No,” he says eventually. “But my voice is one among many, here. And though King Rónán is a good man and will listen to reason, the Old Ways demand that he not interfere in a draoi affair that does not involve one bound to him.” He locks gazes with me. Silently emphasising the importance of what he’s saying.

The “Old Ways,” from what I’ve gathered, is these people’s collective name for the forms and traditions that the druids teach were handed down by the gods themselves. Not laws, exactly, but they seem to be taken very seriously. Permeate every aspect of life, too. “Alright,” I say slowly. So the king is not the man I need to convince. Good to know.

Lir taps the table absently, deep in thought. Then he comes to a decision. His eyes go to the door, then flick back to me.

“I did not press on the road because not all ears can be trusted,” he says in a suddenly low voice. “Things are complicated here. I know Cian was investigating Ruarc’s influence over the Grove, and many of us agree that their decisions of late have been … concerning. I believe he left you his staff so that I would find you. He saved you for a purpose.” He leans forward. Intent. “Last I heard, he was researching tales of the Otherworld. Of Dia Oiche, the dark god who came from there thousands of years ago and supposedly still hides among us. A strange topic for a man like Cian, I thought. So tell me the truth. What can you tell me of all this? How did you come to know him?”

“I have already told you the truth.” I meet his gaze steadily, expression a careful mix of honesty and mild confusion. There’s a chance that admitting everything will help, but there’s also one that doing so will remove any motivation for Lir to keep me alive.

And perhaps even more tellingly, my curiosity does not come close to eclipsing my determination to not get involved. I have seen what life can be now, without the fears and complications that come with these entanglements. I have been running for too long. Fighting for too long. If there is any chance for me to hold on to what I found with Gráinne and Onchú and the children, to make my way back to it somehow, then I have to stay apart from all this.

I do like Lir, from what I’ve seen of him. He seems a good man. But there’s simply no benefit to me revealing anything right now.

He stares into my eyes, then grunts and looks away. “I do not believe you. I will still speak in your favour tonight, but if you do not tell me everything, Deaglán, you will have to save yourself.” Something more to the statement, I think. A strange emphasis. But the language and the situation conspire for me to be unsure.

He stares at me a moment longer. Examining me in the same intent, vaguely frustrated way I’ve caught him doing many times on the road.

Then he stands, and with an irritated flick of his cloak, leaves me to my thoughts.

THE SOUNDS OF THE TOWN OUTSIDE MY WINDOWLESS hut ebb and flow. Shouts and chatter, familiar and cheerful in tone even if I don’t know all the words. The grunts and snorts and braying of livestock. A larger crowd passing nearby, though not directly outside, at one point. Some cheering accompanying them.

I use the time to examine every inch of my prison. The walls are solid daub, the door sturdy. It’s possible there could be an escape through the thatch in the roof, but my missing arm colludes to make it a near-impossible task. Not that I plan to escape; if that had been my intent, I would have tried it weeks ago. These are the enemies of my enemy, the place Cian was taking me for refuge. As risky as it is to stay and plead my case, I need their support, not have them hunting me too.

The door swings open without warning after an hour or so, and past Aodh and Kegan’s frames I can see that afternoon has almost turned to dusk. Torches on poles crackle at regular intervals along muddy paths. A few people wander past. None do more than glance with vague curiosity in our direction.

Lir appears behind the two warriors. “Time, Deaglán,” he says quietly.

I am led into the darkening streets, again untouched but again left in no doubt that I am under guard. We angle up the slope, heading in grim silence for the large wooden hall I noted on the way in. Music drifts from it, faint at first but louder as we approach, rowdy and off-key voices raised in ebullient song. From the outside at least, it reminds me of nothing more than a particularly bustling tavern.

Until, that is, we trudge into its light, and I realise not all the poles encircling the hall are topped with torches.

I falter.

At least a dozen severed heads are piked around the large double doors, forming a macabre guard of honour for our approach. Men and women alike, pallid skin glistening, hair matted and dripping. They leer in the flickering orange as we pass. The puddled water beneath them is stained a dirty red. No decay, no sign of scavenging. They can’t be more than a day or two old.

Ahead of me, Aodh pats one on the scalp as he passes, not pausing. “Chailleadh sé meáchan faoi dheireadh.” The comment even gets a chuckle from Kegan, though Lir doesn’t react.

There’s a blast of boisterous noise as we enter the hall. It’s warm and stale, smells of smoke and alcohol and roasting meat and the press of at least fifty sweaty bodies. Mostly warriors. Two long, low, crowded tables stretch almost to the back, where they’re joined by a third to form an angular horseshoe. A fire crackles in the centre, and a small group of youths is lined up beside it, talking nervously among themselves.

“Lir!” The name escapes the lips of a woman nearby and is instantly echoed down the hall, a cheer of greeting for my captor along with a muddle of lively calls I cannot translate. Aodh prods me along at spearpoint behind him. Eyes slide over my entrance, curious, but nobody greets me. No doubting my status here. In front of me Lir grins around in acknowledgement, looking happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen him since we met.

I scan the room. It seems clear that the golden-cloaked man at the far table is the leader here. King Rónán, I assume. To his immediate right sits a mountain of a man, lantern-jawed and clean-shaven, thick muscle cording arms which shine with multiple armbands and a neck around which sits a silver torc. Even amongst warriors, even sitting, he dwarfs everyone in the room. He looks at ease in his clearly favoured position.

To Rónán’s left is a blonde woman with a pointed nose and delicate features, and farther along, an older man with a distinguished grey beard. He’s wearing a white cloak, same as Lir’s. He studies our entrance with a sharp, intelligent gaze.

I study him back, if surreptitiously. If my fate is out of Rónán’s hands, then this may be the man who holds it instead. The druid doesn’t appear to notice my return look, instead finishing his inspection and then rising, holding up his hands.

As the loudest voices in the hall quickly subside, Lir nods me over to the side. “It is the Time Between Times. Donnán is about to begin the allegiance ceremony. Take good note,” he adds in a lower voice as Aodh’s spear guides me in the direction Lir indicated.

The mutter of voices continues around the hall, but it’s quiet enough now to hear what’s going on in the centre. The druid has moved and stands slightly to the side. He beckons the first waiting young man forward, who comes to kneel in front of the king’s table, head bowed. He’s maybe sixteen, only a couple of painted symbols visible along his bare arms.

“Great King Rónán. I am Patraic ap Ris. My arm is your arm. I tiomnaigh myself to you. If I break my gealltanas, by gods and anam may the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” He finishes with three more words I do not know, and I’m guessing some of the others through context, but it’s clear enough that he’s pledging himself to the king.

Rónán nods solemnly, and Donnán dips a sprig of hawthorn into the bowl and then flicks it with a practiced motion at the young man’s face. Flecks of dark crimson appear on his cheeks, forehead and nose, dribbling slowly downward.

“Rise, Patraic ap Ris. Before gods and anam, your gealltanas”—oath?—“is received. My hearth is your hearth. Go, and protect it well.” King Rónán’s voice is strong and confident and easy as it rings out, cutting comfortably through the low chatter. He’s a large man, broad-shouldered and as weathered as any of the men here. Probably not older than fifty. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to command the room, I note as everyone’s gaze is drawn to him.

He is respected by these men. Admired.

Patraic stands, face flushed in the firelight, rivulets of blood wending their way down his skin. He stamps his spear thrice onto the stone, and steps aside.

Five more times the ritual repeats itself, three boys and two girls no older than the first: they kneel, utter the words, and finish with pride on bloodstained faces. There’s a general murmur of approval after each one, though no cheers or particular acknowledgements. They pair off and spar briefly in the ample space around the fire after that, quick if furious bouts that draw blood but no worse. The combatants embrace afterward, joyful regardless of whether they are victor or vanquished.

When the last steps away, Donnán raises his head and looks over at us. Beckons to Lir, who nods graciously.

Though quiet conversation had continued throughout, silence—true silence—now falls across the room as Lir joins the other druid. I watch, curiosity even briefly overcoming my anxiety. The smoke-filled air is heavy with anticipation.

Both men’s eyes turn black.

I saw Lir use Will twice on our journey. Unclear what he was using it for each time, and I decided early on that I don’t want to know. I am free of the Hierarchy, here. Free of the need to have anything to do with Will. Best by far to leave that all behind me.

Still, I tense at the sight. Aodh’s attention is on the two men, but he must sense something because I feel the slight prodding of a spear butt at my side. A small reminder that he’s there.

Donnán and Lir begin to sing.

Within a minute, I entirely forget my situation.

Donnán takes the lead, his voice deep and rich and solemn. His song is not like those of Caten, with their symbols and drums and tibias chanting to steady beats. Nor is it the music of my childhood, all drama and heat and passion in the stringed notes that demanded dancing of those who listened. This is a story. Solemn. Melancholy. Aching. A man called Gofannon, a smith who brews an ale of immortality. I do not understand all of it. It does not matter. There is a mesmeric beauty to the way the notes fill the spaces between us. Lir often steps back, but when he joins the song it is in perfect counterpart, threading a higher but no less yearning series of notes that allows the poignancy of the telling to shine brightest and hit hardest. In those moments, I feel their voices deep in my chest and even in this room of battle-scarred warriors, I am not alone in brushing tears from my eyes.

Other than that, the room never moves. Never breathes. We are enraptured in a way that few performers can ever hope to make their audience be.

The two men sing on, and even their midnight eyes don’t distract me. They soar and whisper, harmonize and break. Five minutes. Ten. No mistakes, no wavering. It is as remarkable, as beautiful a thing as I have ever witnessed.

And then with a sigh and slumping of the shoulders, their eyes clear and they are done.

As the last notes fade there is a lull and then the hall stirs, slowly, as if emerging from a dream. I am with them. Dazed. I remember my plight and yet it feels strangely distant, less important than it was when they began.

Finally, gradually, low conversation returns to the room. There is no applause, which I think I can understand; clapping would feel garish, diminish the performance somehow. But it is clear that the song was designed to cap the ceremony. Those who just pledged begin mingling with everyone else, trails of blood drying on their cheeks as they receive thumps on the back from everyone within reach.

For a few minutes, I just sit and try to listen to the chatter around me. Hard to make out, especially given my uneven grasp of the language, but there is much boasting of a recent successful battle. I hear the word “war” more than once.

And then Lir is signalling, and Aodh is prodding, and I am moving to the centre of the room.

We approach Lir and Donnán, who are speaking cordially, though from a distance Lir’s demeanour comes across as more formal than outright friendly. The thrust of their conversation quickly becomes apparent as we approach.

“So you were right.” Donnán has taken Cian’s staff from Lir, examining it with a sadness that feels strangely stilted in the wake of the emotion he’s just put on display. “Was it with Cian’s body?”

“No.” Lir hesitates, and I can tell he doesn’t want to elaborate as Aodh marches me up. A few people have begun paying attention now, though most have resumed their meals and own conversations. “Deaglán here had it.”

Puzzlement, then wide-eyed anger from Donnán. He looks at me as if I had killed someone. “Why does he live?”

“He says it was given to him. There was a witness. And he is ábálta,” adds Lir, in a lower voice. I don’t know the word, but he makes it sound significant.

“That does not matter,” snarls Donnán. His hand, I notice, has gone to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

The conversation is too complicated and fast for me to follow after that, but one thing is clear enough: Donnán believes I should be executed, and he doesn’t want to wait around for it to happen. Lir protests, but I can see his uncertainty, his desperation to make his case. I get the impression that Donnán is his superior.

Aodh’s spear is still pointed at me but in a vaguely disinterested way, his focus more on the argument between the druids. Chatter nearby has eased, too, as others at the tables listen in curiously.

Heart pounding, I dart forward.

Aodh shouts and the druids both stop in surprise, but I’m not headed for the exit; even if Kegan and several others weren’t in between, I’d never make it more than a few steps outside the door.

Instead I slip past the fire, toward King Rónán.

The massive man next to him, the one adorned in the armbands and silver torc, has his spear in hand so fast I can barely countenance it. It doesn’t matter. I skid to my knees in front of the king’s table. Conversation around the hall has all but stuttered to a surprised stop.

“Great King Rónán. I am Deaglán ap Cristoval.” My father’s name tightens my throat as I say it, but I press on hurriedly as someone shouts behind me. “My arm is your arm. I tiomnaigh myself to you. If I break my oath, by gods and anam may the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” I finish with the same three words as the others before, barely gasping out the last one before there’s a hand tangling in my hair and jerking me violently, angrily backward. I can’t help but cry out as Aodh slaps me on the side of the head with his free hand.

“What is this?” The behemoth next to the king still grips his spear, eyes angry.

“King Rónán. He is marked for death. He carried the comhlánam,” says Donnán, hurrying forward. I’ve heard the word before—it doesn’t mean staff, but I know that’s what it refers to.

There’s a murmur around the hall. Not a pleased one.

“And it was witnessed that he was given it freely.” Lir steps forward. There’s a gleam in his eye. “As it was witnessed that he sacrificed his arm in defending a family from a raid. This family have sworn a life-debt to him. So if he is to be executed, then they must be executed also.”

“What?” I try to twist, unsuccessfully thanks to Aodh’s grip on my hair. “No. Lir. Please. No.” This is the first I’ve heard of such an arrangement.

“The law is clear.” Donnán’s surprised by the revelation, but grimly determined.

For the first time, King Rónán speaks.

“You would deny his oath?” His deep, authoritative voice cuts easily through the hubbub.

Donnán hesitates. “Druidic law is clear—”

“Druidic law does not supersede an oath. It is my judgement to make, now.” Rónán says it calmly, but the power in his voice silences Donnán. He turns to me. “Did you do this thing?”

I lick my lips. “Cian gave me his comhlánam. Just before he died. I did not know it was … wrong, great king,” I say, reaching for the right words. “I am sorry for my speech. I am not of this land.”

Rónán nods slowly. “Not knowing is not always an excuse for acts. But if you are owed a life-debt by one of my people, then you are owed it by me. A life for a life, Deaglán. The life-debt is paid.” He glances at Lir. Something passes between them, unnoticed by most, though I think Donnán picks up on it. “Rise, Deaglán ap Cristoval. Before gods and anam, your oath is received. My hearth is your hearth.”

A murmur accompanies the words. Surprised, but not outraged. Donnán frowns but seems to accept the king’s decision; he walks over to the bowl on the table and takes the hawthorn branch. Dips it again and flicks it at me with ritual, practiced motion.

The blood is warm. Some gets in my mouth, salty and viscous. I feel like I am going to throw up.

I think that will be the end of it, but to my surprise, King Rónán speaks again. Loud. Addressing the entire room.

“To sacrifice in order to protect is the highest duty. Deaglán ap Cristoval, by witness, has done this, and in these times we are in need of good men. He is to be sent to Loch Traenala.”

This time the murmur that goes around the hall is shocked. Donnán looks stunned. The expression of the mountainous man next to the king is one of utter outrage.

Lir, in fact, is the only one whose surprise strikes me as feigned.

Vek.

I’ve been manipulated. Lir and the king planned for this, wanted me to do this. There’s something going on here between all these different parties, and I have no idea what it is.

“He is not worthy of Loch Traenala.” The large man by the king’s side snarls the words, not keeping his voice down as the muttering around the hall grows more indignant, more in agreeance. “He is leathfhear.” A chuckle at that, clearly something at my expense.

“And yet he protected those he should have, Gallchobhar.” King Rónán’s comment cuts through the room.

An intake of breath from many. The big man’s eyes bulge.

“If he is to travel to Loch Traenala, sire, then he should also first be tested here before your warriors,” observes Donnán suddenly, his voice pitched to carry.

“Yes.” Gallchobhar stands as if the opportunity might physically elude him. “Sire, I would show this man the honour he is due.”

From King Rónán’s frown, his refusing would not go well. “A high honour indeed, Gallchobhar,” he says slowly. A touch too smoothly, though. Unsurprised. He pauses, every eye in the room on him, then turns to me. “Deaglán ap Cristoval. You will need a spear, and as you do not have one of your own, and for your sacrifice in protecting my people, it falls to me to provide.” He motions behind him, to a section of the hall more dimly lit. “The choice is yours.”

My gaze follows his gesture as another susurrus goes around the room and somehow, Gallchobhar’s look turns even more angry.

“Take your time,” Lir murmurs as I take in the jumble of spears, swords, daggers and shields. “This weapon will be yours not just now, but throughout your journey to becoming a warrior.”

“A warrior?” I hiss the words. Waggle my stump at him.

“King Rónán has decided,” says Lir calmly.

“Can I pick a sword instead, at least?”

“No.” The druid keeps his voice so that only I can hear. “And choose carefully.” No doubting the emphasis, this time. He’s conveying something important.

Every eye is on me as I make my way to the torchlit armoury, a low, excited buzz following. The smell of clove oil and smoke sharp as I examine the hundreds of options at my disposal. The weapons are piled against the wall, often tossed haphazardly atop one another. Many are crude, unmarked and poorly shaped; along with those, any which have only a fire-hardened tip I dismiss immediately. Others are too long, more suited to horseback or defence, and I ignore them as well. Wielding any spear is going to be a nightmare for me, but I at the very least need something nimble.

I move slowly among the weapons, pushing some aside to look at those beneath, or hefting a few to test their balance. Using the time to think, and—hopefully—allow whatever anger Gallchobhar has, to ebb. The fact is, he appears to be the strongest of King Rónán’s men, whatever rift exists between them. And I suspect any of the warriors in this hall could beat me.

Judging from the previous bouts, this is meant to be a display more than a real fight. But an angry, advantaged man with a very real weapon isn’t an ideal opponent.

The farther toward the back of the hall I move, the better made the weapons appear to be. Many spears now have symbols carved into their hafts, and most are made of ash, with a few oak or birch. The heads, too, become more prominent. Bone or flint has made way to bronze and iron blades that gleam in the flickering illumination.

I stop. Feel the pressure of the room’s impatience on my back. Lir and the king have set me up for this—to go to this place, this Loch Traenala. Why? It could be for my safety, I suppose. Or I could be a meaningless, sacrificial piece on their Foundation board, and they’re doing it just to aggravate their enemies. Or both. Vek. No way for me to know.

I take a spear that holds pride of place in a rack on the wall, covered with the intricate whorls and symbols I have seen on the warriors’ weapons in the hall. Its oiled iron tip gleams. I heft it. A good weight, a good balance.

I’m about to take it when the faintest pulse catches my eye. Not a light, exactly, but a sense of … something. Like I occasionally get from Lir and Cian’s staffs. Like whatever warned me of Lir’s approach, a few weeks ago. It’s barely a flicker beneath a pile of what I had initially dismissed as discarded, lesser-quality weapons. Certainly the ones I can see look dented, cracks in hafts and dulled blades.

I take a breath. Ignore the waiting eyes and theatrical groans of the room and put the spear I’m holding back. Choose carefully.

I crouch by the pile, pushing aside the broken and the clearly inferior. Toward the bottom of the jumble is the source of the strange pulsing. Another spear. Divided into nine sections, just like the druids’ staffs. The symbols on it are more crudely etched, but the ash haft is clean and straight and strong. An obsidian tip, the only one I have seen, lies rough but razor-sharp at its end.

I hold it, puzzling at the way it draws my eye. Visually, it’s relatively unremarkable. But its balance feels perfect. Certainly not the flashiest weapon here, but undoubtedly well made.

When I straighten and turn and start walking back with it, the murmurs turn shocked. Then mutters become louder, threaded with heat and confusion.

And then, as I falteringly resume my place in the centre of the hall beside a waiting Lir, shouts. Angry and stunned. Protesting.

“Did I misunderstand what I was meant to do?” I say it to Lir urgently, confused, doing all I can to ignore the sudden feeling of violence in the room. Gallchobhar is pleading furiously with the king, who alone seems calm as he responds with a shake of the head. “I did not mean to offend.”

“You did not misunderstand.” Lir keeps one eye on the room, his caution suggesting that the severity of the hostility is not my imagination. His gaze flicks to the spear in my hand, and for a moment, I think I see sadness in it. “Your choice was just unpopular.”

“Why?”

“It once belonged to another. He died.”

I grimace. “I did not know. I can put it back. Get another.”

“No. Your taking it is being seen as presumption, but your discarding it would be an insult that few here would abide. It is done.” Lir hesitates, watching Gallchobhar’s face grow redder and redder, then squeezes me encouragingly on the shoulder. “Keep your mind clear and you will fight well, Deaglán. I have no doubt.”

“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath as he steps away and Gallchobhar stalks around the table to stand in front of me. The man is even bigger, up close. Six and a half feet of barely bounded muscle. Bearded and scarred and angry. His long, beautifully carved spear a toy in his massive grasp.

My heart pounds. I was never skilled with a spear, even with two hands. And though I have faced men bigger than me many times, Gallchobhar is no Octavii. This isn’t meant to be a fight to the death, but these are real weapons and the way the giant in front of me is glowering leaves little doubt as to his intent.

He takes his stance. I take mine, awkward though it is.

“Begin,” commands Rónán, the single word slicing through the ongoing angst of the crowd.

The whites of Gallchobhar’s eyes flood to black.

Vek.

XXV

THE SHINING, CUTTING POLISHED BLACK OF DUAT SPEARS the sky as we approach. I watch it through Duodecim’s eyes. Willing it closer. Its growing presence the only reason I can still force myself to stillness, to continue the façade. Even the threat of death seems faint next to the pain.

We near, our height never deviating, though the swarm of body-laden figures starts to gradually bunch together as we arrow for a specific spot in the pyramid. I am near the middle of the group, surrounded on all sides by mute, shadowy Gleaners, whatever was lighting their blades having gradually faded to nothing during the journey. Their eyes are fixed straight ahead, never once glancing to the side, let alone in my direction.

As we approach the glaring dark mirror, something shifts ahead. A section begins folding away, revealing a triangular-shaped hole almost ten feet high. Eerily familiar in form, though I didn’t hear “Scintres Exunus’” or any other verbal commands.

The glare from the moon’s reflection is blinding, but Duodecim never blinks, never glances away. I have to stop watching through his eyes for a few seconds. Let myself go blind, and only give the command again when I sense us passing into darkness.

My twisted stomach lurches as we descend.

Duodecim’s eyes are adjusting. We are plummeting. Not falling, though close to that speed. Inside some sort of shaft. Smooth obsidian walls refracting an ever-dimming light as we get farther from the moonlit sky. Deeper. Deeper.

Then Duodecim is slowing. Then he is walking, as are the other Gleaners, moving in stiff unison through a long, low triangular tunnel—made of the same reflective mirrorlike black stone as outside—and lit by green lines along the apex and the two lower corners. The same eerie hue as from the ruins near the Academy, or the entrance to the garden at Qabr. It’s seemingly etched in, nothing protruding to indicate that it’s emanating from something other than the stone itself. No suggestion of any purpose other than to illuminate, though.

We march. The unnaturally straight way ahead, the dizzying, almost perfect reflections of it broken only by the mechanical movement of the Gleaners as they advance soundlessly.

After an age, openings appear to the sides and Gleaners begin branching off; as soon as they are through, the pyramidal holes fold shut to conceal them. A few in front of us are still open as we pass, but Duodecim’s gaze never drifts, so I cannot see what lies within.

Finally, the Gleaner slows and turns into a gap on our left. Steps through. Places me on the floor.

With a smooth, quick motion, he slides the granite blade from my chest.

I can’t help the agonised moan that escapes my lips, muted and from between desperately gritted teeth though it is. I force myself to silence and stillness again, tears leaking from my eyes. The worst of the pain fading with merciful speed as my Vitaeria do their work, even if the suffocating dread and need to move, to scramble away and cower in the corner, remains.

There’s nothing, though. No suggestion of other Gleaners approaching to investigate. Duodecim just stands there, looking down at me.

Finally, cautiously, I instruct him to turn around. Confirm that the door is closed.

Then I roll up into a ball and gasp some desperate, sobbing breaths. An hour, at least, of pain and panic assaulting the knowledge that if I reacted to either in any way, I would die. I know I should still be quiet, should be moving, should be figuring out exactly how to get out of this place and into Duat itself. But I can’t. Not yet.

I need to let my tightly bounded terror loose, for a while.

Duodecim just stands there, back to me. Unmoving.

Eventually, my rasping breaths ease into something approaching normalcy. The pain is still there, but nothing like it was with the blade embedded. My trembling limbs still, and I suck in a few more deep lungfuls, steadying as my thoughts begin to clear. I pick myself up, touch my chest wound. It’s clean. Blood barely stains my fingers. The two scarab medallions around my thigh are keeping me mobile, keeping it contained. It will hurt for weeks—longer, maybe—but as long as I find some way to stitch myself up, it should heal.

I’m still connected to the humanlike monstrosity in front of me, and as much as I want to release it, I know I can’t. Not yet.

“Lead me into the city without anyone else noticing.” I rasp it.

Duodecim doesn’t even twitch.

I wait, forcing down a fresh wave of panic as I process his lack of response. I don’t think this is a refusal; if his usual instructions had somehow taken precedence again, I would be dead. But it could be an indication that what I’ve asked of him is impossible. That if he knows the execution of a command is unattainable, he simply won’t attempt it. I tried that with Tash, a few times—things like telling him to fly—and his reaction, or lack thereof, was similar.

“Make sure you don’t look at me, but turn around.” He does. “Walk to the opposite wall.” He does. “Walk through the wall into the next room.” Duodecim doesn’t move.

“Vek.” I stare at the Gleaner, then level myself slowly to my feet and pace, eyes on the floor, letting the control over my own body calm me. This isn’t a disaster. In fact, now I’ve been forcibly slowed, I realise that this is the time to get as much information as I can. Similar to the iunctii who showed me the Labyrinth in Res, but now with the ability to force a genuine response.

“Answer my questions honestly by nodding for yes, shaking your head for no. Is there a path into the city from here?”

The worst of the tension leaks from my shoulders as Duodecim nods, though the mechanical motion somehow makes him even more unsettling. We’re not in some isolated area only for Gleaners, then.

“Can you lead me into the city without us being noticed?”

A shake of the head, again eerily perfunctory. Too wide and regular, like a child carefully but emphatically trying the motion for the first time. I shudder, though it’s what I expected. “Can you get me into the city without anyone realising I’m alive?”

My heart sinks at another shake of the head. I bite my lip. Pace again.

“Are there guards?” No, is the answer. “Is it the other Gleaners who will notice?” Yes. “Is there any way to fool them?” No. “Will they kill me if they realise something is wrong?” Yes. Of gods-damned course yes. I shouldn’t have asked. Stupid.

I issue more questions for clarity, but my initial impressions are only confirmed: there’s a way out, but only the one, and it’s not one that can possibly avoid raising alarms. Other Gleaners wait along the way and would inevitably see us. There is no disguise, no ruse, that would allow for me to be walking that path.

“Alright,” I mutter, more to myself than Duodecim. It’s been several minutes now and I’m more composed. He’s indicated that we have time undisturbed in here. An hour at least. “If there’s only one way out, and the other Gleaners will kill me if they see me going that way, then we need to move the Gleaners.”

I look at Duodecim speculatively.

“If you were by yourself, would the other Gleaners react to you?” A shake of the head. “Would you be able to kill them, or disable them so that I can get past unseen?” Another shake of the head. Fair enough. I suppose once one Gleaner raised the alarm, all the others would know Duodecim was compromised and come running. It doesn’t really matter. Getting into the city but leaving behind a trail of dead Gleaners isn’t exactly subtle. I may not be able to avoid raising suspicions completely, but Caeror was clear about my chances if Ka becomes sure of my presence.

I think for another minute, chewing my lip.

“Is there anywhere in here where something violent might happen, without raising suspicion? A fight? An accidental injury?” Yes. “Something violent enough that it would prevent you from being questioned afterward, if the injury was to you?” Yes again. Good. “Can we reach there without being seen?” Yes. Alright. I allow myself a sliver of rising hope. “Could something happen there that would draw enough other Gleaners that I could get into the city unseen?”

No response, this time. I frown. “You can’t say for sure either way?”

An immediate nod. Vek.

I spend the next ten minutes workshopping other ways out. None of them come close to being viable. The following ten—time increasingly pressing on my shoulders—I spend clarifying things. Through tortuous trial and error and careful memorisation, I determine the path I will have to take from wherever Duodecim intends to lead me. I try to ask questions about that as well, but it’s too vague a concept for yes or no answers; I don’t get far and I don’t have the time or need to probe. If I won’t be seen getting there, and I can potentially use Duodecim to cause a distraction—and have him “kill” himself in the process, to ensure the Concurrence can’t discover me, though the idea makes my stomach churn—then it’s the best I can hope for. Risky, but as far as I can tell, my only chance.

“Duodecim,” I say eventually, steeling myself. “Lead me to where we can cause this distraction, on a path we won’t be seen.” I don’t know how important it is to emphasise the details again, but I do it anyway.

Duodecim walks to the triangular opening of the room and as he approaches, the black stone folds away. The mirrorlike hall beyond, its emerald lines of illumination stretching away, is utterly silent.

He strides to the left. I follow uncertainly.

Somehow the close, reflective triangular hallway, its apex only a foot above my head, feels even more unsettling as we traverse it alone. The openings to the left and right are all sealed; occasionally I think I hear something from behind the dark walls—mutters, moans, pleading—but it’s so faint that I can’t be sure it’s not my imagination. I alternate looking ahead and behind, all too aware that these long corridors mean that any stray Gleaner entering will be able to immediately see me from a distance. But there is nothing. No movement except our own.

It is a full five minutes, but only three turns, before the desperate shouting starts echoing to us.

Not my imagination this time, I realise as the yelling becomes more audible. Only one voice that I can hear. Male. Hoarse, panicked and pleading. Even if I didn’t know the Vetusian, it would be impossible to mistake the content.

Help.

I restrain the urge to break into a sprint, the hair on the back of my neck rising as we get closer and the man’s tone—words and volume increasing, message remaining largely the same—becomes more urgent. Duodecim moves with mute purpose as we approach the triangular opening that is the source of the supplications. They’re addressing someone. Asking them to stop. Begging them, and the great god Ka, and anyone else who will listen, to just stop.

Duodecim reaches the doorway and doesn’t hesitate, turning and disappearing from the hallway.

I enter after him just in time to see him spear the other Gleaner inside straight through the back of the skull.

I give an involuntarily, gargled sound of shock at the unexpectedness of it, eyes fixed on the horrific sight for several seconds before I can take anything else in. There’s a thick, wet sound as Duodecim pulls his gore-coated granite blade from the woman’s head, allowing her body—truly lifeless, this time—to slide off it and slump to the floor. The pleading voice has stopped, and I finally wrench my gaze past Duodecim’s hulking form to see a man manacled to a slab that looks uncomfortably like a Sapper. He is blindfolded, pressing himself back against the stone as if trying to sink straight into it.

Duodecim walks up to him and draws back his granite blade.

“Wait.” I snap out the command aloud, urgent. Duodecim stops dead. He stands in front of the prisoner, left arm drawn back, motionless.

“Who is there?” The blindfolded man has finally registered something is happening. His Vetusian is thickly accented, much harder to grasp than the version Caeror has had me practicing. But my familiarity with the language, and our constant sessions over the past months, are enough for me to understand.

Vek. I need time to think this through. The tip of Duodecim’s perfectly still granite blade hovers a few inches from the stranger’s right shoulder. He’s clearly afraid, clearly a prisoner. My eyes stray to the unused blades on the bench. The thick, pooled blood on the floor. Bile burns my throat as I put it together.

This man was to be a new Gleaner?

He nods.

You were intending to make him one yourself?

He nods again. I gaze around at the blood.

New Gleaners are sometimes violent? This was your distraction? Set him loose?

He affirms it, one more time.

Vek. Vek, vek, vek. It all passes between us within the space of a few seconds. I turn back to the man, who is again asking in a trembling voice what is happening, starting to get louder again and squirming against his restraints. The longer I stand here, the more chance there is that we are discovered.

Is he alive? I ask it out of desperation.

Duodecim shakes his head.

In that moment, I almost do it. I almost instruct Duodecim to proceed. There is no telling how long the hallway outside will remain empty. All it will take is one Gleaner to see me, and none of this works. And this man—this dead man—is my best way out.

Is he being controlled? Is he in any way under the influence of anyone except himself?

A shake of the head. Vek.

The path you described to me. It leads from here?

A nod.

Be the distraction yourself. Forget what I look like and every other detail of how I have made you obey. If you are captured, respond in all ways as if you never met me, as if none of this has happened. Our experiments with Tash suggest that as long as I was the last one to imbue him, he’ll continue to obey, even if he gets conflicting commands from a previous imbuing. I hope to the gods’ graves that holds. Once you have caused enough of a distraction to draw away the Gleaners in our path, do whatever you can to make sure any questioning of you is impossible.

I try to think of it as a mercy. It doesn’t feel that way.

Tap your blade on the ground to indicate the number of minutes we should wait before leaving.

Click, click, click. Silence.

Go.

Duodecim strides away without hesitation.

It’s a bad move. A gods-damned stupid decision. I’m risking his being caught and thus my Synchronism, the purpose of my being here, becoming known to Ka. And I’ll be losing my connection to the Gleaner either way. No time to second-guess myself, though. No time to regret what I’ve just done. I stride over to the bound iunctus. He’s a little shorter than me, muscled and hale-looking. Clean-shaven, including his scalp, and immediately in much better condition than any of the Qabrans were. He looks about in his mid-thirties.

“Stay quiet. I’m a friend. I’m going to let you free. Once you are, you need to follow me.” I say it in careful Vetusian, hoping the meaning is clear. It seems to be. The stranger shies away from my voice, close as it is, but after a moment he nods anxiously. His body still trembles as I rip away his blindfold, allowing him to see me.

The man takes me in, panic emanating from him like a physical heat, but he holds his tongue. Nods again as our gazes meet. Good. He’s under control enough to do as I tell him.

I fiddle with the manacle on the right for about thirty seconds, thinking desperately. I can’t risk imbuing him to ensure he does as he’s told; even if I could stomach the idea, between Duodecim and my injury, I don’t have the Will to spare. Eventually I figure out the mechanism I’m working at and release it, moving on to the left. A few more seconds of fumbling and the freed prisoner stumbles forward, putting fearful distance between himself and the slab.

“Wait until I move. Stay close. Your name?” It might be useful, if I need to get his attention.

“Ahmose.”

“Vis.” I hold up a hand to indicate that should be the extent of our interaction for now, and close my eyes.

Duodecim stands in a room not unlike the one Ahmose and I are in. Another Gleaner lies on the floor, staring up at him, smears of black blood glinting where Duodecim has evidently sliced its blades from its body. It tries to crawl away—an act of self-preservation or something else, I have no idea—but Duodecim stalks after it. With a quick thrust, he spears the fallen Gleaner through the mouth before turning and moving swiftly back into the hallway.

I come back to myself. The dead Gleaner was given plenty of time to see Duodecim, to know what was happening and broadcast a warning. Ka didn’t seem able to command Duodecim to stop, but other Gleaners will undoubtedly be coming to make sure he does.

Which, hopefully, leaves our way forward clear.

I beckon Ahmose and move at a half-crouching jog out of the room and to the left, the same direction that Duodecim took. It’s been about three minutes and I have to trust the Gleaner’s assessment, have to assume he would have taken into account that out here we will be completely exposed. We proceed in grim silence, every breath tense. Once I hear running ahead and my heart goes to my throat. A Gleaner passes across the corridor in front, flitting obliquely, visible for only a second. It never looks around.

Two lefts, straight past two crossroads, a right. I keep the map Duodecim described to me tightly in my head. It is a maze in here, and everything looks the same, all mirrored, triangular openings and straight lines of green light. No way I could find my way without help. No way I can figure out the way back if I miss a turn.

Four turns before the last one Duodecim gave me, the tunnels change. The lines of light remain the same, but the mirrored black is replaced by dull stone, the lack of reflections making everything immediately darker. Doors to the side are open, and we pass several empty rooms. I make the mistake of glancing in the first one. The floor is slick, and manacles hang from the roof. A fetid smell wafts from it.

I hurry on, and Ahmose stays close behind.

Footsteps in several side passages now, measured but quick. I ignore them. Two turns remaining. One. It feels like there’s activity everywhere around us, but the passageways are narrower and twisting and more easily hide us from sight and still, somehow, we are unseen.

The last turn and there is light ahead. Not sunlight, not natural light, but a virulent glow that emanates across a great space.

We burst out the corridor entrance and onto a long, raised stone terrace. I skid to a halt.

Beyond the edge ahead, unfolding away from us below, is Duat.

It’s more vast than I could possibly have imagined. The Infernis cuts through the heart of the massive city, just as Caeror said it would. Everything closer to us—almost a third of the expanse, I would say—is a shimmering sea of black-mirror structures and roads, eerily lit and delineated by the same emerald lines of light as the tunnels we’ve just fled. Wide streets reflect the motion of distant, white-clad forms shuffling along them.

I don’t need my hours of poring over maps to guess that this side of the river must be Neter-khertet, Duat’s great iunctii quarter.

Distant, across the single dark bridge slicing the Infernis, almost everything looks different. Squat buildings of chalky stone, dusty-looking streets dividing them. Though we are too far away to hear or see anything distinct, there is a dull hum that echoes from its direction that reminds me of Caten. A constant background noise that by instinct I know is the combined voices of thousands upon thousands of people.

It’s all lit by the enormous radiant pyramid that sits at Duat’s heart, towering above all else. Massive polished black stones edged with illuminating lines of warm gold. No motion anywhere along its vast surface. On the opposite side of the river, but its surrounding acres of darkly reflective structures are a blotch that seems to have seeped across the water into the otherwise bright, gold-tinged spread of the far side of the city.

I take as much of it in as I can before Ahmose tugs urgently at my arm. The balcony we’re on is set high into one of Duat’s dark, inwardly sloping outer walls; the only path down is a covered stairwell off to the left. It’s sealed off by a gate made of several spear-like bars; we hurry toward it, and as we do, I realise that something is off.

“We cannot go through here.” Ahmose is dismayed as he sees what I’m seeing, feels what I’m feeling. The fear of what is behind us suddenly wars with the fear of what is ahead.

Thrum.

The deep, terrifying discomfort presses down on my ears as we approach. Me forcing myself closer. The unsettling fuzzing of the air around each bar, a jagged visual warping, as though just briefly they are moving, as if the air around them is vibrating.

Red-coated stands. Screaming.

“Do not touch them. You will die.” Ahmose’s urgent voice cuts through the nightmare. Brings me sharply back to this one.

I use a precious second to move to the edge of the terrace and peer over. It’s two hundred feet to the stone below.

I back away, and close my eyes.

Duodecim is still fighting, using the narrow entrance of the room he’s in as a choke point, but he’s in bad shape. I can see cuts everywhere on his torso as he swings again and again at the other Gleaners trying to get to him. His movements are sluggish. He is not getting away.

Even as I watch, the one he is fighting lashes out again and this time, Duodecim doesn’t try to avoid the strike. Instead he deflects the blade upward from his chest.

Allows it to drive straight into his mouth.

“Ngh.” I groan and hold my hands to my head, pain searing through it. The connection’s gone. The Will I imbued in him returned.

Duodecim won’t be giving my identity away. But his counterparts will surely be about to conduct some sort of search.

There’s no time for alternatives. No choice.

Before Ahmose can stop me, I stride forward and grasp the bars.

There is heat and light buzzing through me, making my insides shiver, unpleasant but not overtly painful. The disorienting, flickering impression that I’m outside again, hovering in mid-air with the desert far below.

With a grunt, I focus enough to pull. The mutalis-coated gate opens and I stumble back, shuddering as I release it.

“Come on.” I mutter the words, head still clearing but focused enough to remember the urgency of our situation. “Come on.”

Ahmose is looking at me as if I am a monster. Or perhaps a god. Reverence and fear in every line.

But when I slip through the narrow opening and urge him to follow, he does.

The gap is barely wide enough for a person and Ahmose slides past with intelligent caution, looking queasy as he nears the bars. I reach out and steady him, pulling him through, then grit my teeth and pull the gate closed again. The sensation is no less pleasant the second time, but it’s not crippling.

The sound of footsteps echoes from the tunnel we just left. Ahmose needs no encouragement to flee after me around the corner, the two of us moving as quickly and silently as we can.

We race down the stairs, and into the vast, unfamiliar expanse of Duat.

XXVI

“NOW WE GET TO SEE HOW YOU FARE WITH IMBUING,” says Tullius briskly, shading his eyes from the scorching sun as I reach him. We’re heading for the opposite side of the track this time, weaving our way between the various other tests still taking place. He considers me with a sidelong glance as I again rub absently at my chest, the pain there only seeming to have increased over the past hour. “Give yourself a moment at the beginning, Catenicus. Make sure your mind is clear. This is more mental than physical, and you’re being judged only on efficiency, not speed.”

“Thanks.” He’s gruff, but the advice sounds genuine. I’ve earned some respect with my previous performance.

We come to a stop next to a long pile of stones, arranged neatly in increasing size. Some are smaller than the one I had to hurl earlier, but the largest dozen are enormous, rough cubes that are all at least taller than me by a head. Tullius indicates the closest one, wax tablet and stylus at the ready. “Imbue this, then lift it without touching it.”

I nod, trying not to show my unease. I know, theoretically, that I can do this. But the boulder weighs at least three thousand pounds. Even having seen similar feats plenty of times before, it seems ludicrous.

I rest my hand against the stone’s brown, sun-warmed surface. It’s the largest one of the lot. That makes sense: the physical tests have given Tullius an idea of my pyramid’s strength, so he knows I have enough Will to lift this weight. But imbuing—the act of transferring Will from yourself into an object, in order to manipulate it in some way—is as much about mental acuity as strength. A poorly trained mind, as we were so constantly reminded at the Academy, can lose up to half of any transferred Will simply in making the connection. And then half again when attempting to apply it.

Efficiency, not speed. I take my time. Ignore the burden of expectant gazes from the stands and pace deliberately around the stone, committing it to memory. The academic term is retinentia: taking a mental image of the object to be imbued, learning its every line in order to make the imbuing as economical as possible. I’ve never heard anyone outside the Praeceptors call it anything so pompous, though. Amongst ourselves we just called it “memorising,” and no one ever got confused.

Satisfied, I stop and place my hand against the stone again. Carefully envisage the entire boulder, and exhale. Lock it in my mind, just as we practiced again and again and again at the Academy.

An immediate sense of connection. Of extension. Like another limb has suddenly appeared, strangely natural and unnervingly not. It’s easier than I expected, so much so that I almost lose concentration from the surprise.

I don’t move for a few seconds, mentally examining the extrasensory pulse that now emanates from the stone. There’s not meant to be any other feedback to suggest the extent of my success, no easy indication of exactly how much Will I’ve managed to imbue. Another advantage of my strange new ability, it seems.

I let my hand drop to my side. Step back. The boulder is still there, an extra appendage. Disconcertingly similar to the way I still feel my arm, sometimes.

I keep my focus razor-sharp, and command the stone to lift.

It rises.

My shock at how easily it moves is again almost dangerous to the process. It feels nothing like lifting the stone myself; my muscles don’t heave with exertion, don’t even twitch. I’m concentrating, true—concentrating fiercely—and I know from my lessons that this is how it’s meant to be. Even so, it feels unnaturally effortless. Far more akin to moving a limb than picking something up.

I watch as the boulder raises a foot off the ground. Two. Three. I can sense the weight of it: This is near the limit of my strength and just as if I was physically shifting something heavy, I can’t reposition it quickly or with sharp, start-stop motions. It’s immediately intuitive how its own momentum would make it move gradually faster if I propelled it in a single direction—but also that it would then take effort to slow down again, be impossible to stop at a moment’s notice. Natural forces aren’t obviated here. I’m simply using the strength at my command to push the thing around.

I lift the massive stone until it’s ten feet off the ground, then let it hover. Still marvelling at the simplicity of it. The Academy was geared almost entirely toward training us for this. This, more than anything else, is the ultimate application of my last eighteen months.

“High enough?” I ask it calmly. I can hear murmurs from the hillside again. People are impressed.

“Yes.” Tullius’s voice betrays no such astonishment, this time. Good. I need for people to expect me to do well, not be surprised by it.

I lower the boulder until it touches gently back to the sand, ensuring it all happens in one smooth, clean motion. I’m not sure if I’m being assessed on control, at this point, but there’s no harm in putting some on display.

“Take your Will back.” I do as instructed, touching the stone and erasing its image from my mind. The pulsing in it vanishes. It’s all very simple. All exactly as I’ve been taught.

“Now we’ll try this one … this one … and this one.” Tullius moves down the line of boulders, singling out three smaller ones of significantly differing sizes. At a glance, they probably combine to make up roughly the weight of the one I just lifted. Perhaps are even a little heavier, overall.

I meticulously examine all three again before starting. This is where things become challenging. Each stone is a different weight; I’m going to have to ration my Will unevenly between them, ensuring I imbue enough into each to lift it—but not waste too much on any single one. All while making multiple efficient connections. “Can I test how much Will they need before starting?”

“No.”

I grunt. Unsurprising, albeit annoying; in typical Catenan fashion, they’re more interested in the flair of natural ability than seeing someone succeed through trial and error. There’s some logic to it, I suppose—they’re assessing aptitude and thus potential, as opposed to work ethic or common sense—but that entire approach is unbalanced. Shortsighted. Talent, as my father used to remind me constantly, matters only when it’s married to effort.

No point in grumbling, though. I walk over to stand in front of the smallest of the three boulders; better to apportion the least amounts of Will first, and then pour everything I have left into the biggest one.

I crouch, resting my hand against the rock. Lock it in my mind, but this time, carefully envisage the strength I imagine I’ll need to manipulate it, too. It’s nebulous, feels awfully imprecise. Akin to asking someone to apply a quarter of their strength to a task—possible, certainly, but it’s on instinct rather than careful calculation. “Can I go back and adjust the amount of Will in each one before trying to lift them?”

“No.”

Of course not. The first stone done, I move on to the second and then the third boulder in slow, scrupulous succession. It’s not overly difficult to keep their images firmly in my mind—I’ve had that ability well and truly honed in me—but the added pressure of the stakes makes the process feel far more intense. The sun bakes the sand underfoot. Droplets of sweat form on my brow, threaten to trickle into my eyes. I refuse to allow the distraction of wiping them away.

As soon as I’m done, I step back. Feel all three connections. Three extra limbs, only this time each one is a different size, a different strength.

I lift.

The three boulders rise in unison, a little slower than last time but still smoothly. The heaviest one is at fault: I was too generous with my Will for the smaller two, almost didn’t leave enough in reserve. The struggle to make it rise is a strange sensation. I can feel the strain of lifting it—can feel that the Will in it is almost not enough. But it’s not a physical or mental pressure on me, not an effort in any sense of the word. Just a limitation that I’m aware of.

I stop the boulders at the same height as previously and then, at an acknowledging word from Tullius, let them down again.

“Now blindfolded.” Tullius is already moving to stand in front of me, strip of white cloth at the ready. I close my eyes as they’re covered, fiercely holding on to the image of the three stones. It’s not as difficult as I thought it would be—again undoubtedly in part due to my training, but also because the Will already in the boulders makes the mental picture easier to maintain. Their details remain sharp in my mind, even as everything around them fades to grey haze.

There’s a smattering of applause from the hill this time as I command the three boulders to elevate, hover, then settle to the ground again. I remain outwardly unaffected as Tullius removes the blindfold, but I’m relieved. Pleased, even. A Totius Sextus should certainly be able to imbue three objects at once, but doing so with minimal loss of Will is difficult—and doing it without having visual contact with the imbued objects even more so. From what I understand, even an experienced Sextus might struggle with what I just did.

I look around once I can see again, spotting Aequa still sitting where I left her. The raven-haired girl makes a face and waves a hand noncommittally at my performance, even as the clapping dies down. I snort and grin back.

The tests continue after that, but none prove any more challenging than the ones I’ve already faced. I imbue several smaller objects at once; my limit is a dozen before I start to lose significant Will to the maintenance of the connections. I imbue three identically carved rocks and manipulate them blindfolded to prove I can keep them mentally separate. I thread an imbued stone pyramid through a gauntlet of three barely wide-enough stone triangles, then imbue the triangles as well and do the same thing while making them hover. Then imbue a second pyramid and have both pass through the triangles from opposite directions simultaneously.

None of my successes are unheard of for a Totius Sextus, but I’m confident that it’s an excellent result. And whatever Veridius’s falsehoods surrounding the Academy, I realise that he was right about at least one thing. Learning to run the Labyrinth has trained me to use Will in a way no other task ever could.

The attention from the hillside continues to focus on me throughout; there are more spectators now, too, with the majority of those who have already finished their tests augmenting the crowd. I spot Indol and Iro after a while, sitting with a group of senators under a temporary awning. Indol seems to be arguing vehemently with a man who bears such a strong resemblance to Iro—down to his dark, brooding expression and prominently hooked nose—that there’s no doubting the lineage. I spot Praeceptor Nequias next to him. Strange, that he would be here.

“That was the last one.” Tullius has continued to scratch away on his wax tablet for the duration of my tests, never indicating what he thinks of my results, but after almost an hour he’s finally tucking his stylus away.

“We’re not testing Conditionals or Relationals?” The two hardest, and most powerful, types of imbuing. The types applied to the great machinery of Caten, like the Transvects.

Tullius chuckles. “Not today.” He glances around at the smattering of other assessments still being conducted on the sand. “These others will be done soon, too. Someone should be along shortly to give you your results. I imagine you will be pleased. It was a good showing, Catenicus.” Delivered without emotion, but he’s sincere.

With an acknowledging dip of the head and nothing further, he wanders off in the direction of the main building.

I head for the shade at the side of the track, conscious enough of the eyes still on me to conceal my relief, and locate Aequa. She’s sitting with Felix, who looks like he’s had time to change clothes and wash since his assessment.

“Vis.” Felix scrambles to his feet at my approach, holds out a hand. I clasp his wrist; he catches me off-guard by going further and pulling me in for a back-thumping embrace, despite my sweat-stained tunic. “Gods’ graves, it was good to see you out there today. When we left the Academy, they weren’t sure you were going to live.”

I smile at the honest emotion in his voice, despite my surprise. We were never close—friendly enough acquaintances during our time together in Class Four, I suppose, but he was also on Iro and Belli’s team in the Iudicium. “I’m glad you’re alright, too. Eidhin said you made it out, but that’s all I’d heard.”

He nods soberly as we part again, mass of unkempt black hair bobbing with the motion. “We got eliminated before the Anguis hit our safety team. Or, Iro and I did. Belli …” His expression explains her fate, even if I didn’t already know. “Veridius found her body a couple of days after it all happened.”

I grimace and pretend to accept the statement. There’s no way Veridius retrieved Belli’s corpse from where I saw it pinned to the walls of the Labyrinth—but between the presence of alupi on Solivagus and the way the Anguis massacred those they killed, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to sell the lie.

“I’m sorry about what happened out there, too. When we caught you. I should have said something.” Felix is awkward. Genuine in his apology.

I shrug; given everything else that’s happened since, our being bound and roughed up a little by a vindictive Belli seems almost trivial. And Felix has always been a follower; I can’t say his silence endeared him to me, but he was part of their team, not mine. Technically under Iro’s command. “It was hardly the worst thing to happen out there. It’s behind us.”

Felix ducks his head, relieved. He’s not the type to ignore unresolved conflict. I’m glad to see he and Aequa sitting here companionably, too; Aequa was the one to eliminate him, and I wasn’t sure whether grudges from the Iudicium would spill over into life after the Academy. Perhaps it’s just Felix’s nature, or perhaps the attack has overshadowed any potential resentment between the survivors. Given us a bond stronger than the competition. I hope it’s the latter. Some small light to take from the darkness of that time.

I gaze absently at the heat reflecting off the white sand, creating a wavering haze as the last of those still out there complete their tests. “Any word on your assignments yet?” As Domitor, I’m the only one able to request a specific position; everyone else from the Academy has to accept whatever their respective factions dictate.

“My father’s been told Caten. The rest was going to depend on today,” says Aequa. Felix indicates he’s the same.

“What about Military secondment?” Governance and Religion almost always send their graduates from the Academy to Military for ten years of service. Will ceded to the Catenan legions, and a lengthy martial education on the staff of a proconsul. Potential years away from Caten in the garrison of one distant province or another. It’s considered the standard for a continued education, and a virtual prerequisite for moving into politics.

“No word. But if it happens, Governance aren’t going to let them station us anywhere else.”

I raise an eyebrow. Just the implication that it may not happen is telling; the process isn’t enshrined in law, but the Catenans place great stock in tradition. Religion and Governance not seconding their best students to Military would be even more provocative than this event.

I’m about to pursue the topic further when there’s movement over in the stands, and I squint up to see a dozen or so people approaching. Iro and Indol are among them, but the rest of the party is made up of senators, and led by the man I picked out earlier as Iro’s father. His eyes are fixed on me.

“Telimus.” He descends stairs to the sand, comes to a stop a few feet away. It’s a pointed refusal to use the name granted me by the Senate—meant as a slight, obviously, given that he has no way of knowing how much I despise it. “I am Magnus Tertius Decimus.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Tertius Decimus,” I lie politely.

“I’ve come to ask you to relinquish your title of Domitor.” Tertius Decimus says it with calm purpose, but also loudly enough that the surrounding stands can hear.

I stare at him, sure I’ve misheard. Or misunderstood. It’s only when I see Indol in the background, looking some combination of furious and ashamed, that I understand this is real.

“No.” I’m pleased with how measured and firm I make the word, concealing the fury that’s bubbling just beneath the surface now. I don’t care what his reasons are for the absurd request. I need that title. Take it away and—among the many other disadvantages—there’s no guarantee I’ll be allowed to continue working under Tertius Ericius. I’d have to go wherever Governance decide I should be sent. Play whatever role they want me to play.

Iro’s father’s expression remains smooth. “Understand, this is not to trivialise your achievements at the Academy.” His tone says the opposite. His voice echoes across the near-silent stands, deep and harsh. “However. No one can argue that the Iudicium was compromised. And even if it had not been—it’s become clear today that you are no longer the same young man who won it. You no longer have the same potential. I know it is hard to hear, and I am sorry for your injury, but Caten is built on performance in the here and now, not our past achievements. No matter how impressive they may be.”

“You haven’t seen my test results.”

“I have eyes. You were beaten. I am not suggesting that you should not be given an earned position by Governance,” he adds, so condescendingly that it’s all I can do to keep my hands from balling into fists. “But Domitor is a singular honour, and the benefits it brings are meant to reflect ability. We should laud your achievement without compromising our pyramids, Telimus.”

I glance at Indol again. He’s red-faced, livid as he glares at the ground, unable to meet my gaze. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t agree with it at all. Why isn’t he speaking up? It’s not like him. “And I suppose you think your son should be taking my place?” I glare at Iro, who, to his credit, looks mildly uncomfortable with the exchange as well.

“Not at all. I think the result of the Iudicium should simply be ignored, and the rankings prior to that taken as final. Don’t you agree, Praeceptor?”

Nequias steps forward, the gauntness of his face somehow emphasised by his tinted glasses. He issues an unpleasant smile in my direction. “That is my opinion, Tertius. The Iudicium was tainted. Indol should be Domitor.”

“Rot that.” It’s Aequa, flushed with indignation as she scrambles to her feet. “Indol! He gods-damned saved us out there. He saved you.” Indol grimaces, but doesn’t look up.

“What is this, Decimus?” I’m relieved of having to find a response myself by Tertius Ericius’s irritated interruption. The Censor limps down the stairs, trailed by Livia as well as three other senators. Their approach draws even more eyes to us. “I hope what I’ve just been told is incorrect.”

One of the senators is Advenius, Aequa’s father, his hefty bulk unmistakeable. He wordlessly shakes his head at Aequa, who subsides furiously.

Tertius Decimus’s lip twitches, but it’s the only fracture in his composure. “It is not, Ericius. This needs to be said. The Senate may not have the courage to do the right thing, but I am hoping young Telimus will. Despite all appearances to the contrary.”

“Catenicus’s courage is not in question.” Callidus’s father bristles. It’s hard to concentrate with the two men in such close proximity; even without my ability to sense Will, I suspect the power emanating from them would be two deafening drums banging in dissonant time. “Gods’ graves, he was on his deathbed two months ago. Today has shown only how much he still deserves his status.”

“He deserves to be Domitor?” There’s a glint in Tertius Decimus’s eye. “You would be willing for him to prove that, I assume?”

A soft murmur ripples along the benches above, the conversation audible to everyone nearby. My heart drops as I see the hint of a grimace cross Tertius Ericius’s face. He steps in. Lowers his voice so that only those in the immediate vicinity can hear. “Don’t do this, Decimus. This alliance is fragile enough.”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“No. It is to do with your personal vendetta. We’ve both lost children, Amercus,” he adds softly. “And we both still have children to lose.”

“Which is why this is necessary. The boy can keep himself safe well enough. But you know only too well that it’s those around him we have to worry about.” Iro’s father looks at me as he says the words. His stare as unruffled as it is denunciating. He’s looking for a reaction.

He gets one.

“Surely you’re not suggesting these tests are inadequate, Tertius? Because I have done everything required of me here.” I smile at him grimly. “The Iudicium was about more than simple tasks like these. It was about initiative. Teamwork. Competition. Honestly, I’m surprised I have to explain that to you.” I let cool disdain drip from the last. I learned to better control my anger at the Academy, but Callidus’s death is too recent for the man’s disgusting jab not to cut.

The Tertius smiles at me, and I know I have made a mistake.

“Competition. Competition. Yes, of course! Quite right, Telimus.” Tertius Decimus looks around at the senators behind him. “Quintus Darinus. I believe you were just extolling the virtues of chariot races as contests of Will? And as it happens, this is a circus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amercus. They’re not plebs, and none of them have experience.” Tertius Ericius is firm. “Races are dangerous, even for the professional teams in Caten.”

“Are you suggesting the Domitor of the Academy cannot manage a single race safely?” The Tertius’s eyes bore into mine. “And as you said—no one here has the advantage of experience. Even Telimus’s arm shouldn’t hinder him as much as it would in other types of contests. It is as fair as I can make it, given his … limitations.”

I bite my tongue. He got a rise out of me already, and while I have no doubt he was well on his way to proposing something like this regardless, my talking only helped his cause. I won’t do it again.

“We don’t have time for such nonsense. Just organising for the chariots—”

“There are chariots stored right here. Weren’t you just saying that, Darinus?” The senator behind him nods, though Decimus doesn’t even bother turning to confirm it. He just smiles at Tertius Ericius. “I won’t even demand that Telimus forfeit Domitor when he loses. I simply want him to see that things have changed, and hope that understanding that might convince him to do the right thing. So there would be no official stakes. Surely you cannot object to what amounts to little more than a dash of friendly rivalry to celebrate our collaboration here.”

The hill is silent. Everyone has heard. There is no graceful way to get out of this now, and both I and Tertius Ericius know it.

“Catenicus?” Tertius Ericius’s eyes are all that reveal his frustration as he looks at me. He’s giving me the option, even though there isn’t really one.

“Of course. On one condition, though.” I turn to face Tertius Decimus squarely. Proud of how serene I make my voice. “When I win, that ends this discussion: you will publicly acknowledge me not only as Domitor, but as Catenicus. Here. In the Senate. Everywhere. If this is really about proving myself, I need to know you’re going to recognise it when I do.”

I see some people in the background hide laughs, even as others go wide-eyed at my disrespectful ultimatum. It’s improper, far too blunt for Catenan tastes. I don’t care. Either Decimus dislikes the idea enough that he refuses—giving me a way out of this—or he publicly agrees. Either way, I get something.

Tertius Decimus stiffens, and I can see several senators behind him do the same. Iro shoots me a familiar dark look. His demeanour has screamed discomfort up until now too—even he doesn’t think this is right, apparently—but his sympathy doesn’t extend to my disrespecting his father.

“Telimus,” the Tertius says eventually, “if you win, I will do all of that and more.” The faint sneer in the words says just how much chance he thinks I have of succeeding. The fact I can hear it means he’s bitter at being forced into the agreement.

Good.

“Darinus, if you could arrange for the chariots? Two teams each. Iro and Indol will represent us as one. And we’ll take the next two from whoever else had the highest scores from our graduates,” continues Decimus, without taking his eyes off me. Voice relaxed, eyes cold. “Who do you choose as your teammate, Telimus?”

“I have experience, Vis.” I look up at the new voice calling out from nearby. It’s Marcellus, watching on from the stands nearby. He’s still sweating from his tests, but looks painfully eager.

“No.” I don’t even have to think about it. I say it to him, make eye contact. Ensure he understands that it’s not because he’s in Religion but because I’m refusing him, personally, no matter how good he is at racing chariots. Then I turn back to Iro’s father. “I’ll take Aequa.”

I say it without thinking, then hesitate and glance back at her. She nods her approval.

“Then it’s settled,” says Tertius Ericius, sounding as displeased as I feel as an excited susurrus sweeps through the crowd. He sighs, turning to Aequa and me. “Come on, then. Let’s find our second team, and get you two prepared.”

XXVII

MY TUTOR ONCE ASKED ME WHO WOULD WIN IN A fight between two men. It was a lesson about Will, funnily enough. About how obvious advantages can lead to presumptions, but that strength can never truly be known until it is tested.

Sometimes, though, the obvious advantages are too much to overcome. I am skilled, and I am athletic, and I have a well-made weapon.

Gallchobhar is bigger, stronger, equally equipped, more skilled. He has both of his arms.

And he is using Will.

The mountainous man circles me, spinning his spear with a wide, lazy smile as the spectating crowd of warriors boisterously urge him on. I wonder if it’s overconfidence and try to take him by surprise, darting in without even a feint. The butt of his spear whirls, a blur despite an economy of movement. I jerk back and barely avoid having my skull cracked open.

“You are slow, little leathfhear,” he taunts, to laughter around us.

“Better than a coward,” I respond, pointing to my eyes meaningfully.

There’s a shocked moment, as if Gallchobhar can’t quite process what I’m saying.

Then he snarls, and his spear snakes forward.

For all his size he moves like a dancer, the carved wood in his hands an extension of himself, licking out so quickly I barely have time to sway to the side. Again. Again. He’s angry but he attacks with grace and precision. A man who has seen too many battles and too much blood to be truly distracted by words.

Still, my balance is good. I feel better than I’d expected to. Painfully hard though it has been, these past months of work and travel have completed my body’s adjustment.

I flick my spear up to awkwardly bat away another attack and slide forward in response this time. Gallchobhar’s reach with his weapon is far greater than mine, and he simply steps back. Never in any real danger.

It visibly annoys him that I felt confident enough to try, though.

I do not know how much Will Gallchobhar is imbuing, but as the seconds pass, I’m increasingly sure that it’s not much: the level of a Septimus at most, and I doubt even that. His strikes are fast and smooth and clever, but feel no more intimidating than they should for a man of his size. No more powerful or threatening than anything I saw regularly at the Letens Theatre.

Still, he is easily outmatching me.

The spear blurs again and I sidestep, only to realise at the last second that he is, somehow, altering his swing. Spinning and straightening. With my other arm I might have been able to deflect the strike but I’m essentially defenceless from my left; I dive, but it’s still a glancing blow, pain ricocheting through my stub of a shoulder. The room swims.

The spear jabbing forward again. Tip forward. I dodge once, stumbling back. Off-balance. Gallchobhar sees it.

Steps in again, and pierces the back of my leg to the laughs and cheers of the onlookers.

I howl. Stagger, drop to one knee. Barely keep my weapon in hand.

“Dúnmharfóir,” I mutter.

“What was that?” Gallchobhar snarls.

I look up. “Fealltóirí and dúnmharfóir.” My mind is suddenly sharp. Clear. I have the impression I should stand, so I do. Blood pours from my wound but it feels numb, now. Barely noticeable. “You have no onóir. You are mí-oiriúnach to be curadh. You are king of the cladhaire and your cáil will be caillte. Forgotten.” I utter the words so that all can hear, this time; there is a venom to my voice that is conjured from somewhere else, a disdain far too deep to be my own. It all comes to me in a strange clarity. Impressions, sensations of what I should say. I don’t understand the words, simply that they need to be said. I could resist, I think. Refuse. But it is important to say them.

Gallchobhar’s eyes have widened beneath the verbal onslaught, and he freezes. For a moment, I would almost say panics. The laughter in the room has died to shocked silence.

He attacks. Furious. Harder and faster this time, but I see it coming, am moving even as he begins. My footwork suddenly comfortable, his strikes predictable. I deflect and dodge and deflect again, his strength accounted for by positioning and technique.

“Fealltóirí.” I block a strike. “Dúnmharfóir.” I slide smoothly away from a jab that would have pierced my side. “Coward. Here before witnesses, I míniú you. You are the one who maraithe me.”

I see no opening in his defence and yet suddenly I find myself flicking forward, the spear in my right hand uncurling from its defensive position braced against my body, whirling. It finds a gap that simply wasn’t there a heartbeat ago. Raps Gallchobhar across an unprotected forearm, eliciting a snarl of surprised pain.

I can feel rivulets of blood streaking down my left leg. Slicking my foot in its boot. Gallchobhar’s swagger has vanished, unsmiling as he circles. An air of truly hostile intent to him that wasn’t there before.

My vision wavers and suddenly my unnatural confidence vanishes; the pain in my leg roars back into focus, immense and impossible to ignore. I stumble. Light-headed. Gallchobhar moves forward cautiously, maybe concerned I’m feigning my abrupt weakness, but when I swipe weakly at his probing thrust, something hard and excited glints in his eyes.

“Enough!” It is King Rónán’s rich, deep voice cutting through the shouts and haze of battle. I step back, spear tip dipping of its own accord as I exhale my utter, exhausted relief.

Gallchobhar hesitates, a fraction of a second. I know he hears.

He twitches forward and puts everything behind a final, vicious slash at my throat.

I’m not ready, not expecting it. In pain, weak and nauseous from blood loss. Some desperate instinct jerks me to the side, but it’s not enough; there’s fire across my chest, and blood, and suddenly I’m on the ground rolling and groaning and pressing hands against a wound as too much crimson spills between my fingers.

“I said enough!” Rónán’s furious tone muzzles everything from triumph to outraged jeers, leaving only my moans.

My vision clears enough to see Gallchobhar standing over me, and for a second I think he’s going to ignore his king again.

Then he snorts and spits to the side. “Lies,” he scoffs, to the uneasy muttering of those surrounding us, before stalking away.

Then Lir is crouching beside me.

“Rest, Deaglán.” He busies himself with my wound. I can feel everything slipping away. The smoky hall, the confused crowd. I hear further anger from King Rónán, commands, outraged protest from Gallchobhar and more from the crowd. But it’s all a fading buzz. More tone than words.

“Rest,” the druid repeats gently, and I do.

THE NEXT DAYS AND NIGHTS PASS IN A BLUR OF VAGUE impressions; I am being plied with some sort of draught to dull my injuries, I think, but it means I can only dredge even the most basic of thoughts with frustrating torpidity. I’m being bundled onto a horse, secured behind another rider. A small group of us are cantering through green dales and splashing across clear, shallow streams, chasing the setting sun. There’s rain against my cheek. Stars glimmering between wisps of clouds, at one point.

And then there is the ocean. Just a glimpse, sparkling beyond a stony beach as we crest a rise. I’m being helped off the horse. A dock underfoot. Creaking wood, the snap of sails, the swaying motion and rhythmic hiss of a prow slicing through water.

By the time whatever was given to me wears off enough to be certain it was not all some fever-dream, we are at sea.

“Gods.” I groan it to myself as I pry my eyes open, taking in the low wooden beams above, the rocking of my body and the muffled rhythm of splashing oars outside. Finally feeling myself come fully back to consciousness. “Again?” Too reminiscent of my waking after the Labyrinth, and only slightly less disorienting. My head, clearer though it is, still pounds. My leg and my chest burn. But I am not bound, at least. That’s a good sign.

Dúnmharfóir.

The word echoes in my mind and I shiver, though thankfully I no longer have the urge to say it, or any of the others that spewed from my mouth against Gallchobhar. I carefully probe my wounds. Stitched and cleaned and bandaged. Either not as bad as I thought, or I’ve been sedated for quite a while.

I test my weight on my injured leg—it’s painful, but not impossible to walk—and then stagger to my feet, tottering and grimacing as I adjust to the ship’s motion. I’m belowdecks but the roof is low, the space narrow and long and mostly filled with supplies. No holes for oars. It’s not a large vessel.

A ladder leads up to the deck; it’s short, thankfully, and its hatch wide open, so I’m able to struggle up it one-handed. Sunlight and blue sky peer through from above as I make the awkward climb. It’s near midday.

“Ah. You are not dead, Leathf hear.” The cheerful female voice calls to me as soon as my head peeks above the timber. I turn to see a stout woman dressed in furs, teeth gleaming in a smile as she adjusts braided blonde hair. “This is good.”

I scramble my way up onto the deck with as much dignity as I can manage. The day is warm, despite a stiff breeze filling our sail. A half dozen others are scattered around the deck, some working, others just watching the shoreline go by. We’re not completely out to sea, instead following the coast, the distant rise and fall of land visible on the horizon. “My name is Deaglán.”

“A name is earned. You are Leathf hear until you have proven otherwise.”

I don’t know what it means, but from the vaguely smirking attention of the others within earshot—plus the fact that Gallchobhar came up with it—I’m guessing it’s not complimentary. I ignore it, for now. “And you are?”

“Neasa.” She reminds me a touch of Ellanher from the Letens Theatre, in a way: bigger than most women, strong and muscled and confident. The captain, here, I strongly suspect.

I let my gaze rove to the others behind her. I recognise two of them: a young man and woman, both part of the ceremony with King Rónán. Removed from their blood-stained garb they look even younger than I’d originally guessed, though already showing signs of warriors’ builds. They each wear a decorated iron armband around their bicep. In fact, I appear to be the only one who does not have one.

“Where are we going, Neasa?”

“We head for Loch Traenala.”

I frown. “On the ocean?”

“Easier than walking.”

“How long?”

Neasa waggles her hand indecisively. “Four? Five?”

“Days?”

She laughs, as if I’ve made a wonderful joke. “Weeks.”

I stare at her. Haven’t mistaken the translation, though I want to believe I have. No telling how far the actual trip is, I suppose. Whether we’ll be hugging the coastline, or heading for deeper waters. Stopping often or not at all.

“What is Loch Traenala?”

She cocks her head to the side. Trying to decide if I’m making some kind of strange jest. “Loch Traenala is the scoil chogaidh,” she says eventually, helpfully.

“I do not know what a scoil chogaidh is.”

She looks vexed, pausing to search for an alternative. “It is a … learning.”

“Another gods-damned school?” I mutter to myself.

She shakes her head despite my speaking in my own language, probably divining what I was thinking. “Warrior learning,” she supplements. “For the Bródúil. A great honour.”

I smile politely at her. “Another gods-damned school, then,” I repeat, this time in a tone that belies the words.

She squints at me, but either doesn’t realise I’m displeased or doesn’t care.

“What happened since I …” I tap my aching head.

She chuckles. “Four days ago? Madness. Shouting. Fighting. Gallchobhar exiled.” She makes an unconcerned gesture. “After then? We have fed you the tonic Lir gave us as instructed. It has kept you asleep. Helped you heal.” She eyes my leg, the fact I’m already able to stand on it, approvingly.

“Gallchobhar was exiled?” I’m confused, as well as somewhat relieved as I recall the colossal man’s murderous expression. “Why?”

“Your words.” She frowns at me, as if this is something I should know. “The draoi proclaimed that the spirit of King Rónán’s fallen Champion had spoken through you, and clearly accused Gallchobhar of his murder. There was still some … argument, between Gallchobhar’s supporters and everyone else. But in the end, King Rónán chose.” She spreads her hands, indicating that the last part is all that matters.

“A spirit spoke through me,” I repeat flatly, inwardly shuddering at the memory. I have no sensible explanation for what happened, what I said. But nor is this one.

“Yes,” says Neasa, nodding with innocent enthusiasm, apparently oblivious to my scepticism. “The death of Artán has long been suspicious in the minds of many, and though Gallchobhar earned his position, he was not well loved.” Her face splits into that wide, gap-toothed grin again. “Not by me, certainly. I saw your fight. I cannot say it brought me pain to see him so shamed.”

“I can.”

She pauses, then bursts out into an uproarious laugh that I can’t help but smile at. She seems good-natured, this Neasa. Rough, but good-natured.

“What do I do until we arrive?”

She continues to beam at me. “Work. And Lir asked that I teach you the Tongue, also.”

I’m still blurry, still hazy, but something about the way she says it makes me pause. “What did you call it?”

“The Tongue,” she repeats patiently. “The language of the gods. Of ceol. Of dance.”

“And of all things that delight the heart,” I finish softly, in Common. My tutor once described Cymrian almost exactly the same way. As did my friend.

“We will begin your instruction later. But now, Leathf hear, you must row.” She indicates a spare oar.

I stare at her. Tap my bandaged leg. Roll my left shoulder pointedly.

She motions dismissively. “I have been checking your injuries and they have healed enough. And yes, some have more to overcome than others. But make no mistake, Leathf hear: you will do your part in reaching Loch Traenala, or you will not reach it.”

Protests well up inside me. I can do my best, as I did on the farm, but rowing is about rhythm and strength. Neasa is right in that my wounds seem to have closed enough that exertion, while painful, shouldn’t worsen them. But it will be painful.

There’s something in her gaze, though. Something that reminds me less of Ellanher this time, and more of Lanistia.

I take a seat on the bench, next to a broad-shouldered blond boy of about sixteen. He eyes me curiously, then gives a nod that seems friendly enough.

I awkwardly grab the oar, and start to pull.

XXVIII

COMPETITIVENESS, YSABEL ONCE QUOTED PRIMLY AS I celebrated beating her at Foundation, is insecurity in action. To which my smiling father immediately responded that a complete lack of it shows only apathy or arrogance.

Ysabel stared back straight-faced, and shrugged. We all laughed.

I don’t know which of them were right. Perhaps they both were.

Either way, I have never liked losing.

“Thanks,” I murmur to Aequa as we trail after the Tertius, away from Iro’s father and his coterie.

“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know the first gods-damned thing about racing.”

We exchange nervous grins, which are quickly wiped away by Tertius Ericius’s glower. “You understand what just happened?”

“Tertius Decimus outplayed me. If we don’t win, I’ll have to renounce Domitor.” I let any façade of humour disappear. “I’m sorry. But I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

The Tertius scowls as he limps to a halt, dragging us to a stop with him. “Tertius Decimus just endangered this entire, barely born alliance over a petty personal feud. This is much bigger than your position, Catenicus. Do you have any idea how delicate things are in the Senate? If Decimus publicly embarrasses you into giving Domitor to Religion, it will be all Governance needs to break with them. And we cannot afford that right now. Caten can’t afford that.”

Vek. He’s right, of course.

“Catenicus will succeed.” It’s Advenius, walking slightly behind us alongside Livia. His high-pitched voice, so dissonant coming from his tall, portly frame, is as confident as the words. His gaze flicks to his daughter. She nods back determinedly.

“Catenicus underestimates how difficult this will be.” Tertius Ericius doesn’t hide his frustration as he examines me frankly. “Charioteers need balance above all else; you’re going to need to put a lot of Will just into staying upright. Decimus has chosen the perfect format to disadvantage you: most of the senators here don’t watch the races at all, let alone know their intricacies. It’s going to have the appearance of a fair competition.”

“Doesn’t matter, as long as I win.” When the Tertius just grunts, I wait until he looks me in the eye. “I’m going to win.” Anger far outweighing nervousness. Decimus has no right to do this. No right.

Tertius Ericius grunts again, but it’s less doubtful this time. “How much do you know about racing?” We’ve moved some distance along the sand, relatively isolated from any curious ears.

“Two chariots per team. We steer our own while powering our partner’s using Will.” I’m confident in my answer. Some chariot races feature horses, but those are for Septimii who use their Will purely for protection. Considered even more lowbrow entertainment than Will-based racing, if that were possible. “Seven laps, and as long as both chariots make it to the seventh, whichever team gets one over the line first is the winner.”

“Splitting your focus will be the most difficult part. Managing your partner’s speed while self-imbuing against injury if you crash. And just to stay on, of course. Blue in Caten lost last week because Victus Xilor couldn’t hang on around the last corner.” It’s Livia speaking up, to my surprise. When her father shoots her an equally startled look, she shrugs impudently at him. “I have interests.”

“Which we will discuss later,” mutters Tertius Ericius. He turns back to Aequa and me. “She’s right, though. It’s a sport for the masses, but it takes skill to drive well. And a lot of focus.”

“No worse than running the Labyrinth,” Aequa observes.

I nod my wholehearted agreement.

Tertius Ericius continues to give us advice, most of which to his dismay is either supplemented or countered by a far-too-knowledgeable Livia as eight chariots are wheeled onto the sand. Wood and metal, each with a “horse” for imbuing: a single, massive stone wheel at the front with stallions carved into its edges, a nod to the pre-Will era. The wheels grind ominously, even from this distance. Two chariots are painted blue, two green, two red, and two white. Green and Blue are the most popular teams in Caten, sponsored by Governance and Religion, respectively. Little doubt as to which will be ours.

“How should we handle it when they hit us?” I address it to Livia, whose expertise clearly outstrips that of her father. She thinks they’ll target me, and I agree. My balance is the obvious weakness of our team, and it’s perfectly legal to ram an opponent. Perfectly legal to pull one another out of the chariots, too, technically. There … aren’t a lot of rules to the sport.

“Hit them back. They can’t finish if they don’t have anything left to drive.” She gives me a crooked smile. “I saw a little of their Placement, earlier. They’re both strong, but Decimus’s control leaves something to be desired. You should target him. Especially when Quiscil’s heading into a curve. If you’re lucky, they might both crash out in one hit.”

Tertius Ericius looks at his daughter in horror, while Advenius hides a high-pitched titter behind his hand.

“Ready?” Aequa’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, all nervous energy. The sight is strangely reassuring, familiar from our time together little more than a few months ago. She’s anxious to start. Not showing even a hint of doubt about my ability to compete. I’m grateful for that, though it must surely be there.

“Ready.”

“Luck, Catenicus.” Tertius Ericius gives me a nod and leaves without anything further. Outwardly nonchalant, but I can sense his apprehension. I feel it myself. This isn’t just for me, and it’s not even just for whatever fragile peace is being negotiated between Governance and Religion. Working directly for him, he can effectively provide me with unlimited free time and resources to pursue real answers about the Iudicium, without raising the Senate’s suspicions. Otherwise …

Before I can start after Aequa, her father claps me on the shoulder. Leans in, voice high even as it’s soft. “Keep her safe, dear boy. Keep her safe, and win.” He waddles off.

I jog to join Aequa, catching her as we reach the sand. “I think your father likes me more than he used to.”

“You kept me alive, and then you embarrassed your father by defecting. He’d adopt you if he could.”

I chuckle, even as I study my friend with a sideways glance. Aequa seems different. More relaxed. More confident. Not that she was neither of those things at the Academy, but now it’s like a weight has been lifted from her. “Gods’ graves. Aequa. Are you enjoying this?”

She grins without looking at me, and says nothing.

The other teams are already waiting. Iro and Indol, of course. Marcellus and Tiberius, the other team for Religion. Felix and Diana, another Fifth from the Academy, for Governance.

We reach them, Tertius Decimus and the chariots. I ignore the former and study the latter. They’re small things, semi-circular platforms barely large enough for a single person to stand on; chains swivel the stone “horse” at the front, dictating where and when the chariot should turn. It’s the Will of each charioteer’s teammate that will drive the massive wheel forward—an easy enough task, if it weren’t for the constant need to adjust its speed.

“Sturdy,” murmurs Aequa dryly, noting the leather stretched over thin, light wood and lack of reinforcement.

“Are you two ready?” Tertius Decimus is impatient. Eager more than angry though. His hope had to have been for me to do poorly on my assessments—that would have made all of this unnecessary—but otherwise, things are going exactly as he wants. I still think he’s underestimating me, but now I see the chariots up close, I’m beginning to understand the challenge before me. Simply riding on one of these things at speed will take significant balance and grip; using my one hand to steer while cornering, probably while riding out collisions, is going to require far more self-imbuing than I’d like.

“We’re ready,” Aequa answers for the both of us, showing no sign of being intimidated by the Tertius. Notably cool in her politeness. Too smart for outright disrespect, but she’s as angry as I am about the situation, I think. Offended at the idea that what we went through at the Iudicium is somehow irrelevant.

Indol passes me as we head to our chariots. “Luck, Vis,” he says quietly, meeting my eye.

I restrain the urge to be petty, to ignore him. He’s looked miserable since this was initiated. Perhaps he should be protesting, refusing to participate—but I also don’t know much about his situation in Religion. Still have no idea why he even defected from Military. It may be that he’s simply in no position to argue. “Luck, Indol.”

His fleeting smile of gratitude says much, and I’m glad I responded.

Aequa and I imbue each other’s stone wheels, then climb aboard our green-clad chariots. The wood creaks beneath my weight. There’s no starting gate, just eight staggered positions on the straight, our lanes chosen by drawn lots. I’m third from the inside, Aequa sixth. Iro, in blue, starts ahead on the very outside, but is farther from his counterpart in Indol, who’s next to me. No real advantage to anyone.

I lash the chain reins tight around my waist. Test my balance, then self-imbue my remaining Will, shivering at the sudden surge. We were advised to leave around half our strength for this, to properly protect against injury if we crash. The others will have ignored that: we’re all Totius Sextii at the moment, and we’re all smart enough to calculate that the strength of about four people—less than a quarter of our total Will—should be enough to protect us from anything worse than heavy bruises, even at these speeds.

Of course, we all need Will for other areas too. Balance is by far the most important factor here, and while we’re all physically very capable after the Academy, none of us have been trained as charioteers. The others will almost certainly have allowed more Will into their legs, stabilising themselves. An extra one, perhaps two people’s worth, I’d imagine. None of us can win if we simply fall off.

The problem is that I need even more. I’ve worked tirelessly on adapting to my missing arm, am confident enough in my everyday life now. But this is entirely different. And if I lose my equilibrium out here, I’ll be eating sand. At best.

So my plan is simple enough. About a quarter of my Will is flooding my legs; that should be enough to keep me steady, to withstand even the hardest collision that doesn’t completely wreck my chariot. I’ve allowed more for my arm and torso; I won’t be able to steer without it.

The rest is in Aequa’s stone horse. I haven’t left any excess for further protection.

“Ready?” Tertius Decimus has stepped off the sand. His voice booms as he holds his hand aloft, the question rhetorical. The senators in the surrounding stands are transfixed and silent.

A long moment for effect. Iro’s father is smiling. I’m going to wipe the expression from his face in seven laps’ time.

His hand drops, and our chariots burst into jolting, thundering, grinding motion.

XXIX

VEK.

Even braced and with a full four people’s Will flooding my legs, the explosion forward makes me sway, veins standing out on my arm as I grip the iron reins to stop myself from toppling. Rotting gods. This is fast. Wooden wheels clatter and the stone ones grind along the sand with a roaring, chest-shaking thrum. Everything vibrates. The chariot feels like it’s about to fall apart. I barely manage to keep the image of Aequa’s horse in my head; when I recover enough to risk a half glance to my left, I’m relieved to see her chariot hurtling violently forward too. My mental control is working, and the Will I imbued seems roughly equivalent to the others’, at least based on our respective speeds. A good start.

We hit the first corner. Ahead, Marcellus’s red chariot and Felix’s white one weave, almost touching wheels. Iro is out ahead of them. I grapple with the reins, pulling to the left but curving wide, too cautious and too fast as I learn how the chariot responds. Aequa’s behind me but as my mental sense of her stone wheel hits the curve I slow her, feeling it as she cuts inward, far more sharply than I did. There’s an abrupt shiver in my forcing her forward, and I let out a wild laugh at a shout of concern from Indol. Not even a lap in, and she’s ramming him.

I almost turn to check on her success when, abruptly, I realise I don’t have to.

Through the thunder, I focus.

My awareness of the other imbued wheels isn’t as strong as it is for Aequa’s, of course, but it’s definitely there. Those same uneasy pulses in my head, neither light nor sound. I can mentally pinpoint every single chariot on the track without looking.

I quickly assess, muscles bunching as my own chariot leaps forward with renewed vigour to careen out of the corner into the straight. I’m in a small pocket by myself right now: Iro’s blue is ahead with Marcellus and Felix not far behind, and the other four are clumped together behind me. Worryingly close to one another, in fact.

Aequa has broken away from Indol again—he’s survived the clash, clearly—but someone is heading hard toward her, not slowing enough for the corner and charging at her left side as she hits the turn. No doubt what they’re trying to accomplish. No telling whether Aequa even knows they’re there.

I pull hard on her stone horse, slowing her sharply and silently praying the abrupt change of pace doesn’t throw her. The attacker’s too close and flies by through the space where she should have been, sliding wide. I feel Aequa correct slightly to the left. She hasn’t fallen off. I drive her forward again, into the gap left by the attack. She bursts into the straight, distance between her and whoever tried to take her out.

The oppressive grinding of stone fills my ears, chatters my teeth. Sand sprays from beneath the massive wheel as my chariot flies faster and faster. I try not to panic. I do not feel in control. I am not safe. This was a stupid idea. The others will have no clue that I’ve taken such a wild risk; any of the other teams could easily kill me by simply hitting me. Those thundering stone wheels are death to anyone not properly self-imbued.

As I wrestle my chariot into the next corner, though, I adjust to the juddering madness of the ride. My mind catches up to the scenery flashing by. Assesses. Iro is surging ahead; Indol’s strength is showing through on the straight, already widening the gap between his partner and everyone else. It’s probably a planned move on their behalf: Indol focuses on keeping Iro in the lead, while Iro just makes sure Indol stays in the race. Risky—unlike me, Indol won’t be able to see Iro’s competition if they get too far apart, and vice versa—but it’s easier in a lot of ways. Effective in its simplicity.

We emerge from the curve and fly into the straight closest to the watching senators. Adapting though I may be, I don’t have the confidence to spare them a glance. Ahead, Iro’s blue chariot grinds across the invisible line denoted by the seven leaping stone dolphins at the track’s edge. The first tips forward to mark his passing. I follow a couple of seconds after.

One lap down.

I’m gaining on Marcellus and Felix, who are thundering almost side by side just up ahead. Felix’s white is on the outside. He veers slightly in, I think trying to spook Marcellus into moving rather than attempting to ram him. The wheels on their chariots graze one another. Marcellus doesn’t budge. Felix eases off. He doesn’t actually want to collide; serious contact from that position could easily result in both of them crashing out.

Iro hits the corner ahead but almost too hard; his chariot sways as he wrestles with the reins, pulling urgently to the left as he tries to wrest it into a smooth turn. Indol’s got enough control to slow him just slightly, though, and Iro’s panicked pulling eases into a managed steer as he takes a sharp line around the curve. He’s putting distance between himself and everyone else.

“You know what to do, Aequa,” I mutter between clenched teeth. Indol’s last right now—not by a long way, but in a position where he’s not in any danger of being hit. Aequa’s not far behind me, the extra Will I put into her chariot paying off, but Livia was right. Indol’s imbuing is too strong. We need to disrupt him. And I’m the one ahead.

So I ease off my propelling of her chariot. It feels counterintuitive, but we need to do this now; Indol and Iro will pull too far away if allowed to continue with this tactic. Aequa’s smart enough to understand what we need.

I use the breathing room I have right now to focus on my teammate. Feel the beacon of my own imbuing slow, slide back toward the pursuing three duller pulses. For a moment Aequa doesn’t deviate and I wonder whether she’s realised what’s happening, but then she sheers off to the right, away from the pounding stone coming up on her rear. Two of the pulses pass her almost in lockstep: that must be Tiberius and Diana, fighting it out. Indol isn’t far behind them, but though he veers in the opposite direction to Aequa, he doesn’t slow. Iro’s too far ahead to see what’s happening.

I cut into the next corner hard, trusting Aequa’s superior control to let me push at as sharp an angle as possible. There’s a flash of panic as it feels as though my green chariot’s about to tip over from the momentum. My left wheel lifts, then thuds back to the sand; I gasp as it does, terror firing through me. But I’m through. Still balanced, thanks to the excess of Will anchoring my legs.

And as I emerge this time, I’ve gained several feet on the three in front of me.

Indol and Aequa are in the corner behind me. Indol seems to realise what Aequa is doing and is trying to position himself to ram her, but when Aequa swings hard for the inside of the track, I see what she’s doing and slow her sharply. Indol’s going too fast, and I suspect Iro has no idea what’s happening back there. Indol is forced to go wider to make the corner. He emerges from it in front of Aequa.

I fling my teammate out of the bend, pouring speed into her chariot. She arrows toward Indol. She knows what I need her to do. When Aequa is no more than a few feet away, I match her speed to his. Let her sit on his tail, her grinding stone wheel a thundering fear in his ears.

No point in risking a collision. Not yet. All I need is for Indol to have something to think about other than Iro.

Iro’s pace doesn’t falter, but he enters the curve ahead too fast and slews wide, slowing a second later than he would have wanted. It’s not much, but Felix and Marcellus—white and red still close to each other, though Felix has dropped back slightly—take the turn better. Aequa’s control of my chariot’s speed continues to be perfect, and I scream out of the corner not more than ten feet behind Felix.

Another stone dolphin tips forward. Two laps down.

Iro has realised what’s happening with Indol; the Will marking Indol’s chariot is suddenly moving faster as it exits the turn behind, pulling away from Aequa. I respond in kind, focusing and using the entirety of my imbued Will to drive her forward; she creeps closer until she’s on his heels once again. Indol’s speed doesn’t increase in response. Either Iro hasn’t noticed it’s needed, or—more likely—doesn’t have enough Will imbued to go any faster. The two of them may be at the back, but they’re rapidly catching up now.

The next lap passes in a cacophonous, dusty haze as we grapple with our chariots and imbuing; the field slowly contracts, all eight of us bunching together again as Iro slows and Indol and Aequa gain. I’m on the heels of Felix and Marcellus, now. Moving faster than them as Aequa’s strength and control outshines that of Diana and Tiberius, particularly as they continue to clash behind me.

I can see Marcellus darting anxious glances back in my direction as I near. He can hear the growl of my approach. Has realised whose chariot this is. Knows exactly what I think of him.

But as much as I despise his cowardice in the Iudicium, I’m not about to risk crashing out for a grudge. So for now, I’ll settle for being a distraction.

What I don’t count on is how it makes Marcellus panic.

It happens just after the start of the fourth lap, right after he’s cast another fearful look over his shoulder at my shrieking stone wheel. He twists in the wrong direction, leaving Felix—who is still keeping pace with him, only a few feet back on the outside—on his blind side. Felix spots Marcellus’s mistake and twitches in, considering an attack, but doesn’t commit. Marcellus straightens. Sees Felix is closer from the corner of his eye. Realises what he’s thinking.

The boy in the red chariot cries out and yanks at his reins fiercely, swinging violently outward in what is presumably an attempt to meet the anticipated attack. Felix has backed off, though. Marcellus’s move was made with an expectation of an impact to lessen the sharpness of the turn. His speed tilts him. Brings him up on one wheel.

His chariot flips.

It all happens in the space of a second. I see it as if it took minutes. Marcellus’s black eyes go wide. He flails. Jerks his reins in a vain attempt to straighten. His body snaps sideways; he tries to jump but the chains wrapped around his waist hold him down. He’s dragged beneath the rolling wood.

The chariot disintegrates on top of him. Wood splinters and groans and shatters. Sand and dust sprays an opaque curtain. The stone wheel slews and somersaults into the brown haze. I see glimpses of protruding limbs as the wreckage cartwheels end over end over end; Marcellus’s shriek pierces the chaos and then it’s swiftly, frighteningly cut off.

Ahead to my right, Felix shouts and veers wide, peeling away from the flying debris, though he started just far enough to the side that he was never at serious risk.

I, on the other hand, was right behind Marcellus.

Everything slows as the disaster plays out. There’s no turning, no trying to avoid the mess in front of me, not unless I want to end up exactly like Marcellus. I twitch to the left, away from where I think Marcellus might end up, but otherwise keep my stone wheel straight and brace myself, clenching the chariot’s green frame with my one hand.

I hurtle into the dust. It gets in my eyes, my mouth, thick and dry. I can’t see more than a foot or two ahead. My sense of Marcellus’s stone wheel is flying off to the right; thankfully Felix seems able to see it because he adjusts, thundering by a few feet away. Something crunches beneath the grinding roar of my own stone wheel. My chariot jolts violently. Even with the Will in my legs, even crouching and prepared, my feet leave the small wooden platform. Only my grip on the frame keeps me from flying off. My arm feels like it’s being wrenched from its socket. The splintering sounds beneath me make me certain at least one of my wooden wheels has been destroyed. There’s a moment of weightlessness.

Then my feet are hitting the wood again and I’m still, miraculously, on the chariot that is still, miraculously, surging forward. I burst through the dust cloud and into clear air again, blinking specs from my eyes just in time to register that I’m about to hit the corner. Red wreckage spins away off the track at the edge of my vision. I’m gasping. Hand shaking as it unlatches from the chariot railing to control the reins again, pulling me left into the turn.

I’m alive. Still in the race.

I’m also ahead of Felix now after he took the corner wide, putting me behind Iro alone. In my mind I can see one of the stone wheels behind me slowing rapidly, dropping back and moving to the outer edge of the track. No doubt Tiberius’s chariot. Marcellus is either unconscious or just letting his teammate retire, but either way, the Will imbued in it is still there. That’s good. I may not think much of Marcellus, but I certainly don’t want to see him dead.

Both Aequa and Indol have passed Diana now and are on Felix’s heels; I may be ahead of the group but the four of us form an uncomfortably tight pack, and I start to understand Marcellus’s nervousness. The rumbling grind of massive stone wheels behind me feels like it’s crawling up my back. If I wasn’t able to position everyone mentally, I don’t think I’d be able to resist glancing over my shoulder. I almost can’t anyway.

Iro hits the next curve less than twenty feet ahead, the gap gradually but consistently shortening as Indol grapples with Aequa’s harassment. She’s still on his tail: he’s also boxed in on his right by Felix and on his left by the centre railing. We’re in a good position. Felix and Diana will still want to win for Governance on their own, of course; Diana is strongly placed to focus on getting Felix into first, so like Aequa, I doubt they’ll actually risk a collision just to take out Indol. But even so, as long as Indol’s battling on multiple fronts, his focus will necessarily be dragged away from helping Iro.

We fly through the curve together, all dust and thunder. People have raced onto the sand to clear Marcellus and much of the debris from his chariot. His stone wheel has shattered some of the wall where it exited the track.

Five dolphins down. Two to go.

I’m on Iro’s heels. Indol’s on mine.

There’s a wobble behind me as Indol feints to the right, trying to get Felix to back off and give him room to manoeuvre. He knows exactly what Aequa will risk doing to him if Iro is still winning on the final lap. Felix doesn’t budge. Indol moves again and this time there’s a screeching of wood as the two touch. Felix shouts his alarm but holds his nerve. Diana isn’t too far behind; she must be throwing all her speed into Felix’s chariot, because now would be the smart time for her to push her teammate up. I’m not complaining, though.

Indol hasn’t given up; he starts attacking Felix’s side with constant bumps, the crashing of chariots and cracking of wood connecting audible even over the roar of the stone horses. Felix is yelling his frustration and worry as we hit the corner. No doubt that it’s Indol initiating the bumps. I consider driving Aequa forward, threatening Indol again, but I don’t want to risk that either. I can barely believe he’s still powering Iro as fast as he is, while attacking Felix and worrying about Aequa right behind him. I don’t think anyone else out here could come close to doing that, myself included. It really was for good reason that he was ranked first in our class.

There’s another cry from Felix and then a massive splintering as the two Will pulses in my mind meet again. I chance a look behind me.

Indol’s slightly ahead of Felix now; he’s leaning dangerously far over the side of his blue chariot. Eyes flooded black. Fist raised. He brings it down right as the two seem about to collide again.

As I watch in disbelief, he shatters one of the white-painted supports between Felix’s chariot and his horse.

Felix’s stone wheel wobbles and then careens off to the side as the front of his chariot slams into the ground. Felix has no chance of hanging on: the chains around his waist are still connected to the wheel. He screams as he’s yanked like a rag doll out of the chariot and through the sand, tumbling end over end, twisting and helpless. I have to tear my gaze away from the explosion of wood and dust. Focus back on my own race before seeing where he ends up, let alone whether he’s alright.

Just the four of us left, now; Diana is slowing dramatically at the back, though again I can still sense Felix’s Will in her wheel, so at least he’s not dead. Aequa has held her nerve, has remained on Indol’s tail. She’ll have less impact with Felix no longer blocking Indol’s ability to manoeuvre, but Indol knows that if he swings out of her path, he’ll be relieving the pressure on me. He can’t afford that.

So now, it’s down to who will hold their nerve. Who will make the first move. No one wants to risk an attack. If Iro starts pushing Indol into me, he knows I’ll just do the same for Aequa and likely no one will finish. The same goes for if Aequa pushes me into Iro. And a draw will benefit no one.

But we also all know that if Iro stays ahead, Aequa and I will do what we have to. And if I look like overtaking him, Iro and Indol will do the same.

The four of us thunder along in a treacherously tight blue and green train. Sand sprays from beneath our wheels. My bones rattle. Legs tiring from the work they’re doing to compensate for my missing arm. Hair whipping wildly across my forehead. I see only the track and the other chariots; everything beyond may as well not exist.

Almost six laps in, I still don’t know whether to be terrified or exhilarated.

My mind races as we exit the corner into the straight to begin our final lap; I find myself examining every minute change in position, trying to divine what Aequa’s thinking, even as I know she’s probably doing exactly the same thing for me. The sixth dolphin tips down, still moving as I pass it. Only my sense of Indol’s wheel at my back prevents me from being convinced that he’s about to mow me down.

The penultimate corner, and Iro makes a mistake. Takes it slightly wide, turns marginally too late.

There’s a surge beneath me as Aequa notices it too. I come up the inside. Alongside him through the narrow gap between him and the pillar. I’m going to pass him.

We’re halfway through the curve when behind me, Indol—or Iro, more accurately—makes his move.

Indol’s chariot jerks, its forward momentum arrested without warning for just a second. My sense of Aequa’s and Indol’s stone wheels is abruptly almost on top of each other, but even as I wait for the sound of shrieking wood, Aequa’s chariot veers sharply away. She must have missed Indol by inches.

Aequa’s focus is shaken for the first time since we started; she swerved wide on instinct to avoid the collision, and now my pace slows as she wrestles to get her own chariot back in position. Indol, on the other hand, immediately bursts forward again. Just as fast as before. He arrows toward me. Iro is boxing me in on the side. His misstep was a feint, an awfully dangerous one. But it’s worked. Aequa is just far enough behind, now, that I won’t be able to respond.

Indol’s going to ram me.

It all happens so fast. Three seconds, perhaps, from beginning to end, as the realisation dawns that I’m going to get seriously injured. At best. Indol’s stone wheel screams closer as if in slow motion. I consider jumping. At these speeds even that won’t end well for me, especially with only one arm to brace my fall. But it’s better than being crushed.

I’m bending my legs to do just that when Indol changes course.

I barely stop my leap. At first I think something must be wrong with Indol’s chariot but when I risk a disbelieving glance, he’s simply steered wide, to the right of Iro. There’s a moment when Iro still doesn’t realise what has happened, fierce glee plastered on his face as he focuses forward. But then he twists. Expression moving from elation to surprise to fury in a heartbeat.

Iro is still thundering side by side with me as we exit the first corner of the final lap; Aequa’s ahead of Indol now, recovered enough to push me forward at full speed again, and Indol—despite what he just did—is doing the same for Iro. I have nowhere to go unless I fall back. The noise is deafening. The ground a blur. Everything shudders and aches, especially my legs. Even Will can only do so much.

Iro, anger plain in every line, abruptly slews in toward me. The wheels of our chariots meet with a sheering screech; I can do little more than brace myself against the impact. He swings away and then does it again. And again. Reckless, now. Risking a crash for both of us as he tries to propel me into the inside railing. He can’t get the momentum or the angle, though. I hold steady.

And I have the inside track now. One corner left.

Iro snarls as he comes in again, but this time, he leans out of his blue chariot just after he makes contact. I sway away, unable to fend him off with my one arm concerned far more with steering and holding on. Both our wheels sound like they’re about to shatter as they grind together.

He doesn’t swing for me, though. Instead he grips the edge of my chariot. His eyes are pitch-black as they look into mine.

When he lets go again, I can sense a new source of Will.

My chariot.

“Vek.” I mouth the word to myself. Frozen. Iro, the idiot, has just imbued at least some of the Will reserved for his own safety. Probably all of it, if he’s actually going to try and affect anything with it. It’s an incredible move—imbuing something as complex as the chariot in an instant, while doing what we’re doing, would in any other context be nothing short of brilliant. I’m less inclined to marvel right now, though.

Iro’s backed off a few feet, this time with a wild, contorted grin. I start to feel the wood beneath my feet shudder. Tip. He’s not wasting time. I consider using my Will-enhanced legs to damage the wood myself, maybe make him lose his imbuing, but I know straight away it won’t work. He’s too close, will be able to see and therefore adjust to the difference.

My desperation mounts. Iro’s Will pulses. Beneath my feet. Under my hand as I grip the frame desperately.

I lock a mental picture of the chariot in my mind.

Connection.

Just like with the boulder earlier: one moment I can merely sense the Will and the next it’s mine, an extension of me, as surely as if I’d imbued it myself. My chariot creaks and settles back onto both wheels. Across from me, Iro is almost comically confused as he looks across in shock. No telling whether he can no longer sense the Will, or whether he simply can’t control it anymore.

Final corner.

Iro screams his rage at being thwarted, swinging out farther than before and then angling in hard. Too hard. I’m marginally ahead of him now we’ve hit the curve, but not far enough; there’s no doubt he’s going to hit me. Ram me and take himself out in the process, because there’s no way his chariot will survive this impact. He’s decided it’s better to have no winner, than to let me take the victory.

On instinct, I drag the Will from the chariot—Iro’s Will—into my body. Feel a flush as I strengthen myself. A flash of relief as I register that now, I’m probably not going to die.

And then I realise that Iro very well may.

He thinks he’s lost track of his Will, not that I’ve taken it. He thinks that when my chariot disintegrates as it’s about to, he’s going to get that Will back. A gamble—he’d have to self-imbue virtually as the Will returned to him—but a logical one.

It’s a split second. Barely time for the thought to cross my mind as Iro’s stone wheel bears down on me.

I drop the chain from around my waist, calculate, and leap.

Iro’s eyes are wide, a frozen moment in time as he passes amidst the dust and rattling and screaming stone. From the corner of my vision I see him start to correct, to swerve, to avoid what would now be a pointless sacrifice by smashing into my newly driver-less green chariot. Then the shock of the landing jars my teeth as I skid along in a cloud of sand that takes him from view. Iro’s extra Will in my body, and the slower pace of the corner, allowing me to decelerate in a relatively controlled slide. In the back of my mind, I desperately keep my connection to Aequa’s chariot. Keep moving her forward, even through all of this.

There’s a screeching from outside my choking, blinding cloud. A rending of wood and stone. A scream. More violent dust and I see a glimpse, barely a shadow, of Iro’s blue chariot flipping end over end. Empty.

The pulses in my mind tell me Aequa’s past and Indol is getting farther back, losing momentum.

The brown haze clears just enough for me to watch the seventh golden dolphin tip as Aequa crosses the finish line.

XXX

WHILE MY FATHER OFTEN INSTILLED IN ME THE IMPORtance of appearances, it was Ellanher who first explained to me that showmanship in victory mattered more than at any other moment.

“They may remember the facts of a result, darling,” the muscled, playful organiser of the fights at the Letens Theatre told me one night, not long after I had started. “But they will always judge you on the how. On the after. You have to make them believe, my dear boy, whenever they see you step out onto that stage. Because it is faith that makes us cheer, and a triumph forgotten is no different to defeat.” A philosopher at times, that woman.

Right now I want to exult, to celebrate the improbability of this success. And I want to sprint and check that Iro and Marcellus and Felix are alright. And I want to collapse to the ground and cover my head, ignore the world and try to figure out what in the gods’ graves just happened out there.

But everyone is watching. The senators. Tertius Ericius. Tertius Decimus.

So I act as if Aequa passing the finish line is the most normal thing in the world. As if it were not only what I expected, but the only possible result. I have to make them see that this isn’t some miraculous victory. This is the natural order of things. Inevitability in action.

I’m still holding Iro’s Will; as the Septimii rush through the settling dust to tend to him, and the impossible thrill of the victory fades, I spot his ashen-faced father among the concerned. I ignore the inward twisting of what I have to do. This is Caten; even in victory, showing mercy to the wolves only invites later trouble. And while I hope Iro is alright, his father brought this upon himself.

I focus on the Will I’m using. Iro originally imbued my chariot, now destroyed; normally that Will would have reverted to him, but I have no doubt that hasn’t happened. Can I even release it? There’s no way to distinguish his Will from the rest flooding my body. No obvious partition between his and mine.

I’m thirty feet from the crowd around Iro’s prone form. Twenty. Those not urgently working on the injured boy are looking up. Watching me.

I brace myself, and stop self-imbuing.

It’s all I can do not to break stride as the Will strengthening my body vanishes, leaving me only with the strain and aching muscles of what I just went through. I quickly self-imbue again, barely avoiding an embarrassing stumble as Tertius Decimus finally looks up to see my approach.

The strength that floods through me is less intense than before. By the time I reach the edge of the small crowd, I’m confident I am no longer using his son’s Will to supplement my own.

There’s a heavy silence. I can’t see Iro properly behind the people crowded around him. They’re murmuring to one another in anxious, hushed tones. I see bandages being applied. Blood mixed with dust caked on the hands of a couple of men as they work urgently. There’s no motion from Iro’s limbs, one of which is splayed at an unnatural angle.

Vek.

Tertius Decimus meets me before I can get any closer. Stands in my way. Face flushed. Expression as dark as any I have ever seen.

I tamp down my instinct to say that I am sorry. To say that I genuinely, truly hope Iro is alright. Both are true. Neither will help.

We stare at each other for several seconds.

“It seems you are to remain Domitor. Congratulations, Telimus.” He eventually speaks. Civilly enough, no doubt for the benefit of those around us, but I can almost hear his teeth grinding.

“Pardon, Tertius?” I hold his gaze. No doubt what I’m after. A slight intake of breath from a few of those closer, even if most are pretending not to listen. I hate to push, but this exchange is important. Will be relayed a thousand times before the end of the day, if I know Caten.

Tertius Decimus, somehow, turns a deeper shade of red. “My apologies. Congratulations, Catenicus.” He says the word as if it’s poison. Perhaps it is, for him. The name I got for my role in the event in which his only daughter died.

It doesn’t make it reasonable, but part of me understands, I think. Even sympathises. I’m an intrusive, offensive reminder of what he’s lost. In some ways, I suppose I am his Hierarchy.

More concerned movement over by Iro. They’re lifting him with cautious care.

Today’s not going to make things any better.

“Thank you, Tertius.” I make sure there’s no trace of irony. Try to show that was all I was after, that I simply wanted the acknowledgement and that I have no desire to humiliate him into the bargain. “It was a close race. It reminded me why Iro and Indol were so highly ranked in the Academy. I hope I get the honour of working alongside them again, in the future.” Loud enough for everyone to hear. Make it clear there are no grudges. That I respect them. It’s not much, but it might go some way to soothing any tensions this stunt of Tertius Decimus’s has caused between Governance and Religion.

The Tertius’s expression doesn’t change, but thankfully he doesn’t slap away the metaphorical hand I’m extending, either. “Of course.” He turns to follow the physicians tending to Iro.

“And Tertius, if you don’t have any objections, please call me Vis. Those who know me know I don’t enjoy being reminded of what happened last year.”

Silence. Tertius Decimus hesitates. Still brimming with barely contained fury, but thinking, at least. “I will remember that.” He stalks off after the knot of men carrying his son.

All eyes are still on me. All I want is to go somewhere private, to collapse to my knees and close my eyes and try to figure out the potential consequences of what just happened.

But I have to talk to Aequa. Indol. Tertius Ericius and Livia and probably a dozen Governance senators who will all be even more eager to meet me now. So I force the issue to the edge of my thoughts. Walk away to the edge of the track. Lay calmly on the sand as if enjoying the sun, and wait.

Aequa’s the first to reach me. She sits beside me, looking down at my reclined form with a raised eyebrow.

“Good race,” I say casually.

“Pretty good,” she agrees. She almost manages to stay composed, but the corners of her lips give her away. The smirk is infectious. I let my mouth creep into a smile too. The shared moment is a relief, a small release that I’m grateful for. Even though she has no idea what just happened with Iro, she can at least appreciate the insanity of what we just accomplished.

Aequa sighs, still smiling, and reclines next to me, staring up into the blue sky. “You alright?”

“My legs are gods-damned sore. You?”

“My body’s still not sure whether it wants to sprint a few miles or sleep for a week. Other than that? Fine.” She raises her head, glancing over to the side. “Better than Marcellus and Felix, at least.”

“Rotting gods. I’m a terrible person.” I half rise, only for Aequa to wave me back down again. “They’re alright?”

“Saw them both on the way over. Physicians are still with them, but they’re awake. Marcellus was moaning about a broken arm, so I guess he may or may not have a broken arm, and that’s the worst of it. And Felix was grinning like a madman and gave me the victory sign when he spotted me, so I’m guessing he’s fine too.”

I chuckle. “Good.” Relieved, even for Marcellus.

“Iro?”

My humour fades. “I don’t know.”

She glances across at me, hearing my worry. Touches my arm in light reassurance. “Not your fault he’s an idiot.”

Before either of us can say more, there’s a shadow off to my left, and I squint up to see Indol sidling closer. He grins awkwardly at me. “Always knew you thought you could beat everyone with a hand tied behind your back.” Hesitates. Smile fading. “Sorry you had to prove it.”

I swivel to my feet again—I’m better at the motion than I was, though one-armed it remains more awkward than not—and consider him. I’m still furious that he went along with Decimus’s plan without apparent protest, but part of me knows he didn’t really have a choice. This isn’t the Academy anymore, where the Thirds talked and even the Praeceptors listened. Surviving means going where we’re told, doing what we’re told. We’re pieces on a Foundation board, for now.

I extend my hand and he clasps my wrist gladly. Whatever tension was left vanishes with the act. We weren’t ever close friends, but we got along, and there was always respect between us. “Not your fault.”

“It’s a bit his fault,” Aequa calls up, stretching and then sitting. Her friendly smirk to Indol indicates goading rather than any real anger, though.

“It’s a bit my fault,” concedes Indol ruefully. He sighs. “Nice piece of diplomacy back there, by the way. Not crowing. Between that and your staying Domitor, today may even turn out not a complete disaster for relations in the Senate.”

“No crowing? You didn’t even crow?” Aequa peers up at me reproachfully.

Indol’s mouth quirks, but he glances over toward Tertius Decimus’s coterie. Iro has been carried from sight, but the Tertius himself is looking over at us darkly. “Time to get yelled at. But …” He hesitates. Lowers his voice, but includes Aequa. “We should stay in contact.”

“Tricky,” I observe grimly.

“I know. But there’s more going on than anyone’s telling us. Did they test your blood?” His smile is relaxed, even to my confirmation; to anyone watching he’d look as though he were simply wishing us well.

“They did.” I mimic his genial demeanour.

“I’d like to finish our conversation from the Iudicium, too.”

I nod slowly. “Have you spoken to your father?” That’s what he’s referring to. My none-too-subtle implication about Dimidius Quiscil, about his involvement in the attack.

“No. And not my father, anymore. As of two weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. A careless kind of pain in the motion. “A father is a man who loves you, no matter what. Not all of us can have one.”

I think of my own father. I cannot describe how much I miss him.

“Only the lucky few,” I agree softly.

Indol’s eyes flick over my shoulder, and I twist to see a cloud of purple-slashed white togas approaching. He hesitates, then steps forward and embraces me enthusiastically. “I mean it. I’ll contact you,” he murmurs, and I feel the weight of a stylus drop into my pocket. He steps back. “Stronger together, Vis.”

“Stronger together.”

He leaves me and Aequa to the hovering swarm of sycophantic senators.

IT’S ALMOST A HALF HOUR LATER THAT I SPOT TERTIUS Ericius coming toward us, trailed by men that I’ve seen him talking with—arguing with, I think—for much of that time. Sextus Amicus, the man currently gushing over our exploits in the race, all but trails off as he sees them before politely excusing himself. The other senators nearby vanish like mist before their approach.

“Tertius Ericius.” Suddenly uneasy as I take in the group’s demeanour. There’s a tension to it, an odd defensiveness.

An air that they’re about to deliver bad news.

Aequa exchanges a glance with me, shuffles a half step closer in solidarity. She’s seen it too. There are six men other than Callidus’s father, each with the purple stripe of office across their togas. Advenius, Aequa’s father, is among them.

They come to a stop a few feet away. Tertius Ericius limps into position at their head. He meets my gaze, then to my surprise, turns to Aequa.

“Aequa, isn’t it?” Polite, but stiff. “You may not remember, but we met a couple of years ago. You came to Villa Ericius with your parents for an evening.”

“I remember, Magnus Tertius. It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you. We were all very impressed with your performance today. You had some of the best Placement results out there. Easy to see why Catenicus chose you to be his teammate for the race. We expect to see great things from you over the coming years.” Aequa flushes at the compliment, but the Tertius doesn’t give her time to respond. “And we believe you will be best placed to do that as a Quintus.”

Aequa’s smile fades, and there’s an awkward lull as both she and I process the statement. Slow horror dawns on me as I understand.

“Me?” Aequa’s acting confused, though I can see her coming to the same realisation. Her gaze flicks to her father. A mixture of stunned and furiously embarrassed. “I’m … honoured, Tertius Ericius. Truly. But surely the Domitor of the Academy would be a better choice.” She motions to me, as if she thinks the group has somehow forgotten my credentials.

It’s all I can do not to react. To keep my eyes fixed firmly on Tertius Ericius. Aequa didn’t even blink. What she’s just been offered is an honour, coveted, something almost anyone in Governance would leap at the chance to get.

“We have chosen you.” The Tertius is firm, even as his eyes dart to me. Frustrated.

Aequa stands there. Hands limp by her side, lost. Bemused and flattered and angry. She finally looks across at me with such dismay, such helplessness, that in that instant I truly, deeply know—if I didn’t before—that I can trust her.

“And she is an excellent choice.” I manage to say it without wavering, without betraying shock or anger or protest. I hold her gaze. Make sure she sees I mean it. It doesn’t matter if I’m not a Quintus, not if she’s the one who takes the position instead. We can pursue our investigation together. I would have wanted to do that anyway, to tell her everything I’ve already told Eidhin, if the positions were reversed. “I can think of no one more deserving.”

A surprised silence, as if none of them can quite believe what they’re hearing.

“That is … gracious, Catenicus,” says Callidus’s father, glancing between Aequa and me as if trying to decipher a puzzle.

Aequa searches for confirmation in my eyes, then nods slowly. “It is.” She turns to Tertius Ericius, still looking half dazed from the turn of events. “Thank you, Tertius Ericius. It’s an honour.”

The Tertius exhales. I’m not sure if he’s relieved or frustrated by my lack of protest. “There are some documents you’ll need to fill out. If you’ll come with us?”

“Of course.” She hesitates. “May I speak with Catenicus for a moment, first?”

“Certainly.”

The men wander a short distance away and Aequa turns to me. Expression smooth, voice utterly mortified. “Vis. Gods’ graves. My gods-damned father. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She’s made the same, likely correct, assumption that I have: Advenius saw an opportunity to push her case for Quintus and succeeded. “I meant what I said.”

“I know. That somehow makes it worse, you ass. Why didn’t you fight?”

“Because all I care about is figuring out what really happened at the Iudicium, and finding the people responsible.” I let the cold certainty of my tone tell her how serious I am. “There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

Aequa examines me. Nods her understanding. “I’ll make sure we’re working together.” She’s always been quick. “See you soon.”

She flashes a dazed smile and hurries off, quickly replaced by Tertius Ericius, who has hung back as Aequa and the other senators march off up the hill.

“I’m sorry, Catenicus.” He says it quietly as he approaches. “I did what I could, but the others argued that after the injury to Decimus’s son, it would look antagonistic to reward you. You’re certain your friend can be trusted?” He tilts his head back in the direction of the retreating group.

“Yes.” He’s concluded why I didn’t push my case, then.

“Alright. I will do for her what I would have done for you, then.” He exhales. Gives me an appraising look. “I think she would have refused the position, if you’d asked. Keep her close. Loyalty like that … you won’t find it in Caten.”

“I know.”

“And as for you, we’ll have to find a position that allows you to work with Aequa, but also still provides a path to office.” He chews his lip, thinking as he says it.

I cough. “I’m not interested in a Consulship, Tertius.”

“That doesn’t mean others aren’t interested in putting you there. I heard about your speech, this morning. Everyone has. Many are going to see the potential of your rising star, no matter what happened here today and no matter your apparent distaste for politics. If you really want to do this—if you want justice—then you need to keep your advantages where you can.”

Silence as I consider the words. I don’t like it, particularly, but he’s not wrong. “That’s good advice, sir. I will.”

He studies me, then claps me on the shoulder and heads back after the rest of the group.

I watch as he limps away, then head across the track. Stop next to the stone horse of Aequa’s chariot and take back the remainder of my Will.

As the pulse of the massive wheel fades in my mind, I exhale. Today could have gone much worse, but the only reason it didn’t is what’s concerning me now. It’s time to stop hiding from this.

I have to figure out exactly what happened to me during the Iudicium.

I have to talk to Veridius.

XXXI

DEATH, EIDHIN ONCE INSISTED WHILE EXPLAINING THE ddram cyfraith, is our most important horizon. It matters because we need an end to what we can see. Without it we would drift, overwhelmed, nothing to orient ourselves against. Without it, we would never be able to focus on what is truly important: that which is in front of us.

That discussion comes to mind again as I watch the pallid stream of ceding, faceless iunctii shuffle through Neter-khertet, all but their eyes wrapped in white cloth, and even that tinted jade by the virulent illumination that seeps from every edge of the surrounding mirrorlike black surfaces. Duat’s roof sits a thousand feet above, distantly echoing the colour and motion of its captives below. An eternal, roiling green night sky above the massive western district that houses its dead.

Ahmose and I mimic the shambling crowds. Eyes down, focused on the faint reflection of whoever is in front of us. No talking. Just movement from one place to another as we pretend to the strange, semi-willing slavery of this place.

“Siamun. There’s an Overseer.” The nervous murmur from Ahmose is soft enough that it reaches only my ears.

Vek. I don’t look up, don’t pause in my steady shuffling. “How far?”

“A hundred or so cubits.”

I let my eyes flicker forward about fifty feet. A woman with her face uncovered, dressed in black. A motionless island, openly scanning the stream of other iunctii as they flow around her. Each of them unwraps their head covering as they pass, allowing her inspection. “Time for a detour.”

“Me?” Ahmose is, typically, nervous. “Again?”

“Don’t worry. You’re very good at this part.”

“Condescending kataht.” His whisper’s somewhere between amusement and panic, but leaning toward the latter. Not really the type to use quips to ease his tension. “Fine. Next alley.”

We walk for another ten seconds. The Pyramid of Ka looms ahead, towering in the distance above even the tallest buildings. Its gold-highlighted surface always motionless, long stairway completely empty. Protected, Ahmose assures me, by hundred-foot-high walls that pulse with mutalis.

I still haven’t been close enough to confirm it myself. It’s on the eastern side of the river, where the living reside. It may as well be a world away.

Ahmose breaks from the column; it takes all of a heartbeat for the Overseer to notice the figure sliding away into the relative dim of the alley. The dead scatter before her as she bursts into motion, arrowing after Ahmose. She knows as well as we do that there are no ways out here, no shortcuts. Neter-khertet is a prison; everywhere the green light touches is built to funnel traffic along the main roads. There are only closed doors down that way.

Neither she nor the dozens of passing denizens look around as I follow.

A quick right corner and we’re away from prying eyes. Ahmose has stopped—more from necessity than anything else, with the way ahead a tall wall of smooth, reflective black—and the Overseer is almost upon him.

“Display your face.” The words are emotionless and empty as they seep from her lips.

Ahmose falls to his knees. He must see me over her shoulder, but we’ve done this plenty of times before, and he knows to keep his gaze fixed firmly on her. “Glory to the Lord of Maat, Overseer. Must I?”

“Yes. It is a necessity that—”

She cuts off, a small flinch as my hand touches the back of her neck. Confusion. The barest hint of physical resistance.

And then, nothing.

It’s easy for me now. Almost effortless after weeks of constant necessity. None of the disorientation, none of the mental dissonance or queasiness I used to get. I use her surprise to connect, then instruct her not to communicate anything that may raise suspicion. To obey my commands fully, answer my questions with truthful detail, and remain still.

“Why are you checking identities here tonight?” It’s easier to communicate aloud. More natural. I say it in Vetusian. I haven’t spoken Common in months.

“Potential sighting of fugitive Ahmose al Maq two hours ago. This was an anticipated direction.” Monotone.

Vek. “Was it confirmed?”

“No. Report of matching description only.”

One of the other residents must have spotted Ahmose without his face covering, then. “Are there any other Overseers nearby?”

“No. Sighting was considered unreliable, and another was reported in the riverside district.”

Ahmose has moved back up to us, chiselled features still hidden beneath his wrappings, joining me behind the woman. Cautious, if less categorically fearful than he once would have been.

He glances at me, and I nod. The diversion we arranged has paid off, at least.

“Do you know of any plans to capture Ahmose al Maq?”

“No.”

“Can you find out?”

“No. I am an investigative iunctus only. That information is inaccessible.”

The same answer I’ve had a dozen times, but I had to ask. As far as I can tell, Ka isn’t alerted by these fruitless queries.

Ahmose shuffles behind me. He knows as well as I do that detaining the Overseer for any length of time is risky; every extra second it spends away from its assigned task could be one Ka realises something is wrong.

“Do you have any recent information on someone called Netiqret?”

A pause. Her eyes flash black. “There are eleven residents registered to that name. One requested an extra allocation of grain due to the growth of her children. No other reports.”

I grunt, displeased but unsurprised, and then ask several more quick questions. Standard ones, ones I’ve asked a dozen other iunctii, not expecting any different answers and not receiving them.

Eventually, I focus and give the Overseer my parting instructions. She’s to remember remaining at her post for her allotted time and seeing nothing unusual. Afterward, she made some enquiries and believes we may have found an alternate route closer to the western wall. She will suggest that future blockades focus there.

I release her, walking carefully around so that she never sees me as she turns to go back the way she came; my head wrappings are secure and she shouldn’t report any of this, but that doesn’t mean it’s worth taking chances. I don’t take back my imbuing, either. Thanks to Caeror’s Vitaerium I have enough Will to imbue two iunctii now, and as long as Ahmose and I are in the vicinity, it’s wise to maintain access to her.

The dead woman drifts away, her black robe faintly tinted by the green, a jade shadow in the polished black street beneath her.

She rounds the corner, and disappears from view.

“We’re safe,” I tell Ahmose.

“Hm.” An unconvinced response, as usual. Still uneasily focused on where the Overseer vanished.

I sigh and clap him on the back, making him start. Ahmose is far from the bravest man I know, but it’s hard to begrudge him his anxiety; the Concurrence has been searching for him—distributing his description, setting up checkpoints like the one we just avoided—since that first night I set him free.

And as Ahmose has continued to evade capture, our options have gradually decreased. More Overseers, more checkpoints. Random searches of Neter-khertet, building to building. Only my ability, and the fact that everyone here is a iunctus, has saved us thus far.

But we can both feel the net slowly closing around us.

We make our way back onto the main street, rejoining the slow stream of bodies and passing the Overseer without issue. Duat’s west lours green around us, mute but for the shuffling of feet. The distant roof to the east reflects a golden glow, almost orange, from the Pyramid of Ka. Softer and deeper than an hour ago. It adapts to the time of day, on that side of the river. It’s the equivalent of dusk in here.

A few more turns and then we detach again from the main flow, which has already thinned as the weary dead return to their abodes. All the equivalent of Octavii, from what I can tell: there are no clear pyramids here but every single one of them is seemingly ceding to either Ka’s priests, or his officials, or the Ka-shabti, or even other more privileged iunctii. We merit no interest from them as we slide away down an echoing street, hurrying to the base of one of the two great Colossi of Ka that guard the exit of this district.

“You’re sure about this?” Ahmose cranes his neck to take in the brooding stare of Duat’s ruler, flicking his thumb with his little finger. A sure sign that he’s doing everything he can to keep his nerves under control.

I don’t respond, carefully examining the black stone that sits at the base of the hundred-foot statue on the right.

“Ka-sheut. Siamun?” The sound of several sandals slapping against Duat’s hard streets. Not far away.

“I’m looking.” I ignore the steadily increasing sound and locate the familiar set of symbols, sitting slightly apart from the inscription. Rapidly stab the combination Caeror had me memorise. Each glyph glows a brief green beneath my finger before fading.

There’s a soft grinding, and then a panel in the ground is folding away.

“Done.” I let Ahmose lead us down the white-lit stairs, quickly jabbing the symbol to close the entrance again as we pass, and exhaling as Neter-khertet’s dark emerald streets vanish behind us. We reach the bottom quickly. The triangular passageways of Duat’s underbelly stretch away, lit by relieving cool white rather than the ubiquitous green of above. I grin at Ahmose. “Told you we could make it.”

He sniffs. “Yes. You had it completely under control.” Making a valiant effort at cheer but eyes still twitching, unease still in every line.

We walk for a few minutes, me carefully tracking the openings we pass and comparing them to the map in my head. It’s not quite the Labyrinth, down here, but the maddening uniformity of it all means that losing track of our position would still be a very big problem.

“You never did answer my question before, you know. Before we left.”

“Hm.” I’m only half paying attention, mentally checking off another passageway on our right. “Which was?”

“What makes you so sure we can trust this Netiqret?”

“He helped someone get out of the city. If he knew how to do that, maybe he knows how to get us across the bridge,” I answer absently.

An exhalation from Ahmose. “That is called knowledge, Siamun. I asked why we should trust him.”

“We shouldn’t.” I slow as we come to our exit. Turn to face him. “But we both know we can’t survive much longer in the west.”

Ahmose’s expression is the dubious one he makes every time I talk about Netiqret. I’ve been searching for the man for weeks, ever since I finally accepted that some of Caeror’s information about Duat’s tunnels was catastrophically out of date. They still exist—Ahmose and I would have been caught long ago otherwise—but their route beneath the Infernis is gone. The underground passageways that should have led beneath the deadly river are completely choked with white stone. Old, I think—the thick layers of dust and grime suggest decades—but solid and cut to fit, very deliberately blocked. I spent days trying to clear a way through anyway, without even a hint of success. I suspect I could spend a lifetime and arrive at the same result.

Which leaves one way, and one way only, to access the eastern half of Duat.

We approach the doorway at the end of the tunnel. “You could still try to command the Overseers to let us across.”

I just shake my head, a tired response to a conversation we’ve had a hundred times. “I can control two at a time. Maximum. And you said yourself, there’s never less than a half dozen guarding the entrance on either side.” Controlling one Overseer doesn’t allow me to alter what the others know, either, I’ve found. They’re just as Caeror described them. Tools to relay information. Semi-autonomous limbs answering to a distant, inaccessible mind.

My thoughts flash briefly to the friend I left behind in Qabr, as they have so often over the past weeks. Guilt and hope mixed in the remembrance. He wasn’t captured, otherwise these old ways beneath Duat would have been compromised long ago. But I also know that if he was faced with being taken by the Gleaners, he would have rendered himself useless to Ka before allowing it.

I trust again, desperately, that he found a way out.

Ahmose grimaces but doesn’t dispute or complain, for once, as I start tapping the glyphs to remove the obsidian wall blocking our way. The shaven-headed man with the large hazel eyes has been a mercurial companion, at times, these past six weeks. Jumpy and irritable, often difficult to convince to go along with even a simple plan of action. Unconsciously wary of me, too, I think. Hard to blame him for that.

And to be fair, I did consider—seriously consider—imbuing him, during our first, tense week together here. Finally hidden in the relative safety of the tunnels, Ahmose balled up and all but refusing to move as he tried to contemplate what he had been meant to become. To accept that this wasn’t some divine test, and that the afterlife he had been promised was not the afterlife Ka actually intended for him. I explained what I could about his false god and how maat, the laws of Duat and supposedly the universe, were nothing but a means of control. Railed, and cajoled, and pleaded with him for days to pull himself together. He was in too fragile a state to leave alone for long but I needed food, and water, and to get my bearings in case the tunnels were not as abandoned as I hoped. My forays away from him were brief and largely unsuccessful. It would have been so easy to command him to obedience, even just temporarily.

But Ahmose is not like the Overseers or the Gleaners. He is not a mindless tool of Ka. And as Eidhin would say, there has to be a line.

I step back from the glowing glyphs as I hit the last one, the two of us relaxing only once the dark stone folds away to reveal an empty street beyond. I slap the iunctus on the shoulder, making him flinch and glare around at me. I grin back and push him forward. Glad, again, that I made the decision I did. For all his testiness, Ahmose is also brave when it matters. Determined. He knows I’m an enemy of Ka, knows I’m planning something, and is increasingly intent on helping.

He’s become a true companion. A real companion, flaws and frustrations and all. I’ve needed that, hiding like a rat beneath the living tomb of Neter-khertet.

“The building the message told us to meet behind won’t be far. It’s right near another tunnel entrance. Next to the river. We should be safe.” The banks of the Infernis are generally avoided, even by the iunctii. It’s no secret what will happen to anyone who falls in.

We make our way along quiet green-lit streets, the heavy menace of Neter-khertet glowering around us. It’s not just the colour meshed with the darkness of the obsidian surface. It’s that it’s so clean. So unremarkable in its uniformity. There are no cracks, no scars on any surface. There are statues and obelisks, astounding colonnades and temples inscribed with thousands of intricate gilded symbols. But it is all oddly characterless. Lifeless.

It embodies Duat’s western half so well, I suppose, that it’s impossible for its inhabitants to ever forget its purpose.

I lead us around a corner and down a series of stairs, quickly reaching the deserted courtyard behind the building. The river is visible from here, not a hundred feet away, the warning green lines running along its depths illuminating the rushing water. Another option I’ve considered, and reconsidered, and discarded each time. It’s one and a half miles wide, at least. Certainly swimmable. But even if it wouldn’t mean leaving Ahmose behind, and even if Caeror’s extra Vitaerium protected me enough that my body did not succumb to the poisons in the water, it’s too open. I would almost certainly be seen.

“There’s the entrance.” I nod to the seemingly blank wall as we stop. No way to open it from out here, but I did use this exit a few weeks ago. It was the easiest route out after another discovery of a filled-in tunnel.

“You think it’s a coincidence?”

“I doubt it.” The way beneath the river might be blocked off, but there are plenty of other areas in Neter-khertet this tunnel can reach. And Netiqret, from what little I’ve been able to glean, is nothing if not private. I close my eyes, check the location of the Overseer I’m still imbuing. She’s to the north, perhaps twenty minutes away. I instruct her to move in this direction as far as she can without raising any suspicion.

We wait in uneasy silence, undisturbed, for a while. Alternately watching the entrance I know is there, and the eerie green luminescence of the Infernis. From somewhere across the water, the wails and chants of a funerary procession echo to us.

“These iunctii appear to be from not long after the Rending,” I mutter suddenly.

At my side, Ahmose twitches uneasily. “What?”

“I …” I blink. Brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Sorry. Lost in thought.” There was more there, too, for a second. Gone now. A strange phrase to have so absently jumped to mind, though.

He casts me a confused, mildly worried glance, but before either of us can say more, there’s a soft grinding and we both tense as the triangular door I knew was there folds away, revealing access to the illuminated set of glinting black stairs.

The woman waiting on the other side looks to be in her fifties, perhaps older. Handsome and poised, more than a few touches of grey in her black hair, which is a thick, shoulder-length bob. She smiles. Her eyes, shadowed with makeup, do not as they sweep the area.

Behind her there’s movement, and to my vague consternation I spot a small child. A girl, not more than ten years old. A cherubic face and long hair plaited into three strands, one down her back and one over each shoulder. She stands oddly, unnaturally patient, her hands clasped behind her back. Just watching as the older woman finally speaks.

“Thank you for coming.” Vetusian, but it’s a rich, cultured accent, clipped and precise. “I trust you had no trouble getting here?”

“None,” I assure her before Ahmose can reply.

“Good.” The woman assesses our surrounds once more. “Remove your head coverings.”

Ahmose and I do so. The woman considers us, then steps back and bows her head. The child with her leans forward and whispers something in her ear.

“Neither of you arranged this meeting with Netiqret.” She addresses me, apparently deciding I’m in charge.

“I did. Just not in person.”

Her lips purse. “And how did you come by his name?”

“It was mentioned by a friend.”

“The name of this friend?”

“Djedef.”

She frowns. Bends down to listen to something else the girl has to say, then straightens and nods a curt acknowledgement to me. “Come.” Without waiting for a response, she swivels and starts back into the yawning stairwell.

“You’re taking us to Netiqret?”

“Yes.”

“What proof do we have?”

“None.” She hovers her hand over the symbol to shut the doorway. “If you need more, you are free to leave. But if you do, I would not try contacting him again.”

I exchange a glance with Ahmose, who gives a defeated sigh.

We step after the woman into the triangular tunnel.

XXXII

WE DESCEND AS THE DOOR FOLDS CLOSED BEHIND US, the woman and child leading. I find myself stooping, despite not technically needing to. Tighter than most of the tunnels we’ve been using, I can’t move more than a step or two to the left or right without hitting my head against the sloping roof.

“Where are we going?” I ask the question to the stranger’s back as we reach the bottom, taking careful note of our direction.

“To meet Netiqret.” The response is calm but brooks no follow-up.

We walk for minutes, taking several turns and moving into a section I haven’t been through yet. My mental map remains accurate, though, and my time at the Catenan Academy did nothing if not improve my memory for mazes. We will be able to get back out, with or without our current guide.

“These tunnels are a lot lower than the others.” Ahmose scowls and jerks away as his shaven head grazes the roof.

It’s small, but ahead, the woman twitches. Vek. A barely noticeable hesitation, but it’s clearly in response to Ahmose’s mutter. She knows we’ve had previous access to the tunnel network now.

“They were not made for the likes of us,” she says eventually.

Before I can ask what she means, we turn a corner and she brings us to a halt. The girl moves to the side of the tunnel, running her hands over the smooth black surface. To my surprise, a series of previously invisible glyphs abruptly glow there.

“What do you think?” I’ve dropped back slightly, murmur the words to Ahmose as our guide moves the child aside with a light touch to the shoulder, crouches, and starts pressing the symbols.

Ahmose’s gaze flashes nervously to the young girl. “I think she’s a Westerner.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes you can just tell.”

The woman finishes inputting her sequence and the dark stone slides away with a low grinding, revealing not more illuminated triangular tunnel but instead a grey stone passageway, clean-cut but unpolished, barely four foot high and not quite as wide.

“Through here.” The woman lets the girl go first, then follows her on hands and knees. “Quickly,” she snaps back brusquely as Ahmose and I look at each other. “The entrance will close in a few seconds.”

We follow, me bringing up the rear and barely getting inside before the obsidian grinds shut again. It’s not as utterly dark as it first appeared in here, I’m relieved to find; there’s some distant source of light up ahead, allowing Ahmose’s crawling in front of me to resolve in faint silhouette.

I take some steadying breaths as we clamber our way forward, the stone rough beneath my palms. Caeror’s maps never showed anything like this. On the one hand, that’s a concern; I’m going to have to take even more careful note of every turn we take from here on out.

On the other, it means Netiqret knows more about the city than I do. Which is exactly what I need.

After a minute there’s a rushing sound, faint at first but growing steadily louder. An enclosed, thundering echo. I’m just about to call questioningly over it when the increasing light around us gives way to a massive cavern, lit entirely in the same green as Neter-khertet. Far to our right is the source of the overwhelming noise: a constant torrent of water, crashing from the enveloping darkness above into a fast-flowing river perhaps a hundred feet wide that slides past us before, farther to our left, another deluge from the void above violently feeds it. I peer in both directions. There are at least three other waterfalls that I can see.

“Each of you hold one of these. Do not lose it. I do not have more.” The woman is pressing something into my hand. There’s a flush of energy, and when I look down I discover a scarab amulet sitting in my palm, near enough identical to the two still bound around my arm and hidden by my clothing. I close my fist around it tightly, covering my surprise and hoping she doesn’t notice Ahmose’s pointed look at me as he sees what he’s been given. “Stay as far away from the water as you can. Move quickly.” Our guide barks it over the roar, then sets off before either Ahmose or I can react further.

The grey, scarred stone underfoot becomes treacherously slippery as we edge closer to the nearest of the pillars of water, the constant fine mist from its exploding against the river highlighted in green, and suddenly thick and damp against my exposed skin as we hug the wall and begin moving through it.

With increasing intensity, it’s accompanied by a stinging sensation. I wipe my face anxiously, but the moisture is replaced within seconds. My lungs burn as I inhale it, and I cough.

“Ka-sheut,” curses Ahmose in a rasp behind me, having much the same reaction. “What is this?”

“Just keep moving,” the woman calls from ahead of us, a slight rasp to her voice. “It is only temporary.”

With little choice we press on, soon making it past the edge of the haze. We navigate two more clouds, coughing and rasping, the cavern’s length stretching on, before finally the river begins to shrink, smaller culverts angling off the main flow and leeching its water into dark holes in the wall. Thin, ungainly bridges allow us to cross these side-streams, though we do so with plenty of caution. Even the woman guiding us seems not to trust the ancient-looking, cracked grey stone beneath our feet.

As we cross another and round a bend in the cavern, Ahmose suddenly slows ahead of me.

“Ka take us,” he murmurs. “Who could make such a thing?”

I follow his gaze. Slow as well. “The better question is, who could destroy it?” I mutter.

Up ahead, the cavern finally ends, but not in a wall like the ones around us. Instead the way is clogged by rubble and wreckage, great boulders surrounding the rusting remains of some kind of massive construction. Steel thicker than a man’s body juts twisted and crumpled from the stone, snaking upward into the concealing gloom. Only its base remains clear, several more holes sucking the remaining water greedily into their darkness.

Our guide hasn’t paused, is apparently unfazed by the sight as she angles us toward the debris that, I realise, will allow us to clamber across to the other side of the flow. I push Ahmose gently back into motion. Heart quickening.

It’s been hard to tell for certain but if my mental map is right, we’ve been following the path of the Infernis above.

This might be a way to the east.

I examine the ruins of the massive device as we draw closer. Hints of huge cogs in amongst it all, though everything is so damaged and corroded it’s hard to tell. It reminds me a little of the sketches I’ve seen of some of the great machines the Hierarchy built with Will, the ones used in mining and other areas I’ve had no cause to see in person. We studied them at the Academy. Emissa once noted one of them appeared to be a giant middle finger, constantly raising from and retracting into a clenched hand. Praeceptor Nequias was furious for the rest of the class when none of us—not even Iro—could restrain our smirks whenever he referred us to the diagram.

The sight, the memory, brings a twinge. Is the version of me in Res relaxing somewhere with Emissa, right now? Laughing with Callidus and Eidhin? Or did he somehow manage to win the Iudicium and find a peaceful escape to the embassy in Jatiere? Caeror’s words ring true again and again as I navigate this place, this world. Once, I would have given anything to be free of the Hierarchy.

But things can always be worse.

I take a deep, acidic breath and square my shoulders, following the woman and child as they begin the somewhat precarious journey across the rubble. I may not like where I have ended up, but without me, there will be no better life—here or in Res—if I don’t succeed.

“What is this place?” My curiosity finally overcoming the woman’s very obvious lack of desire to talk to us. “Are we beneath the Infernis?”

“Yes.”

I examine the rushing torrents we’re making our way over, and then the streams of water plummeting from the darkness in the distance. “So this is some sort of overflow.” I’ve seen the water level of the Infernis rise and fall constantly in the valley outside the city, but above us, in Duat, it never seems to change. I picture the massive waterfall on the northern exterior of the black pyramid, where the river spouts from Duat and almost immediately drops a hundred feet. “It funnels the excess down here, then connects again outside the city?” The relative elevations would make sense.

She gives me a shrewd look. “I am told some of this water feeds the wells. Other than that, I wouldn’t know.”

I reexamine the channels disappearing beneath our feet. There are only a few wells in Neter-khertet, though I know from Ahmose that they are far more common in the east. Clean water, available to all for washing or drinking. But the Westerners don’t need it for the latter. “How is it made safe?”

Our guide either doesn’t hear or, more likely, ignores me. And probably doesn’t know the answer either way. I let it drop.

Soon enough we’re across the main flow, then choking our way back through two more green-tinged clouds before the woman finally opens a relatively small gate made of obsidian bars, gesturing us through. Inside is dim, lit only by the shimmering green from the rushing water outside. I peer into the gloom, straining to see anything beyond Ahmose’s silhouette and austere grey walls.

Behind us, there’s a booming sound.

I spin. Curse. Dive. Too late. The stately stranger and child stand on the other side of the barred gate, and I know even before I slam into it and try yanking it open that it’s locked.

“So. Now we can talk,” says the woman, holding up the key she just used to lock us in before tucking it into a pocket. “And make your answers honest. You were most astute in your observation before; these ways serve as an overflow for the Infernis, when the great storms to the south swell it beyond what should flow through Duat above. That happens every few days, and when it does, the space you are in is flooded.” She shrugs, leaving us to extrapolate the remainder.

Vek. I’d considered trying to surreptitiously imbue the girl at her side, based on what Ahmose said earlier, but it felt wrong because of her age. I’m regretting my delicateness now. “We’ve been nothing but truthful.” I keep my tone calm and steady. As much for Ahmose’s sake as my own; I can see my companion’s inevitable panic coming from the corner of my eye. I study the woman’s evident sense of control. Suddenly frown. “You’re Netiqret, aren’t you.”

Only a flicker of irritation to indicate I’ve guessed correctly. She squints through the bars as if we’re a puzzle to be solved. “And your companion is Ahmose al Maq. Iunctus and fugitive from Ka. While you … you do not appear to exist. What is your name?”

“Siamun.” The name Ahmose and I decided upon, when it became clear I wasn’t going to be able to complete my task with the alacrity I’d hoped. Face wrappings can’t hide a name that sounds notably unusual.

“Well, Siamun. I must admit, when I heard someone was asking to see me, I assumed you were a new type of iunctus. Some new trick of Ka’s. I do not usually have clients on this side of the bridge.”

“Clients?”

Netiqret cocks her head to the side. “I assume you are seeking the services of a mesektet?”

I don’t know the word, but when I glance across at Ahmose, I can see immediately that he does. There’s a tightening of his jaw.

Whatever Netiqret is, he doesn’t like it.

“Ah.” Netiqret sees it too. “Ah. Well. That is interesting. If you are not after my services, then why have you been asking for me? And how did you get my name?” Her shadowed brown eyes bore into mine. Unflinching. A hard woman, beneath her refined façade. She’s genuinely not letting us out unless she’s satisfied.

I step up to the bars, spreading my hands in a careful display of nonaggression. “We just need to get across to the other side of the river. I wasn’t lying about where I got your name. I got it from a man named Djedef. He said you helped him escape the city, and I thought if you knew how to get someone outside, perhaps you had a way of getting around which the Overseers didn’t know about.” I gesture to the space outside. “Which seems like it was a good guess.”

A long pause. Netiqret expressionless as she considers, tapping long, elegant fingers together. “You’re saying you are from the desert.”

“Yes.”

Netiqret doesn’t react. “Ka has been taking a keen interest in your friend. Is that why?”

“No. When I arrived, I helped him escape. From … being made into something like an Overseer.”

“But worse,” adds Ahmose from behind me.

Again, a long silence as Netiqret assesses. I press against the bars. “Look. We came in good faith—”

“You came shouting my name to anyone who would listen. Which is the opposite of courteous, in my profession. And I do not know what has possessed you to make this claim of yours, but you are not from outside. No one is from outside, and I have never helped anyone leave Duat. I am not so cruel as that.” Her voice is hard.

Vek. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know why Djedef said you helped him, but he did.” Djedef wasn’t able to lie when he was being questioned by Caeror. Could it be another Netiqret who assisted him? It seems unlikely. “He did think you were a man, though.”

“Men always do.”

I make a face. “Could you have assisted him without actually meeting him, though? He was wearing one of these.” I hold up the scarab medallion she gave us earlier.

She doesn’t fall into the trap of coming close enough for me to reach through the bars at her. Still, there’s something in her expression. The barest hint of hesitation. “I do not part with khepri so easily.”

“You seem happy to part with at least two.” I lower my gaze to the scarab image in my hand. I’m in shadow, head slightly bowed. Hopefully she cannot see my eyes, and if she can, does not know what their darkening means.

I imbue the amulet.

I’ve done something similar before. A thought experiment with Caeror to prove how different Adoption makes the rules, here. The Academy taught us that imbued objects are inviolable, immune from another’s Will until the original imbuing Will is removed. But in Obiteum, that is simply untrue.

It’s unfortunate that Obiteum’s rules also mean I can’t make a weapon out of it, the way I could back home on Res. But I don’t think I need to right now, anyway.

“They will be easy to collect again soon enough.” It’s happened in a second and as far as I can see, without causing suspicion. Netiqret’s gaze flits between Ahmose and me, then she shakes her head impatiently, the beads of her broad collar swaying with the motion. “It will take many hours for this room to fill, Siamun. Your death will be slow. Perhaps when I return tomorrow, if fate has been kind, you will have another opportunity to convince me of who you are.” She turns as if to walk away.

“Wait.” She pauses, and I lean forward. Flip the amulet to her. She catches it neatly, a genuinely surprised look on her face. “A gift.”

She examines it suspiciously. “You will die sooner, without this.”

I shrug. “I’ve told you the truth, so soon is better than slow.”

Her brow furrows. Then she snorts and, with a guiding hand on the young girl’s shoulder, strides from sight.

“Tell me you have a plan.” Ahmose’s voice is small behind me.

“Shh.” I close my eyes and focus. My sense of the amulet is vague, but strong enough to be sure it’s genuinely retreating. “Alright. She’s gone.”

“And we are going to dissolve.”

“We are not going to dissolve, Ahmose,” I tell him patiently. “I’m still controlling the Overseer. She’s on her way down here.”

“Oh.” An exhalation of pure relief. “And we’re already in the east now, so all we need to do is find a way up, and—”

“No.” Even if we can find the way out—and I’m not convinced we can—I’d have to start again, up there. Hide constantly. Use my ability to slowly figure out some plan to get me into Ka’s temple. But I’ve already wasted so much time. “Netiqret called herself something, before. A mesektet.” I make it a question.

Ahmose’s face scrunches into a mask of distaste. “She’s an assassin.”

“She’s paid to kill people?”

“She’s paid to kill people neatly.” Ahmose sees my confusion and sighs. “You understand the role of Westerners who are allowed back into the east, yes?”

“They’re servants, for those who can afford them.” That’s been my understanding, at least. “Sometimes for very successful artisans or merchants, but mostly for priests and government officials.”

“And the Ka-shabti.”

It’s my turn to make a face. Ahmose has told me about the Ka-shabti at length, given he once crafted amulets and other jewellery almost exclusively for them. People who volunteer to live in a walled-off district of the city. Surrounded by luxury and excess, free to pursue their own interests but never required to work. Every need, every whim catered for by Westerners.

Until they are chosen to be sacrificed, that is.

“And the Ka-shabti,” I agree, trying not to show too much distaste.

The iunctus flicks absently at his thumb. “Sometimes, a member of the living will … catch someone else’s eye, I suppose. A particularly strong man, or a beautiful woman, or a skilled performer. Someone a member of the particularly wealthy desires to own. But they are alive. They are allowed rights, are protected by law. What are they to do?”

My stomach twists as I understand what he’s saying. “So Netiqret assassinates people who other people want?”

Ahmose nods, a little grimly. “Once they are dead, enough coin in the right priest’s pocket ensures their assignment to the east, to the right family.” His disapproval is thick, I’m glad to hear. Ahmose and I differ on many things, but this … this would have been too much to ignore.

I try to take it in. Murdering someone for money, because someone else wants to enslave their corpse. “Rotting gods. That’s what you meant by ‘neatly.’ They want the bodies to look good?”

“A mesektet uses poison, usually, I’ve heard. They’re meant to have toxins which mimic a natural, peaceful death.”

“And they would have to make sure they were never seen.” I nod slowly. It’s repulsive, but Netiqret must know everything there is to know about the layout of the city, to do this job. Know every secret way, even beyond the tunnels I’m aware of. “Else their victims would be able to identify them.”

Ahmose watches me. “You still wish to deal with her?”

I close my eyes. I’ve conveyed to the Overseer how to reach us; she’s already loping her way to the underground canal. “‘Wish to’ is a strong way of putting it, but I don’t think we have a choice.” I switch to focusing on my faint sense of the amulet. Netiqret and her young companion haven’t gone far, aren’t moving fast, but they’ve already left the main tunnel. Hopefully, I can find the passage they’re using and catch them before they vanish.

We wait for another minute, neither of us saying anything. Then Ahmose stirs. “You’ve really never made me do anything?”

There’s a gravity to his abrupt question that cuts through my thoughts. I look at him. “You don’t remember?”

“Siamun.” He watches the river through the bars. It’s been bothering him for a while, I think.

I chuckle. “No, Ahmose. Gods. No.”

“Why not? You used your power on Ibi.”

“He works the upper level, and I still need to eat. Besides, you were there—I tried talking to him first. I only did what I did when he couldn’t be reasoned with.”

“And if I can’t be reasoned with, one day?”

“One day?” When he frowns, I quickly raise my hand in apology. Too accustomed to making my own amusement at the expense of his lack of humour. “No. Never. Rule a man, and he will do whatever you can imagine. Befriend him, and he will do more.”

Gods, I miss my father.

Ahmose finally looks at me. Nods slowly.

I hold his gaze, then sigh. He needs more, and I need him to trust me. “Truth? It crossed my mind, that first day. I wasn’t sure you were ever going to be able to handle knowing about the Gleaners.” Those, I soon discovered, are considered little more than a myth in Duat. “But there are lines I don’t wish to cross. Perhaps I could have justified it to myself. Perhaps. But that’s the point. I would have had to justify it to myself.”

Before he can respond there’s a shadow at the gate, and the black-clothed Overseer is standing on the other side. Not looking at us—she’s being obviously controlled, and if anyone has noticed, the last thing we need is her seeing our faces. But ready to obey.

I instruct her, and with a quick wrench she removes the gate from its hinges. Like the Gleaners, the Overseers seem able to self-imbue for strength, just as if they were in Res. Connected directly to Ka, I have to assume. I’ve tried myself, several times over the past months, without the same success.

“Let’s go,” says Ahmose, starting for the open way.

“Not yet.” I focus. Brace myself for the perception-distorting sickness of seeing through the Overseer’s eyes, then set off again immediately. She dashes along the side of the canal, following my sense of the amulet, her imbuing enabling her to ignore the noxious mists just as Ahmose and I did. I can vaguely hear Ahmose muttering something unfavourable in my ear, but whatever he’s saying, I ignore it. Keep my attention on catching Netiqret.

It doesn’t take long. The passageway leading in the direction of the amulet is an obvious one; I push the Overseer through it, quickly finding an entrance back into familiar, well-lit triangular tunnels. I’m not sure exactly where I am but it doesn’t matter; I follow my sense of Netiqret’s khepri medallion for another minute until finally, I turn a corner to spot two figures ahead.

I slow, and command the Overseer to call out. “Netiqret!”

The tall, elegant woman spins. Hand going to her belt as she glances immediately at the girl, who shakes her head silently and murmurs something I can’t hear, expressionless. Netiqret slowly turns back. Watches my approach. “With whom am I talking?” Remarkably poised, given the circumstances.

“Your good friend Siamun. The one you very rudely left locked up a few minutes ago.” I take a playful, chiding tone. Convey control, despite being surprised. She knew this wasn’t an Overseer. “You never gave me a chance to negotiate.”

An odd mixture of relaxing, additional tension, and excitement from Netiqret. She adjusts one of the rings on her fingers as she studies me. “This is very dangerous, Siamun,” she says eventually. “If Ka should realise one of his Overseers has wandered away, he will see my face.” Still perfectly calm.

“You didn’t leave me with much choice.”

“True.” Her hawklike brown eyes study me hungrily. “You are controlling this iunctus directly?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I know, in that moment, that I have her. Given what she does, given her need for secrecy and the immense benefit this ability of mine would give her … she sees the power of it immediately.

“I would prefer to talk about that face-to-face, if you don’t mind. We can come to you,” I add cheerfully.

She coughs a half-rueful, half-impressed chuckle this time. Glances again at the small child by her side, whose braids swing as she shakes her head at some unvoiced question. “You’re right. Perhaps I acted in haste. A face-to-face meeting is in order. But first, we must make the circumstances a little safer.” She smiles at me. Steps forward. “I shall wait for you here, Siamun.”

Before I can instruct the iunctus to react, her blade is flashing upward.

XXXIII

I, WHO REST HERE, WAS NAMED BELLI. A CHILD WHO LOVED LEARNing and competing, and excelled at both. Taken through violence by the enemies of my beloved Catenan Republic. Proconsul Volenis erected this monument to his dearly departed daughter.

The fields of the dead stretch around me. Silent and still in the cool summer morning, the looming crypt-dotted mountainside of the Necropolis to my left. The Eternal Fires crackle in the distance as I read the words on the six-foot-high tombstone again. Let my gaze linger on the familiar face intricately Will-carved beneath, near lifelike curls framing it. Belli looks back at me proudly.

“Thought I might find you here.”

I don’t turn at Emissa’s quiet voice from behind. “I missed their funerals.”

“You were unconscious. Nearly dead.”

I nod. We both know why.

Silence again. The corners of my vision are filled with other tombstones. Pristine too. Covered with names and stories I know too well.

Seventeen, in all. Buried together in a place of honour.

And these were only the ones whose families don’t have mausoleums.

“She would be so angry to know you ended up in Governance anyway.”

I breathe a soft laugh. “She would say I did it to avoid the competition.” I still to this day feel a little guilty, using her like that. Her desire to remove me as a rival beyond the Academy—not to mention the benefit in goodwill her father would have seen in Sytrece, where he is nominally Military, but depends heavily on Governance favour to operate—was too easy to exploit. “I saw her, you know. When I ran the Labyrinth during the Iudicium.” I rise to my feet, gaze finally turning to Emissa. “It wasn’t the Anguis.”

She’s staring at Belli’s carved face too. Composed, but I know her too well, can read her eyes.

Grief and guilt, just below the surface.

“Come on,” is all she says, eventually tearing herself away. “We don’t have long.”

We’re alone in the sun as gravel crunches beneath our slow footsteps. “Why are we here, Emissa?” It’s been almost two months since Placement. I sent her a message as soon as it was over, letting her know that I was ready.

She sent three words of response. Festival of Jovan. And a Will-imbued stylus, which had lain motionless atop a blank wax tablet for weeks until a few days ago. With tensions close to exploding in the city, despite the ongoing festival—events breaking out into bursts of violence more often than not, now—I’d genuinely started wondering whether I was ever going to hear from her.

When I pushed through the crowds and got on the Transvect this morning, though, this was the last place I expected it to stop.

“I told you in my message. To talk to the Anguis prisoner.”

I go to express my disbelief, then hesitate. Military’s control over Agerus has always seemed a little strange to me. “They have cells here?”

“Very secret ones. You shouldn’t have brought the others.” Emissa sounds anxious as she adds the remonstrance, casting a glance back toward the anchoring point of the Transvect. The brooding monolith splits the skyline. We can’t see the Transvect itself, which is being realigned for the journey to Solivagus. Nor Livia, Aequa, or Eidhin, who will be waiting on the platform for me. “Veridius—”

“Veridius doesn’t get a choice.” Truth, though sneaking off to this meeting alone would have been all but impossible anyway. Livia was Tertius Ericius’s stipulation. Aequa was mine. And Eidhin, when he found out the plan, was his own.

Emissa’s mouth quirks in the smallest of wry smiles. An achingly familiar expression. I look away.

We walk without talking for a minute. Emissa leads us away from the graves, along the base of the mausoleum-covered mountainside. We are still alone.

“It was meant to be me,” she says suddenly, so quietly that I almost think she’s talking to herself. “Not Belli. Running the Labyrinth, I mean.”

I process it, then, “I’m glad it wasn’t.” Whatever has been lost between us, I want her to know that much.

She smiles sadly. Glances at me, and exhales. “I met Veridius when I was fourteen.” Quiet and heavy and slow. “He came to Villa Corenius to interview me. My tutors had been bragging about how well I was doing in my studies, and he’d heard. He was impressed, too. A few months later, between the Academy cycles that year, I was invited to visit Solivagus along with a few others. Belli, Iro, Prav. We stayed for the entire summer, and almost all we did was learn to run the Labyrinth.”

I grunt. Unsurprised. “He was preparing you for the real thing.”

“We didn’t know that, though. When I went home again, he told my father that he’d place me in Class Three, maybe even favour me for Domitor if I studied hard enough over the next couple of years—but only if I didn’t go through the Aurora Columnae until after I graduated. That was the price I had to pay for getting a head start.”

Our crunching footsteps echo off the stone cliff to our right. The path ahead is straight for hundreds of feet, no one along it. “Your father would have been happy.” Her stories of Magnus Quartus Corenius—who earned his long-overdue promotion, I heard, about a month ago—were inescapably about how hard he would drive her to succeed, before the Academy.

“He was. A little too much so.” She gives a small, melancholic smile. “He was planning to marry me off, before that, but after … that’s when he started pushing me. Every day. When he wasn’t there, our Dispensator had strict instructions to do the same. I was training or studying from waking to sleeping. Most days, I wouldn’t see the sun unless I was sparring or running.”

There’s no self-pity in the words, though I wouldn’t expect that of her. I knew some of this already, but she’s always glossed over it. A period of her life that was devoted to the monotony of education, and thus not worth a great deal of conversation. This is the first time I’m seeing it was something more. Something worse.

“I kept it up for nearly a year,” she continues. “And then it … started to get too much. I was lonely. Always tired. So my father decided that the best way to keep me focused was to put me through the Aurora Columnae anyway. Secretly, so that Veridius wouldn’t find out. That way I could have a few people cede to me, and focus for longer. Train harder.”

I grimace. It’s a big admission to make; the Magnus Quintus must have spent a fortune on bribes, because the penalties for sneaking someone through the rites are second only to violations of Birthright. Part of me wants to tell her how sad I am for what she was put through. I am sad for her. But I know her. Know she doesn’t want that. So I just listen.

“He made it happen, of course. Didn’t make me any happier, but it worked. Then after my application got accepted, Veridius asked me to come to the Academy a couple of months before first trimester began. I assumed it was going to be more training, that the others would be there again too. But it was just me.” She breathes out the memory. “He’d chosen me. Out of everyone, he said I was the best candidate. You have no idea how good that felt. The relief. Like the last two years hadn’t been for nothing. I didn’t even ask what I was a candidate for.”

She slows to a stop, though I can’t see why. The path ahead stretches on. “What is it?”

“We’re here.” She gestures to a triangular archway to our right. Set back into the shadow of the mountain and carved from the rock itself, almost invisible. It’s narrow. Old. The opposite of ostentatious. But it still very much looks like all the other tombs.

“Really?”

Emissa doesn’t dignify the question with a response, and I trail after her.

There are two lanterns hanging at the entrance; Emissa takes one and lights it. The warm yellow illuminates the triangular arch better, revealing an inscription across it. Vetusian, unusually. I study it. Mors janua vitae.

I freeze.

Emissa notices my pause. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what that means?”

Emissa glances at the inscription curiously. “Death … is the door to life?” Almost as good at reading Vetusian as I am.

Death is a doorway.

It could be coincidence. The quote here is a famous one, as far as Vetusian texts go.

Still.

“Does it mean something to you?” Emissa continues, turning her gaze back to me with a puzzled frown.

“Just seems a bit out of place, for the Republic.”

“I suppose.” Emissa gives me another look, unconvinced, but sees she’s not getting more out of me.

We walk into the narrow tunnel, only the pool of our lantern’s glow lighting the way. I briefly check my sense of imbued Will. Still something I have to focus on consciously, but it’s easy enough now. Emissa’s the closest beacon, but farther ahead, there are a few more faint ones. Sextii like me, I suspect. Self-imbued people feel very subtly different to imbued objects, I’ve found, though I still can’t quite express how.

Nothing concerning, though. I ignore the sensations again. “So you said Veridius chose you?”

“He did.” She seems reluctant to keep talking, but does anyway. “After I signed a Silencium, he showed me the ruins and told me that there was another Cataclysm coming. And that I might be able to stop it.” She laughs bitterly. “I’ll leave it up to him to explain that part. But after he was done, when I asked why he’d chosen me, he said that only someone who had never been through the Aurora Columnae could do it.”

I scowl. “You still think I won’t go if you give me all the answers?”

“I know you won’t.” She shrugs in a vague, non-apologetic sort of way. “Anyway. I told him straight away what my father and I had done. He was furious, but … I still wanted to help however I could, and he’d already shown me too much. So he got me to sign and imbue another document, admitting to the illegal use of the Aurora Columnae.”

“He still has it?” When she nods, I wince. “So he’s been using you, too.”

“No. I’m helping him.” Sharp reproof in her voice. “We made sure there would be nothing to link us, and then I was supposed to pick a position in Military that could get me the sort of access he’s been missing. I was meant to figure out what they know, and what they were planning to do about it. That’s why he arranged for a few Septimii to cede to me during the Iudicium. It’s why he told me about Indol defecting, too—just in case I had to use it against him. We were counting on me being Domitor.”

“Sorry.”

She huffs at my wry tone. “As you should be.”

We start down some gently sloping stairs. The glistening walls remind me of Letens Prison. Our footsteps echo.

“One thing I don’t understand,” I say eventually. “If this threat—this second Cataclysm—is real, why in all rotting hells would he not tell anyone about it?”

She looks across at me with amused affection. “Really? You’ve been in Caten long enough. You tell me.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. I knew the answer months ago. All I had to do was think about the powerful men and women I was busy getting to know. Imagine the chaos, the arguments. The power struggles cloaked as altruism that would result in nothing ever being achieved.

“Rotting gods-damned Senate,” I mutter.

I’m about to say more when suddenly there’s movement from the darkness ahead.

“Halt.” Red cloak and black eyes in the lantern-light. A cloud of obsidian daggers suddenly glitters in front of our faces. I have a moment of panic. Some part of me cannot help but see the tunnels in Suus. My father and I, stopped by a Praetorian just like this one.

“Quintus Corenius and Sextus Catenicus. We’re expected.” Emissa’s voice is unconcerned.

“Authorisation?”

Emissa produces a folded sheet and hands it to the man, who vanishes into the darkness behind the unmoving daggers. I examine them warily, little else to focus on. There are more than a dozen. Not impossible for a single Praetorian, but I’d bet there are at least two more assisting from the shadows.

We wait in tense silence; I want to ask Emissa what’s going on but she seems to have expected all this, so I hold my tongue. A minute passes.

Then I’m shielding myself from abrupt light, lanterns springing to life in unison along the hallway around us and ahead. The revealed passageway ends in an open doorway about thirty feet away, the two Praetorians guarding it watching us with black eyes and unmoving intensity. The first man, just in front of them, beckons us.

The hovering cloud of obsidian parts to allow us through, then re-forms and trails us until we step into the room. The small space is nondescript, plain stone walls surrounding a single desk with a lantern, quill and ink, and single sheet of paper waiting on it. Another door sits closed opposite.

“Sign the Silencium, Catenicus, and you may proceed,” says our chaperone, gesturing. The stone door booms shut behind us, and immediately the feel of the room changes. As if the air has suddenly grown dense. My skin crawls.

“Will cage,” murmurs Emissa before I can say anything.

I roll my shoulders at the oppressive, uncomfortable feeling. The protective mesh of Harmonically imbued metal triangles that now sits constantly around my torso remains firmly in place, unaffected given I’m inside the cage too. I knew that would theoretically be the case, but I hadn’t expected it to be tested until we reached the Academy.

I hide my relief—nothing illegal to what I’ve created, but it’s not much of an advantage if people know about it—and snatch up the paper. A quick scan shows familiar, standard language. If I talk about anything I see here, Military will have the legal right to put me in a Sapper. And so on, and so on.

I sign. I’ve put my name to so many of these things that it barely bothers me now. “Just me?”

“They already have mine.”

The Praetorian examines my signature, then opens the way forward. “You know how this works?”

“I do,” says Emissa before I can respond.

He nods. “Ten minutes.” We’re ushered through and the stone slides shut behind, hiding the Praetorian from view and sealing us in.

I come to a halt as I take in the next room. Smoke from two fresh torches vanishes through thin slits that must circulate the air down here. They light a room that’s about twenty feet in both width and length. More stone walls, though the stifling feeling of the Will cage has vanished.

The space ahead is empty, except for the angled stone slab in the centre of the room, and the man chained to it. An obsidian blade jutting from his chest.

My blood runs cold.

One of the corpses from the ruins on Solivagus? It’s my first thought, but one I dismiss as I take in the man. Deep lacerations cover his face, cleaned and bloodless though they are. He’s clothed, but where skin shows through it’s scratched as well, torn in places. His eyes are closed.

I recognise him. Don’t place from where, not at first. But then I see his neck. Swathed in bandages.

“Rotting gods.” I take a half step back. I remember him on the ground next to Callidus. Throat torn clean out. “He’s dead, Emissa.” Deep unease in my chest, even if I keep my voice steady.

She walks past me. “You remember what I told you, about why I stabbed you during the Iudicium?”

“Of course,” I say slowly.

She picks up something from beside the slab. A medallion. Thin stone, some kind of symbol engraved on it. A scarab, I think, from the glimpse I get.

She drapes it around the corpse’s neck. Steps back.

For a second, nothing happens.

And then the dead man’s eyes snap open.

I WATCH IN DETACHED HORROR AS PALLID SKIN BEGINS TO pull tight around dry wounds, leaving only thin, raw lines. The Anguis corpse rasps a breath and jerks. Thrashes. Issues a throttled moan of what could only be intense pain.

“Are you alright?” Emissa’s watching me more than the man. I’ve backed away several steps.

“What in the rotting hells?” I whisper it. “No, Emissa. I’m not alright. What is this?”

“This is the Necropolis. The real Necropolis. I told you about iunctii—well, Military found some pre-Cataclysm artifacts that can create them. Bring the dead back to life, and then these swords can force them to do whatever you tell them. To tell you the truth about anything they know.”

I say nothing, just staring at the grotesque form chained in front of me. “So if they really want to know something from someone who’s alive …”

“There’s a reason this place is so secret.”

“Gods’ graves.” I finally rip my gaze from the prisoner to her. Mind racing. An active temptation for Military to abuse Birthright. I wonder how often they resist it. “How did you get me approved to see this?”

“I didn’t. Veridius spoke to my father. Strings were pulled.” Her mouth twists. “The Praetorian wasn’t joking about the time limit, and I’ve been here before, so whatever questions you have—ask them now.”

I stare at her. Swallow numerous dazed objections, and turn back to the prisoner. His breathing has calmed, but he still wheezes awfully. His eyes are wide. Terrified as they stare into mine. “Can he even talk?”

“He can talk.”

Vek. I turn to the man. Some combination of horror and fury roiling as I lock eyes with the corpse of the man who killed my friend. “What is your name?”

“Antonius … Pius.” Wheezing and hoarse. Pained. Dragged unwillingly from his lips.

“Are you Anguis?”

A nod. The movement clear.

I glance at Emissa. “You’re sure he has to tell the truth?” Asking more to pause and steady myself, than to be sure.

“The truth as far as he knows. The truth according to him.”

I take a breath. Queasy, mind racing. At the least, I came here to confirm what the scarred stranger told me during the Iudicium, even if the truth of it seems to have been playing out in Caten’s politics. And I wanted to see exactly how the Anguis had managed to sow so much doubt using only a single prisoner’s admissions.

Now I know.

“The Anguis abandoned you, didn’t they. At the Iudicium.” It’s what Callidus said. That the man had been angry about being left behind.

A shake of the head. “I got … separated. Accident. Only had the tracking stone for … Catenicus. Knew they wouldn’t leave without … killing him.”

Beside me, Emissa frowns, but I ignore her. “But he wasn’t there.”

“He … was there.” He gasps it. Barely a whisper. “I … made him pay … for Melior.”

I stare for several seconds. Heart lurching. “The boy you …” Breath short. “The boy you tortured. Didn’t he tell you that he wasn’t Catenicus?”

“No. Admitted he … was.”

Oh, gods. Callidus. Gods-damned, courageous idiot.

To my side, Emissa’s expression twists in horror as she understands. Understands what happened and understands who this is as she puts a supporting hand on my arm. Eyes soft and sad. She didn’t know.

My vision swims and I turn away, just breathing, until I’m sure I can keep the welling tears from coalescing.

“How did you sneak onto Solivagus?” My voice shakes a little. It’s the anger, now, more than grief and more than the shock of speaking to a dead man. But I need to move on from that line of questioning. It will lead only to pain. And this isn’t an opportunity that will come again.

“Got close on a … ship. Big one. Will powered. Strange looking, modified. Obelisk instead … of a mast.” He groans and coughs, the rattling rasp echoing through the room. “They flew us over the … Seawall on platforms.”

I paste on a frown for Emissa’s sake, though it’s not too far from my guesses given the pieces I already had. The Navisalus. Relucia and her contact discussing using a ship as an anchoring point. I have no idea how the Seawall itself works, but from our dissection of Transvect mechanics under Praeceptor Scitus, I know that what Antonius is describing is possible. It’s how his comrades managed to escape, too, I imagine.

“What was the name of the ship?”

“Painted over.”

“Where did you leave from?”

“Thuaidh Island.”

I grunt. In the Sea of Quus, northern coast of Tensia. Uninhabited. “How did the Anguis get the resources to make something like this happen?”

His lip curls. Teeth blackened with flecks of dried blood. “Caten. Senators.” Some latent glee, even through the pain. “Your people.”

I’m silent. Visibly tense, reacting with carefully crafted shock and anger to the answer I knew he would give. Then, “What? No. You’re lying.”

“He’s not,” Emissa says quietly.

I let my fists clench and unclench. Pretend for Emissa’s benefit to a slowly dawning, confused fury. “Who, then? Which senators?” I growl.

He shakes his head. “Only … know we had help. Things I overheard. Rumours. We joked about it. The Hierarchy … killing its own.” He laughs. A choking, awful sound.

I don’t have to fake my anger at his reaction, this time.

I ask a few more rapid questions after that, the ones Emissa would expect of me, though I already know the result. Can he identify any other Anguis? He says he was newly recruited and that none of them knew one another’s true identities. Does he know of any Anguis hideouts? He gives the location of three, which I can only assume Military has long since raided. Did he see or overhear anything else that might be useful? He gives a series of observations that I assume have already been followed up. Probably leading initially to small victories that lend credence to his words, but after that, nowhere.

This was perfectly executed by the Anguis. No way to suggest that he’s trying to misinform. Enough information to leave no doubt about senatorial involvement, but not enough to point the finger at any one person or group.

“Almost time,” murmurs Emissa suddenly.

Antonius hears and something in him changes. His broken, scarred body tensing, trembling. Eyes roaming the room desperately before coming back to rest on me.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please.”

Behind us I hear motion at the door. A grinding as it starts to slide away. I don’t look away from him. Meet his gaze. The horror of this place, what is being done here, washing over me. The anguish of knowing that even in his last moments, Callidus protected me when I could not do the same for him. I’ve held it at bay these past ten minutes, but only just. Only just.

The metal shards sit just beneath my shirt. I could end this travesty before anyone could do anything about it. And I want justice for my friend.

“Are you suffering?” I ask Antonius quietly.

He nods. Tears in his eyes. “Yes.” Barely audible. Rasping. Rattling.

“Vis,” warns Emissa.

I ignore her. Walk up to him. He trembles at my approach. I lean in close, my mouth at his ear, so that only he can hear.

“Good.”

His plaintive, weeping moans follow us into the darkness.

XXXIV

“YOU KNEW ALREADY, DIDN’T YOU.”

Emissa’s the first of us to speak as we reach daylight again, finally departing the nightmare of Military’s prison and emerging back into the fresh air and solemnity of Agerus’s fields. I am lost in thought. Shaken and sad and outraged and vengeful. Almost don’t register that she’s spoken; when I do, I suck in a long breath and finally look up from my introspection. “I had no idea.”

“No. Not that. Not … what they do here.” She’s focused on the gravel path ahead. “You knew what he was going to say.”

I don’t answer for a long few seconds. She knows—knows me too gods-damned well. It doesn’t mean I have to admit it. I’m tempted not to.

But there’s something else that’s occurred to me, since we left the bowels of the Necropolis. She does know me too well.

“And you wanted me to come here.” Clarity of thought returning as we put distance between ourselves and what just happened, solidifying my certainty. What I saw in there confirms her story about her actions at the Iudicium more than anything she could have said, more than anything Veridius could possibly tell me.

It’s not something I think I would ever have truly believed, until I saw it for myself.

She smiles, just slightly. Still not looking at me.

I snort, then reflect the expression. Genuine, even if it’s one of chagrin. Vek. And here I was, mildly guilty about using her to get access to the prisoner. “I didn’t know all of it,” I say eventually. “But I’ve heard things. Enough to guess.” No details—she couldn’t have expected that—but it’s an admission. A relenting.

And from the way her smile briefly touches her eyes, it’s enough.

“How did you find out about this place?”

The smile fades. “You heard what happened in the Senate, straight after the attack?” I nod. Military bringing motions to try and force their way into Solivagus, under the pretext of helping Religion secure the island. Ugly scenes when Religion and Governance united to block them. Not the start of all the tension, but certainly one of the reasons it all boiled to the surface. “Military heard Religion had recovered bodies, but by that point there wasn’t a lot of cooperation going on. And with Indol defecting, I was the closest thing they had to someone who had Veridius’s ear. So my father told me about the Necropolis. Got me to sign a Silencium, gave me one for Veridius, and sent me back.” She exhales. “In the end, Governance and Religion agreed to give up the one body they had, but only if their Dimidii got to be part of the interrogation. You can probably guess the rest.”

I grimace. I can.

Silence for a while, and then I glance across at her. “You were right about the blood test, by the way. Thanks.”

She nods. “Eidhin, I assume?”

“Eidhin.”

“Good.” She smirks. “And you even managed to win a chariot race after it all.”

“You heard about that?”

“Gods. Everyone heard about that. Catenicus, standing up to senators so jealous that they tried to take away his title. Beating everyone in his Placement exams while missing an arm, then doing it again in the race. People wouldn’t shut up about it.” She rolls her eyes ostentatiously, though her humour quickly fades. “And then there was Iro.”

I wince. “Have you seen him?” The ongoing rift between the senatorial pyramids means I’ve barely heard anything about his condition, let alone had the opportunity to check on him personally.

“No. Last I heard, he was still in a Vitaerium. Healing, but … he hasn’t woken up yet.” Her eyes are sad. We both know that after this long, the chances of him waking at all are slim.

I exhale. Nothing unexpected to the news. “Are people still saying I did it deliberately?”

“No one’s saying that.” I look at her, and she gestures. “No one with any sway. Or sense. Or who knows you even a little.”

I bob my head to convey my thanks for the sentiment, even if I’m not sure it’s true. Hard to know which has been worse: the insinuation that I intentionally injured Iro, or the fact that most of the rumours seem to laud it as a blow for justice. Largely, I suspect, because Tertius Decimus has been so staunchly against the land rights reforms of which I am now an official supporter. “Tertius Ericius thinks I should hire permanent protection. Just in case.”

“Well. Quite aside from Iro—you defected from Military to Governance. You’re wildly popular with the Octavii and Septimii, which everyone’s immediately threatened by. And you’re supporting a cause to take land away from more than half the Senate, while secretly trying to figure out who among them are traitors. All while wandering around Caten, which feels like it’s a few wrong words away from civil war on any given day.” Reproving, in a grimly affectionate way. “Maybe he has a point?”

I give a rueful chuckle. Hesitate. “Speaking of looking for traitors. You mentioned you wanted to help.”

“Of course.” Her green-eyed gaze meets mine, shining. She smooths a lock of dark hair from her face. Smile genuine and hopeful. “Anything.”

I ignore the old flutter in my chest. “If it did turn out that Military’s leadership knew about the attack. Organised it. And we managed to get a list of names, and proof.” It feels wrong to ask this of her, after what she’s told me today. But I’ve communicated at length with Ulciscor about it, and he agrees that this is our best option. “We can’t have it coming from Governance or Religion; Military would just claim we fabricated the evidence and go to war. But if someone from within were to reveal them as traitors, it would distance Military as a whole from their actions. New leadership could then be ratified by the Senate, and they could all work together to ensure that those responsible are properly punished. Which hopefully, might even lead to everyone being more amenable to negotiating on other issues, too. Let us deescalate what’s happening in Caten.”

Emissa exhales. From her expression, she saw where this was going before I got halfway through. “I’ll speak to my father.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes I do. If you can get names and evidence, it’s a good plan.” She says it gently. “You’re not worried he might be one of them?”

“No.” Her father wasn’t at Suus. Wasn’t mentioned once in the hours of conversation I overheard. “Are you?”

“He’s not a good man, but he would never put me in danger like that.”

Exactly the impression I’d had, given the way she’s always talked about him. I acknowledge it with a tight smile.

We walk a while longer. The silence more comfortable, this time. There’s been a gradual easing of the tension between us.

“Question.”

Emissa raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“When we first met, after my Transvect got attacked. Ulciscor thought maybe Veridius had you drug me with something.”

She gives me an exaggerated smile. Shows too many teeth.

“Oh, gods’ graves. Really?” It’s more laughed than vehement. Trivial compared to everything else. “Anything else I should know?”

She thinks. Smiling properly now, enjoying the release of the shared humour. “Veridius was sure you were cheating, you know. He kept accusing me of letting my feelings get in the way of finding out how you were doing it—how you kept progressing through the gods-damned classes so quickly.” She emits a little laugh of her own. “Do you know how frustrating that was? I should have rotting hated you. I spent two years doing nothing but prepare myself for that place. You spent two months.”

There’s a deliberate pause there. Emissa’s not a fool; she has to have wondered how an orphan from Aquiria could possibly have the education I showed at the Academy. She never asked, though. I always appreciated that.

“But the rest of it was real,” she adds softly.

We’re approaching the steps to the Transvect. I can see the others now, waiting on the platform up ahead. Dwarfed by the mass of stone and wood and glass. Emissa slows.

“You’re not coming?” I shake my head before she can answer. Annoyed at myself. “Of course you’re not coming. You and Veridius need to stay disconnected.”

“And I’m guessing the others don’t really want to see me, anyway.” A long pause. “Can you forgive me, Vis?”

Silence. Emissa watching me anxiously. I look at her. Lovely and vulnerable and opening up to me.

And some small, pained part of me can’t help but wonder if it’s real.

That’s the moment, I think, when I know. I do believe her. I believe her and I forgive her and I know that I cannot fault her for her secrets; mine are greater and deeper by far. But nor can I trust her. Not fully. Not ever, anymore. My parents were right. Love requires more. Anything less is a self-deception, a dream from which I’ll inevitably be woken.

“I forgive you. I do. But … some mistakes can’t be undone.” I don’t say it with blame. It’s an explanation. An apology. A regret. I understand everything she’s done, wouldn’t have done it differently myself. But it doesn’t change what happened. Nothing can. My voice cracks. “I could have saved him, Emissa.”

“I know.” She sucks in a shaky breath. “I know.”

At an unspoken signal we embrace, a tight, bittersweet hug that lingers as she buries her face in my shoulder. The smell of her hair makes my heart ache.

We stay like that a moment longer and then break apart, a kind of rueful smile exchanged. Still sad, but something freeing about the air being cleared like this. Even if it hurts.

I glance back as I reach the top of the platform. She’s still watching. Raises a hand in farewell, and I mirror the motion. Wondering when I will see her again.

Maybe not for a long, long time.

I join the others, and we board the Transvect for Solivagus.

XXXV

SWEAT BURNS MY UNBLINKING EYES AND EVAPORATES into steam off my bare torso as Conor and I circle each other in the icy dawn, breathing hard, staves at the ready. In the background, fog still hangs low and heavy over our hidden valley; up here on the heather-strewn slope we can see only the lazy billowing of the cloud’s top, highlighted by a peeking summer sun that I already know won’t burn away the rest of the damp for at least another hour.

Somewhere down beneath lies Loch Traenala. Each morning its mirror surface wreathed in white. Each morning hauntingly still and silent and beautiful.

The crack of wood meeting wood echoes and then is swallowed by the mists as Conor leaps forward again and I swivel, barely bracing my cloth-blunted spear enough to withstand the shivering blow. I dance back. A motion I’m not unfamiliar with, these days.

“Give yourself to the fight, Leathf hear.” Pádraig’s growl is directed at me. The enormous, bearded man just spent five minutes working with me, adjusting my positioning and grip, showing me the best way to hold the haft so that it’s balanced and I can stay agile. A surprisingly patient teacher. “The weapon must become an extension of you.”

I grunt a curt response. I’ve only been here a week, but it’s already a recognisable refrain. More meaning to it than I’ve grasped, I think, despite my understanding of the Tongue having improved significantly thanks to our nightly camps during the shore-hugging, crawling, more than monthlong voyage here. I do know the broad strokes of it well, now. Can communicate my thoughts with concision and accuracy. But on occasion, I admit, some of the subtleties still escape me.

Conor begins probing my left side through a series of feinting thrusts, which I command already tensed muscles not to react to. Instead I try again to settle, to keep my focus on his movements. I’ve sparred with him before—I’ve sparred with each of the dozen watching students, now, at various points over the past week—and they’re all very good. Well trained and disciplined, reactions instinctual and unerringly accurate. Back at the Academy, I always had the advantage of having been taught combat from a young age, more strenuously and more consistently than anyone else.

Here, I am behind even on that.

Conor is fiery-tempered, though. A loud and impatient and boisterous sixteen-year-old, not particularly cunning. The smart thing for him to do is to wait for me to make a move, to inevitably open myself up for a counter. Instead he leaps forward. Staff blurring in his hands, his control sharp and movements deft as he strikes again and again, focusing once more on my weak left but not so much that I can avoid guarding the right.

I dodge and block and dodge again, backpedalling, looking for an opening. It never comes. The loose circle of onlookers shuffles as I get too close to them, giving me more room.

A little desperate, I feint forward. Instead of falling for it, Conor lunges, cracking me on my left shoulder. I cry out at the shuddering impact but he doesn’t stop, swivelling smoothly and taking advantage of my momentary shock to sweep my feet from beneath me. Air explodes from my lungs as my back slams into the grass and dirt.

“You must use your body and the ground to brace your weapon more. The techniques you used were ineffective,” says Pádraig over my groans. “You are still thinking like a man with two arms.”

“A man with only one doesn’t usually bother with a spear,” I mutter as Conor leans down and offers a hand. The sandy-haired boy is frustratingly cheerful, not smug or acting in any way superior. They do this so often here that it’s rare anyone takes victories or losses personally. I let him haul me up.

“And yet that is your weapon.” Pádraig says it simply, no chiding in his tone even if it’s implied. “You must make yourself worthy of it.”

“I have repurposed them for our fight, warrior. Their processing capability is limited,” I murmur in Vetusian.

He frowns at me. Not understanding the language. “What?”

I shake my head uneasily, trying to clear it. I didn’t mean to say it; the words were just … there. Did I hit my head that hard? I exhale. Take in the faces of the other students surrounding us. I am among the oldest of the two dozen or so training at Loch Traenala, I soon realised when we arrived. Some are as young as twelve. “Of course, Udar Pádraig.”

Pádraig continues to frown, but lets my strange muttering slide. “You are trying to protect yourself too much,” he continues. “You are twisting away from the fight.”

“Yes. I lost my arm,” I point out, somewhat snippily this time.

“The bigger problem is that you lost your nerve.”

A ripple goes through the gathered group. I redden. Straighten. He delivers the words calm and rock steady as always, but there’s no doubting he’s trying to goad me.

And I have to let him. I’m by far the worst of the oldest half dozen students, and while I intend to keep it that way, I still need to look like I’m doing everything I can to prove myself.

Not that it’s hard. I have never liked losing.

“Fine.” I snatch my wrapped spear off the ground. “Let’s try again.”

I don’t have to feign the majority of my anger. I am bigger than Conor, taller and older, though much of my bulk from the Academy has been lost to a more stringy leanness now. I’m not ashamed that he beat me—he is genuinely talented, as is everyone here. I am more than annoyed that Pádraig seems to think it is my spirit, not my injury, that is at fault.

Conor shrugs and we circle again. I’m smarting from where he made contact, both side and shoulder. I let the pain focus me.

“Be worthy of the weapon,” Pádraig calls.

I don’t allow Conor the offensive this time, coming in hard and fast with the haft braced against my body. It whirls as I move, lashing out as an extension of my arm. Conor blocks and I shift my grip suddenly, dropping and spinning. The momentum carries the spear around smoothly at his waist.

He evades, and I’m off-balance. I sense more than feel the crack of his staff sweeping my legs from beneath me again. The world tilts and I land on my side.

I groan, and it’s not entirely from pain this time. Perhaps in a different environment. Perhaps with different weapons.

But here. Now. With the disadvantages I have.

I genuinely cannot beat him.

The realisation sinks deep, hurts more than I expected given it’s the outcome I need. It’s not as though I ever imagined I was invincible, or assumed I would always face less skilled opponents. But I did always believe I had a chance, before. Always believed that no matter the odds, I had at least a shot at leaving a fight victorious.

I push myself to my knees, then hold up my hand to indicate defeat. “I don’t think the weapon is impressed today, Udar Pádraig,” I cough.

There is a chuckle from the onlookers, though Pádraig doesn’t join them. “You are conceding?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I stand. “Because he is better than me.”

“You have determined this from two falls?”

“I have determined it because of this.” I waggle my useless stump of an arm at him. I don’t have to feign the heat in my voice.

Pádraig considers me implacably. “Conor?”

“Yes, Udar Pádraig?”

“Let us see if you can prove Leathf hear’s belief that a disadvantaged warrior is a dead one.” Pádraig turns to the onlookers. “Tara?”

Conor groans under his breath.

The lithe young woman who steps forward is on the shorter side of average height, bound auburn hair reaching to her waist. The iron torc she always wears gleams dully at her throat, and the deep, clearly old scar that runs from the corner of her mouth up past her eye creases the right side of her face.

She’s the best fighter here, both from what little I’ve seen and what the others have said. Aloof, though. Of the students of an age with me, she’s the one I’ve spoken to the least.

Tara twirls her spear, the latticework of art inscribed along the haft dizzying to the eye. All the students here have their own weapons, but most of them are undecorated, or have only one or two symbols carved into wood or etched into iron. Mine is the only one vaguely as intricate, and like mine, I occasionally get the sense of something more from her weapon. That faint, distracting pulse in my mind. I also get the distinct impression that Tara intensely disapproves of the similarity between them.

She glances at Pádraig, who nods.

She puts her left hand behind her back, and squares up to Conor.

Conor attacks.

It’s clear from the outset that he is not holding back; his staff sings as he probes Tara’s left, just as he did mine. If anything, he’s pushing harder here, striking with more gusto. I can’t help but wonder if he was going easy on me.

Unlike me, though, Tara seems unfazed.

The young woman moves with short, smooth motions, and there’s a repeating sharp clacking as wood hits wood over and over again. She positions the haft beneath her forearm to brace it, then uses the ground, then meets force for force as her spear flicks upward. Stepping forward and back with calm, deliberate movements. Never worried. Never rushed.

Conor doesn’t let up; his face is a mask of concentration as he peppers Tara with feints and creatively placed strikes. None of it matters. She is always moving, always reacting, always one step ahead. Her left hand never twitches from where it is locked behind her back.

Then she evidently spots some mistake by Conor, though I don’t see it. Her spear suddenly blurs.

Conor is defending desperately. Once. Twice.

Tara spins her weapon impossibly in her hand, changing direction at the last moment and cracking Conor in the hip. Conor flinches and then Tara is barging into him with a shoulder, sending him flying backward to skid along the grass until he comes to a wheezing stop.

“Very good, Conor. Your footwork improves.” Pádraig doesn’t look surprised. Tara isn’t even out of breath.

Conor, to his credit, nods gratefully as he gets to his feet. Annoyed that he lost, but not surprised and not bitter.

I assume that’s the extent of the lesson, but Pádraig looks around. “Seanna. Miach. Come and help Conor.” He eyes me, checking I’m paying attention, after he calls the names.

Seanna is fifteen, and the fair, dark-haired girl is short for her age, but I’ve seen her move and she is as fast as anyone. Miach is closer to my age, athletic and clever. The two step forward without hesitation, separating to place themselves at equal intervals around Tara.

I barely restrain a scoff. Tara will have a blind spot, inevitably be unable to see at least one of them.

There’s no starting signal necessary; all three students launch in at Tara at once, not giving her the opportunity to take the initiative. Staves whir and then Tara is moving, ducking and weaving and somehow anticipating where Miach—who is directly behind her—is aiming, slipping below the blow and blocking the other two with an angled spear braced against the ground.

It doesn’t stop there. Tara spins and kicks the grounded spear into a vicious upswing that catches Seanna in the chin, then allows the motion to continue, smoothly slinging it along her shoulders and twisting to take the brunt of Conor’s next hit. Miach is going low even as Seanna is falling, but Tara leaps so that her body is briefly sideways, over the top of the swing, then regains her footing smoothly and uses her momentum to let her spear snake through her grip into something close to a javelin throw.

The thinly wrapped edge cracks Conor in the temple. Tara is already moving after it, catching it before it falls and then whirling, using the ground once again to block another two quick strikes from a wide-eyed Miach. Tara backs away and at first it seems as though she’s retreating, but then she sprints forward, plants her haft in the ground and vaults, foot lashing out in a vicious kick that collects poor Miach in the ear. The boy goes down.

Tara scans the three on the ground, checking they’re not getting back up. Breathing hard, at least. She steps over the groaning forms to stand briefly in front of me. Commanding my attention as she finally, slowly brings her left hand from behind her back, before walking away without a word.

Pádraig comes to stand beside me, watching Conor and the other two pick themselves up.

“You do not have to be less, Leathfhear,” he says softly. “Not unless you wish to be.”

He moves on, calling on a couple of the younger students to perform a drill, though almost every eye is still fixed admiringly on Tara. It’s hard to blame them. It shouldn’t be possible. It’s not possible.

The problem is, I know exactly how she did it. It was hard to see in the quick-fire action, but at the end, just before she finished off Miach, I saw her eyes.

They were completely black.

XXXVI

ONE OF THE GREAT SYTRECIAN PHILOSOPHERS ONCE argued that the concept of home is, at its core, about safety. That no matter how familiar you may become with a place, no matter how long it is your abode—if it ever loses its sense of comfort, you can no longer truly call it by that name.

I cannot describe what I feel as the Transvect approaches the lush green hills of Solivagus. I was here for a year. I left only four months ago. It is as familiar a place as I have ever been, outside of Suus.

But this was never a home.

As the Transvect begins its dip toward the Seawall, Livia stirs, standing and pressing her face to the glass as she looks ahead. Youthful curiosity in her peering, even if it is tinged with something heavier. “So this is it?”

Aequa nods absently, her response unseen. Eidhin and I exchange grim glances and say nothing. The conversation was subdued but cheerful enough for a while, after the Necropolis. A few none-too-veiled jibes from Aequa and Eidhin about Emissa—partly for Livia’s benefit, who doesn’t know why we really stopped there, and partly to voice their continuing disapproval of her—but otherwise, given that I had no desire to risk breaking a Silencium in front of Callidus’s sister, the talk revolved around lighter matters.

This last half hour, though, has seen us quiet. We’ve spent it in mostly reflective silence as we’ve skimmed the rippling, glittering Sea of Quus.

For Eidhin, Aequa, and me, it’s our first time back.

“And these columns are some sort of defence? How does that work?” Livia turns. Not oblivious to the mood, I think. More uncomfortable in it. She says it as if it’s a question for all of us, but unconsciously or not, she’s directing it toward Eidhin.

“The Seawall is pre-Cataclysm.” Eidhin answers politely and only after a few seconds, distractedly, when he realises neither Aequa nor I are going to jump in.

Livia cocks her head to the side slightly, smiling. Intent. “You’ve never wondered?”

“We spent many classes analysing the potential mechanisms.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It was not.”

Livia chuckles as if he was making a joke, then awkwardly turns back to the window as Eidhin continues to stare distractedly in the opposite direction. Between them, I catch Aequa’s half wince, half smirk, though she does her best to hide it. I feel the corners of my own lips threaten to pull upward before I lean forward and pretend to rub my face. The tension dissipated, at least briefly, at least for us.

Our humour inevitably fades as the great stone beast shakes itself and rises again after almost touching its access point in the Seawall. I pause. Focus.

The anchoring point to our right slides by in my mind, pulsing in harmony with the stone slabs that form the base of the Transvect. I swallow, the unease of their proximity still with me. I can’t touch them from in here, thankfully—the only reason I’ve been able to push their presence to the back of my thoughts. Otherwise, I’d likely have spent the entire trip terrified that I might accidentally use Adoption on them and send us crashing into the sea.

“You think the Principalis will be waiting for us?” Aequa assumes my trepidation stems from what’s coming.

“He sure as all hells isn’t letting us roam free.” My statement elicits an agreeing grunt from Eidhin.

Silence again. My gaze goes to Livia, still watching the sun-drenched rolling green outside the window. She’s been nothing but polite to me since her outburst before Placement. I tried to talk to her about what she said, a few days after. She apologised. Said all the right things in a perfectly cordial tone. There was no doubt she didn’t mean any of it.

Even so. Nothing’s changed in her posture, but I can see her expression reflected in the window, broken by the trees rushing past below. She doesn’t have the history, here. But she knows that this is where it happened.

As I look at her now, I’m reminded that she is still Callidus’s sister. I cannot get rid of her. I cannot trust her. But I refuse to put her in any danger.

“There he is,” growls Eidhin as the Academy platform comes into view, breaking the moment. Livia turns at his words, manages to catch my observation of her before I can look away. There’s a flicker of anger in her eyes. Gone in an instant.

I turn, and focus on Veridius as the Transvect slides to a smooth stop.

The Principalis waits with his hands clasped behind him. A stiff breeze whips his blue cloak and ruffles his dirty-blond hair. His bright blue eyes look momentarily tired as they track our coming to a halt, but when the door opens and we disembark, his smile somehow smooths away any fatigue I thought I saw. It’s warm. Welcoming. So genuine. Just like always.

“Hail! You made it.” His biggest smile is reserved for me, but he includes everyone in his greeting. “I am so glad you came. I know the festival can be such a busy time in Caten.” No hint of annoyance that I’ve brought the others. I didn’t forewarn him, but he was the one who organised the Transvect. He was surely told as soon as we got on board.

“Quintus!” The lie of the broad smile I paste on almost physically hurts as I step forward, embracing him one-armed. “It’s good to see you again.” These months steeped in the politics of Caten have taught me much. My greeting is too enthusiastic to be anything but false, but it’s a better cover than the cold response I’d dearly love to give the man. He’s expecting the latter, and I know it wouldn’t faze him. This way, at least, he has no idea what the others know. No idea what I’ve told them.

Eidhin and Aequa do an admirable job of mimicking my pleasantries, and then Veridius turns to Livia. His smile gentler. “And you must be Livia Ericius.”

She does not take his outstretched hand. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Veridius drops his hand, smile drifting into something gentle and sad. Understanding. “Welcome, Livia.”

She gives a brusque nod, and we start walking.

“The island has been searched?” Eidhin asks the question. I spare a glance for the vast, undulating green of Solivagus, moments before it’s hidden as we leave the platform and begin up the steep path toward the Academy. Rippling treetops and winding rivers that shine in the summer sun. It looks so peaceful from up here.

“Thoroughly. Three months of combing every gully and thicket. No sign of any Anguis,” Veridius assures us.

“So they’re not moving the Academy back to Caten?” Aequa, this time, though I was about to ask the same. After their initial failure to strip Religion of their control of the Academy, Military pushed to shift it away from Solivagus. To “ensure the safety” of its students in the future. Which, of course, would also have resulted in giving them access to the island.

Veridius shakes his head. “Governance is siding with us on that one.” He sighs. “But I’ve spoken of these things enough for a lifetime, these past months. And in the midst of it all, heard not nearly enough about how you’re all doing. How are you finding Caten?”

The next minutes are spent in brief, polite conversation. Eidhin provides a typically terse overview of his time in Military. Aequa focuses mostly on her apprenticing with Aedile Glaucius, mentioning Tertius Ericius only in passing. And I talk about my arm, the progress it’s made healing, how I’m coping. Veridius plays the part of interested former mentor to perfection, not prying, but to all appearances sincerely interested, genuinely pleased with our successes and sympathising with the challenges we’ve faced.

As always, I cannot decide how much of it, if any, is false.

I’m distracted about halfway up the hill by a strange sensation, something scratching at the back of my mind. I carefully allow myself to focus. A faint pulse of Will? It’s similar, but feels different, too. Somewhere off to our left.

As if in response to my examination, leaves rustle and twigs crack in the direction I’m looking. I pause. No one else seems to have heard anything. I feel the imbued metal sitting snug around my torso, beneath my tunic. I’ve been practicing with it for weeks, ever since I finally forged a good enough set of pieces. I don’t want to use it, not in front of Veridius of all people. But I will if I have to.

“What is it?” Aequa’s noticed my hesitation.

“Thought I heard something.”

“Probably just an animal,” Veridius says, motioning me on.

I’m reluctant, but the thick woods whisper in the breeze and nothing more. And whatever I briefly felt—if I felt anything—is gone again.

Soon enough we’re passing through the Academy’s Will cage and into the sweeping, immaculately kempt grounds. Aside from its complete lack of bustle, everything looks … normal. Untouched. Exactly as I remember it.

“I have to apologise. I had some unannounced visitors arrive this morning, and I need to attend to them before we can talk,” says Veridius, mostly to me. No hint of suspicion in the statement, but he has to wonder at the timing of the Military delegation showing up today. Ulciscor, I assume, will have kept his name well clear of any involvement in its arrangement. “Will you four be able to entertain yourselves for a few hours until dinner? Aequa, perhaps you can show Livia to the girls’ dormitory. Feel free to use the Class Three rooms.”

“Of course we can,” I say. Not even a guard to watch us? I wait for the rest.

Veridius pulls four stone cuffs from his pocket. “Oh. And while you’re on the island, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to wear these.”

“What are they?” asks Livia with a frown, examining them.

“Tracking devices. It’s just a precaution. The Senate insists that all visitors wear them now.” He motions for our hands, which we offer reluctantly. “If any are broken, or leave the grounds while active, it will trigger an immediate Academy-wide alarm. Every guard will be alerted and every resource will be devoted to a search.” He doesn’t look at me in particular, or shy away from my gaze. As if this had nothing to do with me.

“I thought that was what the walls were for, Principalis,” I observe with blithe cheerfulness as the stone band snaps shut around my wrist. It’s a snug fit. No squeezing my hand out of it.

Veridius chuckles. “You’re a Sextus now, Vis. The walls are meant to keep in students who don’t have access to Will. And they’re not always successful in doing that much,” he adds lightly.

We both grin our false grins, and he moves on to Eidhin.

Soon we’re all wearing the tracking bands, and Veridius is smiling around at us as if we’d never left. “Until dinner, then.” He walks off.

We wander for a while after that, giving Livia a brief tour of the grounds and steering as Veridius suggested toward the girls’ dormitory. Livia and Aequa disappear inside, and after a few minutes Aequa comes back out alone.

“She’s just cleaning up. She won’t be long.” She taps the stone bracelet on her wrist. Grim. “What are we going to do?”

My gaze flicks to the distant Will-smooth wall that divides the Academy from the remainder of Solivagus. Fifteen feet high, spikes at the top. I still have the faint remnants of a scar on my palm from the last time I scaled it.

“He was not bluffing, Vis,” Eidhin rumbles, seeing my observation. “He is not a fool.”

“I know. I still think I can get us out.” I pause. “But … Livia is a problem.”

Aequa and I look at Eidhin expectantly.

“What?” He squints at us, puzzled. “The plan is for Aequa to keep her company, while Vis and I get over the wall. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re going to be a better distraction,” says Aequa firmly.

“She’s right, my friend,” I agree.

“Why?”

Aequa and I exchange glances. See the laughter in the other’s eyes and try, unsuccessfully, to hide smirks. “She will be more … engaged, with you,” says Aequa eventually.

Eidhin’s eyes narrow.

“So much more engaged,” I agree, the corners of my mouth curling involuntarily as Aequa coughs, barely restraining herself.

Eidhin glares at me, then Aequa, then at me again. “I am from Military. Her father is a Tertius in Governance.”

Aequa’s lips twitch. “So would you describe yourself as … forbidden?” She says the last in a seductive whisper. Eyes wide.

Neither of us can hold back snickers as Eidhin glowers. “You are wrong.”

“You are oblivious,” Aequa corrects him.

Eidhin’s scowl deepens, but as he sees me nodding firmly, he makes a small, rude gesture in our direction. “Very well. I will … tour her.”

This time, at the now-rare language mistake from a vaguely flustered Eidhin, Aequa and I aren’t able to keep it in. It feels good to laugh—to laugh hard and long, so loud that I can’t hear the specifics of Eidhin’s annoyed protests.

We’ve barely subsided when Livia emerges from the building behind us, and Aequa and I straighten our faces. “Time for some charm,” I murmur to Eidhin.

He hears the glee in my voice. His look promises future consequences.

“Livia,” he says, turning and walking briskly to greet the girl. “As we have some time …”

He puts enough distance between us that the rest of the conversation is inaudible; Livia freezes at his hail as if she’s not quite sure she’s heard correctly, then recovers, cheeks flushing as she stops in front of him. They speak for another half minute in low tones.

“Is his face turning red?” I murmur to Aequa.

“Is he trying to flirt?” she whispers back, eyes wide.

Eidhin glances over at us, his expression genial but his eyes reflecting something between panic and violence as he sees us watching.

Then he and Livia begin strolling companionably away from us, deep in conversation, in the direction of the Quadrum.

“Alright,” I say to Aequa with a grin after I’m certain they’re not turning back. “Let’s get out of here.”

“YOU’RE NOT PLANNING TO JUST BREAK THESE AND RUN. Right?” asks Aequa anxiously, tapping the stone locked around her wrist as we gaze up at the spike-topped wall rising in front of us. We’re beyond the stables, not far from the same point I scaled it more than a year ago. The horses are grazing nearby. No sign of Septimus Ascenia or anyone else. “I don’t think the Principalis was exaggerating about what would happen.”

I chuckle, mainly to cover my own nervousness. I don’t really want to do this in front of her, and some part of me wishes it were Eidhin I had to reveal this to. As much as I’ve confided in them both, this is something else entirely: almost as terrifying a secret as my real name, and with equally dire consequences if the Hierarchy ever finds out about it. But I don’t have time to second-guess.

I close my eyes. Focus on the stone, feel the gentle pulsing of Will in it. I’ve been practicing this for more than a month now, ever since Placement. Refining. Experimenting.

Connection.

The metal triangles beneath my tunic shiver. Adoption doesn’t seem to disrupt whatever Will I’m already using, but it does add the mental strain of another connection to the ones I already maintain. Not that I can’t handle it, but it’s like someone tossing another brick atop the pile I’m already carrying. Even knowing it’s coming, I still have to adjust.

Otherwise, though, it’s almost laughably easy.

The Will’s original purpose remains in the mind of whoever imbued it—Veridius, presumably, in this case—and so I don’t need to worry about its mechanics, as they’ll simply resume when I release it again. And the imbuer’s sense of connection remains, so this won’t draw their attention the same way snapping the bracelet and releasing the Will would. It’s like rifling through someone’s belongings while they’re not looking. As long as I leave everything the way I found it, they’ll never know anything happened.

I mentally prise apart the two stone halves, catch them as they slip off my wrist, and then touch them together again before quickly relinquishing control. They snap back firmly. An empty circle.

Finished, I turn to Aequa. She’s watching with wide eyes. “How?”

“New trick. A story for once we’re over the wall.” I gesture for her to offer her wrist; a few moments later her bracelet is off as well. I hide them at the base of a tree. “I assume you’re going to be able to get yourself over those spikes, Quintus Claudius?”

Aequa continues to watch me dazedly, then shakes herself and refocuses on the wall. Unsurprisingly curious, but as aware as I am of the time pressure. “Please.” Her eyes turn black; she jogs up to the wall and with an apparently effortless leap, clears the glistening barbs by at least ten feet before vanishing behind it.

I grunt, hurriedly manipulating the Harmonic imbuing around my torso, letting the hundred iron triangles flow into a safely hidden pile beneath a bush before taking back my Will from them.

Then I carefully self-imbue, sprint and leap myself. Less casual than Aequa; I practiced clearing this exact height many times before we left, and am certain that I can make it, but it’s a near thing. I push off. Sail upward, tucking my legs slightly to make sure I don’t clip the top of the spikes, and then the familiar feeling of my stomach dropping as I plummet down the other side. I roll as I hit the grass. Lie there for a second, and then grasp Aequa’s hand as she helps me up.

“Gods, you barely made it,” she observes.

“I know.”

“You should try jumping higher next time.”

I shoot her grin a dirty look. “I’ll keep that in mind. Come on. It’s this way.”

Neither of us speak, for a time, as we walk. The close forest whispering around us.

“So tell me about this ‘trick’ of yours.” Aequa says it lightly, but there’s no concealing her intense curiosity.

I exhale.

And I do.

I leave out the details about Relucia’s contact, of course; mentioning him gets far too close to the Anguis for my comfort. It’s a simple enough omission, though. I say I discovered Adoption by accident a couple of months ago. That I assume it’s something to do with what happened to me in the Labyrinth, but there’s no way to be sure. That I’ve experimented with it in private, figured out what it is and isn’t capable of. And that, naturally enough, I haven’t told anyone else.

Aequa listens with only the occasional, vaguely disbelieving question. When I finish, she lets out a long breath.

“You used it during Placement?” Not really asking.

I shrug modestly.

“Rotting gods.” She’s smiling, though. Shaking her head ruefully. “Always knew you were a gods-damned cheat.” She rubs her face. Trying to take it in.

“I didn’t tell you because—”

“I understand.” She waves it away carelessly, eyes wide as she thinks about the possibilities. “Gods’ graves. I can’t even imagine what would happen if people found out. So Tertius Ericius doesn’t know?”

I look at her. “If Governance found out, with the way things are in Caten right now, can you imagine what they’d start asking me to do?”

She shudders. Nods. “Eidhin?”

I shake my head. “That’s not a question of trust; I know he wouldn’t say anything, but …”

“But the fewer people who know, the better,” finishes Aequa with a slow nod. “I’d do the same.” Silence, and then she looks at me. “Anyone else and I’d probably report it, you know. That’s not a power that just anyone should have.”

I nod.

“Does this mean you’re less impressed with my Placement results now?”

“So much less impressed,” she agrees vehemently. We both grin.

There’s another lull in the conversation after that, but it’s an oddly relaxed one given the situation. I find myself glad Aequa knows. This ability has been a burden since the moment I found out about it and despite both of us being in Governance, the last few months have been spent largely separate, our private conversations brief and mostly related to planning today. This is the first time we’ve genuinely had a chance to talk, just the two of us, since the Iudicium.

“So which way do your nightmares go, these days?” Aequa asks it lightly, abruptly. Not looking at me. Her thoughts, apparently, running along the same track as mine.

I don’t answer for a few seconds as we emerge onto the path that leads to the ruins. “Naumachia,” I say eventually. “Sometimes it’s the Iudicium. Waking up with this.” I wiggle my stump. “But …”

“Me too.”

Silence again, and then I want to know. “You wake up in a sweat?”

“Curled up. And every muscle is sore. Like I’ve been fighting all night.”

I show vigorous agreement, knowing exactly what she’s talking about. “And I have that gods-damned sound in my head …”

She shivers and nods tautly, as if the very mention of it is too much. Perhaps it is. Neither of us want to think about it.

“I still don’t want to go to sleep, some nights,” she says eventually. She exhales. “But … do you ever wonder if we would have made it through the Iudicium, without it?” She looks across at me. “I think about it sometimes. A lot, actually. When we found that pile of bodies. Sianus and the others. I was scared, but …” She breathes out again.

“But it wasn’t the same.” I keep my eyes on the path ahead. I’ve thought about it too. “Wasn’t hopeless. We had choices.”

“We had choices,” she agrees quietly.

I push a branch from my path, am about to continue the conversation when I feel it. That same, strange sensation in the back of my mind. Like my sense of Will, but not quite.

It’s close, too.

I hold up a hand, brow furrowed, bringing Aequa to a stop and listening.

“What is it?”

“Not sure.” I peer into the brush. Tracking the sensation in my head. It’s a hundred feet away. Moving parallel to us.

Then it seems to pause.

Then it’s coming toward us. Fast.

“Look out.” I snap the words and self-imbue, gesturing Aequa behind the nearest tree on the opposite side of the path as her eyes go black as well. I can hear the crashing of bushes, the cracking of branches. The foliage trembles.

A low rumble, and then the massive alupi emerges from the undergrowth.

A soft cry from Aequa and I fling out my hand to urge her back while not taking my eyes from the beast in front of me. Its shoulder comes up to my stomach.

I know before I look, but sure enough, there’s a long scar along its back.

“Diago,” I whisper softly.

XXXVII

“DIAGO.” MY HEART RACES. IT’S HIM. NO DOUBT ABOUT it. I make what I hope is a calming gesture, palm downward. “Diago, it’s me.”

The alupi responds by baring its teeth and growling more. Even so, it feels more cautionary than threatening. I take a shaky breath and study the creature, one hand still held out to Aequa to ensure she doesn’t decide to take action. He’s almost the same size he was at seven or eight months old. Not the towering monster I’d assumed he’d grow up to be. Just gods-damned big.

I’m a Sextus now, and Aequa’s a Quintus. We’d win a fight. I just don’t want to have to.

“Vis?” Aequa whispers it from behind. I can hear how desperately she’s battling the urge to do something.

I let a long breath whistle through my teeth. Never taking my eyes from the alupi, who’s continuing to growl warningly. He’s intelligent, of that I have no doubt. He’s saved me before. Remembered me before. And if he wanted to attack us, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to spring directly from cover. “Do you trust me?”

“Depends.”

“I think we need to drop our imbuing.”

Silence, then, “I don’t trust you.”

I let out a soft, nervous laugh. “This is the one that saved me at the Iudicium. The one I saved as a pup. I don’t think he’s going to hurt us.”

“You know that’s not how wild animals work, right? You can’t just help them when they’re young and then they’re your friend forever.”

“Alupi are more intelligent than most animals.” I’ve read up on them since the Iudicium, and while not much is known about the creatures, there’s a consensus on that point.

Another long pause and then, “You first. And if he eats you, I’m running.” Her voice is steadier this time, though. She’s gone through the same logic as me. Realised that if the massive wolf hasn’t attacked yet, there’s a chance he’s not intending to at all.

“Hm.” I’ve kept my eyes locked to Diago’s. Heart pounding, I drop my self-imbuing.

He stands there for a few more seconds, and then pads forward. His teeth slowly disappearing. I keep my hand outstretched, but otherwise don’t move.

He reaches me, and nuzzles his head beneath my palm.

“Hello, Diago.” I gently stroke his massive head.

“Rotting gods.” It’s Aequa again, relief palpable. My sense of her Will—unavoidably noticeable, this powerful and this close—vanishes. “You gave it a name?”

Diago glances at her and gives a low rumble.

“Diago it is,” Aequa mutters.

I spend a minute mostly motionless, just reassuring the animal through touch, then risk a glance behind me. “You want to try—”

“No.”

Hard to blame her. Diago seems to be enjoying the physical contact, but he hasn’t sat down.

“Diago. We have to keep moving.” I smile at him. It’s a genuine expression. As much as I tried not to think about him, I’d been worried he might have run afoul of the teams sweeping the island. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

I lift my hand and, nodding to Aequa, start walking. She follows.

Diago begins padding after us.

“Well this is interesting,” says Aequa uncertainly, throwing a glance at me but not risking one over her shoulder.

“You can ask him to leave, if you like.”

She glares at me.

It is somewhat unsettling, having the massive creature following us like this, but after my time in the Iudicium with him, I’m not overly worried. He’s not stalking us, not trying to hide and not showing any signs of aggression. No mistaking him for tame. Just … clearly with us.

We make our way along the narrow, twisting path, Diago a noiseless, looming presence behind. I focus occasionally, check for any signs of Will. There’s nothing, though. If there’s anyone ahead, they’re not more than a Septimus.

“Why ‘Diago’?” Aequa asks the question in almost a whisper. There’s a short, low growl from the alupi in response, and she flinches.

“It’s what I called him, when I saved him as a pup. I named him after a friend back in Aquiria.” I don’t look at her. Carefully infuse my tone with heaviness and hesitation. “One who … didn’t make it out.”

“Oh.”

I nod, and neither of us say anything more on the matter as I inwardly curse myself for not thinking more quickly when Diago appeared. Stupid not to think of some other moniker before I said it in front of Aequa. Stupid. But it’s done now, and Diago was hardly a unique name in the north. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’ve come so far now that even I have a hard time imagining anyone will put it together with my true past.

I hold up my hand, slow as the way ahead opens into the rubble-strewn clearing with the domed building in its centre. We duck off to the side, into the undergrowth. Diago follows.

“This is it?” Aequa squints at the building that sits amidst the collapsed stone. It’s late afternoon, shadows deep and at a sharp enough angle that making out detail is difficult. Trees and bushes rustle around us. “Doesn’t look like he’s left a guard.”

Before I can answer, Diago is pushing past us—Aequa letting out a barely muffled yelp as he brushes against her arm—and trotting into the clearing.

We watch from our hidden position as the massive wolf navigates the rubble with ease, head swinging from side to side. He moves with unperturbed confidence, leaping easily over boulders and fallen walls before continuing his circuit without breaking stride.

“Is he … scouting for us?” whispers Aequa eventually, eyes wide as they stay locked on the creature until he disappears behind the domed building.

“Surely not. Because that would be weird.”

She coughs a quiet laugh. “You’re right. Your pet alupi is probably just stretching his legs.”

I don’t answer, mainly because I don’t know how to. Her observation certainly feels accurate as Diago reappears, pausing occasionally to test the air but otherwise looking for all the world as though he’s checking the area. And when he completes his circuit he settles about twenty feet away, well into the clearing. Facing us patiently.

“I think he’s waiting for us,” observes Aequa, sounding as though she doesn’t know whether to be amused or terrified.

“Rotting gods.” I mutter the words reluctantly and stand, brushing leaves from my tunic. Whether or not he was scouting, anyone nearby would have spotted the alupi and made some sort of commotion by now. We’re alone here.

Aequa follows me out into the clearing. She grins at Diago as we draw near, looking like she’s going to give him a pat on the head. “Good boy.”

Diago bares his teeth at her. Her smile vanishes and confident stride falters to a stop as she snatches her hand back.

Diago snorts, then turns and pads toward the domed building. We both stand there and watch the alupi for a second.

“I like him,” I say eventually.

Aequa gives me a light backhanded slap on my right shoulder, and we head for the main building.

We reach the shadow of the colonnade without incident, stopping in front of the steel door. It’s not especially strong, but when I concentrate, there’s definitely a pulse emanating from it.

“The Principalis surely has a Will alarm on this.” Aequa’s studying the closed door dubiously. Going through the same mental process as I did the first time I saw it, no doubt.

I press my palm against the door. Feel the disconcerting thrum of someone else’s Will vibrating there, and take control of it.

Diago snarls.

Aequa and I both flinch and jerk around, eyes wide at the abrupt, violent sound. Diago’s hackles are up. Teeth bared. Watching me intently.

“Vis?” Aequa murmurs from the side of her mouth, frozen.

“I just took control of the Will in the door. Let’s get inside. Slowly.” I gently push the door open, just enough for her to slip in ahead of me, and then follow.

The boom of my hurried shutting of the door cuts off Diago’s growls. I stare for a moment at the steel, frowning. Relinquish control of the Will in it. “He really doesn’t like people imbuing.”

“Lucky he’s out there, then.” Aequa’s eyes turn black as she examines the interior. I’ve told her about this place.

“Lucky,” I agree grimly, self-imbuing as well. This isn’t somewhere to take chances.

We head toward the green-lit hole in the floor.

“IN AN … ATTEMPT TO … MAKE OURSELVES GOD, WE …made god?”

Aequa translates quietly as we finally reach the archway, lit emerald by the pulsing scrawl on the walls of the underground passageway that we’ve been travelling for the last ten minutes. Uncertain. Surprisingly close, given that Vetusian has never been a strength of hers.

“It’s a ‘they.’ ‘In trying to become God, they created Him.’” She gives me a displeased look. I throw up my hands. “I think.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing good.”

“Creepy.”

“Just wait a few seconds.” I steel myself, and continue beneath it.

The hall is no different to the last time I was here. It stretches back at least a few hundred feet, cavernous roof almost lost to darkness. Illuminated by the green emanating from the hundreds of cavities cut into the wall.

Each one containing a single, naked corpse speared through with an obsidian blade.

The white, pulsing representations of Solivagus have disappeared. And there’s no sound, no whispering.

I still force myself through a wall of dread as I step inside.

“This is … unpleasant.” Aequa knows exactly what happened to me last time; I’ve explained this area in very specific detail. Her voice is more a mixture of horror and awe than fear, though, as she leaves my side and wanders closer to the nearest silhouettes.

“That’s one way to put it.” I watch her anxiously. “You know those are dead bodies, right?”

“You mentioned that.”

“And that they woke up?”

“And then you ran away. I remember.” She keeps a cautious distance. “But they didn’t attack you like the ones on the other side of the island, did they? And they must be here to do more than just scare you.”

“Obviously.” I glower. Force a little more backbone into my stance. Focus. There is something different in the room this time.

I can sense Will pulsing within each and every body.

Aequa moves farther along the line. Pauses. “I recognise this one.”

“What?”

“I know him. Definitely. Not sure from where, though,” she says uneasily.

I frown. Join her. At first I have the same reaction as Aequa: the swarthy man’s features feel familiar, but I cannot place them.

Then it clicks. I picture him with horn-rimmed glasses. Vek.

“He was helping Veridius, last time I was here.” I stare in horror. Try not to focus on the obsidian jutting from his chest. “I think his name was Marcus. Eidhin knew him, too.”

We both shuffle back, away from the body. Aequa’s not looking quite so relaxed anymore.

“No point staying longer than we have to,” I say eventually. Hearing the anxiety in my voice. “Ready?” I wait for her tense acknowledgement, then loudly, “Miseram pacem vel bello bene mutari.”

Nothing for a second. Five.

Aequa shifts. “Well. That was—”

A grinding sound. Motion.

We both flinch back as white light bursts from the centre of the hall; unlike when I was here last, this isn’t a gradual coalescing but rather an explosion, streaming upward to form the outline of a person. At the same time the upper layer of the floor ripples, as though the stone has suddenly become water, thousands of perfectly fitting triangular tiles suddenly revealing themselves as they shift and rearrange in front of us, trickling together in the icy glow to grow and form a pillar in front of the white figure.

I watch, heart in throat, instinctively checking my self-imbuing. But just as abruptly, it’s over. Everything motionless again. The corpses on their slabs unmoving, unspeaking. Eyes still closed.

At an unspoken signal, Aequa and I creep forward, toward the glowing silhouette.

“Some kind of device.” It seems obvious as we get closer. The white outline has its hands touching the pillar.

“For what?” Aequa watches me uneasily.

I let out a long breath. “I suppose that’s what we’re here to find out.”

“I’m sure it’s crossed your mind, but you do remember that Lanistia tried to kill you, right?”

It’s more than crossed my mind, over the past few days. “I remember. Don’t worry. She was herself when she told me about this.” I sound more confident than I feel, but we’ve come this far now. I walk cautiously into the light. The shimmering profile dissolves, leaving only me in its place. “If something goes wrong, though, don’t hesitate. You run.”

Before I can second-guess myself further, I place my hand on the column.

Nothing happens.

I frown. Glance back at Aequa, who shrugs.

Pain.

Pain ricocheting through my head. Blinding. I can’t even scream. The stone in the pillar is moving again, rippling, crawling over my hand and wrapping it in a grip I cannot break. Some corner of my mind registers the room around me flickering as I fall to my knees. Aequa running toward me. She shimmers. I can see through her. She’s gone. I am alone in here with the corpses.

“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.” The words rip from my mouth. I gasp them into the emptiness. They’re all I know. I have to warn them. Anyone who comes in. “Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.” The stone is flowing upward, covering more of my arm. Past my elbow. I cannot pull away.

The fire in my head clears just enough to feel the connection, now. To feel the corpses. Every single one in the room. I almost vomit. They’re full of Will, but this isn’t like what I did in the Iudicium or during the chariot race. It’s a confusion of information and sensation. Incomprehensible. Overwhelming. “Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.”

Sweat stings my eyes. Every muscle in my body is taut, twitching, as if straining to expel some unseen force. I feel cool hands on my face but see no one. “Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.”

There’s something else. Amidst all that swirling sensation is purpose. Dormant. This message we’re all repeating isn’t why we’re here. “Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.”

I’m weakening. Fading. I have to do something. I use everything I have learned over the past two years. Harden myself, and focus solely on that underlying sense of function.

The pain fades, leaving only an echo.

Aequa is kneeling over me. My head cupped in her hands. Wide-eyed.

“These iunctii appear to be from not long after the Rending, and were once a key component in the gate defences in the Nexus. I have repurposed them for our fight, warrior,” I rasp at her. My throat feels like I’ve been screaming. Maybe I have. The rest of the room is deathly silent. “Their processing capability is limited due to the restrictions of the sanguis imperium, but the addition of a single active mind should be capable of temporarily interceding and allowing for Synchronism to occur. Do you wish to proceed?”

I stare wildly into Aequa’s eyes. Pleading with her to understand that it’s me, that I’m still here, even as the words tumble from my mouth. I don’t know what any of it means. No context. The pressure in my head is easing further, but it leaves exhaustion as well as relief. An indescribable weariness.

Aequa says something. Garbled. Meaningless.

As I fade to unconsciousness, I can’t help but feel vaguely annoyed that she didn’t run like I told her to.

XXXVIII

“YOU ARE STILL SULKING.”

I look up as Conor slides to the wood of the causeway beside me, dangling his feet so that they almost touch the water. He’s trailed by Seanna, Miach, and the burly form of blunt-faced Fearghus, who are chatting cheerfully about something, fast enough that I’m having difficulty following the conversation. None of them hesitate as they join me, despite the embarrassment of training this morning.

“Not at all.” Conor grins at my denial, dimples showing, and I can’t help but reflect some of the annoyingly irrepressible expression back at him. “Perhaps a little.”

It’s dusk. The waters are silent and mirror smooth as the lake stretches away for hundreds of feet, reflecting both bruising sky and the thickly forested slope to the west. Everywhere else surrounding is rolling hills that are green and tipped gold in the last of the light. From our small, artificially created island out here, we can see every part of the shore; while the large hut farther along houses a long table as well as mats of straw and fur for our nights, most of us prefer to eat out here. Sitting out above the water like this feels right, somehow.

It’s windless this evening, still and quiet. This place has an ethereal beauty to it that’s hard to put into words. A natural calm that I can’t quite decide comes from the place itself, or just my own mind. There are no towering structures or bustling cities or conquered peoples. No outward signs of Will, no matter what I saw this morning. Suus was like that, as well, but there was always the crashing waves, always energy and light and warmth and motion. My heart remains there, of course, but this … this is appealing, too, in its own way.

I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. Still gods-damned cold for summer, though.

“At least you were not the one used to set an example,” grumbles Miach as he slides onto the wooden slat on the other side of me. His face is swollen and bruised from Tara’s strikes. Despite the words, he seems to hold no particular grudge over it.

“You know what you are doing,” chimes in Fearghus, rubbing at his squashed nose. “But your technique needs a lot of work.”

“You have to be faster. Put your opponent on the defensive,” observes Seanna.

“And adjust your footwork to account for your arm,” adds Conor, offering me a bowl of some kind of fish stew. “Tara may be a deamhan, but Pádraig’s right—you were protecting your left too much.”

I look around at them all. They’re just being honest. No sense that I might be offended and because of that, it’s hard to be. Especially because I know they’re right.

“Thanks.” I scoop some of the stew into my mouth, pleasantly surprised at the taste. “Did you think she would beat three of you at once?”

Seanna grunts, while Fearghus rolls his eyes. Miach flips the silver coin he seems to constantly keep on his person, catching it with an absent, practiced motion and barely looking at the result.

“Tara always wins,” says Conor ruefully.

I nod, keeping my expression and voice carefully casual. “Her eyes,” I note between taking mouthfuls from my bowl. “They looked strange.”

“The nasceann.” Seanna nods.

“Nasceann?” I don’t know the word.

There’s silence as they glance at each other and then screw up their faces, trying to come up with a proper translation for me.

“It is one who has a battle-fever,” says Miach eventually, his coin glimmering as he flips it again. Expression indicating dissatisfaction at the description even as he says it.

“But not one of anger,” adds Fearghus.

“The opposite,” agrees Conor, “at least according to Pádraig. He says it is a calmness. A clarity. Communion with the fight.”

“Draoi Affraic says it is a strength given by the gods to only the greatest warriors,” says Seanna.

I focus on her. “There are druids here?” I haven’t seen any of the white-cloaked men since I arrived. Not since Caer Áras, actually. My impression is that they’re the educated class among these people, and part of me still wants to see whether someone else has heard of Caten or the Hierarchy. To understand exactly where I am. But the more cautious side of me knows that it is their apparent leader Ruarc who wants me dead, too.

“Not here. But they visit. Teach us lessons, from time to time.” From Seanna’s tone, those lessons tend to be boring.

I try to make it look as though the information is only vaguely interesting. “When will they next come?”

“Dia Saol alone knows. The draoi do not keep to normal people’s schedules,” says Conor cheerfully.

“Ah. And what are the lessons they teach?”

“They train the mind,” says Fearghus.

“Where they can,” adds Seanna lightly, with a conspicuous look at Fearghus.

“Do they teach nasceann?”

There’s another silence at that. Not quite uncomfortable, but an unspoken communication between the group as they decide what to say.

“To some. Like Tara. When they are ready,” says Conor eventually.

“We think,” adds Fearghus.

“They don’t exactly discuss it with us,” adds Seanna.

“But you do not need the nasceann to be a warrior.” Conor’s mistaken my pensiveness for brooding as he slaps me on the back. “The rest of us have been here for many years, and each have had broken arms many times. We have all been through practice one-handed, which is why we know the techniques so well.”

“Some better than others.” Fearghus chuckles. “I swear Conor has had more experience fighting one-handed than two. Remember that year when the frost killed all the berries, and he kept ruining the hunt because he couldn’t throw straight?”

Seanna and Miach nod solemnly as Conor leans over to slap Fearghus on the side of the head, but the bigger boy leans away, grinning.

“What about you, Leathf hear? It is clear you have already had some training,” says Conor eventually, giving up his half-hearted attack with a disgusted wave.

“Some. Not as much as all of you. And having two arms helped,” I say, drawing smiles at the light jest at my own expense.

“What was your homeland like?” asks Seanna.

I hesitate. “It is a place best forgotten.”

I say it simply, conveying the truth of the statement to them. All four watch me, and then nod. Accepting my reluctance to talk about it, my desire to leave that past behind.

I cannot describe how grateful I am to them for that simple understanding.

Water laps and timber creaks beneath us as the conversation moves on; we chat and eat and laugh, companionable in the last of the day’s meagre warmth. I’m surprised again by the ease at which this group has accepted my presence, welcomed me into their conversations and jokes with such natural, guileless effortlessness. Getting to know Conor on the way here undoubtedly helped; he was returning to Loch Traenala from a family visit and though idle moments were few during the journey, we struck up enough of a rapport for him to enthusiastically introduce me to the others when we arrived. Even if I did still receive plenty of openly dubious looks at my arm, my days at the Academy had me braced for an entirely different reception.

That’s not to say that there aren’t instances of isolation or conflict, here and there. Fearghus is brash and full of himself, Seanna is snippy and easily offended, Tara is standoffish, and Miach is quiet. They are an extraordinarily tight-knit group, closer to a family than friends, and I am still a newcomer. They have inside jokes and a way of talking among themselves that is sometimes closer to code than conversation.

And yet there is camaraderie more than competition; victories are applauded, the vanquished exhorted to improve rather than mocked or disdained. When there is discord it is always of a simple kind, resolved by shouts or occasionally fists, but then followed by laughter and mead at the end of the day. It’s not that everyone likes one another. But they do care for one another.

I like it. I like it a lot more than I expected to.

Which is a shame.

The trip here, and my burgeoning understanding of the language, allowed Neasa to explain Loch Traenala properly. My initial understanding of it being a school wasn’t far off, even if the education here is almost entirely focused on warfare. Its purpose, though, is for the students to become warbands. Elite warriors that mesh perfectly with one another on the battlefield.

And I have no desire to fight in a war I don’t understand, or for a king I do not know.

I have seen what a life without fear can be like, now.

The meal is almost over and the light almost gone, the purples and reds above the silhouetted hills echoed in the water, when there are footsteps along the causeway and I look up to see Tara lighting the torches along the way. She usually eats with us as well, though rarely says a word. The conversation’s felt easier, much more free, for her absence tonight.

Still, I direct a smile at her. Undeniably curious to find out more about this nasceann, which seems to be what they call Will, here. “You were very impressive today, Tara.”

She continues her task, not glancing in my direction. “You are meant to be patrolling with Rian, Leathfhear. He has been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Ah.” I scramble to my feet. I hadn’t forgotten. There’s no question of my asking to leave Loch Traenala; aside from ostensibly slapping away the honour done to me by King Rónán, the school’s current position is a closely guarded secret, and I would be forced to stay anyway. But I am done with fighting. If the only way to find my way back to Gráinne, Onchú, and the children is to disappoint—to be seen as lazy and unreliable, as well as crippled—then I will do it. I have done worse. I have suffered far greater indignities.

Still, I can’t help but feel a genuine flush of embarrassment as I fetch my spear and hurry down the causeway. Most of the students here have been training since they were twelve. And they are not the privileged—they are the best. The trials to attend are held in Caer Áras once every two years, and only the most gifted get to come. And then when they are here, they work.

It’s a strange shadow of the Academy: so much more narrow in its focus, but so much more true to its spirit. Which is why, while I do not enjoy being beaten in sparring—even when I try—I actively hate diminishing their excellence with deliberate apathy like this.

Rian is sitting on a tree stump by the shore; when he sees me he snatches up a torch from the nearby fire and gestures brusquely for me to follow. He’s fourteen, large for his age, not old enough to patrol alone but just old enough to think himself capable. The fact I’m late won’t have helped his chafing at needing a cripple’s presence.

We set out mostly without talking, only the occasional murmured observation between us. That suits me fine, already finding myself weary despite the faint light holding on to the western sky. My sleep patterns are still adjusting from the voyage over, where I was often assigned night watch and slept well into the morning’s travels, finally breaking the rigid habit I once cultivated under Lanistia’s regiment. Returning to it after so many weeks has been harder than I expected.

“They say you fought Gallchobhar,” Rian says suddenly. “That you revealed his treachery. Is that why you’re here?”

I blink at the abrupt question, brought on by nothing in particular that I can see. “‘Fought’ is an exaggeration. But yes. That is what I was told.” Still no idea what to make of that strange outburst. Some nights I wake to echoes of rage in my head. Traitor. Murderer. I would be lying to say it sits comfortably.

He eyes me, but even at fourteen, seems to understand I’m not interested in expounding. Silence reigns again.

“Tara was very impressive today,” the redheaded boy remarks idly minutes later, about halfway around the lake. It’s properly dark now, and the torches lining the causeway across the water reflect orange in the water.

I glance at him, mildly surprised at the second attempt. Rian isn’t usually one for making conversation. “I told her the same thing. Didn’t even get a smile.”

He grunts, eyes searching the way ahead. “Tara does not smile. You are not exceptional in that regard.”

“I got that impression. She seems very … focused.” The others are driven as well, undoubtedly. But unlike Tara, they seem able to reconcile that with enjoying their lives.

“She has to be. She aims to be her father’s Champion, one day.”

“Her father?”

“King Rónán.”

I look at him in blank startlement. “She’s a …” I don’t know the word for princess or heir. “She will take over from him, when he is gone?”

“No. Not anymore.” He traces his right cheek with a finger, mimicking the scar on Tara’s. His tone says I’m an idiot for his having to explain it. “Or she would not be here.”

I’m stunned, about to ask more when something catches my attention in the trees to our right.

I stop, and after a step Rian does as well, looking at me inquisitively. I hold up a finger. Frown, raise my torch higher, and move slowly forward to peer into the gathering black of the thickets.

To my side, Rian wordlessly readies his spear. Eyes straining in the same direction as mine. There have been no enemies sighted anywhere near here, at least certainly not since I arrived, but he’s taking my concern seriously.

It’s gone again, but I’m certain I felt it. That same, strange pulsing sensation that warned me of Lir’s approach at the farm. Distant, but presumably far stronger at the source than the one that led to me picking up my spear at Caer Áras, that I still glimpse from the weapon occasionally. So quick and faint I’m not sure how close it really was.

“What is it?” Rian eventually murmurs it, unable to spot my concern.

“I’m not sure.”

Rian peers a moment longer, then sighs. Relaxes. “You are jumpy.”

“No. There was something.” I’m certain of it.

“Leathf hear.” He says the name into the silence. Half man, I have discovered it means. Not exactly a compliment, but I’d guessed that long before the knowledge. It still seems worse, coming from someone so young. “Do we need to find Pádraig?”

He’s watching me. Genuinely asking.

“No,” I say eventually. Whatever I felt, it’s gone now. “Probably just an animal.”

He frowns, but nods.

We press on into the gathering darkness.

A MAN WHO IS CHASED MAY BE FREE. A MAN WHO CHASES never is.

Kadmos told me that, once. Quoting it from some obscure text, probably; the Dispensator of the Telimus family was voluminous in his knowledge and had no fear of showing it while I was under his tutelage. I didn’t really think much on it, at the time. Or, perhaps, simply didn’t think it was particularly true. I was chased, and had been for years, and the constant hovering hand of the Hierarchy made for what felt like an inescapable prison.

Here, though, it is different. Here, with the benefit of hindsight, it resonates.

For all their intent to kill me, the Hierarchy were never chasing me: They never even knew I was still alive. It was always me fighting them. Always me looking for a way out from beneath their thumb.

Ruarc, on the other hand, is out there and after the stir I caused at Caer Áras, may well know I’m still alive. We talk of him, sometimes, when Tara is not around. Him, and his influencing the Grove to support King Fiachra, and the impending death of High King Úrthuile. The three other regional kings would likely have supported King Rónán to succeed, according to the others, but are loathe to cross the druids. They won’t move against Rónán, but won’t support him against Fiachra, either.

The enmity between Rónán and Fiachra runs deep, too, apparently. Generations back. War seems an inevitability.

But despite that threat it all remains distant, and I am here among people I am rapidly coming to like. Pádraig trains us each day, and though I am careful not to show too much improvement, his techniques are genuinely useful, and I find myself practicing even outside of his lessons. I still fall and fail and am covered in bruises from my defeats more often than not. But it is within an environment of encouragement and exhortation. Everyone here strives for excellence but also thrills in seeing others achieve it. Despite our purpose there is an air of positivity, a pleasure in the joy of life, that I cannot help but drink in.

And as my grasp of the language steadily improves, so do my friendships. I run the lake with Conor, or play the Foundation-like Fidchell against Miach, who curses and storms off every time I manage to beat him. Of the older group, only Tara remains terse and disinterested when I am around. Otherwise, all seems to be going well.

And then after three weeks, the strange pulse returns.

XXXIX

A DEEP, JAGGED PAIN BEHIND MY EYES AS I BLINK AWAKE. Throat dry. Muscles aching as if finally released from hours-long cramps. My eyes search the room.

STRONGER TOGETHER.

The gold-etched proclamation on the wall, and the three-pronged symbol above it, are as familiar to me now as the too-clean smell and echoing silence in here. Some proud Catenan’s idea of encouragement for those in pain, no doubt. I wonder if they could even conceive of how profoundly opposite an effect it can have.

The last time I was in this room, I spoke with my father’s ghost. Some part of me strains to listen to the darkness, and aches for him to be here once again.

“Vis?” Aequa’s voice from somewhere near my head, startling me. I summon the energy to twist. She and Eidhin are both stirring from where they’ve evidently been drowsing in chairs next to my bed.

“Hail,” I croak. Eidhin offers me a cup. I sip messily. “So, that could have gone better.”

Aequa flashes a relieved smile, while Eidhin snorts. “See? He is fine,” he mutters, giving me a look that clearly blames me for the worry I’ve caused.

I ignore him, groaning as I prop myself up farther. “How long?”

“A bit more than a day.” Aequa takes the cup from my shaking hand.

“Veridius? Livia?”

“Veridius headed for the ruins as soon as he decided he couldn’t do anything more for you here. Livia …” She looks at Eidhin.

“Around.”

“Helpful,” I growl at him. “Does she know?”

“That you crept off the Academy grounds with Aequa, then returned unconscious while being hauled by a tame alupi? Yes, my friend. Word may have gotten around.”

“There was no way to get you back over the wall,” adds Aequa, vaguely apologetic. “And Diago … made an impression on the guards at the gate.”

It takes a moment for my mind to catch up, the name a shiver of pure panic before I remember. “You used Diago to carry me back?” The awkwardness of saying it aloud to them covered by my confusion.

“‘Used’? Not really. More ‘allowed, so that he didn’t eat me.’” She gestures irritably at my questioning look. “You were spasming, even after I got you out of that device. I couldn’t make you stop. So I carried you back—I figured the sooner I fetched Veridius, the better. But Diago wouldn’t let me out of the gods-damned building with you until I stopped self-imbuing.” She takes a breath. The tiniest catch to it. For the first time, hinting at how shaken she was. “The way you talked to him, I figured you might be a little upset with me if I took a … less friendly approach. And I thought I could probably carry you anyway, but then Diago … he just kind of inserted himself under you. Helped me take you back. I think we’re friends, now,” she adds brightly.

She grins at me, but I can hear the stress beneath the words, can see the tautness behind her eyes. “I owe you.”

“Gods-damned right.”

I lean over and take the cup from where Aequa deposited it on the table, drinking deeply this time. My head’s clearing. “Diago’s not on the grounds?” It’s rhetorical. I can still sense him. Faint, but enough for an approximate direction and distance. He’s not far beyond the Academy’s front gate.

I’m still not sure what to make of that.

Eidhin stirs. “No. Your pet alupi did not seem interested in entering the Will cage. He wandered back into the woods after leaving you for medical attention.” His look assures me he’s going to demand more of that story later.

“He’s a good boy,” I respond cheerfully. Eidhin scowls at me.

Aequa smiles at the exchange, though it quickly dies away again as she leans forward. “Do you remember what you said in there?”

I nod slowly. The words may not have been mine, but they’re engraved on my mind. I couldn’t forget them if I tried.

“Good. I told the Principalis what I could recall, before he left, but I was a bit … distracted, to be honest.”

I nod again, my grimace both at the motion and the information. Veridius is going to have a lot of questions. “How angry was he?”

“Not completely disappointed you came back alive. I think.”

I wince. I wasn’t intending to keep our little detour from Veridius anyway—if he says he’s trying to prevent a coming Cataclysm, I’m not going to be the one to withhold information—but I would have much preferred to disclose, rather than admit. Like Ulciscor, I need him to remember that he’s earned my mistrust and that he can’t sanction me anymore. It would have been far better for him to see this as me standing up to him, not sneaking around behind his back.

“What do you think it meant?” Eidhin, curious. No need to guess at what he’s referring to. I assume Aequa’s already filled him in on the details she remembers.

“I don’t know. ‘Gate defences’ has to be related to that device past the Labyrinth. That was called a ‘gate’ in the inscriptions.” I wrack my brain. Combing through the words for meaning. “But the rest … I just don’t know. I’ve never heard of the sanguis imperium”—the Vetusian translates to something like “blood command,” I think?—“or the Nexus. Whatever in all hells that is.”

When I look up, Aequa’s gaping at me. “You understood what you were saying?”

Before I can answer, the door to the infirmary opens and Veridius strides through. Formal toga, hair neatly brushed. Grim and as properly presented as I’ve ever seen him inside the school.

“Vis. You’re awake.” He almost sounds glad. Almost. “Aequa and Eidhin, I need to speak with him in private—”

“They can stay.” It comes out as a croak, less authoritative than I’d have liked.

“No. They really can’t.”

Veridius’s voice brooks no argument. I give it anyway. “They’re gods-damned staying. I don’t talk unless they’re here. I’m going to tell them whatever you tell me anyway.”

Veridius looks about to counter when Aequa gets his attention with a wave. “We’re gods-damned staying,” she reiterates calmly.

Frustrated anger in Veridius’s bright blue eyes, so rare and quick that I almost think I’m imagining it. But Aequa’s a Quintus as well, now. Veridius still has seniority, but it’s a fragile thing, far more nebulous. Certainly not enough to let him simply order her from the room.

“What do they know?” he eventually asks me unhappily.

“Everything.” Everything relevant to this conversation.

He’s not pleased. Studies Aequa and Eidhin, who return his look boldly, before sighing and sitting on the bed next to mine, shaking his head as some of the tension drains from him. “How are you feeling?”

“I have a headache. Nothing worse.” I sit up, almost disproving the point with a wave of light-headedness.

He nods with what seems to be gentle, unaffected relief. Then his brow furrows. “Rotting gods, lad. What were you thinking?”

“That I wanted answers.”

He glances at Eidhin and Aequa again, then closes his eyes. Thinks. “I cannot fault you for your mistrust,” he eventually grants carefully. “And I cannot fault you for your anger. But you are a smart man, Vis. Some part of you knows that I am not the enemy here. And if there was ever a time to put aside emotion in the interests of repairing whatever was broken between us, now is it.”

“Put aside emotion?” Energetic enough now to put force behind the words. “You sent Belli to die.”

“I sent her to run the Labyrinth. She trained for it, and she did so of her own free will in the pursuit of something far bigger than her. Than either of us.”

“But you knew what would probably happen. There were others before her, too. None of them made it back.”

“And they were the same. I sent them to—”

“You sent them to die!”

“I sent them to SAVE US!” Veridius roars the words. Stands. Something snapping in him, his façade finally gone, all fury and pain as he towers over my bed. “Why can’t you grasp this? Do you think I wanted them to fail? Do you think it doesn’t break me inside, Vis? This all started with me losing my two best friends, but I keep on going because I gods-damned have to! Because this is the ONLY WAY!” He screams the last at me.

I do all I can not to cringe, and meet his outrage with the colder steel of my own. Eidhin is on his feet. Aequa’s eyes are wide and black, and her every muscle is taut. For an eternal moment, no one moves.

Then Veridius grimaces, sagging back into his seat, head bowed. The threat in the air dissipates.

“It tears me apart, Vis.” All raw, aching sorrow now. “Every single one gods-damned tears me apart, and now I think you’ve achieved what I’ve been trying to do all this time and all I want is for you to listen. Will you just listen?” He raises his head wearily to look at me.

I’m as shocked as Aequa and Eidhin look—I don’t think I’ve ever seen Veridius even raise his voice—but I do my best to conceal it. To appear unaffected as I answer with cautious assent. Even now, I don’t know whether this is real. It feels real. Authentically visceral. But then, the Principalis has always come across as genuine.

“And you two?” Veridius glances at Eidhin and Aequa. They both nod, though Eidhin’s is typically brusque.

“Good. I’m …” He raises a hand as if to apologise, then lets it fall again with a sigh. His calm demeanour recovered, though layered with world-weary hurt this time. He focuses on me again. “I take it your expedition to the ruins last night had something to do with helping Lanistia.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Miseram pacem vel bello bene mutari.” Eyes on me when he says it. The vague sense of tension, then a spark of relief in them after a lingering pause. “There were only three of us who knew that phrase. And I cannot imagine Caeror gave it to you.”

He has me there. No benefit to lying about it, anyway. Not when Veridius may actually know something that could help. “She remembered it after the Aurora Columnae.” Most of Caten has heard some version of what happened there by now—it’s still being thrown around as proof of how unchecked Military has become, no matter my own protests—so I don’t bother asking if Veridius is aware of the attack. “She kept repeating the same thing the iunctii were saying, after I ran the Labyrinth and was coming back out. When they were trying to kill me.”

“‘Complete the journey, warrior.’” Soft dread in Veridius’s voice. “She did the same thing seven years ago. Said the exact same rotting activation phrase you just tried. Though at least she thought she knew what she was doing.”

It stops just short of a frustrated remonstrance. He knows I know it was reckless. He also knows that the alternative was my trusting him. It’s a shared blame.

“So that’s what happened to her?” When Veridius hesitates, I shake my head. “No lies, Veridius. No more secrets. Ulciscor and I have been doing everything we can to block it for months, but they’re about to put her in a Sapper. A gods-damned Sapper. I’ll go back to those ruins and try again if I have to.” I pour weight into the statement. “You say you want to repair what’s broken between us? You can start by explaining how she really got hurt. Otherwise we have nothing more to discuss.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“If you’re being honest about what’s at stake, then you won’t take that chance.”

He stares, then snorts a rueful laugh. “Gods’ graves. I liked you a lot better when you were afraid of me.” His smile fades when I don’t return his amusement. “Perhaps you are right, Vis. Men condemn what they do not understand. It could be that I have held these secrets too long and too tight. Yes, is the answer to your question. Lanistia’s injuries came about because she did exactly what you just did.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a way to access the iunctii guarding the Labyrinth. A kind of external control point, designed to temporarily shut them off. At least, that’s what we all believed based on our translations. What I still believe.” He exhales. Something draining from him at the admission. “That entire underground complex was built to circumvent the security around the Labyrinth. To allow someone to get out—like you did. But seven years ago, it was Caeror who went through during the Iudicium.”

Silence as Veridius pauses and I process. I’d wondered, of course. Guessed that Veridius’s obsession with the Labyrinth and his involvement with Caeror’s death were likely tied. “She was trying to save him.”

“Yes.”

“What went wrong?”

He lets out a regretful puff of air. “We didn’t fully understand it, back then. We still don’t. There is a reason we’re still analysing what’s down there.” He hesitates. Reluctant, but I think he’s accepted now that he needs to disclose everything if he wants my cooperation. “To work, it seems to exploit a sort of loophole. That device you activated is meant to add a iunctus to the Labyrinth defences, but there is a short period—a few days, maybe, at most—where if someone living initiates the process, they’re still in control of their own minds. They can influence the way things work, down there. But in doing that … eventually whoever does it is taken over, and their control is lost. They die. Become a iunctus themselves.”

A long pause. I feel sick as I put together the pieces. “Marcus.”

“A brave man. He was there for Belli, but you owe him your life.”

“And the message on my arm? Was that Marcus too?”

“No. We’ll get to that, but … no.” Veridius shakes his head slowly. “It’s something Belli already knew—there was a specific timing to all of it. That message saved you as surely as Marcus did.” His voice is distant. Gaze focused briefly inward.

“Wait. If Vis did the same thing as Marcus, why didn’t he end up the same way? Or like Lanistia?” It’s Aequa; she and Eidhin have been listening with mute, intense fascination. She glances at me. Cocks an eyebrow. “Glad you didn’t, obviously. Just wondering.”

“You said you pulled him off the device as soon as he started talking?” Aequa nods, looking faintly sick with memory. “You interrupted the process early enough. Marcus sacrificed himself so that we had the best chance of getting Belli out. And Lanistia …” He grimaces. “Lanistia was alone, when she activated it. For almost an hour.”

There’s something about the way he says it. Angry. Aching.

“Was she meant to be?” asks Eidhin.

Veridius looks across at him. Looks down again.

Silence, and for the first time since I have known him, the Principalis of the Academy has no words.

“Why did Caeror run the Labyrinth, Veridius?” Dreading the answer. So much has happened since I went through that nightmare, and yet everything seems to come back to this. “I went through that ‘gate’ down there and I know something is happening to me because of it. But why did Belli and Marcus give their lives for this? How in the rotting gods’ names will any of this stop another Cataclysm?”

Veridius leans forward. Hesitates for a long second.

“Have you ever heard of the Concurrence?” he asks quietly.

XL

THE KEENING OF THE APPROACHING PROCESSION PIERCES the stale air of Duat, an unending, grating wail of false grief as paid mourners shriek and gesticulate and shed tears behind a white-wrapped body. I lean against the pale stone of the small second-story window, watching as it wends its way along chalky streets toward the distant, gold-lit Temple of Ka. First the jackal-masked priest, head shaven, walking solemnly, burning incense in one hand and spilling milk on the ground with the other. Then the bier borne by six iunctii, all but their eyes covered in the same white cloth as the man they carry. Then friends and family carrying the dead man’s most valued belongings, the possessions they will send with him over the bridge to Neter-khertet. And then, finally, the dozen women whose harsh ululating forces all but the most important conversations nearby to still.

“They believe that the more Ka hears mourning, the more likely he is to allow them into the afterlife,” says Netiqret from behind me.

I straighten from my observation. “You don’t?”

“No.” The elegant grey-haired woman stares down the street for a moment longer, then offers me some bread, which I take with no pretence to hesitation. The novelty of doing more than just subsisting has not yet worn off.

I turn my attention to the assassin whose house Ahmose and I have been hiding in since our arrival in the east. Careful not to show it, but relieved she’s back this morning. We’ve seen relatively little of her these past two days, perhaps an hour or two out of each since she guided us through the tunnels beneath Duat and we emerged into an empty alley, only a few short paces from her doorstep. I’m not sure whether her constant unexplained absences since have been due to her distasteful work, or if she has been out trying to gather information to verify my story. Or, simply, if she’s trying to keep us on edge in an attempt to make us more biddable. Perhaps all three.

“It was someone important?” I lean my head toward the window. These funerary processions often echo across the water to Neter-khertet, but I don’t think they’re usually of this magnitude.

“Someone wealthy, at least.” Netiqret moves over to the table and pours some of the syrupy, sweet beer that is apparently a staple for everyone on this side of the river. Better than the water, but not by much. She takes a few delicate sips—every motion of hers is refined, deliberate—and watches me over the cup.

I ignore her observation. The slightly raised eyebrow, the curl of her carefully painted lips. I know what it means. Our rare interactions have revealed a strange, detached kind of impasse. She senses that I am desperate to act, to have her assistance in getting out into the city, though she has no idea why. And all she wants is to know how I controlled the Overseer.

Neither of us trusts the other enough, or is yet desperate enough, to be first in giving up our advantage.

I gaze back out over Duat’s vast expanse. The house is on a slight rise, has an impressive view down to the west; white streets and buildings nestle between black towers and bridges, then the sullen black and green of both the Infernis and Neter-khertet glowers beyond. In contrast, the clean yellow emanating from the Pyramid of Ka suggests it’s mid-morning.

This has been my best and only vantage of it all, thus far. Iunctii in the east are meant to travel with their masters; one alone in the streets isn’t unheard of, but is far more likely to attract unwanted attention. And while the Overseers aren’t specifically looking for me, I’ve never had to travel uncovered before. Caeror once claimed they knew the faces of every person living, or otherwise, in Duat. How easily will they register that I don’t belong? Which are the best ways to avoid them? Ahmose has his guesses, but Netiqret, surely, will actually know.

I can’t wait forever but I can’t just give her everything she wants, either. I’ve seen enough of her to realise that an explanation of what I can do will lead to her insisting that I use it for her purposes. She’s aloof, unflappable and focused. The sort of person to whom you can never risk giving anything of value for free.

“What are the funerals like outside, Siamun?” Long fingers strum the table. She has, over the past couple of days, seemed more and more inclined to believe what Ahmose and I told her. At least to the extent that she now constantly probes, calmly prods at any potential new piece of information.

“Quick.” I don’t actually know, having never seen one. But Caeror has mentioned them. “The bodies are dissolved in water from the Infernis, so that Ka cannot possibly revive anyone.”

“Ah.” She nods. I’m not sure if the gesture means the information makes sense to her, or if she somehow already knew. Or if she doesn’t believe me at all. “You do not turn them into iunctii? Surely you would find them useful.” She gestures absently at Ahmose, and I have to restrain myself from wincing as I sense his glower. We’ve had to endure many, many little jabs like this in the few hours she’s been around. Constantly implying that Ahmose is more property than friend. That I am inevitably controlling him, whether he knows it or not.

I’ve reassured him again and again, but the constant needling has to be threading more doubt into his mind.

I stretch, ignoring the question that tries to scrape much more at my knowledge of iunctus creation than it does the practices of Qabr. Feign just as much disinterest as Netiqret is, and peer out the window at the retreating procession. “Ahmose says the Crossing to the West is quite a ceremony.”

At the edge of my vision, I see Netiqret open her mouth as if to respond, then instead stop her strumming. She turns to the stairs leading to the upper floor. “Kiya!”

A few moments later the young girl appears, descending in her usual vaguely lost, mechanical manner and coming to stand beside Netiqret. Head down, carefully braided hair hanging over her shoulders. No doubt she’s a iunctus, but Netiqret’s call was question more than command, and the older woman is gentle as she leans forward and whispers something in her ear.

I watch curiously as Kiya listens, then makes a hand gesture that seems to be some sort of signal. I still haven’t been able to determine what she is, exactly. There hasn’t been a chance to find out either way. Ahmose and I have both been expressly forbidden by Netiqret to go anywhere near the girl—on pain of, literally, a very final death—and Netiqret herself has been firm in her determination to say nothing about her.

Netiqret considers, then squeezes Kiya on the shoulder and stands. “If you are interested, I can show you.”

I look at her blankly. Sure I’ve misunderstood, even if it was half the reason I mentioned it. “Now?”

“Now is best. A big funeral like today’s will mean that the outer courtyard of the temple is open to all. Follow me, do as I say, and you will be fine. Just you, though. That one’s nerves will give us away before we reach the end of the street.” She glances disdainfully at Ahmose, then walks over to a dresser and beckons me over. “But first, come. You cannot go out looking like that.” She picks up a small pot and wooden stick, spitting in it and stirring. The rod emerges coated in black.

I baulk. “The Overseers don’t know me. Wouldn’t it be better to pretend to be your iunctus?”

She squints her surprise. “You would wrap your face?” I nod, though I think the question’s rhetorical, and she confirms it by waving away my response. “It will not work. Iunctus are purposeful; they do not go to observe funerals or linger in the temple.”

“She’s right.” Ahmose’s confirmation is reluctant but certain.

I frown but accept it. The next half hour consists largely of Netiqret applying the dark lines of kohl to my eyes and her own, as well as bedecking herself in a tasteful array of gold jewellery and a woven shawl. At one point Kiya vanishes for several minutes and then reappears with a pile of neatly folded clothing, which she places on the table between me and her. A pleated skirt of fine linen, a wig, and a neck collar of gold with a large lapis lazuli inset. It must be worth a fortune.

“If you are to travel with me, you must look like you belong with me,” is all Netiqret says, pushing it toward me.

We talk only in brief spurts as we prepare, mostly advice from Netiqret on how to wear my clothing; I use the spaces between to guess at Netiqret’s motives for her sudden invitation, but I simply don’t have enough information. By the time we leave, I’m unrecognisable in the reflection of the beaten brass mirror hanging on the wall. We head down to the ground floor. Netiqret swings the door wide.

And then for the first time in months, I am among people again.

DUAT—THE EASTERN, LIVING SIDE OF DUAT—IS, TO MY vague surprise, far more alike Caten than I expected.

There are the immediate surface similarities in its crushes of people, its loud noises and fetid smells, the general chaos of a city that immediately threatens to overwhelm me as I step out onto the street. Not that the black mirrored sky or the thickly eyelined people lit by the constant glow of Ka’s pyramid could ever leave me confused as to where I am. But deeper, it is an even closer anchor. No Octavii here, but only because they have not yet been swathed in white. In the distance, I spot the motionless black form of an Overseer. People laugh and stroll around it, no different to if it were a Praetorian on guard in Caten. Ignoring the echo of their future slavery.

Coming from Neter-khertet it is at once bustling and grim, an uncomfortable juxtaposition of life and death. They are somehow both freer and more bound than the people back home. It is a different kind of servitude, I suppose. A different system to hide the same prisons, the same powers, the same wrongs.

“Shouldn’t we take the tunnel? It can get us fairly close to the temple,” I observe to Netiqret as we start walking, trying not to sound uneasy.

“The tunnels are for emergencies. I would be fascinated to hear how you know about them, though.”

I ignore the pointed observation. “So my being out here is safe?”

She chuckles. Even her laugh refined. “Your being with me is safe, so long as you listen. Pay attention, stay close, and do everything you can to naturally match my step.” We keep walking, and Netiqret immediately varies our pace, scanning the way ahead even as she seems entirely relaxed. Our path meanders, but never noticeably. We pass just behind one group. To the left of another as they focus in on something on the right. “I understand the desire to keep out of sight, but it’s an inflexible approach. Get caught hiding, and you are caught; there are few, if any, ways to talk your way out of the situation. You are noticed and you are remembered. Plus, sometimes there simply are no tunnels. No shadows to hide in. Foster a reliance on the environment, and you lean on luck.”

She spots something in the distance and changes our trajectory slightly. It’s all smooth and effortless, just a noblewoman going for a stroll. Her pace is neither fast nor slow. We’re never crowded, but nor are we ever walking noticeably alone.

“The Overseers are simple enough to avoid,” Netiqret continues genially, as if discussing what we’ll be eating for dinner. “Believe me when I tell you that they are slaves to their instructions. Perfectly predictable in their behaviour. The only danger in being around them is if something unexpected draws their attention in your direction. So you have to keep watch. Do you know why I just nudged us left?”

“No.”

“Because we would be walking too close to those two. Between them and the next Overseer.” She nods very slightly off to the right, where two women are standing by a stall, deep in conversation. Their voices are low, but as I observe them I can see a tension in the set of their shoulders, catch a furrowed brow and a slight, sharp gesture from one toward the other. I watch surreptitiously, then look back at Netiqret.

“They’re arguing. You think they’re going to make a scene.”

She doesn’t reply; we keep walking, and I resist the urge to crane my neck and look back around. There’s nothing, though. No rising voices, no commotion.

“Nothing happened.”

“But there was the possibility. More of one than anything on this side of the street. You have to play the odds and—”

There’s suddenly a sharp screech from behind us, somewhat distant now, and I glance over my shoulder to see one of the two women with her finger in the other’s face. Very much drawing attention, now, including from the Overseer.

I turn back to see Netiqret still looking ahead, but smiling an unmistakeably smug smile.

“Sometimes things go wrong. Someone will eventually find something interesting in your features, or notice you because some fool has smashed a jar next to you, or done something else stupid over which you have no control. If that happens, look people in the eye. Nod back if you’re nodded to, but never frown or smile. People remember if you seem like you’re friendly or unfriendly, interested or displeased. Just look through them. Like you’re thinking of something else. We all tend to imagine that everyone who looks at us will remember us, but to most people we’re just bricks in a wall. Anonymity isn’t about being invisible. It’s about being forgotten.” She glances at me, briefly assessing. “In time, we might have to pad out that physique of yours. Thicken up that beard. Teach you to walk with a touch more slouch. I doubt you’re going to be burning your face into the minds of any passing young women, but it won’t hurt to make sure.”

“Inspirational. Thanks.”

Netiqret ignores me. “The less predictable something is, the more it should be avoided. Move away from young children. They have a tendency to be interested in everything around them, cause accidents, shout or cry, and sometimes try and speak with passing strangers.” Her face shows what she thinks of that. “Not to mention that their parents are often more aware of their surroundings than other adults.”

She goes on like that for a while. Attractive or wealthy men and women, she suggests being near but not next to. Musicians—whom she seems to despise—she says to skirt completely. Though from the way she says it, I wonder whether she really simply hates music.

“And you’re certain the Overseers will always react in the manner you expect,” I half query eventually. Her observations have proven true, thus far, but it seems like it would only take one exception for disaster to strike.

“They’re different from the iunctii. Better to think of them as tools. A kind of flexible machinery, set in motion by Ka and then left to do their work. He tells them how they should react to their environment and then they will always, always do that. The same way, every time.”

We’ve almost caught up to the slow-moving funeral procession, wails gradually louder in our ears, green-glowing water of the Infernis visible now as the march nears its destination. I’ve seen the outer walls of the temple from over the other side of the river many times. Thirty feet high, glassy obsidian encompassing not only the Pyramid of Ka, but its vast surrounds. Acres of intricate structures. The barrier stretches for thousands of feet, a hard shell around the glittering, golden heart of Duat.

It’s broken only by the entrance. Three massive statues stand almost as high as the walls, elaborately carved in white stone as they guard the two obsidian gates between them. Representations of Ka, I assume. Identical visages of a stern, regal man, adorned in headdress and the long false beard that seems to be popular among noblemen here.

I study it all silently as we approach. The black walls are sheer and smooth and impenetrable: no climbing them, and no grapple that could possibly secure itself anywhere on their surface. If there was even anywhere inconspicuous to try, which I’m not convinced there would be.

And that’s only to get into the outer section of the temple compound. I have no idea what security will lie between there and the pyramid itself—but faintly, very faintly, I can hear its last line. The barely audible thrum that fizzes in the air, makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

“Shall we go in?”

I baulk. Just as she said earlier, the gates stand open, and a steady flow of people trickles between the looming statues. But there are Overseers at the entrance. “They look like they’re checking people’s faces.”

“They won’t be. Too many people, not enough reason. It would be a waste of Nomarch resources.”

“Nomarch?” I don’t know the word.

She hesitates, then nods off to the edge of the street, out of the crush. We take a seat on a low wall. “You see that symbol on the gate?”

I nod. Had noticed it almost as soon as it came in sight. Three filigreed lines branching downward from a central point, glittering against the black.

Even here, even now knowing it appropriated the image, it is impossible to escape the Hierarchy’s shadow.

“It’s a representation of Ka’s rule. Ka is at the top, and he controls the Nomarchs, who are special groups of iunctii he has acting together as single, controlling minds for each of his cities. Subordinate to him but completely separate from one another. Then, imagine a Nomarch is at the top, but governing its Overseers in the same way.”

I consider the symbol. Caeror, Ahmose, and Netiqret have all mentioned other cities like this one, though none of them seemed to know the exact number Ka rules. Interconnected by Channels, supposedly, like the one through which Caeror brought me to Qabr. Netiqret even intimated that there is some limited trade between them, apparently giving the priests and Ka-shabti access to meat and other livestock produce. “And all this means I don’t have to worry about my face being seen, because …”

“Think of the Overseers less as people, and more as limbs to the Nomarch’s mind. Appendages, rather than agents themselves.” Netiqret holds out a hand in front of her, palm out. Flexes her long fingers. “Our hands can convey to us the texture of a thing, but if we know what it should feel like, we usually don’t bother checking. To do otherwise would just be wasting time. Focusing on extra, mostly irrelevant information. Yes?”

I consider the analogy. “So you’re saying the Overseers aren’t the ones who know everyone in Duat—it’s these central iunctii, this ‘Nomarch,’ who do,” I say slowly. “They’re the mind. The ones in charge. And the Overseers will only convey information to it if the Nomarch first tells them there’s a reason to?”

“Exactly.” Netiqret’s nod is approving. “If an alarm were already raised, the Nomarch might instruct the Overseers to check everyone in the area. Dedicate more of its focus to verifying identities. But otherwise, it only screens people where it has to. It is always purposeful, never wasteful.” She stands, offering me a hand. “So are you coming?”

I don’t reply as I contemplate the black-clad figures in the distance. I knew they were less than human, at least partly. Was aware of their utter predictability. This still paints them in a new, somehow more horrifying light.

More importantly right now, though, I’m fairly sure Netiqret hasn’t told me this simply to be helpful.

The ululating screech of the paid mourners finally dies as we pass through the obsidian gates unchallenged and into a massive courtyard, twice the size of the Quadrum back at the Academy. Unlike much of the rest of the city’s east, every surface in here is polished-smooth obsidian reflecting golden light. Spare and beautiful in equal measure. A dozen different exits lead deeper into the complex, each with a different symbol on its door. Each one closed, and manned by Overseers.

At the far end of the courtyard, above the heads of a gathered crowd pungent with the smell of beer and unwashed sweat, I can see the shaven-headed priest and the rest of the procession standing in front of the bridge. Another massive obsidian double gate, also closed, shining scarab symbols filigreed into each side. The priest is intoning the rites behind the bier. The iunctii who carried it stand mute and straight behind him.

“You want me to get to Duat’s Nomarch.” The crowd around us is not so tightly packed or attentive that we cannot speak privately. When Netiqret arches an eyebrow at me, I shrug. “You know what I can do. You must know where it is. And you must have a way in,” I continue, extrapolating quietly.

The tall, grey-haired woman just smiles, keeps her eyes ahead. Body language natural. She’s been at this a long time, I suspect. “How many Overseers do you count?”

I look around casually. “Twenty?”

“Twenty-three that I can see. And those are just the ones in the open.” She sounds unconcerned. Like she’s discussing the weather. “This is the most protected structure in all of Duat. Tricky, if you want to get further in.”

“I never said I did.”

“You do if you want to reach the Nomarch.” She looks at me, now. Unflappable and certain. “I don’t know what you want, Siamun, but it doesn’t matter. With what you can do? Get in there, and the city is yours for the taking.”

I watch the proceedings at the bridge. Men unshaven. Women with black streaks running down their cheeks, their clothes torn. Some of the grief is real, I’m sure. “And of course, you’ll be needing something for yourself.” If there really is a group of iunctii acting as a guiding mind for the Overseers—and the Gleaners as well, I imagine—then it makes sense that they’re in the most secure area of Duat.

I’m fairly sure Ka is in there, too. But this might give me the chance to be certain. And to actually be prepared for whatever I am to face in that massive pyramid of his.

“We will get to that,” Netiqret concedes smoothly. “But first, I need to understand how you control the iunctii.”

“No.”

In the distance, the priest finishes his final threefold invocation and the massive obsidian gates swing slowly open. This is the closest I’ve been to the bridge. Thin, polished black stone underfoot. Fifty-foot statues towering on either side, looming over any who walk it. As is usual, it is completely empty. The dead alone are allowed to travel its length—the only time they are supposed to remove their face coverings in public. It is a parade of white in the early morning and late evening as iunctii travel from west to east and then back again. Silent and still at almost all other times of the day.

I look at those around us and am struck, not for the first time, at how breathlessly they watch the proceedings. How uncomfortably fervent the light is behind their eyes. A different, far more intense kind of belief compared to the staid rituals and recitations that I’m used to from Caten’s adherents. One, if I am being honest, that makes me uneasy to be so thickly surrounded by.

The ululating begins again and the iunctii raise the bier. Commence solemnly carrying the corpse into the green-tinted gauntlet of sullen statues. I squint at the white stone archway they’re moving beneath; I hadn’t spotted it before but there’s something inscribed on it. Vetusian, I realise with a start, not written in the glyphs I’ve become accustomed to here.

Death is the door to life.

I frown, distracted. An old Vetusian quote. The first writing of any kind I’ve seen here that is familiar. An echo of home.

Gods, I wish Caeror was here to talk to.

Netiqret hasn’t reacted to my refusal, watching as well. As the gates slowly shut again, concealing the dead man’s journey to the west, she sighs. Beckons, and we join the gradually increasing flow of people exiting the courtyard.

Once we’re outside the temple again, Netiqret leads us along the river. “Tell me about ‘Ahmose.’” She says the name as if I’ve made it up, for some reason.

“Ahmose?” I look at her blankly.

“Short? Nervous all the time?”

“You know all there is to know, I think. He was a craftsman until about a decade ago, when he died suddenly. Spent most of the past ten years working the upper level. Then one day he woke up, and the all-loving Ka was trying to replace his arms with swords.” I smile tightly.

The crowds are thinning; the air near the Infernis is faintly corrosive and most avoid this route. Soon we find ourselves in relative isolation. Netiqret seats herself on a low wall and pats the spot next to her. “Are you the one who brought him back?”

I snort as I sit. “Of course not. Only the priests—”

“Fine. Fine.” She looks relaxed. “How much do you want for him?”

I stare at her. Don’t really understand for a long few seconds. “He’s my friend.”

“Friend? You two don’t seem to have much in common.”

“That’s not how friends work, Netiqret.” I say it irritably. “Gods’ graves. He’s a good man. Trying to be better. Trying to come to terms with the fact that he lived his entire life believing a lie. In easier circumstances, we might not have had much to do with each other. But we do, and I respect him.”

She purses her lips at that. Leans forward, watching the pulsing lines of light running along the river. “Remember that he is also only a iunctus, Siamun. Most in Duat would tell you that Ka always protects the ones who should reach Aaru and that any he does not, have simply failed their trials. And that their loss has already been properly mourned.”

A long silence as my heart drops. The golden light of Ka’s pyramid subtly brightens. The marker of the changing of the hour, heading into afternoon. “What do you mean?”

I know what she means.

“I am sorry, Siamun,” she says quietly. “But the Nomarch is looking for him. He is just too much a risk.”

XLI

I IGNORE NETIQRET. HEART POUNDING.

Close my eyes, and focus.

I am in the dimly lit interior of Netiqret’s house; I launch Ahmose from his seat and make him take several strides until his back is toward the corner of the room.

“Sorry, Ahmose.” I have him whisper the words. “Netiqret is sending someone to kill you. Anything you need to tell me?” The faint sound of footsteps downstairs. I command him to respond as quietly as he can.

“I don’t know how to fight.” He breathes it.

I tell him to calm. To steady. I hate controlling him like this, and I know he will too, but better than the alternative. “I do. I’ll fight for you. Do you trust me?”

He does nothing for a long moment, then nods.

I take a half second to bring myself back, to open my eyes. Netiqret is crouched in front of me. Watching with intense curiosity.

“Call them off.”

“How?” she asks simply.

I stare at her. She’s not stopping me. Just … interested.

Vek.

She has no interest in getting rid of the risk Ahmose poses—or at least, it’s not the only reason she’s doing this.

I snarl and shut my eyes again. Footsteps on the stairs now. Ahmose’s heart races, but he’s steady.

I command him to give me control of his limbs, then extinguish the candles nearby, and draw back into the deepest shadows.

It’s not long before the half-light shows figures, little more than silhouettes against the window, entering. Three of them. Bigger than Ahmose, all wrapped in iunctii white. I see long, thin shapes in their hands, catch the glint of brass. They’re scanning the room, but the darkness has kept me hidden and the closest man has his back to me.

My mind races. I only imbued Ahmose with a small amount of Will—he reluctantly agreed to it as an emergency measure to communicate, the first day we found ourselves in Netiqret’s home—but I also had him keep one of my Vitaeria, in case he had to escape through the tunnels and back past the poison mists below the Infernis. And I know from Qabr that I can use a iunctus to imbue Will in an object, regardless of whether they’ve been through the Aurora Columnae.

I step soundlessly forward, touch the nearest intruder on the neck, and use Ahmose to Harmonically imbue him.

“Give me your sword,” I whisper, Ahmose’s voice odd in my—his—ears. “And then protect me.”

None of the usual sense of connection, and for an instant I panic at the lack. But then, I never felt it with regular imbuing, either. It’s Ahmose’s mind doing the work, now, not mine.

The other men are already turning as the iunctus hands his blade over without hesitation. It’s a sickle-shaped sabre. I’m not accustomed to the style, but it’s better than nothing.

The remaining two iunctii have seen me but I don’t give them a chance to go on the offensive; I dive and slash at the closest as the iunctus I’ve just commanded crashes into the other one, the two of them tumbling to the ground in a furious mess of flailing limbs. Metal abruptly protrudes through the back of my temporary ally. It doesn’t stop his struggling.

It’s an unnerving fight, from there. Awkward and mostly mute. I’m slower, unused to Ahmose’s proportions and strength, but the iunctii are unskilled. The one I’m engaged with thrusts but it’s simple and direct, no subtlety to the attack; I see it coming in time to slide around it and slice hard at his wrist. Hand and blade hit the ground together.

I close quickly, not allowing the maimed man a chance to react with more than a groan before thrusting my blade up, through his mouth and into his brain. He crumples. I don’t pause, extracting the sabre and bending to swing hard at the iunctus grappling on the floor near me. The bronze bites into his cheek, his eye; he thrashes and moans and I hack again, no skill to the motion, just intent. This time the metal penetrates. He flops, and is still.

The final iunctus, the one with the blade still protruding through him, is on the floor. Staring up at me, the other one’s half-removed head on its shoulder, unsettlingly little blood seeping from it in the semi-darkness.

I hurriedly command Ahmose to command him again. “Answer truthfully and fully. Are there any more of you?”

“No.”

“Am I in any further danger?”

“No.”

I exhale.

“Ahmose,” I eventually have Ahmose say aloud, “I am going to give up control now. I’ll be back soon. Find somewhere to hide until then.” I adjust his grip on the bronze sabre, and spear the final iunctus through the ear.

I open my eyes.

NETIQRET IS INFURIATINGLY NONCHALANT AS WE MAKE our way back to her house.

My blood still throbs in time to the lingering thud of Ahmose’s heart. It’s all I can do to focus on my guide’s movements, her pacing, as we ghost through the crowd. All I can do not to wreck our anonymity and explode at her.

“A test, Siamun. Just a test,” was all she said to me as I stared at her, hands twitching to fists, the sickly green of the Infernis flowing by behind her. “I had to be sure of some things, before we proceeded.”

Confusion and anger and the heat of battle warred to be let out, and I almost did and danger be damned. But she was watching me too closely. Too expectantly. A test, yes. But one that wasn’t over. This was as much about my character. My temperament. And with the possibility of an Overseer around every corner, even a loud remonstrance was a risk.

“I had to kill them,” I eventually snarled.

“They were already dead, young one,” was her sober reply.

A year ago, I would have walked away. Collected Ahmose and walked away and gods damn the consequences, confident I could make it on my own.

But Obiteum has shaped me into something less prideful, more practical. And responsibility has made me readier to suppress my rage. Responsibility to Ahmose. To Caeror. To my friends in Res. Gods, even my enemies there.

“I need your word, Netiqret.” I said it to the space between us, unable to look at her. Strained almost to breaking. “Ahmose remains unharmed. If you try and hurt him again, any deal you may want with me is finished.”

Chain your anger in the dark, and it will only grow.

But sometimes chains are the only way.

She nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. “You have it.” She leaned forward and for the first time in her regal smile, I saw her occupation embedded in her brown eyes. “But Siamun? Don’t ever tell me no again.”

I study her now as we slip invisible through the throngs. A woman accustomed to control. A woman who needs it, I think. That makes sense, given her vocation. It’s why I gave an appropriately reluctant nod to her last demand. She is used to getting her way. I’ve no intention of letting her have it, but for now, she will believe her point made.

“Surely there were better ways to test me.” We’re almost back. Enough time for her to think me stewing, chafing at the situation. If I’m too quiet, too accepting, then she’ll doubt it’s real.

“None as swift, or as informative.”

“Perhaps. But it doesn’t build trust.”

“I do not need you to trust me. I have a place in this city. You are a stranger and your iunctus is a fugitive. You exist through my goodwill alone.” She says it with quiet certainty, steering us to the right, just away from the sweeping gaze of an Overseer ahead. I think I’m beginning to see the patterns she sees, albeit still long after she does. “We are not allies. We are not friends. Your capabilities are of interest to me, but I needed a more thorough demonstration before we proceeded.”

Vek. So calm and cold.

“So what do you want from the Nomarch?” I raise an eyebrow at her glance. “I’m going to need to know eventually.”

She looks like she’s not going to tell me. Then she sighs. “Anonymity. I need to avoid having my face checked by the Overseers just as much as you do. I wish to be forgotten by Ka.”

She says it as if it is almost embarrassing to admit. Meets my gaze with a sheepish shrug.

It’s a good act. I pretend to believe it. “Why not just destroy the Nomarch, then, if you have access?”

She snorts. “There are fail-safes. Surrogate groups of iunctii housed in other cities, always connected to the primary. Always knowing what the Nomarch knows. Destroy the one here, and Ka will simply transport in a duplicate to take its place.” She frowns. “Quite aside from the fact that much of Duat would eventually break down without the Nomarch, of course. It operates the machinery that cleanses our air. It monitors the filtration system for our water. It maintains the farming on the upper level. Take it away, and everyone here likely dies within a few months. Which would be counterproductive,” she adds dryly.

I don’t say anything to that. If the Nomarch controls all those systems, then it surely must control the Gleaners. And perhaps any extra layers of security that sit around the pyramid.

On the other hand, if Ka is the one imbuing the Nomarch … vek.

“How long until you can get me in?”

“There should be a window in about six months. We can train you to—”

“I don’t have that kind of time. I need it to be weeks.”

We angle slightly to the right, passing behind the path of a large group and into the relative quiet of Netiqret’s street. She frowns. “We have to approach this cautiously, Siamun. Ka, the Nomarch—if they get any hint that we have found a weakness, they will adapt. Ruin our chances.”

“In six months, my need to get to the Nomarch will be irrelevant.” A lie—I have no idea how long I have—but I’ve already wasted too much time just getting over to this side of the river.

We stop outside the gate to Netiqret’s residence. She considers me. Frustrated, but she knows there has to be some give-and-take for this to work. Despite her previous assertion, I’m simply not a resource she can replace.

“It will be far more dangerous.”

So it’s possible. “Better than pointless.”

She nods slowly. “It is likely best if you speak to your iunctus before he sees me,” she observes. “Allow me to go and make some enquiries. I will return soon.”

She leaves and I enter the settling privacy of the house, calling Ahmose’s name loudly to let him know I’m not another iunctus coming to kill him. Silence is my only answer. I climb the first flight of stairs. Ahmose is sitting in a chair in the far corner of the darkened room. He twitches as I enter. Bronze sabre still gripped, too tightly.

“Ahmose.” I focus on him, rather than the bodies and rent flesh between us. Make my voice gentle. “Gods. Are you alright?”

He stares at me, then gives a bitter, slightly manic laugh. “Perfectly.”

I take a place beside him. Not saying anything. Not sure what I can say. We sit for almost a full minute, just gazing at the bodies.

Ahmose moves first. Slowly extends his hand, offering me the stained bronze blade. Hilt first.

“I know you had to,” he says.

I take the sword. I cannot imagine what it must have been like, for him. He is a naturally anxious man; for him to be attacked is one thing, but to not be in control of his own body during the ordeal … “I’ve told Netiqret that if anything like that happens again, we walk away.”

“We’re not doing that already?” His eyes are fixed on the shadowed pools of gore.

“We need her.”

“You need her.”

“I need her,” I agree.

Another long pause, and then he nods. Seems to break from his sombreness and introspection, just a little. “Then we need her.” He gives me a tight smile, and the tension eases from the room. “So. Did you see the funeral?”

“We even went into the Temple of Ka.”

“You got into the courtyard? You saw Ophois open the gates to the west?” He sighs regretfully when I nod. “I saw it once, as a child. I always meant to go again.”

“You obviously did.”

He pauses, and then chuckles. “True. But I didn’t much get to appreciate it, the second time.”

A lull. I gaze at my dim reflection in the metal in my hand. “What was it like?”

“Dying?”

“Dying.” I’ve wondered, plenty of times, since we met. Have thought about asking before. “Sorry. I don’t know if that’s rude, or …”

“No. Not rude.” He’s contemplative. “You know something’s wrong. Something’s different. I was ill, but I’d been ill before and this felt … worse. Not in terms of the pain. It wasn’t even that painful. But I could feel my body not resisting. I could feel it giving in. I wanted it to fight, but it just wouldn’t.” He says it all in a vaguely melancholy murmur. Like it’s the first time he’s really thought about it. “Then there’s a point where you know everything is stopping and you start to panic, you want to call out and get help, but you physically can’t. And then that fades and it’s like going to sleep. You’re tired, and there’s just … nothing.” He glances up at me. “Not until you wake up again.”

“Were you happy when you did?”

He dips his head. “For a time,” he says softly. “You start out knowing that even without the promise of the Field of Reeds, the work needs to be done for those remaining in the east. The three-and-thirty years is a sacrifice most are willing to make, and I believed—we all believed—that Ka would not bring anyone back who was not worthy of the task.” He shakes his head. “Then, the days start to drag. You begin to feel less than you were. You begin to feel trapped, and you wonder if maybe there’s a kind of beauty in simply fulfilling a purpose, and resting. But then you fear, because those thoughts are profane, and the profane do not reach Aaru. You hate yourself for your doubt. So you keep going.” He finishes quietly, staring at the bodies on the ground.

Neither of us say anything for a while. I regret asking the question; we have strayed too far into a topic that Ahmose still struggles with. It took him a long time to accept that Aaru, the Field of Reeds, is just another of Ka’s lies. A false promise of paradise to coax everyone into line. Even now, I can see the vestiges of anger and dismay warring on his face.

Eventually, I stir. Decide to move the conversation on. “Have you seen Kiya, since the attack?”

“No. Not since you left. I imagine Netiqret told her to stay locked in her room.” Bitterness at the last part.

“I haven’t seen a iunctus as young as her before.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nor I. There are no children in the west.” The observation seems to draw him out, just a little. “There is an assumption that if a child dies, they are taken straight on to the Field of Reeds. Netiqret would not be able to take her out often, I would imagine. It would risk …”

He trails off as we hear footsteps on the stairs; a few moments later, Netiqret herself appears. She crosses her arms and purses her lips as she surveys the gore and damage, apparently not having overheard anything of our conversation. “What a mess,” she mutters. Her gaze goes to Ahmose. “I apologise for what happened. They were instructed not to harm you.”

His eyes widen slightly at the concession, and even I admit to a flicker of surprise. Ahmose has assured me previously that the living never, ever apologise to Westerners. “I understand.” Deferent to a fault, even in this.

Netiqret nods brusquely, then turns to me. Examining me with an uncomfortably assessing stare for much longer than I’d like.

“I have a way in, and it’s only a few months away,” she says eventually.

I see her hesitation. “But?”

Her lips, for some reason, quirk in wry amusement.

“But you’re not going to like it.”

XLII

I HAVE HEARD, AND TOLD, MORE LIES THAN I CAN COUNT over the past few years, and as antithetical as it seems, they often benefit from the outrageous. Sometimes the selling of a lie is in its absurdity, in making it so extreme that it must surely be true because by its nature, no one would be so bold or so foolish to fabricate it.

I know this. I have done this. I still cannot believe Veridius is lying.

Dusk, and the cooler air and blurred outlines it brings, drapes the hemmed-in sanctuary of the Academy’s Quadrum. We walk a slow circuit around its white, silent edges. Past the torchlit Bibliotheca, and the gymnasium, and the Curia Doctrina once again. The stillness makes it a hollow corpse of my time here. Veridius and Aequa and Eidhin keep careful step with me. Watch me. As if I might break.

“Stop if you need to,” says Veridius gently as I falter a step.

“I’m fine.” More irritable than I mean it to be, but it’s true enough. At least physically. I’m the one who requested the fresh air and exercise. My head no longer aches. The words forced through my mouth in the ruins no longer echo in my skull. I can still sense Diago waiting just outside the walls, and I’m admittedly stiff and aching—but otherwise, I have nothing more unusual than some scrapes from Aequa’s hauling, and weariness. “You should probably let Livia free, by the way. Her father’s not going to be pleased you confined her to the dormitory.” We discovered a little earlier that her absence hasn’t been through disinterest.

“Her father’s going to be even less pleased that you snuck away from her. And he doesn’t particularly like me much, anyway. She’ll survive a little longer.” Veridius’s voice has the hint of a rasp to it. I’m not surprised. He’s done a lot of talking, these last few hours.

That’s another reason I wanted this walk, this break. I needed to clear my head. To try and understand everything he’s just thrown at me.

The Principalis started at the beginning. Haltingly, at times. Careful and awkward, a story he hasn’t often told. How he, Caeror, and Lanistia became friends, despite the competition of Class Three. Caeror’s brilliance in the first trimester leading the then-Principalis to secretly enlist his help in translating the glowing scrawls of the pre-Cataclysm ruins he’d discovered nearby. Caeror’s eventual insistence that his friends be involved, and then breakthrough after breakthrough as together they figured out the location of the Labyrinth and how to open the way down to it. Deciphered the instructions to build their own Labyrinth for practice. How to turn off the defences guarding it.

And then, quickly after, why it was all necessary.

It took a long predawn of probing from Aequa, Eidhin, and myself before I even started to believe his assertions. A vague, ancient war against an enemy that Caeror translated as the “Concurrence.” Then something called the Rending—that term, I recognised from the recitals of the iunctii—to prevent their victory, which split the world into three near-identical versions, but left Will broken into shards of itself. A power only whole again now when someone exists in all three worlds at once—“Synchronous.” Another term I’m uncomfortably familiar with.

The condition that Veridius believes I now have. And the one thing he believes might stop another imminent Cataclysm.

I suck in another steadying lungful of the evening air. It’s been hours of cautious exchange, since then. My experience running the Labyrinth met with his explanations of what he thinks happened, a back and forth as long and tentative and tense as anything I’ve been through. The fate of the world balanced against a mistrust so deep, I’m still not sure how to give the former its proper weight.

“You’re sure there’s no way to bring in Ulciscor and Lanistia?” I ask it abruptly. Not the first time I’ve brought it up; of everything we’ve talked about so far, this is strangely one of the things that is bothering me the most. For all Ulciscor put me through, Caeror was—maybe is—his brother. “Caeror even tried to tell Ulciscor what was happening, before he ran the Labyrinth. Sent him notes. And, gods. They both loved him. If there’s even a chance he’s alive, if I convinced them to sign a Silencium—”

“No.”

“It broke them, Veridius.”

“I know.” Genuine pain on Veridius’s face. He pretended Caeror had committed suicide in his deal to defect to Religion: They gave him a position directly under the old Principalis, and the Academy avoided investigation and scandal. His idea. His price. I have never seen more raw shame on a man’s face than when he made that admission to me. “I know. But the fact is, broken people cannot be trusted with something of this magnitude. Caeror is dead in this world, and even if that message on your arm means what I think, there’s no way to get to him in the others. Maybe it would bring them some comfort, knowing he’s out there. Or maybe Ulciscor would refuse to listen to me, the way he refused to listen to you. Maybe he would decide that Military’s resources offered his best chance at rescuing his brother.”

“I don’t think he would.”

“But you cannot be sure.” Veridius holds my gaze. “And anyway, you know Lanistia. Trying to keep her away if she found out the truth …”

“Oh, gods. Good point.”

We share a chuckle. Brief, but genuine.

“Silencium or not, I can’t stop you from telling them,” Veridius says eventually. “And I know you want to help them. But it won’t—not practically, not emotionally. I think you know what the right course is.”

I glance over at Aequa and Eidhin. Aequa nods, the slightest of indications that she agrees with the Principalis. After a pause, Eidhin slowly does the same. They’ve each kept their own counsel for most of the past few hours, chiming in with questions or observations only when they’ve felt they needed to. But I’ve been leaning on them to help me process what we’re learning. Using the shared experience to help me accept Veridius’s claims, knowing that there will be many, undoubtedly far less rational conversations to come about what we’ve heard here tonight.

They will never know how grateful I am that I do not have to go through this alone.

“Alright.” Not much else I can say to it, really.

We sit on the cold stone of the Curia Doctrina’s stairs. For a strange moment it feels as though nothing has changed, despite the eerie silence. From the corner of my eye, I can almost see Callidus sitting alongside Eidhin and Aequa. Feel like I could turn and see his smile.

Instead, I keep my gaze focused ahead, through the glittering spray of the triangular fountain in the centre of the Quadrum and resting it on the Praetorium. My mind drifts further still, beyond the Will-cut structure. To where I know the Labyrinth—the Academy’s Labyrinth—lies.

“So you think the Labyrinth was originally designed as some kind of proving ground for soldiers. That they were being sent through to continue fighting the Concurrence in Luceum and Obiteum, after we won against them here.” Picking up where our conversation left off, before I requested the change of scenery. “And those soldiers were expected to sacrifice themselves here on Res, so they wouldn’t become Synchronous?”

“I think. I told you, the translation is tricky and it’s focused more on the mechanics of getting around that sacrifice, than explaining its background. There are hundreds of words down there which appear only once. Even with what we’ve correlated with the Alta Semita translations, there’s still a lot we’re having to make guesses at in context. And even then, what’s written seems to be assuming a lot of knowledge we just don’t have.” He’s emphasised this several times already. I still can’t decide whether it’s because it’s true, or simply a convenient way to obscure information.

“But if you’re right, then that means whoever wrote it was working against people fighting the Concurrence.”

“They were working to circumvent a system set up thousands of years before their time; there could be any number of reasons for that. But they were certainly not for the Concurrence. That much is clear.” Veridius spreads his hands. “I wish I knew more. Truly. The one thing we do know is there have been multiple Cataclysms, and another is due, and the authors seemed sure that only someone Synchronous could prevent them.”

I examine Veridius. He seems open, seems honest. He’s told us a lot and despite the madness of it all, it fits. It explains so much.

I do not trust him. I believe what he is saying, but not that it’s everything.

“Then how does Vis stop it?” Eidhin finally rumbles the question I’ve been desperate to ask, and avoid, since we started.

Veridius makes a face. Doesn’t answer for a long enough pause that I exchange glances with the other two.

“Rotting gods. You don’t know?”

“It’s not that.” Defensive, despite himself. “The writings seemed to suggest the Cataclysms were triggered by one man. ‘Ka,’ they called him. But they talked about exploiting a vulnerability in Obiteum, not here. There’s no suggestion of how to find him in our world.”

Aequa points it out before I do. “One man? Causing Cataclysms over thousands of years?” she interjects disbelievingly.

“He could be a iunctus.” More uncertainty than I’d like in the response. “Or being Synchronous could extend life indefinitely, for all we know. Like an even more effective version of what we see in the Princeps. And there are certainly plenty of instances of Will operating in ways we don’t understand, like the Vitaeria. I know it seems absurd, but everything else written down there has borne out as truth.”

I massage the nub of my missing arm absently. Accept it for the time being, as I have with so much tonight. “Then we have to find him.”

“We need to keep you safe. Caeror knew all of this, too.”

It takes a few moments for me to understand what he means. “You want me to do nothing?”

“I know it’s not your default position,” the Principalis says dryly. “And I’m not saying we won’t act, given the chance. But Vis … I just don’t have enough information. Wherever Ka is on our world, I have no idea where to look. Where to start looking.” He rubs his forehead tiredly. “I hate the passivity of it too, but keeping a low profile is the best thing you can do right now. Don’t let anyone else know what you can do. If Ka finds out you’re Synchronous, I have no doubt he’ll try to have you killed.” He looks at Aequa and Eidhin. “You two need to help him. Keep an eye on him, wherever you can.”

They both, to my vague annoyance, nod gravely. Even knowing what he’s done, Veridius’s calm, commanding presence manages to overwhelm everything sometimes. It’s so easy to forget that he’s no longer in charge of us.

Veridius gazes up at the stars dotting the bruised sky of the west. “That’s probably everything I can think to tell you, Vis, for now. If something else occurs to me, I’ll let you know before the Transvect arrives tomorrow.” He stands. “I am sorry I cannot give you better answers. More of a purpose. Of everyone involved in this, you genuinely have the hardest job. You have to wait, and hope.”

He says it with gentle, regretful care. The melancholy in his voice adds that he knows only too well how difficult that truly is.

I nod. A respectful acknowledgement that I mean. I don’t trust that he’s told me everything, and I don’t doubt he feels the same about me. Nor can I say that I like how he has gone about dealing with all of this. But I do believe him. I believe there is a Cataclysm coming, and I believe he wants to stop it.

In purpose if not in method, we appear to be on the same side.

“Get some rest. The dormitory is open. And Vis?” He allows the slightest of smiles. “Stay on the gods-damned grounds tonight, please.”

I cough a laugh. “Yes, Principalis.”

He gives a wry nod, and walks away.

The three of us watch, silent, until he’s disappeared into the Praetorium. Then Aequa suddenly expels a long breath. “I’m hungry.”

“Yes,” rumbles Eidhin.

I give a soft chuckle at the break in tension. “I’ll meet you there? I could use more of a walk to clear my head, first.” I stretch. “Maybe after dinner, we could go and see Diago.”

Aequa makes a face. “You want us to get eaten?”

“I want to see if he’s inclined to try.”

They look at me with disapproving expressions, and then Eidhin grunts. “We have nothing better to be doing, I suppose.”

Aequa rolls her eyes in acquiescence, and they head toward the Curia Doctrina.

THE JOURNEY TO THE TWISTING, CUNEATE TOWER OF the dormitory is a lonely one. The Academy may never have been home, but it was at least familiar; now, devoid of bustle and laughter and argument, it is a cadaver and I am intruding upon its tomb.

The dormitory is unlocked, as unsettlingly empty as outside. Every bed stripped. Every desk bare. The floor is spotless. As if our time here has been swept clean, erased.

Memory makes my steps heavy as I start in.

I make my way slowly inside, to the bed two spaces over from the one Callidus slept in. Carefully unscrew the bedpost and feel around inside the cavity. It’s still there. The documents Belli blackmailed him with, the ones he so desperately wanted to get back to his father. I draw them out and pocket them. Replace the post’s top.

Fulfil my final promise to my friend.

I make to leave. Stop. Look over at Callidus’s space. A lump forms in my throat, despite my determination. As sterile as the rest of its surrounds, yet suddenly I can see him hunched over his desk. Scribbling on his wax tablet. Awake later and up earlier than anyone else. Flicking through books too advanced for me, let alone a Seventh.

In my head, he turns to me and grins.

The pressure in my throat, behind my eyes, becomes unbearable. I’ve avoided thinking of him. Ever since the funeral. Shied away from the pain of those memories because I’ve had more pressing concerns. More important things to do.

What kind of friend does that?

Grief, my mother once told me, is love’s most honest expression. The last and hardest aspect of truly, truly caring for someone. She said it at her own mother’s funeral rites, tears in her eyes even as she tried to comfort a boy too young to understand why he was so sad, why his grandmother couldn’t be there anymore. She explained through choking sobs that without grief, love would be meaningless. Because it is impossible to truly love something that cannot be lost.

I remember that day, and I remember my friend, and I weep.

It’s a formless, confusing pain that wrings me out, chokes the sobs from me as I sit on the edge of the bed and hold my head in my hand. I’m not sure if my tears are for the boy whose time was cut short, or myself for having to bear his absence. But it helps. I force the memories. Smile at some, even as I sniff.

I don’t know how long has passed when I hear the scuffing of feet on stone.

I furiously wipe my face and stand, rapidly bringing myself under control. When I turn, Livia is standing awkwardly a few feet away.

“The Principalis just found me. He said you might be here,” she says quietly. A question in it, but softened after seeing me like this. She knows we travelled here so that I could talk to Veridius—ostensibly to find out all I can about the Iudicium attack—but he’s kept her from the rest of us for the entire day, and she wants to know why.

I grunt. Not trusting myself to speak, for a moment, and then, “These are for your father.” I gruffly hold out the pages I took from the bedpost.

Livia frowns as she takes them. Pales as she takes in the writing, her original intent in tracking me down forgotten. “How …”

“Callidus gave them to one of the students—he was trying to help them. Instead, they blackmailed him.” I hold her gaze. “It’s why he was in Seven.”

Livia says nothing for a few seconds. The pages tremble slightly in her hands as she reads through them.

“He always was an idiot.” A half laugh accompanying the words. Affectionate and exasperated, all at once. “Who was it?”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re dead.”

She gives a short nod. Looks around. Taking the space in properly. “This is where he slept?”

I smile. Barely manage to contain the fresh swell of emotion. “Sat at that desk every night. Read for hours after everyone else went to bed.”

“Sounds about right.” Her gaze stays fixed on the chair. Smile wistful. Picturing it too. After a while she shakes herself, tapping the pages against her other palm. “Thank you.”

I nod, just slightly. She means it.

“The others are waiting in the mess hall. We didn’t get much that was new out of the Principalis today, but we can talk about it over dinner.” I’ll figure out what to tell her on the way.

I take a couple of steps toward the door, then realise she’s not following.

“I’ve eaten already. I think I’ll wait here.” Livia’s back is to me. Gazing at her brother’s desk. “Just for a little while.”

I nod in understanding, though she can’t see it.

Leave her to her thoughts.

XLIII

MY TORCH CRACKLES AND FLICKERS, CASTING A SHIFTing red across the clearing. A stiff sea breeze sweeps chill air up through the trees, rustling leaves and rubbing creaking branches together. Aequa, Eidhin, and I stand in roughly the centre of the open space, my two friends peering uneasily into the shadows ahead.

“We’re close?” asks Aequa.

“He should be able to hear me.” I focus on my sense of the alupi. Not more than a few hundred feet away, I think. “Diago!”

The other two flinch at my call. “Him and half the Academy,” Eidhin mutters.

“We’re far enough away.”

Eidhin, I suspect, wishes we weren’t. Tense as he peers around. “And we are not imbuing ourselves?”

“We are not.”

“Why, again?”

“Diago doesn’t like it.” I check my sense of the alupi, but he doesn’t seem to be moving.

“Hm.” Eidhin looks at Aequa.

“Hm,” agrees Aequa sympathetically, watching the forest as cautiously as he is. Not quite as dubious as my redheaded Cymrian friend, but not far from it. She glances at me. “You’re sure about this?”

“He saved my life. Multiple times.” I make the assurance absently; this is a conversation we’ve already had. Veridius conceded earlier that alupi were smart and loyal enough that, perhaps, my history with Diago could have accounted for his fending off the iunctii after the Labyrinth. But given everything since then … “And I can sense him. I don’t know why I have this connection to him, but if it’s something to do with what happened in the Labyrinth …”

“I know. You want to chase every lead you can, no matter what the Principalis says. You can’t stop a Cataclysm if you’re dead, though,” she reminds me.

“We jumped the wall so I wouldn’t have to have this conversation,” I note, a little tetchily. Veridius hasn’t bothered putting the tracker bracelets on us again, but I know he’d deem what I’m doing too dangerous.

Silence as we wait. A lot of that, since I got back from the dormitory. We spoke briefly during dinner, but for the most part, we’ve all been largely lost in thought. Trying to come to grips with everything we’ve learned today.

“We could tell everyone, you know,” Aequa says suddenly. “Make what Veridius told us public. Leave all of this to the Republic. It doesn’t have to be you.”

“We could.”

“The Senate would listen to you. As absurd as that is,” adds Eidhin.

I give him a crooked smile. “They might.”

Neither of them are actually suggesting it, though. Not really. It’s just something that had to be spoken aloud, the obvious idea we all need to make sure we’ve agreed to discard. In a perfect world, revealing the impending danger pulls the Senate together. They put all their time and resources into figuring out what’s coming and how to stop it, without bias or hesitation. Without even a thought as to who might benefit most, during or after the crisis.

There is a reason Veridius hasn’t told them.

Aequa sighs. “So we’re going to do exactly what the Principalis has been doing,” she concludes quietly. “Keep the end of the world a secret?”

Still no motion from Diago; I take a moment to encourage him toward us again, my shout vanishing into the swaying trees, then exhale heavily. Nod. “I suppose so.” Still hard to wrap my mind around the concept. The end of the world. Even now, the thought fills me with a disconnected sense of unease more than the genuine panic I know it should. As if something so vast and terrifying can’t be real, is so impossible to imagine that it cannot be properly feared. “Gods.”

Grim silence, and then Aequa rubs her face. “You know, it’s not the Cataclysm, so much,” she observes. “It’s more that you might be our only hope of stopping it.”

I gesture rudely as Eidhin shakes his head. “That is barely a concern—”

“Thank you, Eidhin.”

“Barely a concern next to the fact there are apparently three of him now.”

“Gods. I’d almost forgotten that part,” says Aequa.

“Proof that evil powers are at play,” adds Eidhin gloomily. I glare at him. He holds my stare for a long, long second. Expression unchanging. “Three of you. By all the dead and rotting gods.”

Aequa finally breaks and laughs as I snort, unable to contain a small grin of my own. Some sense of relief washing through me at the gentle mocking. No different to yesterday. They’re not looking at me strangely, not being careful or cautious about how they’re treating me. I’m glad. I don’t know if I could have taken that, on top of everything else.

I make another gesture in Eidhin’s direction and then turn back to the forest. There’s movement from Diago now. Pace languid, though he’s clearly heading toward us. “He’s coming.”

I feel the anxiety of the others beside me and I can’t help but shift apprehensively myself, casually placing myself between them and him. I truly don’t believe he’ll attack me, but that confidence doesn’t extend to anyone else, just yet.

A few more seconds and the massive alupi stalks from the shadows into the orange of my torchlight. His dark eyes assess the three of us, and I can see Eidhin’s muscles bunching. Can hear Aequa’s breathing suddenly stop. All of us frozen, tensed in anticipation.

Diago huffs, then turns in an unhurried circle and lies down on the grass.

Aequa and Eidhin exchange relieved looks, and I feel the tautness leaving my own limbs. “See?” I take a step forward. Hold out my hand with one of the scraps of meat I took from the kitchen. Wave it enticingly. “Come here, Diago …”

Diago watches the meat disinterestedly, and doesn’t move.

“Fine.” I take a few steps closer. He observes me, but aside from a slight swishing of his tail, seems unperturbed. I get a few feet from him and gently toss the meat in front of his nose. He sniffs it, then gives me a look that could only be described as disdainful.

I crouch beside the massive wolf and gradually stretch my hand out, ready to draw it back at any sign of aggression. After a moment he presses forward so that his head is beneath my palm.

I beam. Exhale, sit, and scratch behind his ears. He grunts contentedly.

“So he didn’t eat you straight away,” calls Aequa. “Now what?”

“Now what?” I repeat to Diago affectionately. I study the alupi. He’s so big. “Do you two want a pat?” I call over my shoulder.

“No,” they reply in near unison.

I give Diago another absent scratch. Thinking. “They’ll change their minds,” I murmur to him, getting to my feet.

We spend the next half hour experimenting. Becoming comfortable around the alupi, and letting him become comfortable around us—though the latter barely seems necessary. Aside from a couple of initial wary rumbles at Eidhin and Aequa as they first approached, Diago has taken to their attentions just as happily as mine. More, in some cases. The fourth or fifth time I call him, only for him to pad straight over to Aequa and butt his massive head into her side until she relents and scratches under his chin, I give up. Glower down at the animal as he flops to the ground and rolls, begging her to rub his stomach.

“You are an ass,” I tell the wolf irritably. He wriggles violently with his back on the grass, then pauses and stares back at me implacably as Eidhin guffaws. Everyone infinitely more relaxed than when we started.

“Now,” I say, stepping back and considering as Diago resumes his happy squirming. “We need to make sure he can be alright around imbuing, otherwise Caten will be out of the question.”

There’s a long silence. The other two have stopped what they’re doing.

“Caten?” repeats Aequa faintly, straightening.

I nod with feigned confidence. I hadn’t really decided, before just now. “He can stay mainly in Domus Telimus. There are precautions I’ll take to restrain him, but I want to understand this connection I have to him, and it’s not as if I can stay around here to do it.” I shrug at their looks. “Only if he seems willing to come. And if he’s unhappy, I’ll bring him back. But you all keep saying I need protection, so …”

“This was not what we meant,” rumbles Eidhin.

“Plenty of other families keep dogs for security.”

“Dogs he will eat,” observes Eidhin.

“Families he will eat,” adds Aequa.

Diago huffs again, rolling onto his side and stretching lazily before looking up at us. Sharp intelligence in those grey eyes of his. He’s more human than animal in a lot of his responses. Clearly understands what’s being asked of him, but when he obeys it’s also clearly accession rather than compulsion. Food, such as the meat I brought, doesn’t seem to motivate him at all.

“I’ll find a way to make it safe. But it’s irrelevant if he can’t be around people using Will,” I point out impatiently. “So perhaps we should back away, to start with?”

Diago watches with indolent curiosity as we retreat a small way across the torchlit clearing. I stand in front of the other two and carefully, slightly, self-imbue.

The alupi is on his feet, faster than I could have imagined. Teeth bared. Eyes flashing. A low, threatening rumble drifts across the grass to us.

“Gods’ graves,” murmurs Aequa shakily.

I hold steady. Self-imbue a little more, and a little more, until I’m using all my Will. The amount doesn’t seem to make any difference.

“Easy, Diago.” I croon it gently. The name a little more comfortable on my tongue now, even if I still wish I hadn’t accidentally revealed it. It won’t mean anything to anyone, surely isn’t dangerous so many years removed from Suus. “Easy.”

I stretch out my hand to show I mean no harm, and move slowly forward.

My heart pounds as I approach the steadily growling alupi, who is crouched and tensed as if ready to leap at me. As a self-imbuing Totius Sextus, I should be fairly safe. I think. I have the strength of almost twenty people at my disposal and if Diago does attack, enormously powerful though he is, my body should be able to withstand it. At least long enough for the other two to help pacify him.

But as I approach, the massive, black-furred beast doesn’t do worse than continue his rumbling warning. Instead, as I get closer, he backs away. When I stretch out my hand he sits, just out of reach, and trails off into a soft, confused whine. Looking more betrayed than aggressive.

“Alright. Alright,” I assure him softly. I back off and release the imbuing; immediately the massive wolf seems to relax, and within a few moments is padding back up to me. Cautious, but after a tentative sniff, curling up again at my feet.

I turn and look at the others. Aequa looks nonplussed. Eidhin just shrugs.

We spend another hour, after that, just letting Diago adapt to being around us imbuing: mostly self-imbuing for short periods, then releasing it again to give him some relief from the anxiety it clearly gives him. In the end, while he still visibly tenses up when we try to touch him while imbued, he seems to understand that we’re not a threat regardless of our state. By the time we’re finishing up, I’m convinced that he will be alright in Caten.

“So are you really going to bring him with us tomorrow?” Aequa asks it, but I can hear from her tone that she feels the same way. Her face is flushed in the waning light of the torch.

“Unless he won’t come.” The Transvect uses an enormous amount of Will. It’s possible Diago won’t go anywhere near it.

“He will come.” Eidhin is watching Diago, and Aequa and I exchange a grin he doesn’t see. Despite his protests and initial insistence that this was a bad idea, there’s unmistakeable affection in my large friend’s voice.

Diago looks between the three of us as we talk, as if following the conversation. Relaxed again, but still no mistaking him for any of the dogs that roam Caten’s streets. There’s no wagging tail, no hint of a desire to please. He’s just … interested.

I crouch by him. “We’re going back, now. But we’re leaving the island tomorrow. You can come with us, if you want.” I have no idea how much he understands. “I’ll come back here in the morning to find you. Stay?”

Diago considers me, then turns and pads into the trees.

“Yes. I’m sure him being in Caten is going to be just fine,” murmurs Aequa as she gazes at where the animal disappeared. She gives me a half smile.

I return it ruefully. “I’ll make it work.”

We head back to the Academy.

THE ENORMOUS, PYRAMID-NOSED MASS OF STONE AND wood and glass that forms the Transvect hovers silent and still beside the Solivagus platform, doors open. Aequa and Eidhin stand a short distance away, waiting as I have a last conversation with Veridius. Livia is already aboard somewhere. She’s been quiet, barely looking at us this morning. I’m not sure whether it’s the lingering sorrow of seeing where her brother spent his last days, or anger that she was so bluntly excluded from our discussions yesterday. Probably some latent embarrassment that we took advantage of her interest in Eidhin to sneak away, too. I wouldn’t do it differently, given the chance, but it’s hard to blame her.

Diago sits on the sun-warmed stone about twenty feet away, facing us. Watching me expectantly. He was waiting patiently outside the Academy gate when we emerged, no need to even call for him.

“Fascinating.” Veridius studies Diago with black eyes. His self-imbuing is a reasonable prudence, but I’m relieved to see that Diago’s lessons from last night seem to have stuck; the alupi isn’t inclined to come near, but he hasn’t overreacted, either. “You really think he’ll be this restrained in Caten? He’ll listen to you?”

“He will.”

“Hm.” Veridius hesitates, curiosity clearly piqued, then takes a couple of steps toward the alupi. Diago’s lip curls lazily back, revealing long, jagged teeth. Veridius backs away.

“Good boy.” I call it, then toss him a piece of the cooked fish I snuck from the kitchen. It lands inches from his nose. To my irritation, he ignores it again.

Veridius just chuckles. Yesterday, I think, we saw a sliver of his true self—weary, sorrowful, desperate—but today, here and now, his usual affable charm is back on full display. “Well. He’s not what I meant when I said to protect yourself, but I suppose you could do worse. Just …” He raises a hand and then lets it drop again, sighing. “Just keep a low profile, Vis. Stay safe. And not just from the Concurrence. I know you want justice for what happened here—I do too—but I beg of you, do not risk the world to pursue it. You’re in enough danger without involving yourself in that.” Veridius didn’t have much new to tell us about the attack four months ago, but like everyone else in Caten, he’s heard the rumours. He knows senators were involved.

I say nothing, my thoughts unwillingly flashing to the Festival of Pletuna. Only three months away now. Without the usual Anguis threats of exposure hanging over my head, would I be able to ignore the temptation of the list of names I was promised? A moot point, I suppose: I can’t risk not meeting with Relucia’s strange contact, which is another reason I decided to bring Diago back with me. Whatever I’m meant to do that night, I cannot trust anyone I know to accompany me.

Veridius sighs again at my lack of response, and nods. “Stronger together, Vis.” He squeezes my good shoulder, then watches as I join the others aboard.

I turn to Diago, who’s still lolling in the sun. “Coming?”

The massive alupi stretches. Considers.

Pads lazily inside after me.

The Principalis raises a hand in farewell as the doors close and the Transvect lifts. Diago gives a soft, confused growl at the motion, but soon settles, laying his head on the floor uneasily.

The Transvect pauses, then slides forward toward the bright morning sun and Caten.

XLIV

LOSS IS HARDEST, ULCISCOR ONCE TOLD ME, WHEN IT IS quiet.

I am on sentry duty tonight. A thick, damp chill lies over the land as if to underscore the end of summer, a blanket of fog that swirls and creeps over the hills and through the shadowy trees beyond the reach of the torchlight. The inky waters below the crannog shift and slurp. Starless black glowers above. All has been quiet for hours.

And for the first time in a while, as I lean on the railing and peer out into the swallowing darkness, I cannot help but think about the world I left behind.

My idle thoughts first turn to my family. Not unwillingly, strangely enough. This sort of solitude reminds me most of Suus. The weather is its counterpart, the circumstances different beyond anything I could ever have imagined. But there is a peace in it. A sense of time simply passing, no panic to my thoughts, no furious planning for how I will survive the coming days. And so instead I think of my parents and my sisters, and I wonder what they would think of where I am now.

And I know the answer. There is honour here that runs deeper than anything I ever saw in the Hierarchy. They would have loved this place. These people.

Gods, I miss them. Not just their help, or their advice, or their comfort in the way that I have these past few years. I miss them. I want them to be here. To be able to share this with me. To be living this life with me.

The minutes slide by, and inevitably I drift to my friends. Callidus, Eidhin, Aequa. Emissa. They were my friends, despite everything. A strange feeling, to know they must consider me dead. To know they will have searched and grieved and are probably now moving on with their lives in Caten. I imagine what they’re doing right now. I wish I could have been honest with them.

The gentlest of breezes stirs the murky darkness. I peer into it absently, sweeping back brown hair that is longer than it has ever been. Caten is still out there, somewhere, but it must be so far away as to not matter. There are no maps here, no books, but no one I have talked to has heard even a hint of the Hierarchy.

The world, it seems, is a far bigger place than I ever realised.

Eventually I shift, switch my guarding to the opposite side of the crannog, though it matters little in the fog. My arm is bare beneath my cloak and I rotate it absently, spinning my spear in an exercise I’ve found works the muscles there thoroughly. I’ve started to adapt to the chill here, but I can’t rub my arms to warm myself the way I once would have. Such a minor thing. Sometimes those manage to feel like the most frustrating lacks.

I’m still in motion when the pulse registers.

I stop working out my arm and slowly bring the butt of my spear back to the ground. It’s faint, but it’s there again. That sense. Not light or sound but something itching at my mind, out on the far shore, hidden by fog.

It’s been more than a month since I last felt it. Just enough time for me to begin wondering, once again, if it had been my imagination.

I focus for a minute, then pad across the bridges to the torchlit causeway and start along it, trying to appear casual, though I’m fairly certain the fog will hide me from all but the closest observers. The sensation in my head doesn’t move. Wood creaks underfoot. White shrouds everything.

I hit the shore. Still silence. I ghost to the tree line and then start edging along the shore, eyes straining ahead. It’s almost impossible to see, but I can’t risk light.

The pulse in my head is getting nearer when the tail end of a conversation, low and hurried and muffled by the encroaching haze, touches my ears.

“… cannot delay.” A male voice. Insistent.

“We do not even know how many they are.” Another man, growling a response. “We should watch a while longer.”

“It will not matter. Not to Gallchobhar.” A woman this time. She sounds exasperated. “What we have is enough. If we stay until it is clear enough to see more, we risk being discovered.”

A pause. I hold my breath.

“Fine.” The second man again, I think, though the fog warps everything in such a way that I can’t be sure. There’s the faint scuffing of footsteps. Quickly fading.

Vek. Gallchobhar. The man I was manipulated, I strongly suspect, into getting exiled. And whoever’s reporting to him, they’re trying to stay hidden. There was at least three of them, and no knowing if everyone present spoke. Even with surprise on my side, I’m in no position to stop them from leaving.

The pulse is still there. Not that much farther around the lake. But this is the reason I was set to keep watch, and that comes before anything else.

I sprint back to the crannog. Before I reach it, the odd sensation in my head fades to nothing. I press on.

“Everyone up.” I hiss the words as I enter the older students’ sleeping quarters. Even with the fog, voices carry across the water. “Someone was here.”

The others are on their feet within seconds, throwing cloaks on, snatching up their spears. Alert. “How many?” asks Tara.

“At least three.”

“At least?”

“The fog was too thick. I couldn’t see them. But from what I heard, they know we are here and they are leaving to tell Gallchobhar.”

A heartbeat of deliberation at the name of King Rónán’s disgraced Champion. “Then we must catch them,” pronounces Conor grimly.

“Fearghus, rouse Pádraig and let him know, then catch up.” Tara’s already moving to the door, clearly in agreement with Conor. “Leathf hear, show us exactly where they were. It rained yesterday, and the ground is soft. It should be easy to find their tracks.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Pádraig?”

“Pádraig will stay back to ensure the safety of the younger ones, and send us to kill them.” Tara’s confidence is unshakeable.

“Kill?” I know this is what we’ve been training for, but still. “Shouldn’t we take prisoners? Find out what’s going on?”

“If we can.” She sees my hesitation. “If it is Gallchobhar and he has men, then he is undoubtedly working with Fiachra now. They will be skilled, perhaps outnumber us and will not surrender. And if any escape, they will return with reinforcements. Many more will die. Us, them. Both. This is the path to saving lives.”

I grimace, but there’s no arguing the point; I nod and follow her and the others without protest. We flit along the causeway, silent, rushlights in everyone’s off-hands except mine, as Fearghus splits off toward where Pádraig sleeps. There’s excitement on the faces around me. Determination. But no fear.

We soon reach the spot where I heard the intruders, and it takes only thirty more seconds before Seanna is beckoning us over, pointing to indentations in the damp grass. “Three or four,” she agrees with my assessment quietly.

Tara’s gaze flicks from me to the crannog, which is little more than a lighter spot in the white draped across the lake. “What did they say? The exact words.”

“One wanted to keep watching, because they didn’t know how many of us there were. Another said it wouldn’t matter to Gallchobhar, and that they already knew enough. That their staying until the fog cleared would risk discovery.” I shrug. “Then they left.”

“Miach. Lead the way?” Tara has accepted what I told her and is moving on.

Miach, the best tracker of our group, nods. His loosely bound blond hair swings as he studies the ground in the flickering light. He sets off at a soundless run. We follow.

The night air is damp and cloying in my lungs as the five of us lope first along the lapping waters, then up the unwooded, gently sloping hillside. Miach leads us unfalteringly, bringing us to a brief halt only twice to crouch and check the ground.

“They joined up with more. At least a dozen of them now,” he says grimly after the second time.

We press on for ten minutes. Fearghus catches up to us. The others ignite new rushlights. Another ten after that. Up and down slopes, over gurgling brooks. Our pace is hard. Our quarry’s direction never changes.

The pulsing in my head returns. Faint at first, but growing stronger and very much in the direction we’re travelling. I’m about to draw Tara’s attention when she holds up a hand, slowing us. “Sound ahead,” she whispers between breaths that mist around her rushlight before she crouches, thrusting the burning tip into the damp ground.

My ears haven’t caught anything, but the others follow suit without hesitation, plunging us into near darkness. We creep forward, crest a rise. The fog has thinned a little and there’s the tiniest halo of light, slightly down from us in a short valley. Its bobbing shows it moving away from us, albeit slowly. The band we’re chasing is in no hurry.

The pulsing in my head isn’t coming from where the light is, though. It’s farther away.

“Fearghus and Conor. Seanna and Miach.” Tara points in a direction for each pair of names. They slip into the white.

Tara keeps her gaze fixed on the slow-moving glow ahead. “Will you fight?”

I’m the only one left, so no question who she’s asking. “Yes.” I’m annoyed by her doubt, but this isn’t the time.

She glances at me. My vision has adjusted enough to see that her eyes have turned completely black.

She nods, and jogs forward.

I follow.

The next minutes pass in tense silence as the light ahead grows stronger through the fog. We slow. Skulk in the wake of the group, just beyond the reach of their torches. They are talking among themselves. Their chatter is comfortable as they pick their way along the stony bed of a stream. No sense that they’re in danger. The babbling water masks our approach. The backs of our quarry resolve from the murk.

There’s no warning, no signal that I can see. Tara hefts her weapon. Darts forward.

Impales the rearmost man through the back, the gore-soaked point of her spear emerging from his chest as he gasps a last quiet, pained breath.

Even as the others in the party whirl toward us, weapons ready, shadows emerge from the white either side and death follows. Three more fold soundlessly to the soft ground and another screams in pain as she collapses, writhing, Fearghus’s spear through her stomach. Hers will not be a quick death.

Five down, and they’re only starting to understand that they’re under attack. There are nine left. Six men and three women. Startled, but armed and quick to engage. Warriors all.

Weapons flash and shields rattle as spears lick out. On the right, Fearghus is bellowing a battle cry as he bullies forward into the fray, his heavy spear more of a club as it swings down with a sickening crack, while Conor laughs manically as he engages, quick and lithe, flowing golden hair wild as it whips around him. On the left, Seanna strikes high and as a shield comes up to meet it Miach goes low, already-bloodied spear goring a knee. The unfortunate defender screams and as he twists his protection back downward, Seanna slices his throat with a flick. The two flow on. Perfectly in tandem. No pause. All smooth, grim precision.

Directly in front of me, Tara is sprinting past the man she killed, sliding away from a thrust and spinning low, gracefully hamstringing a warrior before straightening and pinning her to the ground. A short blade flashes out at her and she uses her spear, still impaled in the writhing woman, to vault the attack and kick the man’s arm aside. She twists as she lands, wrenching the spear out again and flicking its darkly glistening edge around to scythe across the next man’s face. He screams as he goes down, clutching the red gash where his eye was.

Six remaining—even numbers—but Fearghus roars and falls to one knee as a blade protrudes from his leg; Conor breaks off to come and help, barely deflecting a killing strike, holding back an onslaught on two fronts as Fearghus bares his teeth and tries to totter back to his feet. Seanna and Miach are still moving fluidly but they’re no longer advancing, their opponents wary of their synchronised movements, better weathering their attacks.

And Tara’s dervish of momentum is arrested by a tall, lean warrior with far superior reach to the shorter girl, and whose eyes have turned just as black as hers. Their dance is mesmeric. Dizzying. Frighteningly fast, impossible to follow.

It’s all horrific. A nightmare. But there’s no time to think about it. I slide in between Tara and another man coming at her left, blood pounding in my ears. Block his attack and engage.

The fiery-headed warrior whose spear thrust I just knocked aside smiles slowly as he squares off and takes in my missing arm, the expression clearly meant to intimidate. That’s good. Tara and her opponent are already clashing not more than ten feet away; my job here is simply to keep her from being flanked, and trust she can win on her own. If this man wants to waste time posturing, that’s all to the better.

He doesn’t waste it for long, unfortunately, smile turning to a sneer of effort as he hacks in at my left with a series of swift, probing strikes. Predictable, but no less dangerous because of it; I use several of the techniques I’ve been learning these past months, employing combinations of ground, body, and momentum to brace my defence where my left hand would once have sufficed. It’s not easy or natural, despite my practice. My movements feel rushed and rough. Desperate. I barely avoid having a spear tip buried in me several times.

And then something changes.

My spear feels abruptly lighter. An extension of myself. I am in control, but my movements are suddenly more sure, more nuanced. I block, and block, and find myself with a rictus smile as the flow of the fight swings. Not in my favour, exactly. But I am holding my own. Flush with a strange clarity, a razor-sharp certainty in what I am doing.

The redheaded man snarls and backs off slightly, breathing hard, frustrated at his lack of progress. The inexorable rush of our initial attack fades as these warriors—seasoned and brave—withstand the chaos and position themselves back-to-back. There is an occasional groan from the injured, but otherwise all war cries have ceased. It’s just grunts and snarls and clattering weapons as we poke and prod and deflect and blink steaming sweat from our eyes. Torches that were hurriedly tossed aside at the beginning of the ambush begin to gutter out, letting the teeming fog creep even closer, thick enough to render the others little more than flashing shadows. The air reeks of salty, hot blood, and I hold the suddenly recalled terror of the naumachia at bay.

I want desperately to know how the fighting around me is going, but I never take my eyes off my opponent, nor he off me. We circle, and in the flickering half-light I see his muscles tense. Spot his intent. Not from training. Not from logic. I just know.

I move as he does. Sway to the side, letting his lunge brush by me. Pivot and bring my spear forward.

The barest of resistance as it plunges into his stomach.

I follow, driving it farther, in and through, until we are almost face-to-face. His eyes wide with pain and shock. Spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he trembles. Drops his weapon. I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek as he bends forward, as if to embrace me.

With a final grunt I heave him away, onto his back into the shallows of a stream. He splashes and writhes, pulling vainly at the shaft jutting from him, crimson clouding the water. I just stand there for a second, breathing hard, looking at him. Hand shaking.

“Do not prolong his suffering.”

It’s Tara. She has a gash on her shoulder. The man who was using Will is a vague and motionless outline on the ground ten feet away. I finally gather myself enough to look around and distinguish the others in the fog. Fearghus limping toward us using Conor as a crutch, looking more annoyed than in pain. Seanna and Miach both crouching and stripping armbands and torcs from the dead.

The warrior I felled is the only one left alive. Swallowing my horror, I pick up one of the last torches still lit, and crouch by him.

“Where is Gallchobhar?”

He just spits weakly at me. His green eyes glitter.

“He will not speak to us, Leathfhear,” says Conor.

I glance around at the others. They are watching me expectantly.

I nod, reluctant though the motion is. They’re right. This man has no motivation to cooperate. And a stomach wound is not a good way to die.

Steeling myself, I straighten, then yank the spear out with a clean jerk—eliciting a final, rasping gasp—before thrusting it down again, through his heart.

He twitches, and lies still.

I watch him for a few more seconds, standing over him, hand still clenched around the haft of the spear buried in his chest. For all the horrors I have seen, for all the dangers I have faced, I have never taken another life before. Not truly. As much as I felt the weight of what happened with Estevan at the naumachia, and as much as I may have been responsible for his death, some part of me has always known that it was Estevan himself who made that final decision.

There’s a hand on my shoulder, and I break from my grim contemplation to find Tara there. She meets my gaze, and nods. Just once. “We should not linger.”

She’s right; there’s no telling how close we are to the party’s destination. As I pull my weapon from the dead man again, Miach crouches beside him and carefully removes the iron torc from his neck, then offers it to me.

It feels like stealing from the dead, but I know it’s not thought of that way here. It is an act meant to honour as well as boast. To show not just how many you have killed, but to ensure you remember them.

Reluctantly, I take the torc and slip it around my bicep: arm for trophy, neck for status. The metal is still warm where it was resting against its former owner. Miach slaps me on the back approvingly before he draws his short blade, grabs the dead man’s hair and begins sawing at his throat.

“Why do you remove their heads?” I ask it quietly, not wanting to watch but unable to look away as the others start similar, grisly tasks.

Tara looks at me as if it’s a strange question. “So they cannot walk again, should the boundary to the Otherworld become too thin.”

I don’t have much choice but to accept the explanation; Gráinne mentioned the Otherworld once or twice, and I know it is part of their beliefs, but I’ve never been clear on its nature. As I force a sickly nod, I realise that the presence in my head is still pulsing. Closer than before. I tense, look around at the others. Keep my voice low. “I think there is still someone out there.”

They pause in their macabre work, turning to me as one. “Why do you say that?” murmurs Conor, alert. His hands and knife drip.

I could dissemble, but I know at least Tara is already curious about how I spotted the intruders from the crannog. And perhaps more tellingly, I simply don’t wish to lie. “I can sense something. In here.” I tap my head. “It is hard to explain, and I do not know why it is happening. But it’s how I knew this party were by the lake. I am not imagining it. And I am not certain it’s coming from an enemy.” The pulse has only helped me, and seems to have been travelling near this group rather than with it.

There’s silence as they process, and then Tara nods. “Far?”

“A few minutes away, maybe.”

Her eyes flick to Fearghus, then the spear in my hand, and then back to me. She doesn’t want to split up, not with our injuries. “The fog is thinning; you will have a better chance of staying hidden alone. Leave tracks where you can. If you have not returned when we’re ready here, we will follow.”

I acknowledge her and start at a run through the fog, down a gentle slope and following the stream. Tara, Miach, Fearghus, and the bodies quickly vanish into the white. I focus on the pulse. Just like before, there’s a physicality to it, something I can mark in space despite it not correlating to any particular sense. I move like that for another two minutes before angling to the right. Crest a short rise at a crouch.

Tara was right; the fog has started to clear here and now only a thin layer coats the hilltops. There’s a valley below still shrouded in drifting cloud, but my eyes are drawn across it, to the far incline perhaps three hundred feet away. The halo of a dying campfire, and a lone man with a horse, cutting a tall shadow through the white next to it.

He pauses, scans in my direction but doesn’t see me. Mounts and gallops off, white cloak flaring behind him, over the far rise and into the tendrils of the night.

I straighten. Stare after him. Heart thundering as my sense of the pulse recedes and rapidly fades, too fast to chase.

The distance was too great to be certain, far too great to properly make out his features in the hazy dim. But there was something. His dark hair and dark skin and tall, strong build. The familiar figure he cut as he looked around, as he leapt astride the horse. A recognition painfully faint, now. A memory’s ghost.

And yet impossible to mistake. Even as I stand there, breath short and disbelieving, I cannot help but know it.

He reminded me exactly of my father.

XLV

TARA LOOKS UP EXPECTANTLY AS I EMERGE FROM THE mists. Frowns when she sees my expression.

“There was someone.” I answer her unasked question. “White cloak. He rode off on a horse before I could get close enough to see much.”

She can see there’s more to it, but she’s nothing if not practical. Miach is binding Fearghus’s wound. Fearghus is forcing soft laughter through clenched teeth. It’s a bad injury, if not life-threatening, but he’s not the type to show it. None of this group are.

Tara considers, then nods sharply. “If he is with Ruarc, he will not have had the chance to speak with those we fought,” she decides swiftly, taking in the state of our band. Even excluding Fearghus, we are battered from our attack. “But he may come back with others to look for them. We cannot stay here, nor can we make it to Loch Traenala before dawn. We must camp nearby. Rest and return to the crannog tomorrow.” She turns to Miach. “How bad are your injuries?”

He shrugs. “I can make it back tonight,” he says, seeing where she’s going.

“Let Pádraig know what has happened, and that we are alright.”

Miach gives us a parting nod of encouragement, and lopes into the mists.

The rest of us travel slowly and silently for an hour, half supporting and half carrying a grumbling Fearghus, making sure to cover any traces of our passage where possible. We keep to stony ground. Wade through streams. Avoid soft ground at all costs.

“This will do.” Tara makes the decision. We’re in a small hollow; between the dip in the ground and the mists, any fire we make should be thoroughly concealed to all but the closest enemy.

Conor makes to protest, but sees the greyish tinge to Fearghus’s face and says nothing. Soon enough a small fire crackles, its warmth a welcome respite. We arrange ourselves around it. It’s not long before Fearghus is asleep.

There’s soft, idle conversation for a while, and then Tara stirs. “What did you really see out there, Leathf hear?”

I’ve been expecting the question, known it was coming since I first got back. Much of the past hour has been spent deciding how to respond. I don’t want to talk about it. But they know something spooked me, and a lie feels unnecessary. “My father. Or, a man who reminded me very strongly of him.” I release the second part to the air, an admission as much to myself as to them. “I was a long way away. I couldn’t see his face properly. It was a man in a druid’s cloak. Just a man who triggered a memory.” A trick of the dim and the fog. The more I think about it, the more it is the only explanation. “He’s the one I could sense, though. Him being nearby is what warned me, at Loch Traenala.”

“The … feeling. It is gone now?” Seanna examines me curiously. Intrigued, I think, more than doubtful.

“Yes. It disappeared when he rode off.”

Tara considers. “Not likely with Ruarc, then.”

“At least not with the scouting party,” I agree. It wouldn’t make sense for the druid to travel so close but not with them, otherwise. “He must have been watching them.”

There’s a pause as Tara, Conor, and Seanna take it in. They all look at me. Curiosity in their eyes more than disbelief.

“You are certain it was not your father.” It’s Seanna. A statement with another question behind it.

I hesitate, considering whether or not to answer.

“He was executed five years ago.”

Silence again. A long one. Then Tara leans forward. “Justly?” It’s not her usual brusque tone. I think she already knows the answer.

“No.” The word catches in my throat. “No. His name was Cristoval, King of Suus. He was murdered by his enemies. While I fled.” I watch the fire. The way its small flames lick yellow and orange along the wood. It’s all I can see. I open my mouth, then shut it again. Brow furrowing. Throat closing, a pressure behind my eyes.

“You were not a warrior five years ago,” says Conor suddenly. I finally look over at him, see the meaningfulness of the statement to him. Sense the others nodding.

“You would not have had the nasceann five years ago, either,” adds Seanna.

The lingering burst of sorrow obfuscates her meaning for a few seconds. “I don’t know how to use the nasceann,” I say slowly. Wondering if I’ve misunderstood.

“You do. I saw it too,” says Conor quietly.

I stare around at them. Not sure what to say. I haven’t been through the Aurora Columnae. Don’t have anyone ceding to me. “Are you certain?”

Conor touches his eyes. Nods a calm, unyielding confirmation to me.

Tara is frowning, looking as disbelieving as I’m sure I do, though she doesn’t doubt her fellow warriors’ word. “You have been to Fornax?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what that is.”

The furrows in her brow deepen and her gaze again goes to my weapon. “This strange sense that warned you, earlier. Do you ever get it from anything else?”

“My spear, sometimes. And yours,” I admit.

“Then you are nasceann. Though I have never heard of anyone sensing another’s power from so far away.” She sounds nonplussed. “The tale of your accusing Gallchobhar, before his banishment. It is true, then?”

“It is.” I frown at her. “You thought it wasn’t?”

“I thought Lir must have convinced you to lie.” Unsurprising reluctance in the admission, and I can see the others shifting uncomfortably at the suggestion that a druid might deceive anyone. “Many would do far worse for the chance to be here.”

“Why would Lir do that?”

“Because he was at odds with Gallchobhar being placed at my father’s right hand. I heard him arguing against his becoming Champion, while I was recovering. But Donnán insisted that Gallchobhar had earned it by saving me.”

I look at her. “You were injured in the same attack?”

“I was the reason for the attack.” She traces the ugly scar on her cheek. “Near three years ago. They snuck in. Killed Artán before the alarm was raised, came into my room, and cut my birthright away. And then Gallchobhar killed them all.” The others are listening just as intently as I am, I realise. They’ve been with Tara for years and not heard this story. But perhaps tonight—our first battle, our first kills, blood still drying on our clothes and skin—is bringing it out of her. “They had no markings, no torcs. My father was sure it was Fiachra but there was no proof, and so the draoi did not see it as cause for war.”

I grimace at that. My understanding of the druids’ power here is still imperfect, but I know that no one wants to go to war without their blessing. “A lot of people were angry, when I picked this spear to fight Gallchobhar,” I observe quietly.

“A nasceann’s weapon is not buried with them.” Seanna supplies the information. “So it can one day be claimed by a worthy successor.”

“Oh.” I squeeze my eyes shut against a sudden headache. “A worthy successor. To your father’s Champion.” I waggle my stump of an arm in irritation. “No gods-damned wonder everyone was so angry.”

Faint amusement, from Tara. “I imagine they were. Gallchobhar must never have claimed it for himself. Or perhaps he tried in secret, and it rejected him. Either way, once he was Champion, none in Caer Áras would have dared dishonour him by touching it.”

“Reject him?” I examine the weapon in my hand. “How could it do that?”

Tara hesitates. I can see she wants to answer, or at least knows something. But she shakes her head. “A question only the draoi can answer.”

“There are none of those around.” I still don’t really want to know, want no part in even touching Will. But if I’m somehow using it despite not being ceded to—if that strange battle sense, these pulses I’ve been feeling, are some unknown application of it—then I need to understand what’s going on.

“One will come for Samhain, in a couple of months. To tell us news of the outside world, and to let us know if we are Called.”

“Called.” The name for when warriors are needed by their king. My curiosity about the nasceann briefly dies. “Do you think that likely?”

“You know the answer as well as I. Úrthuile is an old man. It is only a matter of time.” She rubs at some of the blood on her arm. Looks around at us, comes to a decision. “And when it is time, I will welcome it. When I was given my scar, my father did not intend to renounce my claim, but it happened not long after Ruarc and Fiachra had first made their deal, and he had voiced his disapproval of it only months earlier. He had the choice of admitting that the Old Ways no longer had to be heeded—further weakening the draoi who stood in opposition to Ruarc—or sending me away.” She grimaces. “In the end, I did not give him a choice. I have always been quick with a weapon. I had already visited Fornax and been taught the nasceann. I volunteered to come here, because there was never a path that did not lead to war, after that.”

There’s a hush as she finishes, and I close my eyes as I understand the implications. The others have already explained to me that according to the Old Ways, only the unblemished—the physically perfect—may rule, here. Perhaps these people’s deep sense of honour is meant to preclude such situations, but Tara’s account is exactly why I thought, and still think, it is one of their most unsound customs.

“The men who attacked. They never intended to kill you.”

“No.”

“They meant only to maim?” Conor’s voice has raised an octave in outrage; he quickly glances around and lowers his voice again, but the usually ebullient young man is livid. “Fiachra sent men in secret to do that to you, to embarrass your father?”

“Fiachra, and Ruarc. With Gallchobhar’s help. So that the king would be put in an impossible position.” My half-absent murmur attracts the attention of the others, and I grimace. “It’s the kind of behaviour I would expect, where I come from.” This is why Tara was so sure Gallchobhar is serving Fiachra.

“From your homeland?” asks Tara curiously.

“From its conquerors.” My brow furrows and I look across at Tara. “You saved your father. By coming here, you ensured a good man would continue to rule.” At the expense of her own position. Her own happiness.

She would have been fourteen. Same age I was when the Hierarchy attacked.

I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to make the same decision, in her shoes.

“Well I, for one, am glad you are here, Tara ap Rónán.” Conor is still indignant but seems intent on smiling despite it. “We would be a worse warband without you.”

“You would be a dead warband without me.” A slight flush to her cheeks indicates she’s pleased, despite the retort. She looks over at me. “And my father would have made the right choice. He mourned my injury and my leaving, but he is a strong ruler.”

I nod at her mild rebuke. She doesn’t like me suggesting he would have faltered, certainly not in front of the others. I can understand that.

There’s just the crackle of our small, flickering fire burning the dark press of mist around us, for a while. No breeze or other sounds from our protected little hollow. Then Conor stirs. “My father mourns my return more than my leaving.” He shakes his head. Chuckles, but it’s muted. “Each winter, he is disappointed I am not wearing a torc. My brother was already leading his own warband when he was my age. My sister is barely two years older than me and is already serving in Caer Áras. He barely pretends interest in what I have to say, when he sees I have not yet been Called.”

“What about your mother?” asks Seanna.

“Aillean ap Marcan? She does not pretend at all.” Still with a smile, but it’s impossible not to see the pain in it.

“At least your father wanted you,” Seanna says absently. “I am here because mine was sick of not being borne a son. He thought that if he offered me up, I would either die or become strong—and either was acceptable to him.”

And so they talk. Softly, and honestly. There’s no reason to bring up any of it. They’re simply sharing. We have fought and bled and killed together, and now in the quiet of the aftermath, there is an unspoken bond. Not perhaps as meaningful as my love for Emissa, or Callidus, or Eidhin. But something special, regardless.

At some point Fearghus wakes and joins in. He is from a simple farming village to the north. Misses his family, but had a talent that he knew he couldn’t ignore. When I ask him why he chose to fight for King Rónán, I expect the answers I would get from a Catenan. The honour of serving. The glory that can alone be found in battle. Extolling his leader’s qualities, the reasons Rónán is such a strong king. But Fearghus says none of that.

“I will not fight for him,” he says, puzzled. “I will honour my oath to him, but I will fight to protect my home, and my family, and my friends. For what other reason would a man kill and die?”

A murmur of assent from the others. My respect for them, already high, grows.

And then it is my turn. An implicit obligation to open up as the new silence signals Fearghus’s finishing. I almost don’t. From instinct. From touching that pain so briefly earlier and having to recoil so hard.

But eventually, I tell them. I tell them until my voice is hoarse and there are tears running down my cheeks. I tell them about my life on Suus. The invasion. The Hierarchy and their terrible power. Why I have the scars on my back, which they have all seen but never pried about. The running, the Academy. The Labyrinth and my being brought here. I leave nothing out. Once I start, it is impossible to stop. It flows out of me. I am not sure why the dam breaks, tonight. Perhaps it is the rush of the fight. Perhaps it is the comradery I feel, that we all feel. But whatever the reason, for the first time, I keep nothing back.

And they listen. Not disbelieving, not judging. Not, I truly believe, caring that I am so different from them. When I am done, I feel naked. Not vulnerable, exactly. But exposed.

It has been almost five years since I have been honest about who I am. Five years since I wasn’t hiding something.

I am almost lost without the need to lie.

When I finish, Conor shifts. Comes to sit beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

“You are here now,” he says softly. “We are all with you, brother.”

Seanna smiles. Tara and Fearghus nod.

And I know I am home.

“YOU MUST SPEAK TO THE DRAOI, WHEN THEY COME,” SAYS Tara as we walk the rolling hills. “You must convince them to teach you.”

We are slightly ahead of the others. The mists have been burned away by the morning sun, and only rippling green lies around us. Fearghus is still weak, but well enough to move again. We have travelled cautiously, but there has been no sign of pursuit.

It’s given me time alone in my head to think about last night. To try and resolve that moment of utter certainty with what I know to be true. The man I saw could not have been my father, years dead and unimaginable miles away. Yet Cian, all those months ago, did say we were going to meet someone I knew. And I have seen so many things over the past couple of years that have taught me not to think anything is impossible.

But I also know how much I want it. How desperately I wish for it to be true. And the logic always intrudes. He is dead, and I am unknowably far from where he would be if he were not.

Tara’s words finally register through the haze of thought, and I glance across at her.

“I told you what Lir told me.” I say it a little anxiously. I placed a lot of trust in her and the others, last night. More than I have in anyone in a long time. I do not believe it was a mistake, but that makes me no less uncomfortable. “The draoi cannot be trusted. Ruarc or otherwise.” Still not sure I believe what the others said about my eyes turning black, but even if they were right, I have no desire to learn how to use Will.

“It will be Lir, or someone he trusts. He and my father sent you here, knowing this would be the outcome.” No doubt in her voice. “They alone can help you. You must join them. Leave with them.”

“What?” I come to a stop. Shocked at the suggestion.

“You are not a warrior, Leathf hear. You are a skilled fighter. A loyal friend and reliable partner in battle. But not destined to one of the Bródúil.” She says it kindly but firmly. No insult in tone or intent.

“You don’t think I’m good enough?” I’m dazed. I thought tonight we had made a connection, as a group.

“I think you are interested, not committed. When Pádraig showed you that you are not helpless despite your arm, you listened. But you did not hound him for more.” She gestures. “Do you know why we call you Leathf hear?”

I roll my eyes, and indicate my missing arm.

“No. It was never about that. I am smaller than most. Conor is slower, Seanna weaker. Fearghus is more prone to poor decisions and Miach is overconfident. Most are disadvantaged in some way, and yes—some more than others. But that does not make us less.” She leans over and gently taps my heart. “The half that is missing is here. You have never been fully present. Fully engaged. Fully committed. And I understand that, now. You have always fought. Here, you do not have to.”

I feel a flush make its way up my neck to my cheeks. Anger or shame, I’m not sure which. “I was never going to be good enough to compete with you, though.”

“This isn’t like your school. Your Academy. You don’t have to want to beat us, here, Leathf hear,” says Tara. “You have to want to protect us. That is what is required to succeed.” She sighs. “Do not take it personally. The name is meant to be a warning; a man is known by his failings until he is known by his actions. Just because you are not right for a place does not mean you were never meant to be there. But war is coming. And I need whoever is at my side to be someone who could be nowhere else.” She sees my expression and laughs. A surprising sound, but a genuine one. “Do not mistake me. There is no shame in this. No dishonour. Not all are meant for this life.”

I feel suddenly cut off. Adrift. Betrayed, though I know there’s no intent there. “I see.”

“I will tell Pádraig to speak to the draoi. You will show him the spear. Tell him of what has happened. And you will depart with him.” She claps me on the back. Her expression nothing but genuine. “We will miss you, Leathf hear. Truly. And we will see each other again. There is no need for sadness at the parting.”

I nod numbly. We keep walking, slowing a little so that the others can catch up. They’re laughing and making jokes. I try to join in, but my mind keeps drifting.

Tara is right. I have been here in mind but not in spirit, an observer as much as a participant.

I have to make a choice.

XLVI

I LEAP AND SPIN AND STALK FORWARD WITH AS MUCH FEline grace as I can muster, raising my arms and gazing upward in intent supplication as my hips sway. The steady beat Ahmose is providing wavers, and I falter to a stop that feels even more ridiculous than the movements, breathing heavily. Ahmose is watching with a worrying mixture of dismay and restrained laughter.

I glare at him. Then Netiqret. “There has to be another way.”

“There is not.” The austere, dark-haired woman is at the desk in the corner, scratching something onto papyrus. “The celebrations are our only opportunity to gain access past the inner courtyard of the temple for the foreseeable future. I have an invitation that will get me past the Overseers, without them seeing my face. You do not.”

“Surely I can just control the ones I need to get past.”

“I already told you: there will be several assigned to each door. Given the limitations of how you can use your ability, it’s not feasible.” Not even bothering to glance up from her writing.

I fix my skewed clothing and glower to the air in front of me, but don’t argue. I finally had to explain that I need physical contact with any iunctus I want to instruct, and that I can control only a couple at a time. That’s at least had one benefit, though: once I admitted that the scarab medallions I was wearing improved my ability, Netiqret provided me with one of the two she owns, without hesitation. “But you’re certain that there will only be one checking the performers.”

“Overseers are stretched thin during the Return. There will only be one. And you have already proven beyond doubt that you cannot play a musical instrument.” She finally looks up, fixing her gaze on me. “Which leaves dance.”

“You can do it,” says Ahmose encouragingly, his generally dour demeanour for once absent as he moves me gently aside. He seemed genuinely delighted when he first heard the plan. The man, as it turns out, has a zeal for such performances. “You have to remember that dance is about letting go, as much as control. It is about freedom and joy and open expression within the steps. This one in particular is a celebration of life. Commit to your movements. Delight in your movements. Do everything with zest!” He clicks his fingers and claps his hands and dances to the rhythm he’s creating, smooth and sinuous, leaping and pirouetting. Then he stops, bows and backs away, gesturing for me to try again.

Vek.

I danced as a child, back on Suus. I know I did. I can picture my parents swaying together. I can picture the sun setting and a crowd on the beach at some celebration or other, laughter and music and everyone moving in rhythm.

But the Catenan Republic had little use for dance, and so neither have I these past few years. Not to mention that these Duatian dances are wild. Passionate, almost animalistic. They follow forms but there are leaps rather than steps, whirls rather than bows. None of the stiff, precise formality I for some reason expected, when this was first raised a month ago.

Ahmose begins his staccato clapping rhythm, humming a few animated notes as he does so, and I start again. Step and step and spin and pause and leap and sway. Gritting my teeth into a smile as if I am enjoying the entire ridiculous process. Fifteen seconds of movement, Ahmose’s enthusiasm audibly dying in the background, before I stop again and face their assessment.

“Ka-sheut.” Ahmose rubs his face. Glances at Netiqret, who he seems to have bonded with over this experience. “He’s like a child’s puppet.”

“If its strings were badly tangled,” agrees Netiqret helpfully.

I glare, still panting from the exertion, then try to take the criticism in good humour. Nod to the silent, eerily staring girl in the corner. “Kiya has no complaints.”

“Do you like his dancing, Kiya?” asks Netiqret.

She stares at me, and shakes her head firmly.

I scowl at the strange iunctus. She doesn’t react.

“Is two months going to be enough?” asks Ahmose to Netiqret. Genuine worry in his voice.

“Once inside, he can slip away without performing,” reiterates Netiqret. “He needs only to be selected, which means he needs only to show competence in a single dance. And their options will be limited during Return. He will have to be truly terrible to be refused entry.”

Ahmose coughs. “So is two months going to be enough?”

I’m caught between chagrin and genuine amusement, pleased to see Ahmose relaxing enough to make light, even through the frustration of—apparently—not being very good at this, either. I dearly wish we had begun practicing earlier, but up until her grinding admission of defeat yesterday, Netiqret was convinced that teaching me the lyre was the more reliable option. “Perhaps there’s an easier dance I can try?”

“You know, there is,” Ahmose says. “It is normally performed by women, but occasionally men do it as well. It would make you very popular.” He starts to demonstrate, moving his body suggestively and then abruptly shaking his belly at me. To the side, Netiqret actually sniggers before Ahmose can no longer hold back his giggling and stops.

I glower at their hysterics. “Gods-damned ass.”

Eventually their chortling subsides, and Netiqret waves a lazy hand. “Enough, for now. We know what we are up against. Get a drink. Have a rest.”

I grunt and take myself off as Netiqret and Ahmose begin discussing ways I might be able to cover up my offensive awkwardness. Netiqret’s sparsely furnished residence is typically quiet as I head downstairs, the muted muttering of the city seeping through the stone walls as the white glow of Ka’s pyramid through the windows indicates it’s near enough to noon. I grab a cup, pass the ceramic jars of sweet beer—the last thing I need is more of a headache—and head for the only one containing water drawn from the nearby well. It tastes as unpleasant as ever.

“Do not consume more than you need.”

I almost choke mid-swallow at the quiet, high-pitched voice from too close behind me. I turn sharply to find Kiya standing completely still, only a few feet away. Head slightly bowed so that her braids loop in front of her face. I glance past her, instinctively looking for Netiqret. The older woman is nowhere to be seen.

“Um. Why not?” I look at the jar I’ve drawn from. I’ve never spoken directly to Kiya before, never even heard the iunctus speak aloud. We’ve been told not to interact with her. And she’s always with Netiqret when she’s around us. Always. “Is it unhealthy, Kiya?”

“The more you drink, the more must be filtered. They don’t like that.”

“Who?”

“The old ones.” She speaks in a soft, absent way. As if she’s focusing on something else entirely. “They work to make the water safe. It’s their job. But they don’t like it.” Her gaze seems to rove before settling back on me. “You lied to her.”

“To who?” I’m bemused. “Netiqret?”

“You told her you were from outside. That you came from a community.”

“I am. I did.”

“The last independent community was absorbed by the Amemet two hundred and seventeen years ago.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a resistance if Ka knew where to find them,” I explain gently. Trying not to sound as confused as I feel. “And that is a very specific number, Kiya. What makes you think this?”

“I do not.” Before I can untangle the simple, inattentive statement, she moves on. “The iunctus that accompanies you. He is the result of the Amemet integration error eighty-seven days ago. He should be removed. He brings no useful skills and if he is subjected to a mandatum, he will reveal us.”

“A mandatum?” I’m off-balance in this strange conversation. “What’s that?”

“An Amemet blade used to override iunctii consciousness.” All in that odd, singsong child’s voice. Calm and curious and not really speaking to me at all.

I crouch beside her. More than just curious, now. “You know about the Instruction Blades? And the Gleaners—the Amemet, you called them?” I peer through the braids and try to catch her gaze, but her eyes dart elsewhere, refusing to meet mine.

“Only reported numbers. Not details. A separate biosystem.”

“How many are there?”

“Eighty-two external, tasked with searching out threats. Eighteen assigned to guarding Ka.”

My breath catches. I try not to show too much excitement. “Guarding Ka,” I repeat slowly. “Where are those ones?”

“They are stored along the tunnel from the temple to the pyramid. Dormant, unless activated by an intruder.”

Vek. My heart leaps. I don’t know how she knows all this, but if she’s right, then Caeror was too. Ka is in there. “Do you know if there’s any other way into the pyramid?”

She frowns and backs away. Uneasy, as if suddenly remembering she’s not meant to be talking to me. Hair swaying over her face as she points to the jar. “Do not consume more than you need.”

She turns and hurries upstairs, gait unsettlingly stiff.

I frown after her. Not sure about any of the conversation we just had, if it could even be called that. She doesn’t have the untouched personality of someone like Ahmose, but not the mindlessness of a Gleaner or Overseer, either.

It’s less than a minute before there’s motion on the stairs again and Netiqret is descending, Kiya trailing her. The old woman’s eyes are sharp as she glares down at me. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing!” I hold up my hands. “She spoke to me. Unprovoked.”

“What did she say?”

“That I lied to you about being from outside. Which I did not,” I add firmly. “What is she, Netiqret? She seems to know a lot of things.”

“She is a iunctus.” The emphasis cold, and though it’s a patently obvious attempt to ignore the real questions I have, Netiqret doesn’t seem to care enough to disguise it. “Do not talk to her again. Even if she initiates it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is part of our agreement.” The older woman ushers Kiya toward the door. “I will be gone for an hour or so. Continue working with Ahmose. Listen to him.” She starts walking off.

“Netiqret?”

She pauses. Glances back.

“You said something, when we first met in the tunnels. That they were so low and narrow because they weren’t made for the likes of us.” It’s sat at the back of my mind for a while, now. But after my conversation with Kiya …

“Children.” She confirms it with grim, impatient certainty. “They were made for children.”

“How do you know?”

She glances at Kiya. “Some of the iunctii remember.” Even harder. Even colder.

They vanish out the door.

I find Ahmose upstairs; as soon as I appear, he tosses me some clothing. I frown, holding it up to get a better view. A small strip of white cloth, and a robe of linen so sheer and light it is almost invisible. “What’s this?”

“What the dancers wear. Netiqret got it. Better to become accustomed to it now than later.”

I examine the attire in silence. Hold up the strip of white. “This is for?”

“Your hips.”

I let it dangle, indicating its length.

“It is not meant to be modest.”

I sigh, nodding with heavy acceptance. Strip off and secure the uncomfortably short belt around my body, then slip on the sheer robe.

“Well?” I ask, spreading my arms and turning around.

He shrugs. “It won’t hide the dancing.”

I cough a rueful laugh. “Better get to it, then.”

And we begin again.

“FLOW.” AHMOSE STOPS ME. HE’S SAID IT TOO MANY TIMES over the past two hours for it to sound anything but irritable. “Dance is about opening yourself up to the audience. About embracing them. Trusting them. There must be no reservation and so you must flow. Like water. You know this word, yes?”

“I gods-damned know the rotting word.” I stumble to a stop yet again, flicking drops of sweat from my torso. I’ve been doing everything I can to move smoothly and lithely, listening whenever we pause, trying to put into practice his suggestions and hiding my growing sense of frustration. This shouldn’t be hard. Logically, I am physically gifted. Well trained. Athletic.

“Then show me. Because you have not thus far.”

I shake my head. Slump into a chair. “We have time, Ahmose. It will be fine.”

“It has to be better than fine.” Ahmose’s customary anxiety is ill-hidden. “Do not take this lightly, Siamun. There is a reason we abandoned the lyre. If they think something is wrong …”

“Then they’ll turn me over to Ka. They’ll kill me.” At this point, it sounds better than having to do another gods-damned twirl.

“Which will kill me.” He gives a weak smile. “Well. You know what I mean. But you can see why I’m concerned.”

I make a dismissive gesture. “You’re always concerned, Ahmose.”

“Thanks to you.”

I blink. There’s some actual venom in the retort, something more than weariness, and Ahmose is usually nothing if not courteous. “How is it my fault?”

Ahmose hesitates, as if caught out in his anger. Examines the ground, searching for the words.

“I told you a while ago about the work, after I died. That it was hard. Dull. Lonely.” He slumps into a seat. Not looking at me. “But I knew that once I was done, I would go to the endless fields and be with my loved ones. Do you understand the comfort that brings? No,” he says, answering his own question before I can say anything. “I cannot imagine that you do.”

He looks up. “You saved me, Siamun. Saved me from a nightmare, and I can never repay that debt. But you took something from me, too.” He exhales. “You took my belief. You took my comfort. And now instead of enjoying life, I fear death.”

Silence. I stare at him. Lost for words. I did tell him the truth, about Ka. About the Gleaners, and the falsehoods used to keep his people in check. Did I have to? Probably not. But it seemed only right, at the time. “I am sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. You did not take them with malice, nor with carelessness. I cannot say whether leaving me to my delusions would have been an act of love or violence. And I cannot say, if I was given a way to go back, whether I would.” He shakes his head. Meets my gaze, something he almost never does. “But that is why I am always nervous, Siamun. Because now I know just how much I have to fear.”

“I give you my word, Ahmose. My oath. I will keep you safe.”

“I know.” A tight smile. We both know I could take away his concerns in a moment. And we both know that’s not what he’d want, not really, and that I would be insulting him to ask.

“You don’t have to do it, you know. Whatever it is you’re planning to do in the temple. Not because I’m afraid,” he adds quietly. “But because I can see that you are. Whatever all this is for, it bothers you. But we can still survive as we have been.”

I give him a crooked smile. He knows me better than I realised, apparently. “I don’t want to just survive, Ahmose. I don’t believe anyone deserves that.”

He gives a snort. “Your homeland must be very different from here.” His gaze lingers on my torso, and I know he’s thinking about the old stripes across my back. “You once told me that you ran from it. If you had the choice, would you go back?”

I consider. I’ve avoided telling him too much about where I’m from. The idea of there being different worlds is still barely one I can countenance; trying to tell anyone else will surely end in them considering me mad. “Some things are better there. Many things. And I miss my friends. Sometimes … appreciating what you have isn’t something we do well, I think.”

“You have no argument from me.” Ahmose sighs, then gestures. “Still. One thing I assume your homeland does not have is dance. And the Return is coming. So let us go again.”

I grin and do; as I slide through the latter section of the dance, there’s motion at the door and Netiqret sticks her head in. Watches without comment for the remainder of the section.

I ignore her until I come to a halt, breathing hard. “Well?” Unable to contain my hope. Sometimes incremental improvement is hard to appreciate. Perhaps Netiqret will see more than Ahmose has.

She considers. Eyes my back. “At least we won’t have to explain the whippings.”

She nods to Ahmose, then disappears again.

I stare after her as Ahmose chokes on a laugh. Glower at him.

Then haul my aching limbs into position, and start moving through the gods-damned motions once more.

XLVII

I BRUSH EVER-LENGTHENING HAIR FROM MY FACE, GAZing across the lake toward the rising sun. Barely past dawn, the mist not yet burned away. The air bites. Winter approaches.

I run the gold coin along my fingers, then flick it into the water. It makes the smallest of splashes before sinking from view.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you make an offering to the Dia Domhain before, Leathfhear.”

I start at Conor’s voice behind me, then glare around at him. “Make some noise when you move, man.”

“I could have been Fearghus and you wouldn’t have heard me.” He grins as he stands beside me. Similar in size and build to me, though my missing arm makes us cut conspicuously different figures. “Finally realised that it’s a good thing to have the gods pleased with you?”

“Can’t hurt.” I’m dismissive, a little embarrassed, even with my friend. “Given the news that may come today.”

“Hm.” Conor examines me, then shrugs and flicks a coin of his own to the deep. We watch the ripples. “Can’t hurt,” he repeats.

We stand like that for a while, scanning the eastern hill line for movement. Seanna joins us. Then Miach. Then Fearghus, finally no longer limping from his wound. They each toss an offering, and watch in silence.

“There.” Miach spots it first, pointing at the motion on the horizon. Barely more than a black dot shifting through the still-lifting haze, but as soon as I see it I know it’s a figure cresting the rise. Alone, as expected.

He draws closer, and his white cloak resolves against the green of the hill.

“I’ll tell Tara.” I tear my eyes from the sight and head along the causeway.

Tara, as expected, is already training with her spear. She pretends not to care that the druid’s visit is today, but I know she is as anxious as the others. Perhaps even more so. For all her claims of wanting to be here, this kingdom means more to her than anyone.

She stops as I approach. “He’s here?”

“Five minutes.”

She pauses, as if considering just resuming her exercises. Then she nods brusquely. Steam rising from her sweating body. “Alright.” We start back to the crannog. “You have your questions ready?”

“I do.”

Tara and I have continued to develop a camaraderie, since our battle together. Part of it has undoubtedly sprung from that shared experience. Part, I suspect too, has been my attitude since. I was stung by her accusations that night, without malice though they were. Mainly because I knew she was right.

So over the past two months, I have worked as hard at improving as anything I have in my life.

I rise before any of the others to practice my forms in solitude on the misty, torchlit banks of the lake. Drilling again, and again, and again in constant perfect repetition, forcing muscles to learn what the mind already knows. Every motion needs to be an instinct, in a fight. Even a breath’s delay will mean death.

And nothing has reinforced that truth more than my hours of training with Tara herself.

Dawn and dusk, we practice. Each day. At my insistence and though she was reluctant at first, she has not shied away from the task of improving me. In fact, as a teacher she is in so many ways a younger Lanistia that sometimes I find myself smirking at the similarities. Usually only to find myself hitting the dirt with fresh and painful welts moments after.

But it’s different, too. Less anger driving Tara’s brusqueness and unforgiving lessons. Maybe it’s being closer in age, or maybe it’s just her appreciation of my newfound dedication. But there’s a rapport there, now. A friendship.

“Do you think it will be war?” I ask it quietly as we head down the rolling hill, dew wetting our boots.

“If it is not, I expect we will be Called to prepare for it regardless.”

I keep my anxiety from my face, but she still senses something.

“I will tell them of your dedication, these past months,” she assures me. “The draoi will not refuse you.”

“But you still would.”

She smiles. Just slightly. “We have talked and I have chosen, Leathf hear.”

We join the others—including Pádraig, now, who looks as relaxed as always despite the others’ pensive faces—at the causeway entrance to greet the druid. I immediately recognise the white-cloaked man, shaggy grey-streaked blond hair and blue eyes, face reddened by the sun. Lir uses his rowan staff as a walking stick, clearly weary from his journey.

“The gods’ peace to you, warriors,” he calls as he approaches. His smile is genial but with an edge to it that immediately stirs the nerves in my stomach, looking for it as I am.

“Spirits grant you protection, Lir. We are glad to see you arrive safe, and are eager for word of what transpires beyond the valley.” Pádraig speaks formally. My grasp of the language is fairly complete now, but I still occasionally encounter words or phrases I’m unfamiliar with. “Please, sit with us and drink, and tell us the news.”

We file after Lir and Pádraig; I can see questions on the lips of all the others—including Tara, despite her affectations—but we are all disciplined enough to keep them to ourselves, even the younger among us. The druid has travelled far, and showing him respect is far more important than the discomfort of a few more minutes in suspense.

Lir goes through the requisite blessing of the crannog; when he finishes, he exhales and turns to Pádraig. He can see our faces, recognises that we’ve been waiting anxiously.

He’s kept everything carefully formal up until this point, but now his expression is his answer. Full of grim apology as he nods around to us.

“It is war.”

MORNING MEALS AT THE CRANNOG ARE USUALLY BOISterous affairs, one of the few points in the day when we are allowed to relax and talk without care or discipline. There is always someone boasting, or telling jokes, or eliciting shouts and laughter from raucous teasing at some recent embarrassment or another.

Today, as the smell of roasting boar wafts in preparation for the night’s festivities, we are silent.

Lir is telling Pádraig the news but he knows that it affects everyone here, and so he says it comfortably loud enough for us all to hear. High King Úrthuile passed from his long illness almost six weeks ago. Rónán, long assumed to be his successor, announced his claim—as did Fiachra. But before the regional kings could meet to vote, the Grove contacted Donnán, the senior druid in Caer Áras, to demand—against all precedent—the location of Loch Traenala.

The announcement sends a wave of unease through the listeners, and not least me.

When we’ve quieted, Lir continues grimly. He, as the only one entrusted with its whereabouts, refused to reveal it to Donnán, and instead went to King Rónán with the Grove’s petition. A tense standoff ended in Donnán being expelled from the Caer. Without a representative in his kingdom, the Grove immediately declared Fiachra’s claim for High King to be the only true claim, and that by rejecting their presence, Rónán was rejecting the gods themselves.

“The other kings have elected not to get involved, for now, but last night I received word that Fiachra’s forces have already taken the eastern plains,” he finishes, to a low rumble of dissenting disbelief from around the room.

“That shouldn’t be possible.” It’s Fearghus, not backing down despite a reproving stare from Pádraig at his interruption. “Our warriors are the finest in—”

“From all reports, the Grove are actively participating.” Lir is clearly deeply uncomfortable at the admission, and from the horror etched on the faces around me, I can tell it’s not something anyone here expected.

“How?” It’s Pádraig. Looking, for the first time, genuinely concerned. He sees the struggle on Lir’s face and gives an apologetic grimace. “We must know, wise one.”

“They are giving many warriors access to the nasceann. Far more than should be allowed.” Lir hesitates. “And some say that packs of alupi have also fought for them.”

Another murmur, this one almost a moan. Lir’s presence here helps, but they will still worry the gods are against them, now. I feel the heat of their fear at the news, even if I do not have the same lifetime of superstition to fan those flames. As well as another, familiar wave of frustration at not understanding how Will is able to be used. Clearly it has different applications here to what’s known in the Hierarchy, but it’s more than that. To begin with, who is ceding? And the Grove are commanding animals? Gods. At least I understood the Hierarchy’s capabilities. The madness of whatever the druids might be able to conjure on a battlefield is an unsettling unknown.

“Even so.” Lir’s gaze sweeps across us. “Your king has asked me to observe your students before we leave, to determine if any might be granted the nasceann. But all who are considered worthy are Called.”

Pádraig nods. “This evening as we mark Samhain, all who believe themselves ready will demonstrate their skill. Tara wears our torc; she will lead, and so she must choose those who will serve under her. We will honour our vows, Draoi Lir.” Expecting this. We all did. It doesn’t stop the sick feeling in my stomach.

I glance over at Tara, who is gazing at the druid with a calm, accepting determination. She won’t choose me to join her band, leaving me alone out of the older group here. Free to speak to Lir, to forge my own path. Even if I pleaded, I know my last two months have not erased my first, no matter my extra dedication. And she knows I’m not the fighter I once could have been. It’s the right move.

But I don’t want it.

It’s been nagging at me constantly. I have no loyalty to her father, none of the fierce pride or love the others feel for their people and homeland. But I do feel it for them. For her, and Conor, and Miach and the rest of them. And the idea of watching them march off to battle without me, when maybe my being there could make a difference, makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Thank you, Druid. Please, eat. Rest while we prepare for Samhain. We all have questions, but they can wait.” He’s looking at us when he says the last, and we nod as one. With the Grove all but officially against him now, Lir has likely had to travel hard and at great risk to bring us this news.

“So old Úrthuile went six weeks ago,” says Conor once Lir and Pádraig have departed. “Maybe that’s why we haven’t had anyone come to find Fiachra’s missing raiders. He needs all the men he can get.” Pádraig has had us increase patrols and keep permanent watches from the surrounding hilltops, but no one has seen anything unusual since that night. I haven’t felt the pulse in my head again, either.

“Or he thinks whoever he’s after will be coming to him, now,” says Tara quietly, her gaze turning to me.

The others watch me expectantly. I take a breath. They all know my story, all know Ruarc and the Grove want me dead. Some part of me still recoils at the memory of revealing so much, but that reaction grows less every day; months on and the only consequence of that night is that they all trust me. Completely and absolutely, in a way I am not sure even Emissa, Callidus, or Eidhin were ever able to. I loved all three of them dearly. But they always knew, deep down, I was keeping something back.

“It could still be you they were after.”

“We’ve been through this. It’s not me. I’d be worth something to Fiachra as a hostage, but enough to send parties scouring the country to find me? No. It had to have been Ruarc.” Tara holds my gaze. “Just another reason you need to go with Lir, tomorrow. You need to find answers—and whatever is going on, it’s something to do with the draoi, not with us.”

I don’t look away. Feel the gap between me and the others growing at the words. “I don’t care. Pick me, this evening. Let me fight with you.”

“No.”

“I am skilled enough. I am worth something in a fight.”

“It is not your skill or your worth, Leathf hear. It never was.” Tara cups my cheek in her hand. An oddly affectionate gesture of goodbye. “Your path and ours will just be different, for a while. It does not mean they won’t come together again some day.”

I watch her leave with the others. Feel as adrift and alone as I have since that first morning waking up in Gráinne’s hut. Tara’s not wrong, but there’s more to it. She still, deep down, doesn’t believe I really want to be there with them. She still doesn’t believe I have a heart for the fight they are about to walk into.

But I know what I want, now, and it’s not just answers from Lir. I’ve found something here in this place. With these people. They mean something to me, something I haven’t felt since Suus. Something I cannot lose again.

This evening, I’m going to have to make sure they see that.

XLVIII

BENEATH THE FESTIVAL OF PLETUNA, CATEN SEETHES.

The city’s celebrations rattle around us, a harsh and echoing drum of discontent. Strained performances on street corners bring forced laughter or hesitant cheers; the anxious revelry saturates chilly streets that are emptier than they should be, and where they are not, are comprised instead of tightly clustered mobs who eye one other menacingly. Games, which were everywhere a year ago, are all but absent. Twice already, we have heard furious shouts in the nearby alleyways. Quickly, abruptly silenced.

A year ago, these streets were wild with carousing and merriment. Bright lights and crowds and flowers and decorations everywhere. I despised it. It’s all a tense blur now. I remember tailing Relucia. Remember being attacked by the men that Aequa hired, and being certain I was going to die.

Not a night I thought I’d wish I could go back to, but here we are.

“Are you really sure it’s the best idea to bring your pet out into all this?” Relucia murmurs the words as she clings to my arm. Outwardly, as girlish and naïve as ever as we navigate the uneasy festivities. I know her well enough to see the constant assessing behind her wide-eyed examinations, though.

I glance back, though I have no need to. Diago’s massive, menacing form pads a few paces behind us. He’s adapted with surprising ease to the city, over the last few months. More inclined to obedience when I ask something of him now, but he also radiates an air of calm disdain for everything he sees, his gaze a noiseless sneer as he observes the Octavii and Septimii flowing very distinctly to the edges of the street as we pass. “Absolutely.” Quite aside from the security of his presence, he’s made Relucia visibly nervous since she collected me from Domus Telimus.

“He may interfere with whatever you need to do tonight.”

The reminder, unnecessary though it is, sends a sick wave through me. “Your disappearing friend told me I had to make sure I was noticed. Diago is the easiest way to make sure that’s true.”

Behind me, Diago rumbles something very close to a growl.

Relucia flinches and says no more, I think deciding it’s not worth the argument. We turn down a dimly lit alley. A faster route. Even as Sextii, not one we’d take without our shadow. “They’re planning to put Lanistia in a Sapper tomorrow.” She says it quietly. More to the darkness ahead than to me.

My fist clenches, one of my fingers twinging at the motion. The nausea somehow worsening. “I know.” Weeks of fighting it, now. I even addressed the Senate about it, a month ago, publicly reaffirming my confidence in her and pleading for leniency. Since then, I’ve used Ulciscor to pass on some of what I learned at Solivagus, but idiotic Catenan politics have barred me from visiting her in prison. Ulciscor understands. Says Lanistia understands. It doesn’t make it feel any less like I’ve abandoned her.

“My father put me in one when I was fifteen.”

We keep walking, silent as I turn the soft admission over. When I look at her, she’s staring straight ahead. Studying the deeper darkness in our way.

“Why?” I let my horror infuse the word.

“Coin.” She finally glances at me. Examines my face for a long moment and, apparently seeing something she needs to, continues. “There’s plenty to be had, if you know where to sell Will. Tempting, for a knight whose family doesn’t have a name. Whose provinces are not producing enough taxes and whose investments are failing.” Her face is a mask in the faint and flickering dim as we walk.

I feel ill. I know such a black market exists—eighteen months at Letens was more than enough to hear the rumours—but I’d associated it only with adoptions, men and women looking to turn a quick profit by selling the Will of a child they never really knew.

“For how long?” I whisper the words as we emerge into a new street, the lanterns bright and a small crowd clapping some display or another. Their eyes dart as they do so. As if even applause might somehow provoke anger.

“Three years.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s monstrous. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I am sorry. “That’s … evil.”

“Evil?” Relucia gives a bitter chuckle. “He was placed in an impossible position. Condemn his entire family to becoming Octavii, or sacrifice one of them for hope. His evil wasn’t taking three years of my life, Vis. It was being part of a system which could demand it.”

We’re approaching the Catenan Forum now, festively lit with its multihued lanterns highlighting friezes and statues and perfectly shaped Will-carved stone everywhere. A stark contrast to the brooding mood. Pletuna demands public rather than private celebrations, else I suspect the streets would be empty tonight.

I say nothing for a minute. “I have a friend who was in a Sapper, too. For a year. He still manages to be a good man.”

“We all pretend, Vis. You. Me. Him. That’s what survivors do.” She says it simply. Not trying to convince me. Simply sure of its truth. “I’m not looking for sympathy. I just want you to understand that you’re not the only one to have had something taken from you. I saw it in that fight in the Theatre, the first time I laid eyes on you. I see it in you now.” She stops. Locks her gaze to mine. “We can’t get it back. We both know it. You act as though we’re enemies, but you want to protect others from our fate as much as I do. And you may not want to do it with violence, but … gods. What other choice do we have, now? We can spout a lifetime of words and they will echo and fade, and history will not remember a single one. I don’t like it either but when power is so entrenched, so impossibly distant, blood becomes the only possible currency of change.”

Diago’s low growl behind us reflects my mood. I don’t say anything.

Relucia watches me, then sighs. Starts walking again. “One day, Vis, you’ll see. But for now? I really just wanted to let you know that Lanistia will be safe.”

I follow her. An ember of hope suddenly burning, almost against my will, given the source. “What do you mean?”

“The shifts will be more chaotic tonight. It’s been arranged.”

I exhale. She means it. At least, I can’t see why she would lie about this. “Why?”

Her look says I know the answer.

I nod. I’m not going to thank her. Lanistia escaping will cause more political instability, doubtless how she was able to justify it. But I make sure the motion is grateful.

Something loosens in her shoulders, despite her tirade. She really wanted me to know.

Sunset is burning its way into the ground as we round a corner and emerge into the vast Catenan Forum. Encased on all sides by columns and statues and grand temples. The brightly glowing Aurora Columnae towering at its head, chained off and guarded. In theory this is a holiday where rank is ignored, where Octavii can mingle with Quartii and neither should even know. But I can already see Praetorians lining the base of the stairs near the massive obelisk, moving quickly to stop anyone approaching who looks as though they may not belong.

Unlike the rest of the city, the remainder of the massive space is heaving with people. Tables of food. Drink flows freely and yet the mood is almost unbearably tense, a grim fog blanketing it all. There are performers, actors and jugglers and spectacular displays of Will, but few pay them any real attention. It is boisterous and muted. Crowded and loud and as far from celebration as it can be.

Abruptly less crowded, though, once those closest to us catch sight of Diago.

I restrain a smirk as a few panicked shrieks pierce the general hubbub, the more easily startled of the attendees scrambling away from the alupi stalking into the Forum behind us. I pretend not to notice either that or the whispers that form our wake, allowing Relucia to cling to me.

“You have some admirers,” murmurs Relucia.

I follow her gaze and barely contain a curse. Some in the crowd—not many, but enough—have conspicuously dangling sleeves, left arms tucked discreetly beneath their cloaks. Not enough to fool anyone, but … vek. My lack continues to be my most recognisable feature, apparently.

I take a breath and ignore them, spotting Ulciscor halfway up the steps, just inside the line of Praetorians. Cloaked in deep golden light, talking to two others in hushed tones, but his gaze roves constantly and stops only when it settles on me. A look somewhere between rueful amusement and consternation as he makes some hurried excuses and moves to meet us.

“Let them through,” he says calmly to the Praetorian who was moving into our path; the man nods what I suspect is a relieved accession before stepping to the side again, one eye still on Diago’s prowling form. Ulciscor’s gaze lingers on the alupi as he ushers us farther in. “I told you not to bring him.” Ulciscor’s voice is low as he embraces his wife.

“He was rather insistent. And his pet made it harder to refuse.” She glares at me primly. As if I have brutishly forced her into this embarrassing situation.

“Then that was a poor decision, Vis. Even more so now.” No patience to Ulciscor’s rebuke. “Tonight was meant to be a gathering to discuss terms. A chance to talk outside the blustering of the Senate floor. But something is off. The Tertii and Dimidii from Military rushed off about thirty minutes ago and haven’t returned; no one knows why. People are starting to get nervous.” He eyes Diago again. “Go home.”

I can’t, of course, as much as I’d like to. “Give us a few minutes to mingle. To be seen. Perhaps at least we can show there’s no rift within the family. I know it won’t change much, but it might help.”

“And then the dear boy can walk me home,” adds Relucia, patting her husband’s arm.

“I think most people have already realised you’re here,” mutters Ulciscor, but he nods. Hesitates, then puts a hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, Vis. If things go wrong here tonight, it’s not something you’ll be able to think your way out of.”

I nod. Surprised, despite myself. Genuine care in his voice, and it would only benefit him for me to stay.

“Will a few minutes be enough?” I ask Relucia as we part from Ulciscor.

Her eyes rove the sea of people. “I’m sure if it’s not, you will come up with something.”

I turn my attention to the occupants of the upper level. Even here, people huddle in tight, familiar groups. Most are ignoring the entertainment. Not just actors and acrobats but three cages, lit by floating lanterns, reveal lions that prowl and snarl and snap at passersby. Some few partygoers are using Will to float scraps of meat almost within range of the creatures, only to snatch them away again at the last second to too-raucous, uneasy laughter.

Diago, as if as disgusted as I feel, growls at the sight.

“Rotting gods,” murmurs Relucia, disdain dripping from her tone as she watches the same thing. “Small men so desperate for power that they will take it from wherever they can. How did we get here?”

“By telling them it’s the only way to get it, and that it’s all that matters.” I lay a comforting hand on Diago’s head. His rumbling stills, though there’s a noticeably larger circle of space around us now.

“Hm.” Relucia eyes me. Nods. Seems about to say more, when her gaze flicks to over my shoulder and there’s suddenly a light touch on my arm, turning me.

“Vis.” Aequa is in a sleek blue stola that emphasises her form. Her raven hair is meticulously arranged, curled artfully at the front and plaited into an elaborate bun at the back.

I take a moment to say anything. I don’t think I’ve seen her dressed up since we travelled to the naumachia together. “Hail. You look nice.”

“One of us has to. Come on. The others are here.” She tugs my arm impatiently.

Relucia is watching speculatively. She waves me on. “Don’t go far,” she says, tone light. When she sees my hesitation, she glances at Diago and adds, “It’s not as if it will be hard to find you.”

Whatever is happening tonight, I don’t want to drag the others into it. But to refuse now will look strange, and besides—this might be the only opportunity for us to all speak together for a while.

I nod to Relucia, and beneath the glowering light of the Aurora Columnae, allow Aequa to pull me into the crowd.

XLIX

“EVERYONE’S HAVING A NICE TIME, I SEE.” I LET MY GAZE rove the sullen crowd as Aequa leads. Diago nudged his head under her hand in greeting, then retreated to trail after me again. The mob parts hastily before us.

“You should have seen it twenty minutes ago.” Not a lot of humour to Aequa’s observation.

“Ulciscor said something about Military’s leadership leaving?”

She nods grimly. “Everything seemed … alright, before that. Tense, but a bit hopeful. And then their Dimidii and Tertii just got up and walked out.” Her voice gets quiet. “I don’t think it was a statement; they clearly instructed the rest of their people to stay. But everyone’s panicking anyway. Tertius Ericius has been running around trying to find out what’s going on.”

I nod, spotting the Censor talking urgently to a group of surly-looking senators, identifiable thanks to their purple stripes despite the festival’s etiquette. “Did the others come?”

“They’re all here.”

Our small group of Academy graduates has carved out a spot in the shadows of the Temple of Jovan’s colonnade, high enough to watch over almost the entire Forum, dark and concealed enough that no one is really giving them a second glance. No one within twenty feet, and no questioning looks. Though that changes as I approach.

“Rotting gods.” Felix sighs, stamping his feet against the chill of winter’s approach. “Leave it to Catenicus to put every eyeball in the gods-damned Forum on us.” Humour in the observation, but he still edges away slightly as the alupi comes to stand at my side.

“We are not trying to hide,” rumbles Eidhin.

“We’re not trying to be the centre of attention, either.” Indol flicks the corner of his tunic with an apprehension that seems to mirror the others’. “Hail, Vis.”

“Hail, everyone. Don’t worry. I can’t stay for long, anyway.” Aequa comes to stand at my side as I examine the group. A half dozen of us, all up. Aequa and me, Indol and Felix, Eidhin and Emissa. We’ve kept in touch, as best we can through the walls erected by our respective factions. Using imbued stylii like the one Indol gave me, mostly. “Does anyone know why Military left?” I’m anxious to know if anyone has news, but no point ignoring the obvious.

“They haven’t left. Most of us are still here,” points out Emissa quickly. “There had to have been some emergency they had to deal with. I’m sure they’ll be back with an explanation soon.”

“Would have been a lot better if they had given one on the way out,” mutters Aequa, eliciting a few murmurs of assent. Emissa’s mouth twists in irritation, though it’s a reasonable observation.

“They did appear to be in a rush,” Eidhin interjects before anyone can say anything more. “Whatever is happening, I do not believe it is designed to cause friction.”

“But it has,” points out Felix. “They have to know how important tonight is, all the pyramids voluntarily together like this. And they have to know what their leaving must look like. My father told my sister and mother to get out as soon as it happened. Everyone who matters from Religion and Governance is here. If they attack …”

“They won’t.” Indol, to my surprise. He looks at me. Certain. “I don’t know what this is, but Military won’t make the first move. They want legitimacy and for things to stay the same. They betray the Republic—gods, on tonight of all nights—and they lose their chance at that forever.”

“You’re sure?” When he nods, I try not to show the persistence of my unease. Indol doesn’t know his father as well as he believes. “Alright.” I lower my voice. “Any other news?”

“You were right about the Navisalus. It was one of four ships that went missing on the Sea of Quus in the weeks before the attack. Presumed sunk or lost to pirates.” Felix speaks up first, keeping his voice to a murmur. “It took some digging through the paperwork, but it was owned by Tertius Ciserius.”

There’s an awkward lull, and though no one looks at him, Indol shifts at the news. Ciserius is close with his father; the man likely came for meals at his house. “He would not have acted without my father’s knowledge,” Indol eventually says heavily. Eyes on me.

I nod grimly. I’ve already told him what I told Eidhin, and Aequa, and Ulciscor—that I overheard the Anguis talking during the Iudicium about the Navisalus, and high-ranking senators’ foreknowledge and support of the attack. That my warning to him was based on suspicion, not proof. But given what he already knew, he had to have guessed that this confirmation was coming.

“It’s not irrefutable, though,” observes Felix glumly. “And we don’t have names.”

“We’ll get both.” I inwardly wonder, again, whether I can even hope to trust the word of Relucia’s strange contact. But Military by now have to know that they were outmanoeuvred; the Anguis cannot hope to use them again. So giving me the conspirators, and thus likely sowing more chaos into the fragility of Caten, seems very clearly to serve the Anguis’s purposes. “If we do—Emissa, have you spoken to your father?”

She nods slowly. “If the evidence is there, he’s willing to help.”

“‘Willing to help’?” Aequa coughs a soft laugh. “I’m sure it’s a real sacrifice for him.”

“It’s still dangerous. We won’t get anyone on board with something like this unless the reward is big enough.” Emissa’s response is tight. She turns to me, dismissing Aequa. “If you find anything we can use …”

“I’ll let you know.”

We converse for a few more minutes after that amidst the harsh slur of discontent and anxiety that floats up to our position from across the crowded Forum. Felix does most of the talking, low-voiced and grim as he fills us in on the information he’s been privy to with Quintus Fulvius, who’s in charge of infrastructure maintenance—and thus, has to stay apprised on potential Anguis activity. The escapees from the naumachia, led by Vulferam, have apparently been recruiting in Melior’s name to the north. There’s a suspicion there too, now, that Military have been dragging their heels in rounding them up. Making sure they’re a big enough threat to be noticeable before acting. But no proof of it, of course.

We all listen intently to the details. As betrayed as the others all feel by their leaders’ involvement in the Iudicium, none of us have forgotten the Anguis’s role.

“Gods. It will be such a relief when Military are under control again, and actually do their jobs,” mutters Aequa, shaking her head as Felix finishes.

“Not that the rest of the Senate has exactly been ‘under control.’” Emissa frowns. “They’re not the only ones causing these problems.”

“You know what she means. The Anguis are Military’s responsibility,” rumbles Eidhin.

“I know exactly what she means. I wish she would just say it out—”

A low growl from Diago, who has been silent up until now, cuts her off. The others flinch and look at the alupi uneasily, as if only just reminded of his presence. I put my hand on his head reassuringly. Saved from having to intervene. There have been a few of these irritable, sniping clashes already. Nothing serious, but there’s no escaping the fact that as much as we all want the same thing, the influences of the past few months are starting to bleed through.

I’m about to redirect the conversation when I’m stopped by a voice from behind. “I think it’s time you walk me home, Vis.” It’s Relucia, climbing the stairs toward our group. Smiling blithely, with a perfect undercurrent of girlish, vulnerable worry.

Vek. My heart lurches. Amidst all of this, I’d almost forgotten why I’m really here tonight. “Alright.”

“Already?” Felix sounds disappointed. I think he’s enjoyed the notoriety of being in this group.

“You should all leave, too. We’ve talked. None of us need to be here now.” I try to emphasise it to them as much as I can without sounding like I know something they don’t.

There’s a reluctance, but eventually Eidhin nods his agreement, and the others soon follow. We embrace one by one, murmuring nothing but polite farewells under Relucia’s gaze. Still, there’s something to the goodbyes. They linger just a little more than they normally would, even for friends not seen in a while.

It might just be me. But it feels like it could be for the last time.

Relucia and I are not quite down the stairs and into the main section of the Forum, Diago’s stalking presence clearing an easy path, when my name rings out again through the growl of the unsettled gathering. I turn, heart sinking as I recognise the voice. Sure enough, Livia’s slim form is weaving her way toward us, gaze fixed firmly on me.

“It’s the Tertius’s daughter. She’s been trying to see me for weeks. She’ll follow us if I don’t get rid of her.”

Relucia mutters something under her breath. “One minute. He’s waiting.” She hurries off ahead, just out of earshot, as Livia hurries up.

“You’re leaving?” She looks dismayed.

“I said I’d walk my mother home.”

“You have to stay. People are watching to see what you do.”

“Then hopefully they’ll leave too.” I meet her gaze. Relucia’s impatient shuffling in the corner of my eye. “Does your father know you’re here?”

“What does that matter?” Her defiance wilts a little beneath my unrelenting stare. “No. I haven’t seen him yet.”

“He won’t want you to be. Believe me.”

“And?”

“And he is a smart man, Livia.” I think quickly. “Aequa is just up the stairs there; she’s about to leave as well. She’s only a few streets from your house. I’m sure she’d be happy to walk you home.”

It’s a miscalculation, I immediately see. She scowls. “So you’re just ordering me around, now?” A slight flush. Stupid of me. Clumsy. Her pride was wounded on Solivagus, and I’ve barely seen her since. Taking charge so abruptly now will only put her back up.

“I want you to get out of here.” I put my honesty into the words, this time. Gentler, caring rather than commanding. “If something happens tonight, your father and the other senators can look after themselves. People like you and I will either be crushed or used against them.”

Diago, who has been padding behind me silently, pushes forward. Gently butts his head against her arm. She flinches, but she had several hours to grow accustomed to Diago on the Transvect ride back from Solivagus. She strokes his head cautiously. Looks around. Something in her gaze shifting, almost imperceptibly. I see the faintest trace of the fear she must be feeling. That we’re all feeling. “You think it will come to that?”

“I think it could.”

Behind her, a particularly raucous round of abrupt, forced laughter makes us both twitch. “Gods’ graves.” She mutters it, then makes a vaguely embarrassed gesture. Still young enough to be told off for cursing. “Will Aequa mind?”

“Tonight? She’s not stupid. Gods, she’ll get upset if you don’t go with her.”

“Alright.” Her skin is tinted purple in the coloured light that illuminates the statue we’re standing beside. She moves as if to go, then hesitates. “You’ve been avoiding me, since Solivagus.”

“I’ve just been busy. Mainly making sure he settled in.” I nod toward Diago. It’s mostly true. That, and spending every other second I had practicing using either Adoption or Harmonic imbuing in preparation for tonight.

She smooths her dress. Unsure of herself. “I didn’t tell my father, you know. About you getting rid of me to go and do … whatever you did.”

I study her. She thinks that’s why I’ve been avoiding her. Better than wondering what I’ve been up to, I suppose. “Why?”

“Because I know you’re trying to find out what happened. I know you’ll do what you can to find the people who … who killed my brother. I don’t want to make things harder for you by getting you in trouble.”

I nod slowly. She’s being genuine, I think. “Thank you.”

“And I just wanted to let you know,” she presses on. A little desperately, as if anxious to force the words out. “What I said. In the carriage, on the way to Placement.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” Awkward in the admission as she stares at the ground, brow furrowed. “Callidus wasn’t your fault and it was cruel to have said otherwise.”

She glances up, just long enough to meet my gaze, to check that I’ve heard and understood. Then she smiles tightly and strides off.

My heart eases as I watch her go. Some part of me feels responsible for her. I think, maybe, that’s what Callidus would have expected of me.

“Are you quite done?” I’m lost enough in thought that Relucia’s voice by my left ear makes me start. I remember our façade just in time to smile instead of scowl as I turn to her. Cheerfully offer my arm for her to loop hers through. And we walk jauntily again, Diago padding after us, this time through the ring of Praetorians and into the shadows of brooding Caten’s evening.

AS SOON AS WE’RE OUT OF SIGHT RELUCIA TAKES THE lead, guiding me through several alleys adjacent to the Forum before finally stopping in front of an entirely nondescript wooden door set into a high wall. A residence, identical to a hundred others in the area. She knocks gently and a moment later, we’re slipping inside.

“You’re late.” It’s dim in here, and the owner of the brusque voice is veiled in shadow, only just enough of his narrow features visible for me to be sure it’s him on the other side of the table. I feel a renewed flush of sick anxiety. No backing out. No escaping. Not now.

“Hail, Ostius. Somebody decided to bring his pet. It got a lot of attention.” On cue, Diago stalks inside after us. He bares his teeth and issues a rumbling growl of warning across the room.

The man—Ostius; strangely relieving to finally know his name—is surprisingly unperturbed, at least from what I can make of his silhouette. “An alupi?” He takes Diago in. “My, my. I thought these things only defended the Nexus here. How interesting. You and I must exchange stories soon, young man.” He sighs. “I can imagine he caused quite the stir. Well done. I assume, though, you know he won’t be able to tag along for what comes next.”

I keep my face smooth. Nexus. One of those strange terms I found myself unwillingly speaking aloud in the ruins. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I have no idea what he’ll do without me around.” Diago will likely wait patiently wherever I tell him to—I’ve tested exactly that a few times since arriving back from Solivagus, and he seems to reliably obey—but it’s an excuse to find out more in advance. “Depending on where we’re going, I can make sure he stays out of sight.”

“Just a short journey. It’s not a question of subtlety, though. Simply logistics.” Ostius pauses. Peers forward. “Although …”

He strides into the light, eyes completely black, ignoring a warning growl as he seizes the alupi’s head between his hands and crouches so that his nose is only inches from Diago’s. There’s a second of shocked silence as both Relucia and I just stare, and then before I can say anything, he’s stepping back again with a delighted chuckle. “Oh, my boy! I stand corrected. Your alupi is most welcome to join us.”

Diago is still growling, but it’s more unsettled than angry now. I lick my lips. Of all the eventualities I anticipated for tonight, this was not one of them. The alupi being allowed to stay by my side can only be a good thing.

Right?

Vek.

Ostius is already moving on, entirely disregarding the giant wolf to stand in front of Relucia. All taut confidence and authority. “Where are they?”

“In the Basilica.”

“Perfect.” He hands Relucia something. “Everyone is in place?”

“Yes.”

I watch curiously. Their dynamic is so different from the first time I saw them together, back when I thought Relucia was in charge. Not that there was anything specific that led me to believe it. Just the body language, the tones of voice. But something in the interim has shifted. Ostius treats her, oddly, with less respect than he does me.

He turns to me. “You have a mask?”

“I do.”

“And a way to disguise yourself, otherwise?” He nods to my arm.

“Diago’s going to give me away,” I point out dryly.

“Diago? Oh.” He registers I’m talking about the alupi, and smiles. “How droll. Don’t worry about that. Your arm?”

I frown, but see I’m not getting any more from him. Concentrate.

The hundred iron triangles I’ve been keeping as a snug layer of protection beneath my shirt begin to quiver. Slide, flowing upward and into the dangling sleeve on my left. Slowly they coalesce, fitting into place, filling out the cloth. At the end of it, the glimmering iron outline of a hand appears.

I calmly reach into my pocket, pull out a glove, and tug it over the smaller triangles that form the fingers, completely concealing any trace of the metal.

“Gods’ graves.” Relucia stares at me with what I think is a newfound respect.

“Indeed,” murmurs Ostius. A glint in his eye as he examines me. “How much control do you have?”

I raise my gloved metal hand, and slowly unfurl the middle finger in his direction.

“Oh you are fun, my boy. Relative Harmonics, I assume? Differently-sized pieces but all the same form, to most effectively use the link. You just need to know how you want them to fit together.” He paces around me. Squeezes the arm, confirms that it won’t move. “Low weight, mostly Will-locked except the joints. Easy enough to change its form when you need to. Yes. Hm. And you must have forged these, too! More reliable than stone, a little of your own Will already in every piece. Clever. Very clever.”

I restrain a scowl, annoyed that he deduced it all so quickly. Harmonic imbuing is one of the most difficult skills to learn, and mentally locking similar objects to one another comes at a high enough cost that it’s usually eschewed by Sextii. The benefits, generally, aren’t considered worth losing the majority of your Will on a single imbuing.

But there are two major advantages, for my purposes. The first is that after the initial outlay of Will, it’s much easier to add components to a Harmonic arrangement than it is to imbue them normally—it’s the only way I can control enough of these pieces at once to serve my purposes. And the second is that while difficult to initially construct, a Harmonic imbuing is actually quite easy to maintain once it’s established.

“And your mask?” Ostius has finished his inspection, though still looks almost childlike in his apparent delight at my ingenuity.

I separate more triangular pieces from my chest, this time letting them move up and settle over my head. They soon sit warm against my cheeks and scalp, a complete metallic encasing of my face, hair, and neck. The only openings are for my eyes, which will be completely black once I pour the last of my Will into self-imbuing, and a thin slit to breathe through. I know from looking in the mirror that the effect is eerie.

“Striking,” says Ostius with an approving nod. “Intimidating. Memorable. Yes. Yes. This will do nicely.”

I hold the mask and arm in place. The arm in particular is easy, almost natural—partly from months of training but I think partly also because of what Lanistia suggested, what feels like an eternity ago. It doesn’t feel like an extension of my body, as imbued objects normally do. It’s instead the replacement of something that I still, in many ways, expect to be there. “For what?” I flex my gloved false hand. Several of the pieces of iron in it are more heavily worked than the others. Reinforced and razor-sharp. I’ve been practicing with those, too.

“Much better to show you.” Ostius swivels and almost dances over to me, his step light with anticipation. He grips me by the shoulder and places a hand on Diago’s neck. The alupi growls as my own anxiety rises. “Keep that mask on until I tell you.”

His eyes flood to black.

It’s a moment and it’s an eternity. I am frozen in place and not even my lungs will respond. Unbearable compression threatens to crush me. Unbearable decompression tries to flay the skin from my body. I cannot scream. I cannot breathe.

I see Relucia watching us but she is not moving either. There is no sound. Everything is shaking and folding and popping and twisting and fading. I take it in and cannot understand it, cannot make sense of what I’m seeing.

Then I hear it. Just for a second. Deep. Bringing me back to a terror far worse than whatever is here now.

Thrum.

And we’re somewhere else.

L

SCATTERED PETALS ARE A WHISPERING BLANKET OF VIbrant red and blue and purple, their gentle shifting underfoot occasionally reflected in the black mirror of the obsidian statues and obelisks dotted around eastern Duat. The vivid colours compliment the chattering and giddy laughter permeating the city as people all but dance to their respective feasts with their departed loved ones, lit by Ka’s deep golden glow that represents the last fading of the light outside.

“They grow all these on the upper levels?” I nudge a few petals with my foot.

“Somewhere in the temple, I believe.” Netiqret’s expression and body language matches that of those around us, a joyful energy to it that I know is feigned only because I know her. “Every year for the Return, iunctii emerge with great baskets to scatter them along the main paths. There’s no space in the Apex, so I can only assume.”

I grunt. The upper level of Duat is where the majority of the iunctii serve, droves leaving from the west each day via the great staircase, a solemn procession of white. All to sow and harvest indoor crops that still grow, despite being sealed away from the sun. From what Ahmose has described, it’s an extraordinarily large version of Qabr’s garden. “And this is their only purpose?”

“As far as I know.” She must see my distaste for the excess because she shakes her head, ever so slightly. Smile still firmly in place as she scans the way ahead. “Look happy. Excited. Ka is showing his benevolence and power, and you’re on your way to seeing relatives who you get to speak to only once every year.”

I adjust my fine tunic—covering the uncomfortably sheer dancer’s garb that would draw far too much attention, with me accompanying the clearly noble Netiqret—and do as she says. Ahmose trails us at a respectful distance, wrapped in white. One of many iunctii on the street. It would be improper to speak to him directly in public, but tonight is one night he won’t seem at all out of place here.

We press on, easily avoiding the few Overseers that are out: Netiqret says the majority will be monitoring the bridge and surrounding area, ensuring every iunctus that comes east is carefully noted. Still, I’m pleased to find that after practicing for the past couple of months, my navigational instincts are coming close to matching Netiqret’s. Keep my pace ambling, allowing it to speed up or slow as necessary. Steer just far enough from the hawker desperately trying to sell the last of his wares, screaming at anyone who passes within twenty feet of him. Cross the street early to avoid the man already drunk, staggering as he walks. The two of us drift through the throng as the faintest of unremarked breezes.

Just as the gold-tinted heads of the three great stone statues of Ka guarding the entrance come into view, the crowds congealing, Netiqret slides us to the side toward a smaller structure, entrance shielded from the street. In the small pocket of privacy, she presses some symbols on the doorframe and it slides away to reveal a staircase. We’re quickly through and heading down.

“Stay alert,” she murmurs as the door shuts behind us.

My body relaxes, dropping the façade of cheer as my eyes strain ahead. “I thought you said it would be clear.”

“I said it should be. But I haven’t been here in …” She flashes a grimace, catching herself, then nods to me brusquely. “Time to change clothes.”

I file away the rare mistake and swiftly shed my covering outer layer, shivering at the abrupt removal of warmth, and hand it to Ahmose. Briefly check my Vitaeria are still securely strapped around my thigh, the only way to hide them, as the iunctus unwraps his white coverings and then slips the tunic on with motions that drip with reluctance. We’ve had discussions—arguments—about this part several times over the past few weeks, but it’s still hard to blame him. What he’s doing is blasphemy, and though he knows Ka is not a god, I imagine a lifetime of ingrained belief remains hard to ignore.

“The Overseers are far more interested in iunctii, tonight,” I reassure him quietly. “They’d notice you walking by yourself.”

“I know.” He smooths the tunic. Forces a smile as Netiqret, seeing he’s ready, opens the way back to the street. “And flow,” he calls softly over his shoulder as he exits. “Remember to flow.”

I gesture rudely at him as the closing door takes him from sight.

Netiqret and I press on, down the stairs and into the familiar triangular shape of Duat’s tunnel system. The older woman leads, silent, and I don’t bother her with questions despite the temptation to rehash some of what I’ve already asked over the past three months. I’m placing far more trust in her than I’d like. She’s been constantly cagey about too many of tonight’s details. Too vague about how we’re meant to achieve our goals.

But every time I’ve pushed, every time I’ve questioned, she has observed that I know all I need to. That it is her right to keep her secrets, just as it’s mine to keep mine. She even offered transparency, once. An exchange of admissions, if I went first. I refused.

The tunnel beneath the street is short and without passageways, evidently meant only as a secondary entrance to the temple. We soon climb stairs on the far side and reach a blank, black wall.

“What now?” I frown at our reflections in the obsidian.

“We wait.”

I’m too tense to be properly irritated, and entirely accustomed to Netiqret’s vagueness. “Any chance you can explain what you really want me to do, then, once we’re inside?”

She examines me. “Not really.”

“Why not just tell me?”

“Because there is still a better than even chance that this doesn’t work.” She meets my gaze unflinchingly. “Because I can survive Ka knowing my face, but not my intent. If you are caught he will kill you, and then he will wring from you every scrap of information, every half-forgotten truth about me and about everyone and everything you have ever known. I have told you many times that my distance for these past months is not an indictment on your character, Siamun. I quite like you. Admire you, even. I simply don’t believe you’ll benefit from foreknowledge or preparation, and so it is not worth my risking.”

I stare at my reflection in the black wall. Angry, on instinct, at her stoking of my fear instead of simply saying no again.

Then I pause. Push aside my own anxiety and let my eyes slide to her slightly warped, shadowy image lit by the cool white lines around us. Netiqret rarely says this much all at once. Rarely reacts to anything I say.

Her expression is placid, almost bored. But the more I consider, the more I think she’s nervous too, beneath it all.

I’m not sure if that makes me feel any better.

“You’re sure someone’s actually going to let us in? I thought you said the temple was—”

My question’s cut off and answered by shuddering movement in the obsidian, and even Netiqret starts at the abrupt intrusion. The dark mirror folds away to allow harp music and the chatter of voices into the tunnel, and then revealing a woman of perhaps thirty years on the other side. Eyes perfectly shadowed with kohl, a tasteful blush to her cheeks. She flinches as she takes us in.

“My payment?” She whispers it, though there’s no one else around. Behind her is a small room, obsidian too, but covered in glowing glyphs.

“By the end of the night.” Netiqret is serene as ever.

The stranger hesitates, then jerks her head for us to follow. We trail a few steps behind.

“So that’s it? All of Ka’s security, and you can just pay to get past it?” I murmur.

“People, Siamun. People are always the weakest part of any system.” Netiqret glides along, looking perfectly at ease in the rich surrounds. A subtle change in her posture, her demeanour, and she’s as unremarkable here as she was on the street. “Remember that this is only the outer section of the complex, though.”

I keep my head down as we walk, a respectful step behind Netiqret. A performer in unfamiliar surrounds, deferring to my better. We leave the room and pass the uncurious eyes of the Ka-shabti; many are already drunk, and occasionally there are pairs of tangled, writhing limbs in not-quite-dark-enough alcoves. I ignore it all. Netiqret has already warned me that in here, the celebration night of the Return is not one of austerity and restraint.

Ahead, our guide stops in the discreet shadows of a colonnade and waits for Netiqret to join her. “Him.” She gives the barest of motions to a young man enjoying the attentions of several giggling women. A Ka-shabti no older than me, muscled and handsome, a standout even among the young and beautiful on display here.

Netiqret examines him. “Very well. You can go.”

The woman hurries off, looking relieved.

Netiqret and I stand in the darkness a few moments longer. I watch the man that was pointed out. “What are you going to do?”

“You know the answer.”

“Don’t.” I turn, search her face for something. Some sign that she’s hesitant. “There has to be another way.”

“You know there is not.” Neither shame nor pride in the statement. “Betrest has money. Influence. Admiration. Iunctii to serve her. The problem is that none of it moves her, anymore. None of it excites or even pleases her. She is risking her own death and afterlife in helping us. Only the lure of more could persuade her to do that. Only the lust for that which she cannot own.” She shrugs. “No way to control the hearts of others until they no longer beat, unfortunately.”

I feel a rising frustration. “You knew I’d object.”

“Which is why you were not consulted.” She studies me. Expression light and unassuming, as if we were talking about the weather. “You know what I do, and yet here we are. So I already know your distaste has practical limits. Let this one pass, Siamun. Now isn’t the time.”

She leads on. I take a lingering last look at the young man in the centre of the courtyard, hate that she’s right, and follow.

“You will need to be quick, once you’re inside the sanctum,” Netiqret says in a low voice as we navigate a maze of corridors which she’s either memorized, or is somehow familiar with. Smooth, assured movements, no hesitation. It’s busy, but no one even glances at us. “Keep clear of the Ka-shabti. Especially the older ones. If you’re alone and catch someone’s eye, they may decide to take you off to a dark corner, no matter your responsibilities.”

“Oh.” I shudder. “I take it politely saying no won’t be an option.”

“It will not.”

I exhale softly. “But there won’t be any Overseers once we’re in?”

“No. Tonight, for the Ka-shabti, the eyes of Ka are turned away.” She glances around. A darting, anxious motion, the first outward sign of nerves from her I’ve seen. “Security this deep will be as lax as it ever is.” She nods to a door in the distance up ahead. A lone Overseer stands implacably in front of it. “This is it.”

I glance around. There are fewer iunctii around than I expected, but enough; one is hurrying along on some task not ten feet away. I step to the side, touch her arm and imbue her with the majority of my Will before commanding her to stop. It’s as easy as breathing, now.

“Alright.” The Overseer will actively be checking faces; neither Netiqret nor I could get close to it without raising an alarm. But Netiqret’s attack on Ahmose when we first met was not entirely without reward, even if I’d never admit it. “See you inside.”

Netiqret glances from the iunctus to me, then nods. “See you inside.”

THE STATELY WOMAN WITH THICK MAKEUP AND WIG IMpatiently stalks the line of dancers. A dozen of us, eight girls. I am one of the few who could be counted as even vaguely clothed. I am probably also the oldest.

I keep my chin up and eyes straight, even as I try to look relaxed. Confident. The makeup Netiqret applied, and the long-haired wig she carefully fitted, means I don’t stand out much among this group. They are all built differently from me, though. Slimmer. Still athletic, but more acrobats than fighters.

“I am Zai. If you wish to dance in the Sanctum of Ka, you must first dance for me. You.” She stops in front of a girl with long, tightly bound brown hair. “Show me the Water and the Moon.”

The girl steps forward obediently. Lithe and light on her feet. She doesn’t hesitate as she launches into a running, spinning leap, her hands flickering in fluid mimicry of a stream as Zai starts snapping out a beat.

I watch. As entranced as I am assessing. There’s nothing artificial or forced about her movements. Energy and youthful joy and naked athleticism. A freedom I’m not sure I could ever replicate. I would appreciate the artistry even if I hadn’t spent the past two months trying to capture what she seems to do so effortlessly.

She finishes, flushed. Sees me watching and smiles pointedly. I feel myself flushing too. Perhaps my staring was a little too enthusiastic.

“Good.” Zai jerks her thumb to the side, and the girl skips over against the wall. Then the woman points at a younger-looking boy a few places down from me. “You. The Battle of Amun-Tol.”

The boy is good too, if not quite as much beauty to his movements as the first. More athletic. Higher leaps and spins, a flawless somersault to finish in place of the more simple flourish I’ve been taught. He’s sent to stand next to the girl.

Four more are called before me. I maintain my façade, massaging the oddly aching ring finger on my right hand. Nerves jangling at every choice. Three are directed to stand with the first two. The other is dismissed after faltering mid-dance, apparently forgetting some of the steps. She begs to begin again, says it is one of the few she does not know well. I can believe it; she was otherwise as talented as the first girl. But Zai is firm.

“You. The Crocodile Hunts.”

Vek.

I step forward. I’m lucky; The Crocodile Hunts is probably my best dance, mainly because it’s one of the simplest. Lots of violent and jerky movements, only spurts of the fluidity that Ahmose insists I lack.

Zai initiates the beat with three sharp claps, and I begin.

It is, I feel, the best I have ever danced. The motions are second nature to me and I throw myself into them, allowing the sheer cloth to flow and snap around me. I forget the audience, the stakes. I am the gods-damned crocodile.

A minute passes in a blur and then I’m finished, breathing hard, holding the final pose. Finally, I dare to look up.

“Well. You know the movements.” Zai is examining me with a pained expression. There is a pregnant pause and then she sighs, waving me over to the wall. “Only at the end of the night. When everyone is drunk.” Her mouth twists. “Very, very drunk.”

I duck my head, using thankfulness to hide my sheer relief, and hurry across before she changes her mind. The girl who smiled at me before seems suddenly far more interested in studying the ground. A couple of others look openly displeased as I join them against the wall.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to impress them.

I’m in.

LI

I GASP AS THE GROUND VANISHES BENEATH MY FEET; I fall, only for a second, but it’s enough for me to stumble and trip with a snarl of utterly confused panic. Thrum. I see red lanterns falling and stands coated with blood and I hear screams, and screams, and screams.

I open my eyes. It’s dark, and so as I roll in brief, defensive panic, it is the air that I notice first. Shockingly fresh and crisp. No city smell, just the faint earthy odours of the dew-damp ground.

Then my vision adjusts.

The candles lighting the room are gone. The room is gone. We are on a grassy slope painted with faint, cloud-diffused starlight. My eyes dart in bewildered assessment, trying to make sense of what just happened. Diago’s angry, confounded growl is rolling across the empty hills and fading toward a glimmering bay. Ostius, who apparently expected the abrupt drop and landed on his feet, is assessing our surrounds.

I lie there propped up on my metal elbow, panting a gradually slowing panicked rhythm, shards of triangular metal quivering in place. The shock almost too much, even for that trained and fortified part of my mind that maintains the connection. “What in all the rotting gods-damned hells was that?”

Ostius doesn’t even glance in my direction. Just taps his heart three times with three fingers. “I think you know.”

I think I do. Impossible to parse, but I think I do. There is a township, much farther down the hill. Fires and torches and distant motion within a rough wooden palisade wall. Space enough for a few hundred people, perhaps. A dock with the shadows of two small ships bobbing gently.

But the shape of the dim harbour beyond it is too familiar. The way the ground slopes, too.

“This is Caten,” I whisper dazedly.

“This is most definitely not Caten.” Ostius turns to me, apparently satisfied that there is no one else around. “Come. These crossings cause disturbances, and while tonight the druids should be busy with their own festival rites, you can never be sure.”

“Druids?”

“Sanctimonious little men. You wouldn’t like them. They don’t appreciate me dropping in like this.” Ostius delves into his bag and tosses me something. A white cloak. “You are one, tonight, by the way. Don’t speak. Just keep that arm hidden and stand there in your mask.”

I catch the cloak with my good hand, flicking it open. It’s richly made. An intricate green symbol stitched onto the back. “Where did you get this?”

“Another druid very kindly let me borrow it.” He examines me critically. “It would be more convincing if you had a staff.”

I hesitate, then focus. Take the last of the metal from my chest, a few pieces from my arm, and then form the triangles into a twisted, interconnected pole.

Ostius examines me and then gives a slow, delighted clap. “An Draoi na Ceárta. Oh, they are going to talk about this.” He swivels and almost dances down the hill toward the township.

I grimace, then sling the cloak around my shoulders and follow.

“So this is … one of the other worlds.” It seems obvious that’s what he’s saying, but I need to hear it. The stars are so bright, here. The air so clean. Is it my imagination? Even on Suus, I don’t remember the world feeling so vast and empty and pure. “Obiteum or Luceum?”

“The second one,” says Ostius, a little dryly, though I don’t know why. His gaze is focused on the walls down the hill.

“So there’s another version of me here.”

“I doubt he’s here. But yes. Somewhere.” He chuckles. “If we happen to come across him, I promise I’ll allow time to stop and chat.”

I say nothing to that. Reflective as we pick our way through the darkness. It feels strange. Feels like I should know where he is, be able to sense him, somehow. But there’s nothing like that. Just the crisp chill of the night, and the faint sounds of celebration impinging as we draw closer to the palisade.

From our vantage coming down the hill I can see people in the streets, drinking and smiling and chattering to one another in the torchlight. A series of masks atop poles line their celebration, not far from the entrance. “So they have something like the Festival of Pletuna here too?”

“Not exactly.”

We step into the light and there’s a shout atop the wall as we’re spotted by the guards. The gates are closed and the perimeter well defended. This is not Caten, but it’s no simple village, either.

“Atal!” The challenge is issued in our direction. I have no idea what it means.

Ostius is unconcerned. “Tá an draoi haearn ag teacht. Lig dúinn isteach.” He gestures to me and I take the cue, stepping forward confidently into the light. Diago pads to stand by my side.

A few quick shouts. The gate opens.

Ostius looks at me. “An alupi,” he murmurs, smiling and shaking his head delightedly. “As if the gods were real, my boy.”

We walk inside.

Crackling torches line the main street, which is little more than a dirt track that would undoubtedly turn to churning mud during the wet season. Simple thatched huts with simple fences. The smell of smoke and earth and wood, the occasional animal’s pen. I hear strange music from farther in. Laughter and shouting.

The guards greet us just inside, examining me and Diago with curious deference. One asks me a question I don’t understand but Ostius steps in, says something sharp. The guard nods and melts away into the shadows, resuming his duties.

As we walk on, I realise that the masks I saw were not masks at all.

I barely manage to not stumble to a stop, to conceal my horror. Glassy eyes and drooping mouths still open in what is not too hard to imagine was a final scream. “Those are heads,” I say in a sickened whisper.

“Very observant.”

“Did these people kill them?”

“Well it wasn’t suicide.”

Vek. “Is that what will happen to us, if they catch us?”

“You’re pretending to be a druid. That is the distant end of what they’ll do, my boy.”

He delivers it cheerfully and quietly, as if he’s remarking on the cold of the evening. I can’t tell if he’s joking. I don’t think he is. I don’t ask any more questions.

We walk the grisly parade, Diago’s hackles up and teeth bared as he eyes the still-dripping heads with as much uncertainty as I feel. The sight is dissonant with the unaffected laughter that comes from all around, the sound of cheering and feasting as children run around the pikes.

“This is barbaric.” I mutter the words.

“You prefer the civilized comforts of Caten, I take it?”

“No. I …” I trail off. “So Caten doesn’t exist here?”

“It’s another world. The concept of ceding your Will doesn’t exist here, either.”

I continue to follow him, dazed at the thought as we pass some fenced-in dogs. The animals bark vociferously as we draw near. As soon as they scent Diago, though, they fall silent. Slink to the back of their pen, eyes fixed on the alupi. Diago ignores them.

The people around us part as soon as they see my white cloak, and stop what they’re doing entirely when they see Diago padding along behind us. Many stare or double-take at my iron mask, too—it’s clearly unusual—but it’s the alupi who primarily has their attention. None move to stop us or to engage with me, for the most part resuming their conversations or drinking once we’re past.

We’re beyond the majority of the crowd, finally through the gauntlet of severed heads, when a shriek cuts through the night. Ignored by those around us but it’s not far away. A woman, clearly in distress.

“Leave it,” says Ostius immediately.

The shriek comes again, and this time doesn’t stop. “No.” I’m turning aside toward the source before Ostius can move to prevent me.

“You don’t know—” He tries to duck ahead of me, cut me off, but Diago bars his way. Ostius curses as I leave him in my wake.

He and Diago only catch up as I reach the doorway of the simple hut.

A lone torch lights the interior. A dirt floor. Three large men stand in its centre over the woman whose cries I heard. I don’t know their intent, but she is bound and the way they loom, they are not there to be friendly. The woman glares at them with bared teeth. Matted hair and a feral look about her. Welts across her arms.

“Tell them to stop.” I say it loud as Ostius comes to stand beside me, enough so that the men inside hear, though I’ve gathered they won’t be able to comprehend the words. I don’t take my eyes from them.

“You will be interfering in something you don’t understand.”

“I understand well enough. Tell them.” They have turned. Curious, confused rather than threatening looks as they take in my white cloak.

“No.”

I allow my mask to disintegrate. The warriors watch wide-eyed as I form three small daggers from the metal.

Then I direct them to hover at each man’s throat.

“Rotting gods. You’re like a puppy,” growls Ostius as the men back away, forced to by the jagged ends of the metal. He turns to the warriors. “Is mian leis an draoi sibh a fhágáil go ciúin di.”

A short, sharp exchange between Ostius and one of the men becomes increasingly indignant on the stranger’s end. Eventually, though, the three—scowling—seem to relent, backing away and exiting the hut. The woman on the ground spits after them.

“I thought your father brought you up a diplomat. This isn’t your world, and things are different here,” says Ostius irritably.

“Some things are universal.” I control one of the blades, carefully slicing through the woman’s bonds. She looks at me uncertainly as she staggers to her feet. “Go,” I add to her, making a gesture to indicate what I mean. “Get out of here while you can.”

She watches me cautiously for a long moment, then flees.

“Feel better?” Ostius sighs as I part the daggers and send the metal triangles back to cover my face. “No more stops, Vis. No more distractions. They won’t interfere with a druid’s orders, but they’re not going to keep quiet about this, either. We don’t have long.”

I ignore his evident frustration and follow him back to the main path, then along a few more dirt tracks until finally he comes to a stop. His gaze focused up ahead.

“Oh, dear,” he says, eyeing the group farther along as he steers me over toward the corner of a thatch-roofed hut. The three men who we just stopped are speaking animatedly with two more in white cloaks. “This is about right, but I did rather hope they would be busier. Ready?”

“Wait.” No Caten. No Hierarchy. I want to know more.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Ostius as he places one hand on my shoulder and the other on Diago’s.

His eyes turn black.

LII

IT’S MARGINALLY QUICKER THIS TIME, I THINK, TO REcover from the disorientation and pain of the transition between worlds. It makes it no less unpleasant. I lean briefly on an obliging Diago until the dizziness passes. Gaze around uneasily at lanterns and friezes and Will-carved stone statues. Voices echo from not far away, arguing.

Even without trying, I can sense the almost physical throb of Will coming from the same direction.

“Where are we?” I whisper it.

“The Basilica.” Ostius inspects our surroundings. Quiet, too, though far more relaxed. “Inner chamber. Exactly where I was aiming.” He sounds inordinately pleased with himself.

I feel my eyebrows raise. Inner chamber. Well past the rings of Praetorians and countless Will mechanisms that protect this place. I mentally map our brief journey through Luceum. Down the hill. Right into central Caten. Vek.

“Why are we here?” Now the immediate danger of Luceum has passed, my dread returns tenfold. If he’s right—and I see no reason to disbelieve him—then this is Military’s centre of operations, likely where their leadership retreated to from the Forum tonight.

Heart pounding, I close my eyes. Properly focus.

The painfully intense pulsing in my mind, more forceful than anything I’ve sensed before, suggests they haven’t left yet.

“A craftsman doesn’t explain his work to the tool, my boy.”

My feet drag as I follow Ostius. There are no guards here, no one to overhear what is being said in what is likely the most secure room in the Republic. Massive stone doors sit shut to my right. With how much Will I can feel in them as we pass, I suspect those alone would take an army to break down.

“… must respond with force!” There’s an archway to the left in the curving hallway, through which the voices are emanating. “If we do not show that Volenis and his ilk cannot be tolerated, it will only invite others to act!”

I frown. Aemilius Volenis is Belli’s father, the proconsul in Sytrece. A powerful man. His semi-open ties to Governance there often bring him into conflict with his own senatorial pyramid, but he’s still ostensibly Military.

“We cannot. Not while matters remain as they are here.” A voice that seems to shudder through the walls, not with volume but with sheer power. I flinch, and Diago’s hackles raise beneath my cautioning hand on his head.

Princeps Exesius. It has to be.

Ostius brings us to a stop as we hug the wall, several feet short of the opening. He places one hand on my metal arm and one on Diago’s shoulder, who gives the softest of displeased rumbles but doesn’t otherwise react. “It seems that we’re in time. Let’s just stay here for a minute or two.”

A pause from inside, as if others are recovering from the impact of the Princep’s voice, and then someone else. Reedy, in comparison to what came before. “Then we must consider the Senate’s demands. At least some of them.” Immediate shouts of disapproval, but he presses on. “I like it no more than you, but they are being reasonable. If we do not disband the—”

“Do you think they will stop there?” I recognise Dimidius Quiscil’s baritone as he interjects, Indol’s father more dismissive than angry. “Their demands are reasonable because they know that it is the only way we might be fooled into weakening ourselves. But as soon as we retreat, they will advance. They will take, not negotiate. We all know this.” A pause, and then, “Exesius, with all respect, Volenis has declared us traitors to the Republic, and he is massing an army. If we do not meet his accusations with force, Governance and Religion will seize upon them and be emboldened to move against us. And if we do not show the other provinces strength, there is enough discontent that it will only foment more rebellion. More pretenders. He is a threat. We must act.”

“He is a father grieving a daughter who you killed through your ill-advised actions. You did not listen to me then, and look where it has led—so listen to me now. We cannot afford civil war, Quiscil. We must protect Birthright at all costs. Even to our detriment.”

“In case you were wondering who knew,” whispers Ostius, nudging me cheerfully. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t see my clenched fists. My shortness of breath.

“Civil war is coming.” Tertius Ciserius, I think; the man is rarely short of an opinion, and I listened to him for hours in that tunnel in Suus.

“Neither Regnus nor Pitorius will allow one to start. You have my word. And as for Aemilius, he does not have access to a Transvect. It will take him weeks to march here. Weeks during which his emotions will settle, and we will make our peace with the Senate. When he is faced with the reality of a united Caten, he will be far more in the mood to negotiate.” He sighs, and even that seems to pound through the stone. “If war is still unavoidable at that point, then it is unavoidable. But we must do all we can to see that it is not.”

“And all the while, we let the jackals feast? Yet you wonder why we tried to take matters into our—” comes another voice I don’t recognise. Coarse and disagreeable, the rebuttal drowned out as it sparks another round of shouted arguing.

“They are a fun group,” murmurs Ostius, entirely relaxed, even as he puts a cautioning finger to his lips. “Can you sense the Will in there?”

“Of course.” It’s like a thundering drum to my senses.

“In them, or imbued?”

I pause. Close my eyes and focus. “In them, I think.” Imbued Will is … sharper, for want of a better word.

He sighs. Nods. “Patience, then.”

Through jangling nerves that make me twitch at every imagined movement in the corridor behind us—and keeping one hand firmly on Diago’s head, an unconscious command to stay still and quiet which he seems to understand—I try to concentrate on the conversation again. Vociferous on both sides, but to my surprise, it seems as though there’s a robust argument for Military to back down. To accede to at least some of Governance and Religion’s demands, and disband the majority of their armies. In fact, as the minutes pass, much of the argument gradually turns from whether it should be done, to how to word an agreement with the rest of the Senate on the timing in order to still be able to stop Quintus Volenis’s legions.

“Is there really a coup?” I whisper eventually. It would certainly explain their abrupt departure from the Forum.

Ostius chuckles. “They certainly think so.”

Before I can ask, the Princeps’s powerful voice cuts through the hubbub again, quieting the room. “Enough.” A hint of impatience behind the command. “The arguments have been heard and the longer we delay, the more dangerous our absence in the Forum becomes. So let us weigh the matter before us now. Governance and Religion are on edge and they will not believe our departure justified forever, despite the assurances I have sent.”

“Which we intercepted,” whispers Ostius gleefully.

There’s a chorus of muttered assent. The shuffling of feet, and then, “Very well. Let us discover the Will of the people.”

Ostius abruptly stretches, sending a sick shock of nerves through me. “Our time has come. Is the Will imbued now?”

I check. Nod slowly. “Into the floor?” Strange.

A deep, grinding noise echoes from ahead of us. Fills the hallway.

“Indeed. Take off your sandals. I’m going to talk. And you’re going to Adopt that Will.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.” He eyes me, hearing my unease even as I whisper for Diago to stay—the men beyond might easily infer my identity from his presence—and make myself barefoot. Seeing me wondering, dreading. “Or you can leave some for them to kill us with later. I’ll leave it up to you.”

He smiles cheerfully. Pats me on the back.

Strides into Military’s inner chamber.

LIII

THE SANCTUM OF KA IS A MARVEL OF MASSIVE, BRIGHTLY painted columns that support a roof almost eighty feet above, and form a central row that extends at least two hundred ahead. Past them to my left and right, the polished-smooth obsidian that forms the outer walls is met by equally tall white stone internal ones, every inch of the latter decorated, the reliefs of enormous statues carved between pillars. A high window to the north allows the light from Ka’s pyramid to flow down into the space, pouring richly off inlaid glyphs of gold and precious stones.

I am not often impressed by such things, but its immediate grandeur is hard to ignore. Perhaps not as tall or as refined, but in many ways, more overwhelming than anything the Catenans ever built with Will. This feels crafted to impress not only with beauty but also the thought of how many hours, how many men, it must have taken to construct.

And in its very centre—pulsing a startling gold—is an Aurora Columnae.

More than anything else, it’s the sight of that which brings me to a halt. Partly from surprise, partly from the instinctive anxiety it invokes. The sudden itching that stretches across the old stripes along my back. The light emanating from the obelisk’s symbols is bright, far brighter than my memory of the one at Letens. Perhaps they are different in this world, just as Will itself is. It would make sense, I suppose.

I, fortunately, am not the only one to stop and stare. Many of the dancers with me have not been here before either, and from Zai’s expression, admiration is an expected rite of passage. “This is where I leave you,” she announces to the group. “You have a few minutes to familiarise yourself with the space. Introduce yourself to some of the guests. After that, you will be needed in the preparation area through that arch.” She points out the one she means. “Do not be late, or you will not be paid.”

With that she departs, her stern expression melting as she spots someone to whom she actually wishes to talk.

The other dancers expectedly continue to ignore me; I allow myself to fade to the back of the group and then detach entirely, slipping away as they’re still gaping around in wonder. The Sanctum is not just this space but the entire vast inner network of structures surrounding Ka’s pyramid; several archways lead to hallways or connecting rooms, but fortunately Netiqret has told me exactly where I need to go. I keep to the sides and blend in as best I can. If I had concerns that my attire would make staying unnoticed difficult, I needn’t have worried. Entertainers and outlandishly inadequate clothing are everywhere. I stand out no more than anyone else.

I slip through the crowd, politely fending off some uncomfortably straying hands, and then make for the right-most archway to the north. No one stops me.

This isn’t the way Netiqret told me to go, but it is one I made her sketch out when I insisted on knowing every detail of the layout in here.

And I still have a few minutes before she expects to meet me.

The tall corridors angling toward the Pyramid of Ka are soon echoing with the absence of life; fifty-foot-high obelisks line my way, no roof above to prevent the pulsing pyramid ahead from dominating the remainder of what I can see. I hurry with cautious purpose, ready to give the excuse of a dancer who has lost their way, but there’s no one. Just the unease of intruding alone through an impossibly vast space.

And then there’s a darker section marring my path, the end of the long open corridor of columns, and I hear it.

My stomach drops. The stones reflect green ahead, the wide offshoot of the Infernis acting as a moat between me and the pyramid’s sheer obsidian walls, and I can already feel the low thrum pressing against my ears. Those far walls shimmer to my sight, flicker and fade. They slide directly upward from the green-tinted water’s edge and where the poison touches, steam rises, giving the polished stone a beaded, impossibly slick surface. Even from here, a few hundred feet away, the fumes burn my lungs.

An enclosed bridge crosses the gap ahead. Triangular but far larger than those beneath the city, fifty feet on all three sides and completely, utterly dark. No lines of illumination to guide the way through. An absence of light from its far side, too.

Thrum. No time to hesitate; I take step after reluctant step forward, peering into the yawning passage in front of me, pushing myself against the instinctive terror of that sound. The golden glow everywhere makes the blackness of the tunnel harder to penetrate, but my straining eyes slowly pick out darker shapes as I approach. Lining the sloping walls. Suspended, somehow stacked atop one another.

A few more seconds, and I can see the blades that form their arms.

I stop. Breath short. Kiya said that entering the tunnel would trigger their wakening, and as she was right about their presence, I see no reason to disbelieve it. Vek. How many did she say? I can only see a few, but she claimed eighteen. Eighteen. All stronger and faster than me. Vek.

I study the flow of the moat. Nothing has changed, there. With my Vitaeria, maybe I could swim it. But getting over the wall would be another matter entirely. Too high, too smooth, and even if a climbing apparatus lasted through the acidic water, it wouldn’t survive contact with the mutalis.

My fists clench as I peer up at the golden light of the pyramid, bright enough that it stings my eyes. Gods. I’m so close.

I exhale my trembling frustration, turn, and hurry back.

No one marks my brief return to the main hall; I flit through the drunken laughter and soft music and through an archway to the east. The way here is as deserted as my first excursion, if not as grand: narrower corridors and smaller colonnades that lead out onto eerily empty courtyards, a few turns, and then I am faced with the yawning stairwell that Netiqret told me to watch for.

“You got through.” Netiqret detaches from the darkness of a nearby column.

“Yes,” I say, a little petulantly. “The assessor was very impressed with me.”

“She should have been, given how much I paid her. And then told her you were a struggling cousin who had been dropped repeatedly on his head as a child.”

“Hilarious.”

“The cousin part, yes. The payment part is true though.”

I glower. “You couldn’t just let me have it?”

“Some things are morally wrong to encourage, Siamun. Even by omission.” She gestures to the stairs. “Shall we?”

Behind her, there’s abruptly movement.

I flinch, hand straying for a weapon I don’t have, as a figure appears from the same shadows Netiqret had concealed herself within. My concern only abates a little as I recognise the small form, long braided hair looping over her face. “Gods. What is Kiya doing here?”

“We need her. Come on. We don’t have much time.”

I stay planted in place. “Need her for what?”

“Siamun. I have spent a great deal of capital in ensuring that this hallway is unattended, tonight. But we have minutes, not hours.” She stares at me with stony resolve, then starts ushering Kiya down the stairs.

I grit my teeth but, left with little choice, follow.

“There really won’t be any Overseers on guard?” I ask it to the back of her head as I descend. My voice echoes off the obsidian walls.

“Not down here. Any closer than the hallway above, and they can become unstable.”

“Unstable?”

Silence, then, “Dangerous. To the iunctii down here, as well as the living.”

I frown. Has Kiya told her this? Netiqret has been cagey about how she knows so much, but since my conversation with the small iunctus, I’ve suspected.

We come to the end of the stairs, which flatten out into a short corridor with a sealed obsidian door at the end. Netiqret shepherds Kiya over to it and then waits patiently as the young girl begins pointing out symbols around the doorframe, which Netiqret confidently presses. Not four or five as I’ve come to expect, but a full dozen in quick, careful succession, each one lighting up an ominous green.

And then the door folds away.

“This is the Nomarch,” says Netiqret, somewhat unnecessarily, as Kiya wanders unfazed ahead of her.

The hall before us is vast; for as far as my eyes can see, lines upon lines upon lines of prone bodies are arrayed, each one lying atop its own obsidian slab edged in pulsing green. They stretch away not only into the distance but upward for hundreds of feet as well, stacked atop one another on the ledges of parallel black walls that cut the space ahead into narrow pathways.

Every single one of the green-tinged forms, barely clad in strips of thin linen, is motionless. Eyes closed. As if they are sleeping.

“Clothed. Not stabbed. Maybe even still have their eyes. Could be worse,” I mutter uneasily to myself. Astounding in scope, undoubtedly. But not entirely unfamiliar.

Netiqret’s been watching me with a frown. “You’ve seen a Nomarch before?” Probably, I imagine, expecting a more perturbed reaction than this.

“No. Not exactly.” I keep gazing around, brow furrowed, trying to find where the lines of bodies end. I can’t. “It was smaller. A room … I don’t know. Still big, but tiny compared to this. There were a couple of hundred of iunctii in there, maybe.” I decide not to mention the blades, or the fact they were all naked and eyeless.

“Where?”

“In some old ruins. A long way from here.”

Netiqret looks fascinated, even as she urges me forward again, between the lines of bodies. “There are smaller Nomarchs in the other cities, but I’ve never heard of anything elsewhere. What did they do?”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know, exactly. My friend thought they were a kind of key, made to circumvent security made by Ka.”

“They must have been linked in somehow, then. At least tangentially integrated. Even a couple of hundred … that’s a complex system. Where did you say it was, exactly?”

“I didn’t. You seem to know a lot about it?”

Netiqret decides her secrets are more valuable than mine, and doesn’t answer. A strange, energetic air to her as she presses on, Kiya matching her pace at a stiff trot. “This hall houses the bulk of the iunctii down here,” she explains from in front of me as we hurry along. She moves with assurance, seems unaffected by our surrounds. “We have to get to the central chamber. The ib. There will only be a dozen or so in there.” Something about the last part sounds reluctant.

I watch her. Her nerves are revealing more than she wants, I suspect. She’s too thoughtless in her movements, too confident in the way she navigates.

She knows this place.

I’m not sure what to do with that information, just yet. But it’s more than I’ve had since we met.

It’s not long before an archway reflects dark emerald up ahead between the rows of the dead, set into an obsidian structure with a flat roof and sloping sides. Golden light spills from its interior, warm against the cool greens surrounding it. It’s ten feet high, if that. Perhaps thirty across. Beyond, I can see walls of eerily lit iunctii continuing to stretch away.

“The ib. These are the ones who can make a difference,” says Netiqret, her pace increasing. No hiding her eagerness, now.

We pass beneath the arch, into the enclosed space. More iunctii in here, but just as Netiqret says, far fewer. And the slabs on which they lie are lit in gold, rather than green.

I stumble to a stop as I take them in.

They’re all children.

“Why?” I take a half step toward the nearest, as if there was something I could do about it.

Netiqret quickly puts out a hand to stop me. “They’re more flexible, mentally. More capable of adapting and learning, taking on information and problem-solving in creative ways.”

Her voice is hollow as she says it, though.

I shiver as she bends to listen to a whisper from Kiya. The older woman hesitates, then nods. Points. “This one.”

A small boy with a shaven head. He cannot be more than six or seven. “Why him?”

“Because he is the one I’m telling you to use.”

I scowl, but arguing isn’t going to help at this point. My skin crawls as I approach the boy. His eyes are shut. He seems almost peaceful.

I touch his shoulder, and focus. Think about how terrified the boy must be. Trapped. Alone.

Nothing.

I frown. This has always worked on the Overseers. Could the boy be happy here, then? Or at least content? I try again. Still nothing.

I step back.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” I lick my lips. Heart pounding. This isn’t the time for withholding. “I need a … point of commonality. Something I can relate to, in order to make the connection. With the Overseers, I usually use their sense of surprise or if that doesn’t work, being trapped. Somewhere deep down, they all seem to feel it. But this boy …”

Netiqret hesitates. “Try exhaustion,” she says quietly. “The worst, mind-numbing, wearying exhaustion you have ever experienced.”

She nods at my horrified glance. I grimace, then lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder once more. Think of my time training. The early days with Lanistia, those impossibly hard first mornings, injured and dragging myself from bed too soon, forcing my thoughts through the sludge of fatigue to prove myself. Again, and again, and again. As if it were never going to end.

Connection.

I snarl, snatch my hand away and immediately lose my link at the abrupt, chaotic flood of information. Random images flashing in unbearably rapid succession. Faces and names and details but passing like water through a sieve, impossible to grasp, impossible to focus upon. This is nothing like what I’m used to, nor anything like the thoughts of a normal person. They’re too specific and too fast, not ordered in a way I can understand. Just a flickering, haphazard torrent of knowledge.

“Did it work?”

“Sort of. He’s …” I stare at the boy. “His mind’s different.”

Netiqret frowns. “How so?”

“I don’t know. It’s chaos. When I do this, normally I only get a sense of what they’re feeling. What they’re feeling in the moment. But this was … information.” I trail off. The dismay in my voice isn’t feigned.

“Can you command him?”

“I don’t know.” I swallow. Close my eyes and brace myself. The connection comes easily this time; the wild rush of images is still a shock but I’m ready for its impact. Like having a thousand people screaming dissonantly at me. Awful, disorienting to the point of painful. But plenty of my time at the Academy, especially in the higher classes, was spent learning techniques to deal with mental disruption. I withstand it.

“Tell him to add us to the list of Ka’s chief priests.” Netiqret’s voice is distant through the maelstrom.

“I’m still trying to connect properly.” How do I get rid of the Gleaners in the tunnel entrance to the Pyramid of Ka?

Images. Forced into my mind, too many to process, too many to handle. People screaming. Gleaners lit gold as they swarm from the tunnel. Explosions somewhere in the west, shouts and clashes of steel in the east. Flames and crumbling stone and blood. A hot knife through my brain. I groan and stagger back, palms against my temples, losing my connection to the iunctus a second time.

“Are you alright?” Netiqret’s concerned. More for our wasting time than for me, I’d wager.

“It’s fine.” I straighten, the pain behind my eyes easing. It’s not fine. Perhaps there was a useful response somewhere in all of that, but I need plain answers. Something I can use. I touch the boy’s shoulder a third time. Grit my teeth as I connect once again. “How do I get past the Gleaners in the tunnel to the Pyramid of Ka?”

“What?” I can hear Netiqret’s confusion and mounting anger in the single word, but I’m focused on the iunctus.

He opens his eyes. They are blue and lifeless and focused on me. “Avoiding detection is impossible.”

“Can I kill them?”

“Impractical.”

“Siamun.” Netiqret, interrupting again. Purely angry this time, but we both know she’s in no position to do anything about this. The more she delays me, the longer she has to wait for what she wants.

I ignore her. “Then can I clear them out, somehow? What would cause them to leave?”

“They are secondarily tasked for emergency defence. They are activated to eliminate existential threats.”

I swallow. “What would such a threat entail?”

“Significant structural damage to the city. Disruption of primary processes or defence. The last instance of complete activation was six hundred and forty-two years ago.”

Six hundred and forty-two years. Vek. “What was it caused by?”

“Destruction of the original filtration system. Gleaners were deployed for protection, and then the prevention of riots during the subsequent panic and drought.”

“So they prioritise the welfare of the city over protecting Ka?”

“Yes.”

“Will Ka intervene if he thinks he is being threatened?”

“Ka sleeps. He would be unaware.”

Interesting. “Can you create a disaster big enough to draw them out?”

“I cannot.”

“That’s enough, Siamun.” I feel steel rest across my throat, vaguely surprised that Netiqret let me fire out as many questions as I just managed. “You tell him to add us to the records as chief priests. And Kiya as a living child. Now.”

She’s got no bargaining power here, but the edge to her voice is more worrying than the one against my skin. There’s something desperate about it, raw and furious and manic.

“Alright.” I make certain to keep still. She won’t kill me yet. Not until she has what she wants. “Forget anything you currently know about myself, or these other two here. Then, for as long as you’ve seen me alive within the past month, have myself and her be identified as chief priests, and her as a living child, to any iunctii checking on us.” I point as I say the words; the boy’s dull blue eyes roll to follow my gestures and take in the faces, though his head never twitches. “And forget anything you currently know about Ahmose al Maq. Register him as a Westerner with full access to the east.”

“Take out the provision, Siamun.” A catch to Netiqret’s voice. The blade pushes at my throat. I feel a slow trickle down my neck.

“No.”

A hiss of air releasing between her teeth that admits she has no play here, and the pressure relents. “Then tell him to remove the changes made by Kiya’s time in the Nomarch.” Kiya is suddenly being ushered forward to stand next to me. “Tell him to restore her mind.”

“What? Is that even …” I glance around in confusion, my link to the blue-eyed iunctus fragile as its torrent of images continues to assault me. Through it, though, I see Netiqret’s eyes. See the ready blade in her hand. Vek. This is why she’s here. “Alright. I’ll try.”

I focus back. Thinking furiously. Kiya was once in here, evidently. There’s an ache to Netiqret’s voice, a desperation leaking through. How long has she been trying to get in here and do this? Kiya has to be a relative. Her daughter? If that’s the case, though, then she was killed … at least a decade ago. Likely longer.

Rotting gods.

“Restore Kiya to the way she was before she was part of the Nomarch. Restore her mind.”

“That cannot be done.”

Silence, and then, “Try again.” Netiqret’s voice is almost a whisper.

I do. The wording slightly different, the intent the same. It elicits an identical response. Kiya just stands there absently, staring down into the mirror of the iunctus, arms hanging loosely by her sides. Netiqret is next to her. Holding her hand. Smoothing her braids out of her face. “Again.”

“Netiqret—”

“Again, Siamun. Word it differently. Tell it to reverse the effects, this time.”

I do, to the same response. I gaze at the boy sadly. Breath short as I battle to maintain the connection. Through the chaos of his thoughts—if that’s what they can even be called—I can feel his profound, unending exhaustion.

And then the iunctus to the right—a girl, maybe eight or nine years old—opens her eyes and stares at the roof.

“Netiqret. It’s not working. We have to go.” I focus again on the boy. “Forget every question I’ve asked here. Forget our presence.”

“No. No. They said it would work,” she counters in soft, disbelieving frustration.

I look at her, and for a moment I forget what she was likely planning to do to me. Her expression is lost. Sick with a shock that I don’t think is entirely unexpected, no matter what she says.

She had faith this would work, because the alternative was unfathomable to her.

“Breach,” whispers the second iunctus, her brown eyes still staring glassily upward.

The other children’s eyes snap open. The golden light around us fades to a throbbing, virulent red. And then every eye rolls and focuses on me. Just me. As if Netiqret and Kiya did not exist.

“Breach,” they whisper together, eyes lifeless and glinting crimson.

Oh, vek. “Stop the alarm. Forget anything was wrong.”

“Breach.”

I release my connection. “It’s over. We need to go.”

“We need to try again. We won’t get another chance.”

“Breach.”

My heart drops at the manic desperation in her voice. I don’t want to abandon her and Kiya. I cannot imagine what she’s been through to get here. And more practically, if she’s caught, she knows too much.

“Breach.”

“We can try again, Netiqret,” I lie into the red beneath the chillingly intent stares. “Try something different. Once we’re out.” I edge around her and Kiya.

“Breach.”

“We’ll never get back in here. Not now.” She turns to continue facing me, but doesn’t release Kiya’s hand. The young girl hasn’t reacted to what’s going on around us at all, as far as I can tell. “Siamun, you need to—”

I run.

“SIAMUN!” She screams it after me but I don’t look back; I’m faster than her and more than that, I don’t believe she’ll leave Kiya to chase me. No sound but the panting of my breath, nothing to see but the red-drenched, open-eyed iunctii. “Breach.” My feet slap against stone. “Breach.”

Then there’s the way up ahead and I take the ruby-tinged stairs two at a time. No sign of anyone, iunctii or otherwise, coming down yet. My mind strains after the map Netiqret drilled into me. There is only the one way out of the Sanctum, and if I’m compromised—if the Nomarch just saw my face, as I suspect it did—then the Overseers will know exactly who to look for.

I spill out of the stairwell into the shadows of the colonnade. The cavernous space echoes with the screams and laughter of festivities continuing in the distance, apparently uninterrupted by the alarm we’ve raised.

I stop, just for a second. Catch my breath and think. The Nomarch said that it was unable to create a distraction large enough to draw out the Gleaners.

Still.

I jog cautiously, only once having to hide as a group of priests—I think they’re priests, not iunctii—hurry past my concealing shadows, muttering to one another in anxious low tones. It doesn’t take long for me to reach the enormous open path to the triangular tunnel, the warm glow of the pyramid blinding as it looms up ahead.

My heart sinks as I reach the short shadow of the tunnel entrance and my eyes reluctantly adjust. Nothing’s changed. Dark forms still hang on the wall, dormant and silent and ready to wake the moment I step foot on that obsidian bridge. The intrusion into the Nomarch doesn’t seem to have disturbed a single one of them.

I turn to go back to the main hall—if I can find the woman who let us in the secret entrance, it stands to reason I can force her to let me out again—and spot the Overseer.

The black-clad woman is distant, at least a hundred feet away, and I’d be little more than a silhouette against Ka’s Pyramid. But she’s running. A dead sprint, directly at me.

It takes only a breath to realise that even if I can make physical contact with her, it won’t be before she registers who I am. And that, in turn, will tell the Nomarch exactly what I can do.

I dive into the nearest passageway, and run.

Left. Right. Skidding around corners but I don’t know where I’m going, have no idea what this section of the Sanctum even is. I can hear the sound of pursuit. Not gaining, but not falling behind. My heart pounds through my chest. Reminding me of the Labyrinth, but at least there I had some façade of control. I simply can’t escape like this. Any turn now could reveal no path forward, and my end.

Another left, and there’s a window in the obsidian. Three feet wide, maybe. I slide to a halt. The Infernis flows below. About twenty feet to the sliver of riverbank that separates obsidian and poison.

Footsteps behind me, too loud.

I scramble up onto the ledge, squeeze through, and slide off the edge.

It’s an awkward, clumsy fall in my haste; my stomach is in my throat and then I’m hitting barren soil and stone, pain jolting through my body despite my best efforts to brace. I fling myself back, away from the green-tinted water, lungs immediately scalding from my proximity to it. Then I stumble to my feet, propping myself against the smooth surface of the temple wall. Inches from the acid that flows through Duat’s veins.

A thud, dull and heavy, behind me.

I turn to find the Overseer already stalking toward me. Ten paces away. The bank is too sloped and narrow to run.

Before I can fear enough to stop myself, I step into the river.

My breath is a hissing escape as fiery pain immediately consumes my legs. It’s like the skin is burning; I groan and risk a glance down, almost weeping, but there’s no blistering. The Vitaeria concealed around my upper thigh at work. They do not stop the agony.

And then the Overseer is upon me.

I fend off grasping, clawing hands as they try to haul me out of the poison. Resist the urge to command it, my ability even now far too great an advantage to expose. It is smaller than me but its eyes are completely black, and I can feel imbued strength behind each touch.

And yet my efforts in blocking it still, somehow, seem to be effective.

My mind clears enough to manoeuvre. I stagger forward, swat away a punch and get in one strike. Two. It’s dazed. Reeling. I get in a third before it can recover and then grab its shoulder. Swivel. Wrench.

It loses its footing.

The thundering splash peppers me with agonising droplets everywhere lower than my neck, but I ignore it, determined now. The Overseer’s eyes are wide with shock and pain as it struggles, flails. I lunge. Crouch in the water and, snarling at the agony coursing through me, force it beneath the surface.

The water excoriates my hands, the waves of the Overseer’s thrashing flicking it up almost to my neck. I moan but steel myself, keep exerting pressure on its shoulders. It kicks and slips on the slick surface beneath the poison. I weep and push harder. Through the fire, something changes beneath my fingers.

And then I’ve lost my grip. The Overseer has slipped away somehow. There is black clouding the clear green.

I barely stop myself from retching as I raise my hands to find masses of red, blistered flesh oozing between my fingers. What is left of the Overseer’s shoulders.

With a wordless wail the iunctus surfaces in a final, desperate shower of acid. Its face is drooping, suppurated and boil-covered. I can see bone where the flesh and muscle from my grasp came away.

And then it expires. Subsides and slumps and becomes an incoherent black shape beneath the surface.

I’m too pained to do anything but tremble and wipe my skin vainly against my sheer attire, watching the cloth flake away wherever I touch. I’m beyond lucky I didn’t go any deeper, I realise shakily; my Vitaeria may have survived, but the thin straps holding them against my thigh would have undoubtedly dissolved in short order.

I gather myself enough to glance around, then up at the window through which I came. No sign of anyone, not yet, but the Overseer would have communicated where we were. Would have communicated my face.

Distantly, the sounds of revelry continue.

I stagger in the green light of the Infernis, the golden glow of Ka’s pyramid a mocking sun above. I can see the bridge a little way away. I know where I am.

I take a breath. Two. Temporarily force back the disaster of the night; my anonymity is gone and my task harder than ever, but right now I just need to find refuge. There are plenty of ways to escape the riverbank, once I navigate around the temple walls. And there is a tunnel not too far. With some fortune, I may just be able to make it before the Overseers intercept me.

To the faint strains of joyful music, I stagger my way back into the heart of Duat.

LIV

I WAS THIRTEEN WHEN, MY PARENTS AWAY ON THE MAIN land, I decided I was ready to sit in on my first diplomatic meeting with the Catenan Republic. I had indicated my interest to my father some time previously, and he had approved. So I went to the men leading the negotiations and swore that I would be silent, and attentive, and not interfere in any way.

They did not believe me.

“I don’t understand,” I told my father with embarrassed fury when he returned. “Why wouldn’t they let me be in there? I only wanted to watch!”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know because I am your father, and I know you as well as anyone. But you have always been quick to anger, Diago, and just because what you told them was true does not erase your past. Words sound the same coming from the honest and the deceiving, the informed and the deceived. They matter—never think otherwise—but most of the time, people need to be shown a truth before they will truly believe it.”

I never got another chance to be part of one of those meetings. Six months later, the Hierarchy invaded.

The bonfires along the shore of Loch Traenala crackle as the last of the sky’s light dies, bringing even more of the encroaching chill that heralds the coming winter. The crannog lies empty across the rippling, slurping waters of the lake. Lir performed the solemn rites of the evening as the sun slipped below the horizon, and now everyone is gathered to observe this final one. A test in name only; Tara and Pádraig have been discussing the outcome of the day for months. But an important moment. A moment where we show that we are not just our words.

“Leathf hear.” Pádraig calls out my name. Starting at the last, the least, the weakest. It’s not meant as a slight but rather as a build-up, to show that not all can be successful before the true warriors are Called.

I step forward. Surrounded by a loose circle, Pádraig and Lir watching side by side. For a heartbeat, I remember the Amotus fight against Ianix at the Academy. This is a smaller space but has none of the enclosed menace of that day.

“Who will you prove yourself against?” Pádraig asks it loudly and firmly, no sense that this is really all for show.

Everyone expects me to call Conor, maybe Miach. To give a fair showing before I lose and then bow out gracefully. There would be no shame in doing so.

But that won’t be nearly enough. Even beating them wouldn’t be enough. Not for Tara, not for Pádraig. They think I should be going with Lir. Pursuing answers. Doing what King Rónán wants of me.

And maybe they are right, but it’s not what I want. I am not whole as I once was, but they are better with me than without me—I have proven that much. And I will not let them go off to risk their lives so that I can be a piece on someone else’s board.

I grip my spear. “I will fight Tara.”

I see Conor look at Miach, the other boy shrugging. Conor shrugs back and catches my eye. Raises an eyebrow. I shrug as well. He grins.

“Very well.” Pádraig betrays no surprise. Tara is watching me quizzically as she moves into the circle. Trying to figure out what I’m doing. She knows I can’t beat her. And she knows that a loss to her will convince neither her nor Pádraig that I should be chosen.

But it’s as she said. My skill isn’t what she’s worried about.

We take our positions. My spear feels warm, pulses faintly in my head as it often does. Imbued, I’ve increasingly suspected, though I still don’t understand how. The others surround us, not tightly, but enough to form a clear edge to our contest. Not that there are any strict boundaries.

Tara may not understand my plan, here, but in many ways it doesn’t matter to her. She attacks. Hard and fast. Spear whirling and jabbing, meeting mine with clack after sharp clack, the sound echoing away across the water and rolling green hills beyond. I defend. Competently. Well, even. I’m outmatched, but that doesn’t mean I’m helpless anymore. Tara will have to earn this victory.

The red-haired girl with the torc glinting around her neck isn’t fazed by her lack of progress as we break briefly. Patient and methodical as she stalks around me. She knows she’s better. She knows she will win eventually.

I match her stride, circle with her, content to simply defend at this point. I know what she knows. If I attack, I will only open myself up to a quicker defeat.

Another blur as she darts forward; I mark her feint but not the second. Her spear sweeps beneath me. Catches the back of my left foot. I go down.

She steps back, disappointed as she waits for me to concede.

I roll to my feet, and set myself again.

She frowns at me. “You lost, Leathfhear.”

“You have determined this from one fall?” I spin my spear. Pointlessly showy.

Her brow furrows, but she motions indifferently and comes at me again. As calm and smooth and quick as she was before. The frenetic clack of our clashing spears echoes again into the dark. I backpedal, forcing the surrounding wall of people to give way. Countless hours of practice means my balance is rock-solid, my instincts honed and body well adapted to my lack of an arm. But she’s just too quick. Too skilled. Too good.

Thirty seconds later, my spear is falling from numb fingers after an impossibly precise hit. I roll back, unarmed, as Tara comes to a stop with my spear at her feet. “You are defeated.”

“I am disarmed,” I correct her pointedly. Still on the balls of my feet. I’ve tried making a joke about that before, but the translation doesn’t really work.

Her spear whips out, whistling by my head; I jerked back but I’m fairly sure she could have hit me if she’d wanted to. “Concede.”

I charge forward, dive at my spear only to get kicked hard in the stomach. I roll and grab at it through the pain, but suddenly Tara has me. Sole arm twisted behind my back. “I will break your finger.” The pressure of her grip increases to a near unbearable level. Her face is close to mine. I feel her breath.

I meet her blue eyes. She is beautiful. Fierce and passionate in the orange, flickering bonfire’s light. It’s not that I’ve never noticed. But for whatever reason, it strikes me now. Really registers. “Then break it.”

She does.

My mind doesn’t process it properly for a second, and then I bellow my pain. My finger bent at an unnatural angle. She’s released her grip on me, standing back as I fall to my knees.

“Concede.”

My arm is shaking. It doesn’t matter. It is six weeks back to Caer Áras. Broken bones will heal.

I grit my teeth, and pull the digit back into place with a roar. Crawl over to my spear and pick it up. Try not to cry out as my finger refuses to join the rest of them in wrapping around its haft. I know what I want. I could spend the rest of my life chasing the ghosts of my past. The mysteries of what has happened to me. But I have a real life, here. Now. With these people.

I am not going to let go of that.

“No.”

And something changes.

It slithers through my body. A sense of connection to my spear, of being completely in tune with it for the first time. I calm. Everything becomes clear, and bright, and sharp.

The pain fades.

Get up.

It’s a sense rather than words. An echoing, heartbeat impression of what I need to do. I obey.

Straighten. Set feet.

I do it.

She is coming. Overhead strike.

The realisation is in my head before I recognise what Tara is doing. Tara’s spear comes down in an arc and my own twirls in my hand. Light, almost moving on its own, my broken finger an irrelevance. Not an extension of my body. Part of me. Truly part of me.

I meet her blow one-handed, and my spear does not waver, and I do not feel the shock of the impact shiver as I should.

Good.

I look up into her eyes, and see her disbelief.

Take advantage.

I flick her haft away, unfurl the spear from my defensive stance, and strike.

It all seems so easy, now. So simple. Having one arm is no real disadvantage. The weapon does what I command it to. Light enough to move where I want it, when I want it. Strong enough to absorb any attack without effort. The impressions in my head flicker, and I heed them. Tara backs away.

She snarls, and her eyes bleed to black. I know her. I know why. She is afraid, now. Afraid that here, on this very last stage, she will falter.

And then the fight truly begins.

Our movements are an impossible dance. Too quick and graceful for any normal warrior, no matter how many years of training they have had. Left sweep counter. My skills alone, advanced though they have, would never have been enough to hold her off for more than a few seconds without the impressions in my head. But they are there, and I do. Duck push step back. She is faster than me by a fraction, but I survive for five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Block left block right block low. She attacks and attacks and attacks. Doesn’t stop. Flows on from one strike to the next to the next without ever pausing for breath. I cannot say what the others around us are doing or thinking. Our spears are a blur. There is only the fight.

Then her haft finds my wrist. Barely more than a brush but it is enough to throw my next movement off a hair. She sees it, somehow. Changes her stance and reacts with inhuman speed.

The air rushes from my lungs and I am tumbling, the force of the impact blasting me backward. I turn the fall into a roll, skidding on my knees along the grass and preparing myself to spring back again.

She will listen now.

My muscles are bunched, my vision edged with red, my breathing too fast. I don’t want to risk it. But I’m sure. It takes all I can to relax. To breathe. To drop the spear.

“I concede.”

MY HAND TREMBLES WITH PAIN AS PÁDRAIG GRASPS IT with both of his own, examining the broken digit carefully.

“Not bad.” He moves it with what I am sure is more force than necessary, eliciting a strained grunt from me. “We will bind it. It will mend.”

“In time for me to fight?” It’s not the question I’m asking. I tend to heal fast. It will be strong enough, when the party returning to Caer Áras arrive there.

“If that is your fate.” Pádraig continues to fasten the fingers together.

My heart drops. “You think Tara still won’t take me?”

He just continues wrapping. Silence between us and then I shift. “I listened to the spear. It told me what to do.”

He falters. Just for a second. “I know. You must speak to Lir.”

“I do not wish to go with him.”

“That is not necessarily what will happen.” Pádraig is gentle. “He has already seen, anyway, Leathf hear. You are nasceann. The Old Ways must be followed. If you are to be a warrior for King Rónán, then you must go to Fornax.”

I look up at him. “Fornax?”

Any hope he might have imparted some new scrap of information is dashed. “He will explain. In time.” He finishes the binding. “You were foolish, to push Tara so far as to injure you.”

“I had to show her how much it meant to me.”

“I know. And she was stupid not to see it long before today. You are both stupid.” He straightens. “And she would be even more so not to take you with her.”

He walks off without anything further, without acknowledgement. Just stating a fact. I grin after him, though no one can see it. Even now, I am unused to their strange, blunt honesty. So reminiscent of Eidhin that I feel my friend is here with me, sometimes.

I follow the burly master of the crannog and return to the group, where the last of the tests have just finished. Conor, blond hair shining in the firelight, is standing out of breath and sweating but triumphant against Fearghus, who looks disgruntled, but not any more so than usual. There’s a quiet murmur from the onlookers as they spot our return.

The others give me nods of approval, and Conor slaps me on the back when he joins us. We wait as Pádraig says some words, and then Lir. They flow over me; I barely hear them, let alone take them in. The aching of my hand is a dull throb. I cannot help but steal glances in Tara’s direction. She never once looks in mine.

Then she is choosing. Iron torcs in her hand, signifying her choices. Enough for all of us, but she will not take all of us.

She chooses Conor, first. Then Seanna. Then Miach and Fearghus.

Of the older group, I am the only one remaining. My heart flutters. Sinks.

“Will you take Leathf hear?” The call comes from someone and is taken up by others, a brief clamouring for Tara to acknowledge me that I do not know whether to feel embarrassed or hopeful about. I watch her. She comes to stand in front of me. Examines me. Looks into my eyes for a long few seconds.

“No,” she says loudly.

My heart drops and I almost open my mouth to protest, but this is her decision. She is our leader and if I have still not convinced her, then I must accept it now. I keep holding her gaze.

“No,” she repeats. “But I will take Deaglán.”

She puts the iron torc around my neck to cheers.

OUR LAST MEAL AT THE CRANNOG IS A BOISTEROUS ONE. Celebratory, roasted meat for everyone, music from talented young Bryn and songs raised in hearty, off-tune cheer. The fires on the lake’s bank burn hot, easily stealing the chill from Loch Traenala’s night air. The flames flicker orange on the still water.

I take a bite of haunch as Tara comes to sit next to me. We haven’t spoken in these past few hours—not through any particular deliberate act, but she has been busy in conversation with Pádraig and Lir, and I have been saying my farewells to the other students. “I almost beat you,” I observe around a mouthful.

She snorts at that. A true derisive snort, but with the tiniest hint of a smile at the end. “You were almost a challenge. When you finally came to fight, after the third or fourth injury I gave you.”

I grin. “I did not think you would actually break it,” I admit, holding up my hand.

“I did not think you were stupid enough to tell me to.”

I chuckle and Tara allows a rare smile as we settle back into a more relaxed position. Easy in our company again. Injuries are common enough here, even if they’re not usually quite as deliberately inflicted. There is no lingering antipathy over what happened, nor should there be.

My smile gradually dies as I consider the fight again. “It was like a voice in my head, after that.”

She nods slowly. Unsurprised. Gaze lingering briefly on the spear at my side. We just sit for a moment, both of us watching the firelight, and then she sighs. “Lir wants to see you.”

I don’t want to let it go. “It’s him, isn’t it. Artán.”

“An echo, maybe.” Melancholy is a strange look on Tara, even if it’s fleeting. She firms. “And you need to talk to Lir.”

I don’t blame her, frustrating though her reticence is. She’s not meant to breathe a word of what the druids have revealed to her, what the nasceann really is. Even this was probably too much.

“And if he says I am to go with him?”

Her brow furrows as she stares into the flames. “He will. And you will. But he will bring you back to us, too. I have already insisted.” She turns to me. Lit by the fire. Ruddy-cheeked, her scar there but just a feature now, not the ugly mark I first saw it as. “We are stronger together, Deaglán.”

I return her gaze. An accident, I know, but that phrase. I have hated that phrase for so long.

From her, I believe it.

“Stronger together,” I repeat back at her, smiling.

LIR IS WAITING FOR ME ALONG THE SHORE, AWAY FROM the causeway and out of sight of the others. He studies me as I approach.

“Deaglán. An interesting contest, today.” He motions me to sit on a log, and I oblige. The switch from Leathfhear to my name being Deaglán seems not to have fazed anyone. “I have not seen one of its like in many years.”

“I am glad to have entertained, Druid.” I speak carefully. Respectful, but also making it clear that I do not wish to be here.

He chuckles. “That is one way to put it.” His smile fades. “You wish to fight.”

“I wish to support my friends. I will fight if I must.”

Lir nods approvingly. “It is a poor warrior who fights for the pleasure of it. But there are other things we must address. More important things even than your loyalty to your friends.”

“The nasceann.”

“Yes.” Lir’s gaze never leaves mine. He’s curious, but not concerned, though I’m armed and he isn’t. Not that he has anything to fear, from me. But I am reminded again about the strength that honour has among these people. How firm its grip. “King Rónán’s decree in sending you here first had to be satisfied, but otherwise, this path has been set since the moment you denounced Gallchobhar. It is not a power you should be able to access. And not one you are allowed to have without training.”

“I have had training.”

His eyebrows rise at that. “Where?”

“The Catenan Republic.” He shakes his head, no recognition, as with the last time I mentioned that name to him. “The power … I think it works differently, there. But I have been trained.”

Lir rubs his beard. “Can you do it now? Activate it on command?” I shake my head—I’ve tried briefly, a couple of times, since the fight with Tara—and he frowns. “I see. So you need more training.”

“No.” It comes out sharper than I mean it to, more frustrated, but I simply grimace an apology and plough on. “I have had enough of training. I trained most of my childhood. I have trained for months here.”

“And at what point will you no longer need to learn, Deaglán?”

I give a soft laugh. Recognising too much of my father in the question. “Never—but that is not the question, Lir, is it? The question is when will I no longer need to be taught.” I meet his gaze. “I will always accept guidance. Always seek to better myself. But I am able to learn for myself, now.”

Lir grunts. He likes the answer, I think, but not the situation it puts him in.

“I will allow you to join your friends at Caer Áras. You will be able to stand against Fiachra,” he says eventually. I open my mouth to effusively thank him and he holds up a hand, forestalling me. “But. But. First, you must give up your spear until I tell you it is time, and not discuss your experience of the nasceann with anyone. Then you must also agree to accompany me when we reach the mainland. We will take a separate path to the Caer. A far more dangerous one, for you. You will arrive two, perhaps three days behind the others.”

My jubilation fades to something more uneasy. Just as Tara said. “Why?”

“Because these powers are dangerous and if you will not be trained, then you will be tested, Deaglán.” Lir is calm. “You are nasceann, and there are rules. This is the best I can do. I cannot tell you more.”

I scowl, but know there is no alternative. Tara and Pádraig would never let me be part of the warband without the druid’s approval.

I reluctantly pass my spear into his hands.

Lir just nods. “Then tomorrow, we sail for war.”

LV

MY SISTER AND I USED TO PLAY A GAME AS WE WALKED through our family’s palace, trying to imagine the builders’ aims for each room. Function for the kitchen, intimacy for the lounge. Warmth and light for the guest quarters, sealed-off intimidation and power for the Great Hall. Every stone, we were told by our tutors, every corner and every crevice had a purpose. A design. The best buildings were made to speak to their occupants. The best rooms, you understood what they were the moment you entered, no matter their furnishings.

This is a room where decisions are made, and men die, and empires fall.

The three-sided chamber is massive. One wall is consumed with a gilded Hierarchy symbol set into polished obsidian, the entire thing shining and reflecting the light from the fire that sits dramatically beneath it in a long, straight line. On a second sits an enormous plate of bronze onto which is inscribed a massive, intricately detailed map. Stones of various colours and sizes are affixed to points on it everywhere. Will-based tracking for ships and armies and everything in between, if I had to guess.

The third wall—containing the great archway through which we have just walked—is covered in a frieze that is as lifelike and stunningly crafted as anything I have seen in the Forum, the temples, or anywhere else. A great battle, chariots and legionnaires clashing with some enemy in violent, visceral, glorious combat.

I take it in at a glance, but as the men sitting at the triangular table rise as one at our intrusion, it is the massive stone circle on the floor that commands my attention. Nine sections. Six numbered with a III, two with a II, and the last with a I. It’s the source of the low grinding sound, the entire thing slowly turning.

To my mind, it glows like the sun.

“Who are you?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“How did you get in?”

A stunned pause to both the surprised cries and the movement of the circle as I send several shards of sharpened metal to hover threateningly in front of them. Ostius takes advantage of the silence, sauntering into the centre of the room. Enjoying this as much as I am not. “Gentlemen!” he says, issuing a calming motion. “How very nice to see you all again. Please. Don’t get up on our account.”

“Ostius?” It’s the man I know straight away is the Princeps, though I have not before seen him in the flesh. Tall and broad-shouldered, his square jaw depicted surprisingly accurately on every gold coin, with images of the other Princeps on either side of him. He is at least seventy. He looks closer to forty. He’s staring at Ostius with an immediate, plain shock that I don’t think I’ve ever seen from a Catenan politician.

The name seems to stir some remembrance in most of the other men too; they refocus on Ostius, really examining him. I use the moment to edge behind Ostius and lightly touch the first stone segment of the circle with my bare foot. Will quivers beneath my toes.

I focus. Brace myself. Taking on this much Will, just holding it all within myself, is going to be a shock.

It only takes a second; I can barely prevent a gasp as the concentrated power shivers out of the stone and into my control. I don’t self-imbue it—I’m not even sure how my body would react to so much at once—but its sense of availability, as if it had been freshly ceded to me, is abruptly there. Surging through me. Making my perception of everything around me almost painfully sharp.

“It’s so very nice to see you again, Uncle. How long has it been? Nine years?”

The words hang and I’m distracted from the exhilarating, sick thrill, glad of the metal hiding my face.

“Ostius, by all the gods we thought you were dead! What are you doing here? And who is this?” Exesius is flummoxed, though to his credit it already sounds a more controlled, measured confusion. “I’m so glad to see you again, lad. But perhaps we should have this reunion in private.”

Not smiling, either, despite his words. Something in his eyes as he looks at Ostius.

All the attention is on them, even my threatening, hovering blades temporarily forgotten. I take two steps to the next stone segment set into the ground. Power shudders through me, another heady rush but not as much a shock as the first time. Two. No outcry. No sign anyone has noticed anything.

“Nonsense!” Ostius smiles broadly. He strolls over to the wall, where the symbol of the Hierarchy glimmers. Casually drawing their attention farther from me. “I am certain everyone will want to hear how you sent me to Solivagus before anyone thought it had value, so that our family alone could make the most important decision to be made in three hundred years. Or how you let Princeps Pitorius outmanoeuvre you—not to do the same, but to try and avoid that decision and save everyone?”

Three. Four. I make my movements small and casual. Every nerve firing, so unbearably energised that the terror is somehow secondary.

“You’re not making any sense, Ostius.” Exesius says it gently, and outwardly he appears unconcerned, but he’s off-balance. Too eager to muzzle his apparent nephew. “I don’t know what’s happened to you or where you’ve been these past years, but my boy, let’s—”

“I would like to hear more,” says Dimidius Quiscil suddenly. A glint in his eye. “Your nephew has found his way past guards and security measures and seems to know quite a bit, Exesius.”

Five. Six. The shock is less again. So much Will already at my fingertips that adding even this preposterous amount is more jostle than dazing blow to my senses, now.

“Thank you, Dimidius.” Ostius gives a casual salute to Indol’s father. Then he spins and gestures to the Hierarchy symbol on the wall. “Why don’t you start by telling them what this really represents, Uncle?” He traces the lines in the air, almost absent in the motion. Seven. “We say it is for the three pillars of the Senate. But it has two other meanings. The first, and oldest, I will not go into right now as I know how confusing it will be.” He smiles condescendingly over his shoulder at the assembled senators. “But the second? The real reason this is the symbol of the Catenan Republic?” Eight.

“Ostius, stop.” Exesius’s muscles are tensed. Silence hangs, suspended.

Ostius smiles, and opens his mouth.

Nine.

Exesius moves. Eyes black as he leaps at Ostius.

It’s so easy. I self-imbue my entire body, using the tiniest fraction of a fraction of what I now have at my disposal. Glide forward. Catch his downward strike and expect resistance of some kind, but instead Exesius screams in stunned, horrified pain and I can see from the way his hand dangles at the wrong angle that his wrist is broken.

“Three Princeps,” finishes Ostius quietly, face inches from his uncle’s, gazing into his eyes as if nothing had happened. “All ceding to the man who is planning to kill us.”

I release Exesius’s wrist, letting him slump to the floor. The other senators’ eyes have gone black as well. Insane to think that even after all the Will they’ve imbued, they still have more in reserve. But it’s nowhere near enough to face me. Not now.

Quiscil and Werex are first to act, diving not for me or Ostius but for the stone circle. They skid to their knees, each with a hand pressed against one of the stones marked with II.

Their expressions go from grimly triumphant, to confused, to horrified.

Exesius sees it too and seems to understand. His shoulders slump. “The Cataclysm is necessary, Ostius. You know that.” He’s dropped all pretence. A desperate man now, as he gasps it between groans, still clutching his dangling wrist. “I sent you because it can be us who decides, or it can be him. But we can’t—”

“What in all the gods’ graves, Exesius?” It’s a shaken interjection from Dimidius Werex, quickly echoed by the others. They’ve joined him and Quiscil in trying to take back their Will. Wear identical, almost comically lost expressions. I almost feel the same myself, even as the inordinate amount of Will running through me steadies my mind. The Princeps are ceding? Ostius has to be lying. It’s contrary to everything I know about the Republic. To everything everyone knows. “Is he telling the truth?”

“Always, Dimidius. Always!” Ostius smiles at the man still on his knees with hand against cold stone, as if hoping the process of regaining his Will was simply taking longer than it should. “Trust. Trust! Such a difficult thing. I imagine he just felt a little awkward telling you. Seeing as it involved you all dying, and so on.”

“Ostius. Please. We just voted for peace.” Exesius gestures to the stone circle. “Nothing is more important than preventing bloodshed right now. I know you to be a gentle man, and—”

“‘A gentle man’?” The lightness, the casualness, the humour has fled from Ostius’s eyes. Only the ice of his rictus smile remains, and he leans back and kicks his uncle in the face; there’s a spray of blood and a groan from around the room as the Princeps of Military flails backward, his cry somewhere between a shout and a squeal. “Gentle men are the products of love and protection, Uncle.” Another kick, cold and powerful and brutal. I hear something crack. “They are the offshoots of shelter and naïvety.” Another to the face, and this time the cry is more of a wheezing gasp. “If there are gentle men in our family, Uncle, it is because you have not yet met them.”

He raises his foot again, as if to stomp down.

“Stop!” I shout it because, apparently, none of the senators will. Ostius pauses, foot hovering in mid-air. He hops to balance, almost comically, as the madness retreats once again behind that jovial, too-casual façade. The senators across the room just stare. Frozen in their abject fear. My razor-sharp iron shards still between them and us. None move to help their moaning leader.

Through my own horror, my own disorientation and disgust, I am ashamed to say that I feel some flicker of satisfaction at the helplessness of their expressions.

“But. Speaking of trust,” continues Ostius, digging into his robes and pulling out some paper with a flourish, as if the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. “I have names! All the names. Well. All the ones who matter. Details about those names, too. All the things they did. All the ways in which they helped with the attacks on the naumachia and Solivagus.” He makes a show of reading. “Hmm. Yes. Yes. Your names are on here! Wonderful. Even yours, Uncle. I included it as an addendum about the cover-up, after you found out what they’d done.” He addresses the last to the still-groaning, bloodied man on the floor. “Now all I need is for you all to sign it, seal it, and we can be on our way.”

Silence. If there was any doubt, it is washed away in that moment. The shifting of their eyes, the slow horror dawning. There is no surprise. No outrage or shock or denial.

Each of them knew.

I feel my hands shaking, even through the numbing power of Will. I clench them into fists.

“Don’t be foolish, Ostius.” Quiscil finally scoffs it into the dismay. “Why would we do that?”

“Because it is the truth, of course!” Ostius smiles too widely. Gathering ink and quill, sealing wax and a candle from the triangular table. “Oh. And of course it means I won’t kill you. This way, you all get … what? The night, I suppose, to get out of Caten?” He emphasises the crushing inevitability of their choice with another savage kick to his uncle’s midriff; the man’s breath explodes from his lungs and he doubles over again with a defeated gasp.

No one speaks. Horrified acceptance amidst their fury. They know there isn’t an option. “What is to stop you from killing us anyway?” asks Dimidius Werex eventually.

“You haven’t been listening, Werex. My word. You have my word. You have to trust me.” He crouches beside Exesius. Places the paper beside him on the floor and then props him up gently, pressing the quill into his hand. “Just down there, Uncle. That’s it! You can check it over if you like, if I’ve made mistakes I can … no? You trust me? Wonderful.” He watches as the Princeps of Military signs the confession, then snatches up the paper and springs to his feet, letting the man collapse back to the floor. “Who’s next?”

And so they sign. One by one. Anger and defiance and shock and regret in every stroke. Evil men seeing their power ripped away. There is, I quickly learn, no sadder or more gratifying sight.

Despite that, my mind is finally catching up to the madness of these events and I try to plot out their consequences. A civil war that ensures Military is divided? That seems most likely, and in fact, I suspect the senators are gradually coming to the same conclusion. See them sliding from stunned to calculating. Ostius is right; they’ll be able to leave before anyone can take action—exiles, but exiles who still command formidable loyalties. The armies swear their oaths to Exesius as much as they do the Republic. They’ll claim they were working for the good of Caten, or maybe recant and say they signed under duress. All is not lost for them.

The blood drains from my fingers, I squeeze my fists so tight. I get my names, but not necessarily justice. These men killed my friends. They killed thousands. That much will soon be public.

And there’s still a gods-damned chance they will get away with it.

Quiscil is the last. He signs with a disgusted flourish and presses his ring into the wax; Ostius examines the signature and then nods absently, as if he was not now holding a document that could tear the Catenan Republic apart.

“Very good. Very good. Thank you,” he says, blowing on the ink to dry it. “I think … yes! I think that is all, from me.” He turns to me. “They are all yours, my boy.”

There’s silence as he steps back. The senators turn to me, puzzled. Not understanding.

I do.

The hush stretches, the senators’ uncertainty eliciting shuffling feet and anxious looks. The stolen Will within me hums. They are completely within my power. They are pitiful and they are dangerous and they most certainly deserve to die for their confessed crimes. My hatred boils. My rage trembles.

And yet, through it, my father’s voice echoes. The power to protect is the highest responsibility.

Ostius wants me to kill them. That alone says I should not.

The rage remains but I force it down, chain it somewhere deep and dark. Just like I always do. Make myself think it through. These men are prisoners. It will be a mental strain, but I could hold on to their Will until they were stripped of it. Get their confession to Quartus Corenius and maybe Ulciscor as well, who between them would know who to trust. An agreement between Military’s unimplicated Quartii and the rest of the Senate might be struck. And then to consummate the union and prove to everyone that the rot in the Republic has been dealt with, these men would undoubtedly be placed in Sappers.

A lot of ifs. A lot of things needing to go right. A lot of trusting others.

But it could still end in a world where the horrors of a Will-fought war are never realised, and the worst of those who would have brought it are gone.

“We need a way to tie them up.” I breathe it. Expel it as if it were my fury. “Until the trial.”

Ostius frowns. Nonplussed. Then he turns to the senators. “Gentlemen, I’ve been rude. Please allow me to introduce the man you know as Sextus Vis Telimus, or Catenicus if you’re feeling nostalgic. Though his birth name is Diago, son of Cristoval. Prince of Suus. I believe some of you hanged his parents and sister?”

The words stun me as much as they do the Military leadership. I feel as though I’ve been punched.

“But not his little sister. She drowned trying to escape your men, from what I understand.”

I choke. Ostius is stoking my rage. Poking and prodding at all the painful memories. The knowledge should help. It doesn’t.

There’s abrupt movement in the archway, the sudden soft clicking of claw on stone, and Diago, unprompted, as if sensing what I’m going through, as if understanding his concealment is no longer necessary, stalks into view. Gaze fixed on the suddenly breath-holding, frozen senators as they take in his massive form. He stops between us and them. Lips curling back slowly, revealing the razor-sharp, saliva-covered ivory beneath. He makes no sound. Somehow, it makes the whole thing even more threatening.

I do what I can to strip away the dazedness, grateful for the alupi’s brief distraction. Set my features into something grim, and slowly let the metal triangles depart my face. I do not flinch from the senators’ stares as they tear their eyes from Diago to take in the sight of me.

“Tell me why you invaded Suus.” My voice growls across the room, though I direct it mostly at Exesius. More powerful and forceful than it should be; the men all shift back, and even Ostius flinches. “Tell me why you killed my family.”

Exesius props himself up. As fascinated as he is in pain, now. “You don’t know?” He glances at Ostius.

“Gods. That’s what this is about? Blame your father,” mutters Werex, even as he eyes Diago warily again. “He pulled on threads he knew were better left unravelled.”

My metal shard takes him in the shoulder, and he squeals in shocked pain.

I rip it out and hover it in front of his face. Red dripping. There are low, outraged gasps from among the gathered senators. Ostius watches delightedly.

“He found out about the Cataclysms.” Exesius this time, tired and soft. “He found out, and did not believe it. So he had men seek out more. And though he kept his circle of trust excruciatingly small, he nonetheless trusted too much.”

“Who?” Hissed. Ragged. Not my own voice. “Who betrayed him?”

“Our spymasters are jealous with their secrets. I do not know the name.” Exesius is guarded. He sees how tenuous my grasp on my anger is. “But it wasn’t just his knowledge. We were warned that he had uncovered a weapon. Something not even the Republic could stop. So we acted.” His gaze bores into mine. Still sharp behind all that blood and pain. “Though surely you knew that part, Catenicus. Given the naumachia.”

I don’t disabuse him of his cynical and false assumption. I can see now how Estevan likely did what he did. But my mind is already moving on to something far more important to me. “Why kill my family?”

Exesius grimaces. Hesitates, but as he takes in my expression, he sees I will accept only the truth. “Men sometimes confide in those they trust, but they only truly unburden themselves on the ones they love,” he says softly.

I close my eyes. Killed because the Hierarchy worried my father had told them something. I believe him. Not that my father would ever have used such a weapon. Not that he would have for a heartbeat considered what these men assumed he wanted to do.

But I have always wondered at the Hierarchy’s violence in the face of Birthright. Now, I understand.

I turn to Quiscil. The eerily mute, slavering Diago still between us. “And that is what you were chasing on Solivagus.” I say it with quiet certainty, fuelled by the conversation I overheard between Ostius and Relucia on this same night a year ago. “You thought the weapon was there. That Religion were looking for it, or had found it. That’s why you were willing to kill children? Kill your own son?”

He stares back stonily. Says nothing.

“Rotting gods.” Another flash of fury at his contemptuous defiance, even faced so plainly with his evils. I put all of my disdain, all of my disgust into my words. “Do you even regret it?”

I don’t know why I ask, but I can see the answer in the way that Quiscil immediately evaluates. He’s wondering whether I’m going to prefer the lie or the truth. Wondering how much his pride is worth in the response, here in front of his peers.

“No,” he says suddenly. Angry. As if the frustration of his unfamiliar helplessness has been building inside of him, pressing against the silence until he can no longer contain it. “No, because I acted for the good of the Republic. When we arranged the attack on the Iudicium, I chose to sacrifice for something greater. Sacrifice, you gods-damned traitor. Something you will never understand.”

Diago growls now as my fury, barely contained, stirs and presses again. “My friend died because of you.”

“He was on your team, under your command, and you’re alive. Who is more to blame?”

I don’t know why he says it. A powerful man unaccustomed to not being able to speak his mind, I suppose. So used to being immune from consequences that he cannot fathom being in danger. But he puts such a sneer into it. His voice drips disdain.

Diago leaps forward.

I don’t even have time to comprehend what’s happening before Quiscil’s scream is being cut short. Blood arcs in a fine red mist. There’s a terrible gurgling beneath the rabid snarl, barely audible amidst the panicked shrieks of the other senators who are scrambling away.

But Diago is among them.

He is among them, and caught between my own horror and white fury and the abrupt, painful loss of so much Will as men die, I do not know if I can stop him. Or if I want to.

Shouting, screaming. Desperate pleas that suddenly remind me of nothing so much as the naumachia and I recover myself enough to shout out for Diago to stop, but it’s either drowned out or ignored. A Tertius runs forward and slams his hands against the stone circle on the floor, hope fading to sheer terror as he realises his Will isn’t returning. His face explodes beneath teeth and claw, and I groan at both the horror and the painfully sudden loss of energy within me, a part of me ripped away with the kill. I am on my knees. Diago tears another throat effortlessly. Snaps a neck. He stalks around the room with deliberate, terrifying efficiency.

In the background, I can hear Ostius laughing.

It’s over in less than a minute. I kneel there, stunned. Surrounded by pooling blood and the last gasps of Dimidius Werex. The room is a crimson painting of splayed limbs and glassy stares. I half expect Diago to turn on Ostius or myself, but as soon as he’s done he simply stops. Lies down on a clean patch of floor. Red coats his muzzle.

“Why?” I gasp it from the floor at Ostius, who’s surveying the chaos with a childlike grin.

“Ask yourself, my boy! I had no hand in this. A man of my word,” he adds with a pleased nod. “Of course, I’m going to have to get a little creative now. Can’t have teeth marks. But otherwise … yes. This will do nicely.”

I barely hear him. Just watch Diago numbly. He’s never been out of control before, and he chooses now? “This is a disaster.” My voice is hoarse. I went from having more power than I could handle, to being a Sextus again and it is … like needing air. Every limb is heavy; my vision’s blurred and I can barely see from tiredness. “They’re going to think this is a coup.”

“They most certainly are. But by who? Religion and Governance? The Quartii? Who knows?” Ostius chuckles as he busies himself, dragging mangled corpses out through the archway, deep smears of red in their wake. “Speaking of the Quartii—give me a hand? Oh. Hah,” he adds, realising who he’s talking to. “We have two, maybe three minutes before at least some of them try to get in and find out what is going on. And they are rather strong now.”

Vek. He’s right. The instant these men died, all the Will that was being ceded to them would have reverted to the highest remaining points on Military’s central pyramid. I stagger to my feet. Still helplessly weak by comparison to a few seconds ago, but head clearing. “What are you doing?”

“Your wolf doing the dirty work was fun, my boy—the looks on their faces!—but it does end up being rather obvious.” He draws his blade. “Thankfully Diago left Uncle’s face alone, at least.”

With a few sharp, hacking motions he severs Exesius’s head from his body, cutting above the gaping open wound where Diago’s teeth tore out his throat. My stomach twists and heaves threateningly at the sight, but Ostius barely pauses once he’s done, grabbing the head by its hair and placing it carefully in the very centre of the stone circle on the floor. He gently arranges it so that its wide-eyed stare is directed at the entrance, and then dips his finger in the deep pools of blood and scrawls something next to it before standing back and admiring his handiwork. “Lovely.”

I stare down at the crimson Vetusian, written in an arch above Exesius’s staring head. Mors vincit omnia.

I don’t understand but I’m numb, in shock. All I know is that we don’t have time for questions. I join Ostius in dragging corpses out of the room and through the corridor beyond, to the point where we came in. They should be heavy, but I am still a Sextus and my senses are normalising. It is like shifting feathers.

Ostius grabs two. Thrum. Thrum. When he reappears, the bodies are not with him. He grabs two more. Thrum. Thrum.

Soon it is just me, and him, and Diago.

Ostius looks around at the ugly dark smears that coat the stone, nodding with the satisfaction of a man who considers his job well done. He crouches down and places a hand on Diago’s head. “Do you sense any Quartii outside yet?”

I pause. Shake my head. It’s only been minutes.

“Good. Mask back on, then, my boy. There’s an alley to the left as you leave the Basilica. I’ll meet you. Don’t get caught.”

“What?” I step forward, the motion half confusion and half panic as Ostius gives me a cheerful salute.

Thrum.

I stand there. Alone.

Seconds pass and there is only silence.

“Vek.” It’s all I can think to say. Soft and panicked. “Gods-damned rotting vek.”

I run.

LVI

THE CHALKY, PETAL-COVERED STREETS OF DUAT ARE quieter now as I slink along them, though the celebrations continue unabated elsewhere in the city. Whatever alarm we triggered seems not to have affected life outside the temple. Fortunate for me. Far easier to slide by the Overseers, which are significantly fewer and yet far more intent in their searching of faces than they were a couple of hours ago.

The tunnels were a refuge, got me clear of any immediate cordon. But I cannot hide in them indefinitely, and the Overseers only have other duties until the end of the night.

Despite my desperation to rest, I emerged some distance from the temple, and since then have put Netiqret’s lessons on movement to good use.

I do all I can to focus only on the task at hand as I walk, to avoid for now assessing the wreckage of the evening. The burning of my skin still lingers, heart thudding through my chest at every turn. My face has been seen by the Nomarch, but what will it mean? My instructions shouldn’t have been undone despite what happened; it’s entirely possible I’m still considered a chief priest, just one who was caught where he shouldn’t be. One who ran, fought with an Overseer in the Infernis and—likely—perished alongside it.

So my freedom to move around is gone before I ever gained it. But the Nomarch won’t remember my questions or instructions. It’s not human, won’t speculate at my presence down there otherwise and has no other way to know that I’m Synchronous. No way to know what I’m planning.

And as far as the others go, Netiqret and Kiya—who I don’t think the Nomarch paid any attention to, when the alarm was raised—need me alive if their new identities are to remain safe.

Which means I’m alright, as far as these things go. Press on. Survive, and regroup. One step at a time.

I’m following the river, the dying glow of Ka’s pyramid at my back, when I hear the first shouts.

My desperation to maintain my anonymity keeps me from faltering, from turning and heading in the opposite direction. Instead I mimic the frowns and glances ahead, then allow myself to be pushed along the bend of the river by the curious flow. I cannot panic, cannot let myself be rattled into a mistake. Whatever’s going on will have their attention, not me.

That turns out to be unfortunate when I see the source of the commotion, though.

Ahmose stands atop a short wall at the edge of the riverbank, his head and shoulders visible above the crowd surrounding him. Fists are raised. Shouts are being hurled. The air reeks of unresolved violence.

Heart in mouth, I slow along with the mob, crane my neck in mimicry of those next to me. “What’s going on?”

Though the question was not directed at anyone in particular, a man in front of me turns.

“Westerner.” Disgust in his voice. Angry, but not yet in the foamy-mouthed fury of those ahead. He sees my dancer’s garb and almost ignores me, but his mixture of distaste and delight in the scandal keeps him talking. “He was caught passing himself off as one of us.”

I force my expression to the revulsion that’s expected of it, covering my racing thoughts. They’ve cornered Ahmose but won’t touch him; only Overseers and priests are permitted to lay hands on the dead. And the Overseers will be mostly engaged at the temple. They’ll send one, two at most.

All I have to do is wait for them to arrive, and command them without them seeing me. I can get him out of this.

“Surely not.” I study Ahmose with carefully crafted disdain. “None would dare. Especially tonight.”

“Another Westerner recognised him during her Return. She alerted her family.”

Vek. Just poor gods-damned luck, then. “That is the only proof?”

“No. He has admitted it, since he was exposed. Ka protect us, he has been proclaiming it proudly and …” His face darkens. “And blaspheming. Screaming lies about demons with blades as hands under Ka’s control. He denies Ka’s godhood and calls all Westerners his slaves. He denies that any of us will see the Field of Reeds. Just listen,” he finishes grimly.

I hide my sinking heart, and silently curse Ahmose for deciding to find his backbone. Distracted or not tonight, the Nomarch is not going to dismiss someone trying to tell people about the Gleaners.

“… see past what you have been told!” Ahmose’s voice becomes clearer over the outraged shouts as I push my way forward. He’s terrified, that much evident in his darting hazel eyes. But there’s a manic determination in them I’ve not seen before from him, too. “I was like you, until I was shown the truth! I served for eleven years in the West. I was faithful and loyal and I truly believed that Ka would grant me my rest in Aaru after the three-and-thirty. It is what I was told my entire life. Just like you. Just like you.” He stabs his finger around at the incensed crowd, voice hoarse. Cracking. He’s been shouting for a while, I’d say. “And now I am here, because I escaped after he tried to reward me by turning me into a nightmare from which I would never have been allowed to wake. I am here because he lied, and still lies, and I am one of the very few fortunate enough to have the chance to warn you!”

His eyes, scanning the crowd as they scream obscenities and shake clenched fists at him, fall on me. Only a second of hesitation, not enough to draw notice, and then he’s moving on. But something changes in him. He’s suddenly calmer. “Please, all of you, listen. Truly listen! I know he is coming for me now. I know what he will do to me, what he will learn from me, and for the first time in a long time I am at peace with how to avoid it. We all must end. We all should end. I am not sure I ever really lived, before I accepted that. So thank you.”

I see it. The edging of his feet, the slightest repositioning. He doesn’t think I can stop the Overseers. He doesn’t know that I’ve erased his face from the Nomarch. I push forward. Shake my head. “No.” The word’s a breath, directed with the force of a prayer at Ahmose.

He doesn’t see it. “Remember. Ka is not a god!” His gaze flickers over me, and then is gone again. “But who knows? Perhaps there will still be a Field of Reeds, after all.”

He smiles.

Lets himself fall backward.

My shout is lost in the din, the sudden clamour and the surge of the crowd as they fight to watch. I don’t hear the splash but those closest to the wall send up a savage cheer; suddenly the people around me have their fists in the air, praising Ka for his justice, praising him for showing how he responds to heretics and liars. Joyfully, vindictively celebrating my friend’s demise as his remains disintegrate in the green of the Infernis.

I shove my way to the wall. Lean over, next to several others. I have to see for myself.

There’s not much blood down there. Never is, from the dead.

I stare for a few seconds. Empty, unable to copy the smug laughter and snide remarks of those by my side, no matter that I desperately need to blend in.

My gaze drifts upward, to the bridge in the distance. Still plenty of movement in between the massive white statues that line its edges. The true heart of Duat, Ahmose once told me. I study it. With absent, shocked sickness at first, but then with increasing focus. Impossibly slim, unbreakable obsidian meaning it needs no supports across its entire miles-long length.

A young man slides in beside me, glances down at the dissipating mass, and then beams. “Glory to Ka! A Return for the ages, for him to show his power so plainly.” He slaps me on the back and then grabs my arm in an oblivious attempt to get me to join in the fervour-fuelled exulting still ongoing behind us.

I break his wrist, and slip into the crowd before anyone can react to his shocked wailing. Renewed cold determination in my step.

I’m going to kill Ka, and I have an idea how.

But first, I need a way out of Duat.

LVII

TWO MINUTES. IN THE END, THAT’S PROBABLY ALL IT takes. Two terrifying minutes of me sprinting, stealing the Will from doors and more complex mechanisms designed to keep men out, then bursting into the crowded, nervous hubbub of the Basilica’s main entrance. A hundred Military men and women gathered in anxiously muttering small groups. Fortunately for me, mostly Magnus Septimii and Octavii, assembled for the supposed protection of the men whose blood soaks my clothes.

There were shouts and screams at my nightmarish appearance. The chasing of the few Sextii guards on duty. I have wounds along my right arm from blows that stung, but once would have taken it clean off. A mad scramble, a panicked escape down the marble stairs and into the shadows of the alley. Mere seconds ahead of my pursuers.

And then a hand grabbing me, and the sickening expansion and contraction of the journey between worlds, and the cold silence of exposed night, my panting breath hissing into clouds of steam.

I slap Ostius’s grip away as soon as I’m able. Back off and glare at him with all the poison I can muster. “What in the rotting hells?”

“Keep your voice down.” Ostius’s gesture is something approaching apologetic. “I’ll explain when we’re clear. There’s a trough over there. Clean up as best you can.”

I clench my fists. The sounds of celebration here in Luceum have dwindled but not faded entirely. I have no doubt that there are people around. Sick to my stomach, moving as if in a dream, I do as he says. Strip and scrub off, shivering in the night air. Re-form my arm and armour, then replace my saturated clothing with a clean, well-fitting tunic and cloak that Ostius wordlessly offers.

When we do finally make our way out of the town, we see few people and are not stopped. Diago pads behind us, keeping mostly to the shadows. Either no one notices him this time, or no one is sober enough to remark upon his presence.

“Gods. Whoever owns that hut is going to have some questions when they get home,” chuckles Ostius suddenly as the town walls recede behind us.

I don’t react. Too tired and heartsick to do more than process the words. It’s only when he starts angling farther down the hill, toward the bay, that I stop. Force my thoughts to catch up, to be present. “Where are we going?”

“Docks. It will be a short trip to Domus Telimus from there, and—”

“No.” I stop short. Shake my head. “We go back to the Forum.”

“Why?”

My chest feels as though it will burst. “My friends are there.”

He considers. Looks at me with what seems very close to sympathy. “War is coming, Vis,” he says softly. “You cannot save them all.” He turns, as if that is the end of the matter.

“No. No. I’ve done everything you asked of me tonight.” Mind working furiously now. Exhausted but I can’t stop, can’t lament what I’ve just been part of. Not yet. “But you want something else. You wouldn’t have made sure people saw me leaving, otherwise. So you’re going to give me this.”

He pauses. Thinks. His reluctant smile says I’m right. “What will you tell them?”

“That I got Relucia home but not long after that, there was shouting outside about trouble in the Military compound.” Still mentally foggy but I’m sharp enough to do the calculation. “The timing would be about right. And it will look better this way,” I add. “Much more believable than me being conveniently at home when word gets out.”

Ostius’s lip curls, but he doesn’t disagree. He changes course, heading for a nearby stream. “You think you can handle yourself? You only held that Will for a few minutes, but even I can see you’re still suffering from withdrawal.”

“I’m not intending to fight.”

“You may have to if you want to get out of the Forum alive.” He points to the water. “Wash your alupi’s snout. All traces of blood. And check yourself again.”

“We don’t have time—”

“Arguing will only make it take longer.”

I growl but do as he says, recognising the importance of it. Once we’re done, Ostius inspects us both thoroughly, again showing no apparent fear of Diago as he pulls back his lips to examine his teeth. “Good.”

It’s five minutes of tense hiking back up the hill after that. The chill of the night air helps, restores some of my lacking focus. My mind, slowly, catches up.

“How does ceding still work, if I’m here and my Septimii are in our world?” I ask it suddenly as it occurs to me.

Ostius shrugs. “The worlds are still intertwined. Whatever separates us, it’s not enough to sever the connection.” He eyes me. Sees I’m more cognizant. “I’m sure you’ve realised by now that things are about to become very, very bad in Caten. And I know you’re going to want to help.”

“But you don’t want me to.” I say it flat and angry.

“Quite the opposite. But I want you to do it wearing that mask and that arm. Do that, and I will keep your identity a secret. Which in turn, will keep your friends safe from the consequences of simply knowing you. I will even feed you some information, now and then, when I come by it. We can’t have your side losing the battles to come, after all this.” He sees my confusion, my reluctance. “They are going to do horrible things to the people of that city, Vis. They are going to take the Will from every man, woman, and child they can, and they are going to kill the rest. You know it’s true. And you can help. You can stop some of it. Or, I can reveal who you are, and you can stop none of it. What’s to decide?”

We walk, Diago occasionally pressing against my leg, and I don’t respond for a while. Try to see his purpose through the exhausting miasma of tonight’s events. All of Caten will be hunting the man in that mask. Hunting me. But Ostius clearly doesn’t intend to have me captured or my identity revealed, either. So. A distraction? No. Not a worthwhile one, anyway, if there’s already a gods-damned civil war going on. But he wants attention drawn. He wants the hunt.

I can think of only one other reason for that.

“I’m bait.” But not for anyone in Caten, surely. Vek. “You’re trying to draw out the man who’s going to cause the Cataclysm, aren’t you. You’re trying to draw out Ka.”

With what has transpired tonight, I can put little more emotion than dead resignation into the words.

Ostius pulls me to a stop beneath a lonely, crooked olive tree, and smiles tightly. Draws a chained medallion from his pocket, stone worked into the pyramidal symbol of the Hierarchy—or whatever it actually symbolises, I suppose—and loops it over my head. “As long as you don’t take this off, I’ll be able to protect you.”

He puts one hand on my shoulder and one on Diago’s.

Thrum.

I sway and stagger as empty hillside becomes a carefully manicured walled garden. Ostius releases us and steps away, unaffected. “We are about three streets over from the Forum. Is your alupi joining you?”

I hesitate through the dizziness, though the question’s been uneasy in the back of my mind since we left the town in Luceum. Can I really risk bringing Diago into a crowd of people, after what he just did? As protection against the violence that is sure to be on its way, he would be invaluable. And he seems calm. Under control.

But then, he seemed under control up until the moment he killed everyone in that room.

“Yes.” The decision is heavy from my lips. No time to second-guess myself. Word of the Basilica will be travelling fast. “I’m ready.”

“Not quite. Your arm, Vis.”

I frown, then understand. Reluctantly draw the metal shards back beneath my shirt, settling them into hidden armour. My heart palpitates as I catch sight of my unfamiliar clothes. Not suspicious in and of itself, a more comfortable garb I may easily have decided to change into as soon as I got to Domus Telimus. But will it seem suspicious?

Ostius examines me, then taps three fingers to his heart three times. “Luck, my boy. One day, we’ll laugh about all this.”

Thrum.

I’m left uneasy, nauseous, disoriented. And with no time to recover from any of it.

I run.

The streets are too quiet. Citizens move in packs rather than groups; twice I think I would have been stopped if it were not for my being recognised, if it were not for the alupi loping at my side. My discomfort at his presence is immense but I cannot send him away now. He is less likely to do harm if I am nearby, at least, of that I feel certain.

Despite my tiredness, the knowledge that I’m trying to outrun information lends desperate strength to my legs. Faster. Faster. I’ve come more directly than anyone possibly could in the maze of Caten, but not by much. And I had to wash, to change. There will be a short window before the Magnus Quartii act. A very short window.

They will surely see this as an attack on Military by the rest of the Senate, the only ones capable of such a strike. As the new leaders of Military’s senatorial pyramid, they will feel threatened. And as one of twelve equally powerful new leaders, they will now also be vying for Princeps among themselves. For any who desire the position that means action, swift and decisive.

That means retaliation.

I burst into the Forum past stunned Praetorians, drawing silence and worried eyes from those nearby. I ignore them and race for the group still standing in the shadows atop the stairs. I left them not an hour ago.

Conversation still mutters and roils, uneasy but nothing more, as I forge my way between the tightly clustered groups of senators. Up ahead Indol spots me, frowns, and says something to the others, who turn to watch. Felix looks amused. Emissa and Aequa are frowning, perhaps seeing my expression. I cannot see Eidhin.

I am not halfway up the stairs when I spot the runner shoving his way through the crowd to deliver his message. Then another. Then another, like ants scurrying through grass. More flow in from the sides.

I slow. Watch it unfold as I press on, despite myself. Word moves like a wave, sweeping the Forum. People’s faces draining of colour. Murmuring turning to angry muttering as groups begin distancing themselves from one another. People shifting so that they stand back-to-back. Bracing. No eye I can see has colour in it, anymore.

“What’s going on?” Emissa says it calmly, but I can see her rising unease as she takes in the scene below.

“Something happened in the Military compound. I don’t know what, but it sounds bad.” I hesitate. “Some sort of attack.”

“Rotting gods.” Everyone grasps the enormity of what I’m saying immediately, but it’s Indol responding, his face white. “Are the senators on their way back?”

The crowd noise is getting louder. Angrier. Shouts. Recriminations. Confusion.

“Probably. And we don’t want to be here when they do.” I cast a desperate glance around, but can’t spot Tertius Ericius. Or Livia. Not that my warning would do them much good now, anyway. They have to know something is wrong. “All of us have to get out and get somewhere safe.”

“He’s right.” Felix, somewhat to my shock, is the first to act. He gives me a grim nod. “I’m going to find my parents.” He dashes down the stairs. Indol slaps me on the shoulder and follows him. Oblivious to the fact I watched his father die minutes ago. I feel like throwing up. Still, I have too much practice at keeping the truth from my face. He sees nothing as he departs.

The shouting is getting louder. Worse. The word “murder” begins repeating in the cries. Echoing in different voices, becoming more furious, more frenetic. Fingers point, even as others try to calm the situation.

Then there is a scream. I see a Magnus Tertius and several Magnus Quartii from Religion suddenly drop to their knees, faces pale. An instant later, some from Governance do the same.

“They’re killing the Magnus Octavii.” Emissa breathes it as I come to the same conclusion. She and Aequa are the only ones who haven’t moved.

Vek. Military’s Magnus Quartii are smarter than I gave them credit for. Another Quartus drops as I watch. Panic is rising. People are streaming for the exits, but those who remain are starting to shove one another. A tide of angry people colliding. “Where did Eidhin go?”

“Home. He should be alright,” Aequa says absently, her voice sounding far away as the accusations that Military are attacking now start. I see one of Religion’s Dimidii trying to speak reason, but an enraged Quartus abruptly slams his hand onto one of the stone benches that line the Forum. With a ripping, cracking sound, it breaks free.

He swings, and a Sextus from Military has his head caved in.

A stunned, horrified moment. Impossible for Catenans to contemplate. Birthright broken.

Then more benches are rising. Stones being torn from buildings. Thunderous fracturing and dust that reminds me of the naumachia. Shrieking screams of terror as people crush against one another in the laneways trying to flee.

“No,” whispers Aequa. Her voice shakes and she suddenly grips my hand so tightly it hurts. “Vis. Gods, no. Not again.”

Stone shatters into men too strong for it to hurt as Tertii and Dimidii imbue themselves against attack, then begin responding with their bare hands. Blood sprays and infuses the air with a despondently familiar metallic tang. Everywhere is a clash, everywhere a new and horrific violence. I’m frozen. Can’t stop staring.

“You two.” Emissa tugs on our sleeves, and both Aequa and I turn glazed eyes to her. She sees our clasped hands, but she sees why, too. Sees the collective trauma in our eyes. She takes a breath, then cups my face in her hand. Gentle. “Vis. Come on. That wolf of yours can get us out.”

It’s enough. I nod. Tug Aequa into motion.

And so we follow Emissa into the madness. Ducking through fight after fight. Stepping over bodies, some that groan, some that are broken and still. She was right; Diago’s growling presence deters most attacks and the one time it doesn’t, his teeth do. Fortunate; we’ve all self-imbued but only Aequa, as a Quintus, would have any real chance here among the Hierarchy’s gathered elite.

We reach the small, dark alley Emissa has been guiding us toward. Blessedly empty. I risk a glance back. Less furious motion now. People tiring. The Forum is destroyed. The beauty of the surrounding buildings vanished beneath blood and grit, chunk after chunk used as weapons. I cannot tell who won. I think perhaps there are more Governance and Religion senators standing. But it may be that there were simply more of them to begin with.

Ostius’s medallion sits cold against my chest.

“It’s not your fault, Vis,” whispers Aequa as she pulls me into the shadows. “No shame in running.”

And as the three of us stumble away through the dust and fear, Caten falls into chaos.

LVIII

WE STAND ON THE PEBBLE-STREWN SHORE AND WATCH as the ship that brought us fades toward the horizon. It is a grey morning; we sailed night and day for almost two weeks across sometimes stormy waters to get here. Our journey is reflected in dark circles beneath eyes, though the stance of every warrior remains proud and alert.

“It is time.” Lir’s hand is on my shoulder as the last of the ship vanishes around a bluff. He still carries my spear in the other, in addition to his staff.

I nod silently. Breathe in and shiver, the wind whipping off the sea sharp in my lungs. The weather has turned increasingly hostile over the past month, and today’s bleak chill is no reprieve.

I glance across at Tara, Conor, and Fearghus, who are all within earshot. They are watching me. They’ve known this is coming, though we haven’t been able to speak in private since the crannog; the druid announced what was to happen the moment it was decided, and has not left me unattended since. It hasn’t stopped each one taking their turn in attempting to convince Lir to let me travel with them. None of them succeeded, of course. I still appreciate the trying.

“Don’t take too long.” It’s Conor. Cheerful even in this, and I cannot say whether it is forced or simply who he is. “It would be embarrassing to turn up so late that you can only hear of my feats.” He grins a wide grin and embraces me.

I return it as best I can. “Gods spare me from such dull tales.”

He chuckles and pushes me off good-naturedly, replaced by Fearghus, and then Seanna, and then Miach. All murmuring variations of what Conor said, gruff and heartfelt. I reflect the sentiment back at them, not showing the fear I feel as I wrap my arm around each in turn. I have faith in their abilities, would entrust my life to their hands in a heartbeat. But that does not make them invulnerable. And though my presence wouldn’t either, it breaks my heart to think its absence might matter.

Finally comes Tara. Her auburn braided hair shines even against the dark grey of the sullen sky. Her blue eyes upon me. Arresting. They don’t sparkle the way Emissa’s used to, but there is a depth to them. And despite her usual stalking approach, there’s a hint of warmth to it that I think is impossible to see without knowing her.

“Dia Saol with you, Deaglán.” Her hug draws me close, to my surprise. More so when the embrace lingers. At first I think it’s for another reason, but as her mouth sits close to my ear, her face away from Lir, she whispers so that the druid cannot hear. “You have nothing to fear from Fornax; you have already been judged worthy. I will see you soon.”

Before I can ask her what she means she’s pulling away again, and her expression is closed off, brooking no response. I take her lead and simply nod. She smiles tightly. Wheels and walks back to the others without a backward glance.

“Ready?” If Lir noticed the extra exchange between Tara and myself, he says nothing.

“Ready.” I’m eager to have this done with. In the weeks since Loch Traenala, knowing what’s coming, I’ve finally accepted that I need to try and make sense of the nasceann and how Will is used here. Not that I have a lot to go off, still. I know when I used it that I wasn’t being ceded to, so there was no chance I was imbuing the spear somehow. And my strange sense of it, and of Tara’s, and the druids’ staffs—it all suggests that it’s something to do with the objects themselves.

Which means they must be pre-Cataclysm artifacts. I can’t think of any other explanation, and though it seems unlikely at first—it means that they must be providing the Will for the nasceann—it is ultimately no more mysterious than something like the Vitaeria back home, which do something similar and yet still baffle Caten after a hundred years of analysis.

After coming to the conclusion, I’ve run through countless theories of how they might need to be activated: some mental process, clearly, as touch alone doesn’t seem to do anything. And I think Pádraig’s constant refrains, which I initially assumed were merely exhortations to focus, may actually be my best clue. They’re simple, but also reminiscent of Harmonics precepts in a lot of ways. Hardly conclusive—still more of a gut feeling than anything academic—but it’s my best guess.

And guesses are all I have, for now. I’ve been itching to experiment, but given Lir’s ongoing reticence and refusal to allow me my spear, conjecture has been my only path to preparation for this mysterious test.

I cast a longing look at my confiscated weapon, give a final nod to my friends, and follow the druid away from them toward the faint glowering of the rising sun.

THE NEXT FEW DAYS FEEL FRUSTRATINGLY TORPID, LIR saying little of substance as we plod through chill air and often driving rain. Knowing he will reveal nothing of the test ahead I probe instead about the druids, about Ruarc and the schism within the draoi, why the Grove are so clearly helping Fiachra—and get only the vaguest of responses, when I get any at all. “Sooner mead from mist than secrets from druids,” the others once told me. Lir has no compunction about proving the saying’s truth.

Despite that, I do glean a better sense of some things, even if it’s more from Lir’s actions than words. His terseness, a far cry from the mostly genial man I remember from my first journey to Caer Áras. The way he unconsciously rolls his shoulders every time I mention Ruarc, now. How his tone so poorly hides enmity when he speaks of King Fiachra, despite his continuing insistence of the impartiality of the true draoi.

He is angry, and frustrated, and worried. None of it is a good sign.

Our longest and most interesting conversation comes toward the end of the third day. The cloud-obscured sun is going down and the air rapidly increasing its bite again as the light retreats from the sky. We’ll make camp soon and I’ve been lost in thought, as is often the case, trying to estimate how far my friends might be from Caer Áras.

“Do you know them well?” The absent question is out before I can remember it’s probably not worth voicing. But Lir looks at me, so I keep going. “The druids in the Grove, I mean. The ones who have followed Ruarc.”

I expect his usual dissembling, but to my surprise Lir just nods. “Some. Donnán, of course. And others.”

“That must be hard,” I say cautiously.

A long pause as he considers what and how much to say. Then another nod. Slow and deep. “More than you can imagine. As draoi, we are meant to act without bias. We are meant to be above wars, called upon only to oversee judgement or reconciliation. In our thousands of years, the times we have been in true opposition to one another can be counted on one hand.” He exhales. “A draoi must uphold so much more than one man’s rule. We are a store of knowledge and wisdom. We are law, and justice, and history, and the conduit to the gods. Only by remaining separate do we avoid risking the loss of these things. Only by remaining apart are we effective. They risk everything by supporting Fiachra like this, and so when I try to imagine how Ruarc has managed to convince the Grove …”

My brow furrows at his quiet despair. “But you’re still King Rónán’s druid,” I point out. “Surely your loyalty is to him?”

“I am druid to King Rónán,” corrects Lir firmly. “As Donnán was meant to be. Our mandate was to advise, and pass judgement on matters within our purview. Not to command. Not to take sides. I refused the Grove’s petition for the location of Loch Traenala not because of any authority Rónán has over me, but because they do not have the authority to demand his secrets. Our function is to complement the kings, exist in careful balance with them. Not act as their rulers or their subjects.”

I process this in silence. “Then if your loyalty is not to King Rónán, or the Grove …”

“My loyalty is to a Grove untainted by whatever Ruarc has used to poison them.” I think my question unintentionally hits a nerve because it’s a short, sharp answer. One that clearly closes the subject.

There is little more conversation that night, and in the morning, I see him once again with black eyes for a few minutes before we break camp. When we set off it is at a slightly different angle to the previous day, more northward. I don’t bother to ask why. I won’t get an answer.

It is almost midday when I recognise the lake we’re passing.

“We are near Didean.” I hear the quickening of my voice as the excitement of the realisation rushes through me. The rippling waters glitter in a rare patch of sun. “Where you found me. Where I was living. The hut is only a quarter hour that way.” I point vaguely west, and make it half a question.

Lir nods an accession. “Briefly. And carefully,” he cautions. “King Fiachra’s men control this territory.”

I lead the way, renewed energy to my stride as we walk the familiar path. Lir trails. I glance back a few times. Once, the druid’s eyes are again entirely black; the other two times his expression is sober and as my initial flare of enthusiasm fades, his grimness stirs an unease in me that gradually weighs my steps.

We reach the edge of the forest and come within sight of Onchú’s hut, and I stumble.

The hut is gone. A charred wreck sits collapsed in its place, a mound of black and grey rubble even at this distance. I am sprinting before I know what I’m doing. Consumed by fear and horror and desperation, even as some part of me registers that there is no smoke and no movement. I pass slaughtered animals and trampled fields. The gate to the storage cave is shattered.

I skid to a stop in front of where the door would have been. No heat, not even when I crouch and grasp a blackened piece of wood. Days, maybe weeks old. Far too late.

My eyes scan unwillingly for any sign of bodies, but apart from raven-torn animal carcasses, I see nothing.

Then, a little way on, I spot the cairn.

I approach it slowly. Know what it is, what it signifies, even as I try to imagine different reasons. There’s just one. Simple, stones piled to waist height with care. Some turned earth beneath.

I stop in front of it. No writing. No decoration. I circle it three times in slow, dazed denial before I stop again and sit slowly. Bow my head.

I sense more than hear Lir approaching behind me. I look up again without turning. “Who?”

“I do not know.”

I can’t take my eyes from it. Is the grave particularly small? My heart wrenches and I want to grieve, but without knowing … “Where would the others be?”

“Caer Áras, I assume. They surely would have sought King Rónán’s protection.”

The answers come too quickly, too smoothly. He is gentle and sympathetic, but not surprised. “It is not a coincidence we’re here, is it.”

“A coincidence that it lay somewhat along our path. Or perhaps not. I believe Cian was taking you to Fornax when he was slain.”

“Why?” I hiss it. Fists clenching. “Why show me this?”

“Partly because I thought you would want to know. No matter if it hurt.” Lir crouches beside me and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “But also because motivation matters, Deaglán. Clarity of purpose is everything for a nasceann. I showed you this for Fornax, and I showed you this for the fight beyond.” I meet his gaze and as he sees the grief and confusion in my eyes, he nods. “You are desperate to be there for your brothers and sisters from Loch Traenala, and that is admirable. But do not forget that there are more lives at stake than just theirs.”

We linger but there is little else to glean, and in the distance I can see the town is also in ruins. We skirt it and trudge on for the rest of the day, me lost in melancholy and anger, until finally as the golden sun sinks, we make camp.

“We will arrive tomorrow.” Lir makes the announcement casually as I’m breathing our fire to life. “You should ensure you are well rested.”

Another vague statement. I know by now not to bother asking, and just nod. Watch as the flames behind my cupped hand flicker and catch and start to lick at the kindling, enough for me to straighten and let it burn unattended. We usually sleep not long after our meal, beginning our travels again before dawn.

We eat, and Lir beds down immediately after. I sit by the fire awhile, absently holding my hand out to its warmth. Darkness comes. The grasslands around us ripple in a light breeze, causing me to draw my cloak tighter. No rain tonight, at least. Lir has started to snore. He hasn’t seen the need for us to keep watch, apparently confident that no one would dare attack a sleeping druid or his companion. I remember Cian’s similar assurance, but have said nothing. Besides, if the two of us are caught out here, a few seconds of warning will make little difference. Better to sleep.

I’m about to lie down when I feel the pulse.

It’s subtle. Distant, probably unnoticeable if I wasn’t so idle. It could even have been there for a while, and I simply didn’t notice until now. But as soon as I’m aware of its presence, I’m certain. That feeling in my head. Just like at the farm when Lir arrived, and then again three months ago, when the raiding party came to the crannog.

I don’t move for a few minutes, focusing on the strange sensation. Thinking. I could wake Lir and tell him, try and eke out some more information about how being a nasceann works. But the likelihood is that he won’t give anything away, and instead forbid me to go and see what’s causing it.

I stand with cautious silence but probably didn’t need to worry; Lir’s snores echo off the surrounding hills, thick and constant. Tempting for a moment to reclaim my spear from the ground next to him, rather than take the unadorned replacement I’ve been given, but I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardise his willingness to let me fight. I light a torch and steal away from the fire, heading down the gentle slope. The crescent moon is enough to paint the hilltops silver and black. I can see clear across the sweep of the valley ahead. There’s nothing out there. No movement for miles. Just the vast, quiet emptiness of the moors.

I angle toward the sensation, once again able to pinpoint it in physical space as easily as if it were light or sound. It grows stronger, minute by minute, as I walk. Clearer. It’s not moving.

Time passes, and finally, the source is just ahead as I crest the top of a hill. There is a small fire about halfway down the slope in front of me. A single figure sits at it atop a small boulder, warming his hands. His back is to me. He is dressed in white. Another druid.

I adjust my grip on my spear. Not because I perceive any threat, but because whatever this man is, it is not normal.

“Good greetings to you, Druid,” I call from a safe distance, finally slowing my walk to something more casual. “Would you allow me to share your fire?” I think I once would have done something different, here. Not attacked, necessarily, but observed for a while. Perhaps tried to gain some advantage in surprise. But for all I feel the people here revere the draoi too much, I am also finding it difficult to contemplate dishonouring one like that.

The figure stands. “Took you long enough,” he says in Common.

Before I can even process the incongruity, the impossibility of hearing that tongue again, he turns. Smiles at me.

I stop. Mind blank. Unable to understand what I’m seeing. Unable to trust myself enough to believe.

“Hail, Diago,” says my father.

LIX

MY FATHER.

Black hair and sun-dark skin. Tall and powerful and graceful, commanding and kind, a deep love in his eyes. The very image of a king. And so, so much more to me.

It is him. It is him.

I am too stunned to do anything but watch as he strides the few steps toward me, careless of the fact I still hold a weapon. Wraps me in an embrace that is as comforting as it is fierce. The feel familiar. His scent, familiar. I just stand there for an extra second. Held.

Then I am dropping my spear and curling my arm around him and burying my head in his shoulder, shedding great tears of disbelieving, unbridled joy.

“How?” I get it out between sobs and laughter. The physicality of him is impossible. All else is forgotten, in that moment. “How? Everyone said you were dead. Fadrique said he saw you die!” My voice cracks. Something released in me that I didn’t even know had built up, all these years. “I should have looked anyway. All this time. Gods. I’m so sorry, Father.” The name makes it real. I can barely choke it out.

He laughs. A joyous sound, thick with emotion. He strokes my hair. “I think perhaps in this, Diago, I can forgive you,” he whispers. He tightens his embrace. “I have missed you, Son.”

We stand like that, surrounded by night, the crackling fire carving us a small, warm hollow.

And for the first time in almost five years, I feel safe, and loved, and that maybe—just maybe—everything is going to be alright.

FINALLY THE OVERJOYED SHOCK RECEDES ENOUGH FOR me to reluctantly release my grip, wipe my nose and step back. Still barely daring to believe it. My smile feels as though it will never leave my face. My father’s expression is the same as he drinks in the sight of me. He motions me onto a seat atop a boulder, then sits opposite. Assesses me. “Trying to decide which questions come first?”

I bark a laugh. Still dazed. “Yes.” A deep breath. Two. My elation filled now with a need for answers. “Fadrique said you were hanged.”

His gaze never leaves mine, but something sad bleeds into it.

“I was. There is a power that the Catenan Military have discovered. An aspect of Will that few in our world are able to use. It can raise the dead.” He says it so simply, so unadorned, that I’m sure I’ve misunderstood.

“You were actually dead?”

“I am dead, Diago. My heart no longer beats. When I breathe it is through habit, not necessity.” He says it carefully, pushing back his sleeve and showing me a medallion wrapped tight around it, the image of a scarab engraved on the thin stone disc. “This is a Vitaerium—a powerful one. It’s what’s letting me be here like this, but it still only lends life, not restores it. Without it, I am a corpse.”

Silence as I struggle with it. Anyone else, I would be outraged at the audacity of the claim. “Oh.”

He sees my doubt. Comes over and crouches in front of me. Grabs my hand and presses it to his chest.

He is warm but there is no movement, no faint thud beneath my palm no matter how long I wait.

After several seconds I take my hand away again. Watch him as he resumes his seat. There’s a moment in which I’m suddenly uncertain, don’t know how to feel, but then he smiles again. The way his eyes crinkle is my lost childhood and there is life in them, no matter what afflicts him.

“They first woke me not long after the invasion. A month, maybe. I don’t know the exact timing. And no,” he adds gently. “They wanted to question me, but I don’t think they did the same for … to your mother or Ysa.” His voice wavers, just slightly. A scar as deep and unhealed as my own.

I nod. Heartbroken and unsurprised and understanding that he had to dash the hope before it could form. And I realise there are things he may not yet have heard. “Cari … Cari and I tried to get out, but she …”

I can’t finish. Tears welling again, and then a sob as I lean forward and it all rushes back. My little sister drifting from that hellish underwater tunnel, tied to me, hair ghostly in the silver light. I promised her we could make it. She was so small in death.

“I know.” He’s at my side. On his knees. His arms around me, his forehead against mine as we weep together. “I know.”

We stay like that for a long time.

Finally I draw a shaking breath. “So they questioned you.” I have had years to grieve, and all that time I have wondered why I needed to. Why the Hierarchy did what they did. “About what?” My father is—was—a king, but our little island nation should barely have been of interest to the Republic. At the naumachia, Estevan implied that their attack was about the weapon he was going to use, but that vague hint is the most I learned in years of searching.

“The Cataclysm. The Gate. The three worlds. All of it.” He sees my frown. “How much do you know?”

“Not much, clearly.”

He chuckles. Nods.

Begins.

My father was always a good instructor, always clear and careful with how he laid out his information. Tonight is no different. He starts from the start. Methodical and objective. Tells me how years before the Hierarchy invaded, a Suusian trading ship was blown off course by a violent storm while travelling to Nyripk, and the men aboard made harbour at an unmapped island far to the east. How they found ruins there, and inside, a sealed trove of items and documents which they brought back to Suus and presented to my father.

It was this collection that, after he found scholars to translate the writings, first alerted him to the truth behind the Cataclysms. Cataclysms, plural. That they were a cycle of destruction stemming from an ancient war, and seemed to be tied somehow to the Aurora Columnae.

And—worse still—that they seemed to occur roughly once every few hundred years.

I listen in silent horror, the dark a curtain at the edges of our fire, as he explains how he immediately tasked our scholars with finding a solution, and our agents with discovering exactly what the Hierarchy knew about it. Then how many of the latter mysteriously vanished over the next few years, and how one woman finally sent word that the Princeps and at least some Dimidii were, indeed, already aware of the threat.

It was her last communique. Three months later, the Hierarchy were on our shores.

I stir as he pauses there. “Why not just tell everyone of the danger as soon as you found out? Make the proof public?”

“Why didn’t I?” He leans forward. Intent. Smiling slightly as he says it.

I hesitate, then can’t help but grin back. An interaction we have had a thousand times. He is no longer a king and I no longer a prince, but that doesn’t mean everything has changed.

“I suppose it would have been pointless.” I say it slowly, working through the consequences. Casting my mind back to the political climate of my youth. “You make the claim, you’re a foreign king trying to slander the Republic’s good name. You say you have evidence, and the Hierarchy demands to examine it. Discredits it and refuses to return it, once you hand it over. Or—if you refuse to give it up—points to that as proof you can’t be trusted. And maybe uses the whole thing as an excuse for invasion, too.” I chew my lip. Seeing the bind my father found himself in. “Spreading it anonymously would never work; most people would laugh it off, and even if they didn’t, the Hierarchy’s influence and propaganda would see it ridiculed before it ever gained traction. I can barely believe it, and that’s coming from you.”

“When you have lived your whole life within the greatest empire of your time, it is hard to believe it will end. You think it is a thing of permanence, of immutability. Its existence contested but never truly threatened. And even if they did believe?” My father’s eyes shine in the firelight as he watches my analysis. A pride there that warms me. “If enough of the Hierarchy truly believed that in order to save the world, they had to stop using what let them rule it?”

I think. Slowly, reluctantly shake my head.

“Some would agree to sacrifice.” I think of Callidus. Emissa and Eidhin and Aequa. “But not most, and not the ones who matter. The Catenan Republic is Will. To take it away from them … to them, that is the Cataclysm.”

“The oldest argument for doing something wrong is that everyone is doing it. To dismantle what they have built would have required the agreement of every man who had spent his life building it,” agrees my father softly. “It would have required them to give up all they have striven their entire lives to gain. And they would have needed to do it, largely, for the benefit of those at whose expense it originally came.”

“So they found out you knew,” I say eventually. “That’s why they attacked.”

“In part.” He gives me a sad smile. “But mostly, I suspect, because the information we found contained instructions for a weapon. Something we might have been able to threaten even the Republic with, had we worked it out in time.” He exhales heavily. “It was what Estevan used at the naumachia.”

Silence.

“You know about that?” I ask it quietly.

“I know enough. And you made the right decision, Son. I loved Estevan. But what he did was monstrous.”

A relief I didn’t know I needed suddenly loosens my chest. There’s no doubt in my father’s words. No hesitation. I have told myself countless times that I did the right thing, and even believed it. But to hear it from him … I craved it, more than I realised. “He seemed to think it was the only way forward.”

“A society cannot make a man a monster, Diago. But it can give him the excuse to become one.”

“You weren’t tempted to use it, then? To stop them from invading? Even to stop a Cataclysm?”

“I would have threatened, given the chance. And if it had been completed and working in time? Against invading soldiers?” He holds my gaze and even now I can see the hesitation, the struggle, but he nods slowly. “Yes, Diago. I would have used it, and then I would have threatened to burn the Republic to the ground unless they destroyed the Aurora Columnae.”

I swallow. The screams of the naumachia in the whisper of the wind through the hills. “And if they hadn’t?”

He pauses. Thinks for a long time.

“When Ysa was born, I was terrified, you know. I knew exactly what I had to do to be a king, but to be a father … I was so sure I would fail her. That being a good ruler and a good parent were incompatible. And then your mother said something.” He smiles. Eyes warm and glistening with fond, sad recollection. “She told me that a child needs to hear and truly understand only three phrases from their father as they grow up. ‘I love you.’ ‘I will help.’ And, ‘I don’t know.’ The two of us were only just getting to that last one, Diago. You were only just beginning to see that sometimes, I had no answers. No simple way forward. It’s the hidden truth of how we eventually have to face the world—of being an adult. None of us know.” He meets my gaze. “So I don’t know what I would have done. And I don’t know whether it would have been the right choice. Sometimes I’m glad I didn’t have to find out, but most of the time …” He sighs. Leans forward and briefly tousles my hair, the way he used to. “Most of the time I just want you all back.”

“Mother said that?”

“She was always the one who knew what to say. You remind me so much of her. I know you listened more to me because I spoke less. But when I spoke, it was always with her words.”

I smile fondly at the love in his voice. Then hesitate. “You told Mother all this. And Ysa.” It’s not a question. Those last few months before the invasion, the weight on their shoulders, the tiredness in their eyes—I’ve wondered about it so many times. “Why not me? I could have handled it.”

“I know you could have, Diago. But you were fourteen. The foreknowledge of the end of the world was not a burden you needed to carry.”

The answer I knew he would give, I suppose. “How did they take it?”

“Their strength was what got me through to the end.”

Neither of us speak, for a while.

“I wish I could have borne it with you. I wish we could have borne it together.” I say it softly. Not a remonstrance. Just wistful observation.

He nods slowly. “Part of me does too, Diago. Part of me would take any moment that would have given us more time together. But I am also glad I did not. I am glad that I was able to allow you three more months of happiness and security and childhood. Even if you deserved more.” He smiles. Grips my shoulder. My heart aches at the familiar, long-forgotten gesture.

“But I suppose that time is over. So let me tell you everything I know.”

LX

I SPEND THE NEXT HOUR LARGELY LISTENING TO THE MIraculous sound of my father’s voice. Laughing at his familiar straight-faced humour and shedding tears at shared memories. Revelling in his sheer closeness, and through it all, through the haze of joy, doing my best to comprehend what he is telling me.

In the end it is simple in explanation, if not in believability. There was a war against something our long-past ancestors created, though the records found were unclear on its exact nature. The winning of that war not only necessitated both the Aurora Columnae and the Cataclysms, but also split the world into three separate ones: called Res, Obiteum, and Luceum.

And that by activating the ancient device beyond the Labyrinth, I, too, have been split. Copied.

Of everything my father has told me tonight, this is by far the hardest to countenance, even as it fits the pieces I already know. I make him repeat it. Argue it, despite recognising the name “Luceum” from those branded moments leaving the Labyrinth when I lost my arm. But eventually it sinks in. The people here have never heard of Caten because Caten does not exist here. Another version of me is still there, in Res. Still with Emissa and Callidus and Eidhin, or maybe left for Jatiere, if I—he—somehow won the Iudicium. My father, I think, knows more than he says about that. But he does not speak of it, and I do not press. There is too much else I want to know. And, perhaps, some I would prefer not to.

Eventually, my father’s knowledge runs dry. Anyone else, and I do not think I would credit a word of it.

Which brings me to my next question.

“How are you here?” The more he’s explained, the more I’ve wondered at his presence. “Did you get away from Military and then follow me through the Labyrinth? Were you … copied, too?”

“No.” He grimaces. “When Dimidius Quiscil woke me, I told him what I knew. The Cataclysms. The weapon. Solivagus. Everything.” Shame in the admission, even as he adds, “They have a way of controlling the dead. Ensuring that you answer truthfully. It’s impossible to resist. So they were satisfied, and returned me to the dark. And then one day, a stranger woke me. A man calling himself Ostius. He’s tall. Thin. Has a scar along here.” He traces a line down his face.

I nod slowly. “I’ve seen him. Last year, back in Caten. He’s working with the Anguis.”

“He is using the Anguis, I think,” my father corrects me quietly. “He wanted to know what I had told Military, and then he wanted to know about you. Your personality, your weaknesses. Ways you might be manipulated. It was the first time I realised you must be alive.” He smiles at that.

I hesitate. “What did you tell him?”

“About your weaknesses? Where did I start. Your temper, obviously. Mule-like stubbornness. Rashness. Inability to believe you could be wrong about something. Hmm. What else? The fact you’re terrible when it comes to anything even approaching artistic. Oh, and the way you used to go red and stuttery every time a pretty girl tried to talk to you—remember that? And you were very slow to pick up—”

“Gods. Alright.” My amused glower relents to a grin in the face of his. “Maybe I’ve changed?”

His smile wavers and he tousles my hair. Nods. “So much, Diago. So much, and not at all.” He sighs. “Ostius left me there for … I don’t know how long after that. But when he woke me again, it was to ask for my help. You’d made it through the Labyrinth and he would free me, so long as I agreed to keep watch over you here.”

I frown. Shake my head. “Why you? And how did you get here?”

“How? He has the ability to jump between Res and Luceum. Not Obiteum. I don’t know how he does it.” My father chews his lip. A habit of his, when he is thinking. “As for the why … I asked the same thing, and he said it was because he needed someone he could trust would want to help you, not just follow the letter of his instructions.”

“You think he was lying?” I can hear the doubt in my father’s voice.

“I think he had further reasons. The best I have come up with is that he feared I might have been used against you in Res. But I also think your being here was a surprise he hadn’t figured out how to work into his plans, yet, and he was scrambling. The druid you told me about—Cian? I was meant to smooth things over with him when he brought you to me. He was expecting Ostius to meet him on Solivagus when someone eventually came through the Gate, but by the time Ostius found out about you, you were apparently already on the boat heading back to Fiachra.” He shakes his head. “In the end, though, Ostius’s real motives didn’t matter. Not to me. The reason he gave me was enough. I only asked that he let me say goodbye to the version of you in Res, and then we came here.”

I’m silent, then, “You spoke to me? The other me?”

“For far shorter a time than I wanted. And he was … recovering. I’m not even sure he will remember it.” His smile is rueful. “It was selfish. I just … it felt wrong, to just leave him. To leave you without saying goodbye.”

“But you chose not to come to me, here?” The faintest hint of hurt to the other question that’s been plaguing me. I still sense that strange pulse from him. “I know you were at Loch Traenala, warned me of that raiding party. And before that, at Didean, when Lir came. You could easily have met with me then. Why tonight?”

“Those were because of what was coming—things I could draw your attention to, but not prevent. Now, it’s because of where you are going.”

“Fornax?”

“Caer Áras.” He pauses. Takes a deep breath. “You cannot go, Diago.”

I murmur a half laugh. Sure he must be joking, but the hope fades as I see his expression. That, too, is familiar. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” He gives me a sad smile. “I have just told you that you may be the key to preventing a world from dying. I’ve told you that I have been brought back from the dead in order to protect you. You are marching toward not just a war—a war, Diago—but the very men who are hunting you! And from all I have seen along the path here, they are going to win. If you do not fall in battle then they will capture you and they will sacrifice you to their gods, and either way, an entire world will be lost.”

I stare at him. “I have already given my word that I will be there. They are my friends. I have to go.”

“No, you don’t. If they are your friends, Diago, and they knew what we know—they would surely tell you the same.” Gentle. I feel the weight of his expectation all the same.

“It’s not their decision.”

“You have a greater responsibility.” An edge to his voice. Perhaps not expecting resistance, here. “A prince should—”

“I am no longer a prince.”

The silence lingers, after that. The anguish of the statement in his expression as much as burning in my chest. I said it with anger but it is loss that leadens it, grinds the conversation to a halt from which neither of us seem to know how to recover.

Eventually, I stir. “I ran, five years ago. Did you know that? Cari died and I made it out and I ran, while you and Mother and Ysa were still prisoners. I made a choice and I survived the ones I loved.” I look up. Ignore the welling in my eyes and put all of my determination into my words. “Never again.”

My father’s eyes mirror my sadness and he smiles through the pain at me. “That was the choice the ones you loved wanted you to make. Are so, so glad you made. Believe me.” He crouches in front of me and wraps me fiercely. “I would not ask this of you if there was anyone else.”

“But there could be. It doesn’t have to be me. It’s just … poor luck, that I’m in this situation!”

“Poor luck?” He holds me back to take me in once again. “No. Poor luck is being the Octavus who sees the truth of the Hierarchy. It is being the farmer, or soldier, or merchant who comprehends the absurd power of those above them, but has no way of convincing them to act. It is being those of us who know these great and terrible dangers are coming and cannot do anything about them. Poor luck? Poor luck is being powerless, Diago. Poor luck is being without choice. So many of us are aware of these currents, but are able only to drown in them. Millions upon millions of people have poor luck. But you are not one of them.”

He finishes with stern emphasis, and I say nothing. Gut-punched by his firm, calm belief, and perhaps more tellingly, the truth I know is behind it.

My father retreats to his seat on the other side of the fire, and sighs.

“Do you remember about … I don’t know. Six months before the invasion, maybe,” he says suddenly. “When you and Ysa were learning about the political structures of Cymr?”

“Um. Vaguely?” I’m thrown by the turn in conversation.

“She was waiting for me one afternoon. I finished in the Great Hall, and we went into the dining room, and as soon as we were alone she burst into tears. You just picked up things so much more easily than her. She would struggle and you would barely blink.”

My brow crinkles. “I … didn’t know,” I say softly.

“I know. And I know if you had, you would have played it down. Made it less obvious to her. Found a way to make her feel better. I am not telling you this to hang it around your neck, Diago. You are empathetic in many things and when you are, you are one of the most kind-hearted people I know.” He exhales. “But sometimes, talent and empathy fight for the same air. You always found things so easy that your expectations of others got skewed. You never really understood what they can and cannot do.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “This is all to say, Son—it has to be you. You. Not just because you find yourself in this situation, not just because you are lucky. But because you are one of the very few who could. You have always been a marvel. And that gift, that talent, isn’t costless.”

I don’t respond for a long time. Turning over the words. I don’t want to fight with my father. Never did. He was always so sure. Always right.

“But you don’t know.” I say it quietly. Not quite willing to meet his eye. “You don’t know Fiachra will win. You cannot be certain I am delivering myself into Ruarc’s hands. It is a risk, but so was training at Loch Traenala every day. So was the voyage here. So was walking through the forest at night. I could die this evening from tripping on a stone. You don’t know.” I do meet his gaze, now. “I don’t either but it is my decision, Father. No matter whether you think it is the right one.”

He gazes at me for a long time, the fire between us. Not angry, to my relief.

“You asked me why I didn’t speak to you before tonight.” He chews his lip. “I found you a month after you got here. You were with that family. Working on the farm. I nearly came to you then, but … I have spent the last year hoping that in this world, you would have a second chance. A chance at a life that I would want for you. The one you deserve. One where you are happy, and free.” He pauses. Thinks. “Freedom is as much about leaving things behind as it is about not being chained. I am a part of you, Diago. I always will be and I am indescribably proud of that fact. But I am a ghost, and what I bring with me, this thing that we have been tangled up in, is pain. All this time, even knowing what I know, I have been hoping that was something I could spare you.” He rubs his chin. “And the time I have been able to spare you, I do not regret. The fact is, if I had told you earlier, it would have been to my benefit and not yours. It would have been selfish.”

“But I am so glad to know you are alive. If you had just told me—”

“And asked you to live a life of deceit again? Holding secrets you cannot tell your closest friends?” He smiles. “I have watched you, Diago, and you have grown, this past year. You have come to trust and love in a way that I was not sure you would be able to again. You have found a joy and peace here that I thought would be forever lost to you. And though that time may be at an end, it has helped shape you into the man I always hoped you would be. Not just in your achievements—I was always proud of those. But in your happiness. In your outlook on life. You have taken these scars, these horrible scars, and you have learned not to let them define you.” A crack in his voice. “You were never alone here, Diago. And it was not because I watched over you.”

He embraces me and I return it. “So you … you won’t stop me?”

He laughs. Holds me close. “I could not even if I wanted to. Which is how it should be. I may not agree with you, but this is still the man I always wanted you to be, above all others,” he whispers. “Your own.”

And like that, some of the unease lifts. Not because I am getting my own way. Not because my father thinks it is the right choice. But because he is willing to let it be mine.

We talk more after that. The tension not entirely gone, but not between us, either. We laugh and it is genuine and warm. He explains that the pulse I sense from him is the Will imbued in him; Ostius told him little else except the distance he needed to stay away to avoid me noticing it. Explains how he came closer in order to alert me to the raiders, that night. Shows me how he was able to track me, all these months—a roughly ten-inch, grey stone stylus that Ostius gave him, which pulls gently toward me as he dangles it from a chain. When I recognise it as the one Relucia gave me at the naumachia, and explain softly its connection to me, he immediately and sorrowfully tucks it away again.

I ask about the test tomorrow, Fornax. He knows nothing of it.

Eventually I catch the fact the moon is sinking rather than rising. My father sees it too.

“You could join me.” I say it into the reluctance we both clearly feel at the idea of parting. “Lir doesn’t have to know—”

“I can’t.” He looks uncomfortable, then sighs. “The druids here. They will sense exactly what you sense, if I get too close. And they will know why,” he says firmly, as if determined not to sidestep the fact. “Ostius warned me—they have ways of dealing with the dead. Quickly and efficiently. I have to keep my distance.”

“Oh.”

He hears my disappointment. “That does not mean you have to keep yours. I’ll stay nearby. Close enough for you to know where I am, now. Whenever you are able to get away, Diago, I will be here.” He matches my sudden smile fondly. “But now, you should get back, before your druid notices you’re missing. Get some sleep. And whatever this task of yours is, tomorrow—be careful.”

We embrace again. It still feels impossible, his arms around me.

“I love you.” I haven’t said it yet, and the words almost stick in my throat. I’ve needed to tell him that for so, so long.

“And I love you, Diago. Always.” He squeezes me tight, then releases me.

It’s hard, walking away. Parting so soon, after so long. And yet I can, because I know I can come back. I know my father will keep his word and that when I need him, he will find a way to be there.

He always has. He always does.

Lir’s snores still boom off the hills long before I reach the halo of our campfire’s embers, assuring me that my absence hasn’t been noted. I settle in to sleep. My father’s pulse, faint though it is, sits reassuringly in the back of my head.

And as I close my eyes, I find myself smiling.

LXI

IT IS AS I SKULK THE LONELINESS OF DUAT’S DARKEST corners that I finally, truly grasp how much more this place is prison than refuge. Though I never meshed with Ahmose in the way easy friends do—I often found him to be gloomy, irritable, humourless—he was my friend, and I trusted him. Trusted his insights. I saw this city, for the most part, reflected in his eyes. And now I realise that even having had Ka’s lies exposed so plainly to him, he never quite viewed his home as anything less.

There are three accessible exits to the outside world: two in Neter-khertet and one in the east, highly visible ramps carved into the outer walls that climb to distant, equally visible obsidian archways. Guarded by Overseers and used exclusively by iunctii departing to work the mines, or hauling carts of refuse to be disposed of in pits dug into the baking sands. I watch each one for more than a day. Conceal myself on a rooftop for the first. Find a house with an overlooking window for the second, after ascertaining its residing iunctus works as a servant in the east. For the third, the eastern one and by far the most exposed option, I have to risk milling around the nearby streets with false purpose in my step. My hands shake with tension at every pass. Without Ahmose, there is no way to distract an Overseer wanting to check my face. No way to get close enough for physical contact before they realise who I am.

I am not stopped, not noticed. But in the end, I learn little more than I already know. Each entrance has an antechamber between Duat and the outside world that is only ever open on one side or the other, presumably to prevent contaminated air from rushing inside. The iunctii who are sent out are generally healthy-looking, built for labour. Few who leave return the same day. Those who do come back into the city drag carts filled with what look like raw metals or stone. Their skin is red and they move with the slow effort of those in constant pain.

There are never fewer than a half dozen eyes fixed on those coming and going. Worse, I can’t even see the mechanism for opening and shutting the antechamber doors. I don’t think it’s being operated by either workers or guards. Not directly, anyway.

I’m not getting out through there.

For almost a day after coming to the realisation, I seriously consider the Gleaner’s entrance again. I know the way back there, can get past the mutalis gate to it without any trouble. And the Gleaners have those rooms where they seem to … rest. If I can just reach one of them, I could get it to simply fly me out.

But it’s not practical. Far too great a risk. Those tunnels are narrow and long and could have a Gleaner walk into one at any time. All it would take is a glimpse.

Which leaves the river.

It’s loomed as an option since my escape from Ka’s temple, even if it is the most unpleasant one imaginable. I can’t just swim out via the Infernis—I’ve seen the columns Caeror mentioned that guard the river’s exit from Duat, and they do look exactly like the Seawall at Solivagus—but the overflow area beneath remains an option. Those pipes were large enough to allow a person through. Just. And according to Netiqret, they don’t merge back into the river until the other side of the city’s walls.

There are two main issues. The first is that the straps fastening my Vitaeria won’t resist the poison of the Infernis, so I need a way to keep them touching me that doesn’t risk my losing them mid-swim. I could try swallowing them—they’re probably small enough—but there’s also a chance they lodge and cause an internal problem that I have no way to fix.

The second is that, aside from the inevitable pain, it’s still not without significant danger. The pressure of the acidic water flowing through those narrow pipes is immense. Crushing. If there is a choke point, a sieve, anywhere narrow enough that I can’t slip through, I won’t be able to get out. Just as surely as if I swam over the Seawall above, I’d face being trapped drowning in the caustic poison for … I don’t know how long. Hours? Days? Gods, maybe until I die of old age.

I make very, very sure the other exits are untenable before I really consider it.

The night after making the decision, I start to experiment. A secluded spot, hidden from the bridge and streets on both sides. I submerge my legs for ten seconds, skin tingling and then itching and then burning until I can take it no more. I emerge and scramble out and scrub off anxiously. My flesh remains unblemished.

So I try again. And again. A little longer, each time.

The next day, I make three cuts on my arm and—hissing between gritted teeth—pry open the wounds with my knife and jam the razor-thin Vitaeria beneath my skin. As soon as the blade slides out again, the flesh pulls taut. Not restored, but sealed over. The discs form uncomfortable, visible lumps along my arm, but they are never in danger of falling out again.

That night at the river, I start submersing myself.

A minute. Then three. Then five. My skin is on fire and my chest feels like it’s bursting and I know I should be swimming desperately for the surface, but I hold myself still. Waiting for my vision to blur, my mind to start wandering, for that unnatural calm to start hitting me. But the Vitaeria buried in my arm do their work. Body and mind screaming at me to let it end, but I don’t need to breathe. It’s exactly as Caeror said, what feels like a lifetime ago.

The next day I make it ten minutes under. The next, fifteen. Perhaps it will be different when I am buffeted with the unrelenting pressure of the poisoned water as well, but there’s no good way to test that.

By the end of another week, I know I don’t have enough excuses left to avoid what I need to do.

I STAND AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS THAT LEAD DOWN TO the massive underground cavern, tracing the luminous green water as it pours from the darkness above and thunders along the canal into the distance. All is motionless otherwise. The mists seem thick today, even more cloying and sharp in my lungs. They’re not the reason I pause, though. They’re not why I cannot bring myself to descend just yet.

The last time I felt so much dread in the doing of something, I ran the Labyrinth and ended up here.

Finally, I move. Pick my way along the overflow, across the small bridges and to the very end, where the twisted wreckage of rusting machinery protrudes from beneath impossibly large chunks of shattered stone. I gaze into the void into which the torrent of water disappears. A few feet wide but the water gushes freely into it. It must not narrow significantly, farther in, at least.

I stare at the water for a while. My thoughts on a different track, now. The acrid stench, the violent green of the water, is nothing like that night at Suus.

I still hear my sister’s voice.

“I don’t want to.” Barely audible. The protest of a child who knows they don’t have a choice. “I’m scared.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.” Lie. “We can make it.” Lie. “Do you trust me?”

The last things I ever say to her.

I sit. Lost in the memory. Stare at the darkness for several minutes. The pain of losing my family and my home has become an old ache, rather than the open sore it once was. Grief never really leaves you, but at some point it becomes remembered rather than enveloping. My return to Suus, and time, has healed that wound as much as it ever will.

I dragged her onto that beach. Hair splayed, ghostlike, until she was out of the water. Eyes open and chest still. I tried to breathe life back into her, just as I’d been taught. Waves crashed and hissed and slithered back and forth along sand, flecks of dying foam in their wake as they touched us and retreated. I tried for five minutes. Ten. Crying. I stood to leave and then dropped to my knees and began again, not convinced she was gone. I didn’t know what else to do.

My throat tightens. She would have been sixteen, now.

“Don’t do this, Siamun.”

Netiqret’s voice echoes over the water from my right. My shoulders stiffen and I turn. She’s a hundred feet away. Alone.

“I have to.”

“There’s nothing for you out there.” She’s walking toward me, but slowly. Hands out, palms down. As if calming a startled animal. She’s figured out what I’m planning, if not why. “Stay.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Kiya said you fought an Overseer. Killed it in the Infernis.” She glances up into the darkness, as if she can see the spot where it happened. “The Nomarch saw your Vitaeria. It’s been watching the river. But I knew you’d think of this. And I’ve been down here a lot myself, this past week,” she finishes wryly, coming to a stop. A cautious fifty feet away. Not wanting to spook me.

“Ahmose is dead.”

“I know. I heard.” Something approaching regret in the acknowledgement. “He made the decision.”

“He had it made for him.”

She nods. A melancholy motion. “All of us wake up one morning for the last time, Siamun.”

Silence, as we remember Ahmose. Then Netiqret exhales. “Kiya is my daughter.”

Only the rushing of water for a few seconds. I suspected it, I suppose. It was the only thing that made sense. “You can’t save her, Netiqret.” Not the compassionate response, but she needs to hear it. “How long?”

“Twenty years.”

Vek. “You have to realise that what you want isn’t possible.”

She nods again. So slowly that it looks as though it physically hurts her to do so. “You know, Siamun. I thought you were sent to me for a reason. One last gift so that I could finally complete my task and get her back. I was so sure.” She gives a soft laugh. Bitter and regretful. “But now I realise yours was the task, and I was the gift. So stay. Stay and I swear to you I will help, because I need to know why.”

She takes another step forward. Another. She might be telling the truth. But she also might just be intent on protecting her newfound anonymity, making sure I can still show myself to the Nomarch every month. “No closer, Netiqret.” I stand in the water. Knee-deep. The toxins tear at my flesh.

“Alright.” She stops.

I close my eyes. Even after everything, I can still use her help, if she’s genuinely willing. I wade deeper. “Meet me here when I come back.”

“How will I know when that is?”

I give her a grim smile. Clenching my teeth against the hot pain that slices across every inch of skin from my stomach down. “You’ll rotting know.”

I twist. Grab the upper edge of the opening, and before she can respond, before I can change my mind, propel myself into the thundering, burning darkness.

MY SKIN IS ON FIRE. IT FEELS LIKE IT’S SLUICING AWAY, layer by stinging layer, and thanks to the awful, murky muck through which I’m travelling, I can’t see to check that it’s not. My body hits the side of the pipe and I suck in an involuntary mouthful of the liquid, my innards screaming the new burning at me. I keep my eyes closed for as long as I can, but eventually I realise I need to see whether I have the chance to stop, to find air. Acidic agony creeps over my eyeballs. I can only just barely make out enough to know that the narrow, water-worn tunnel I’m sliding down doesn’t have an air pocket to rescue me.

There’s no retreat from this nightmare, though. No going back. I clench my arms firmly by my sides, legs together. Make my body an arrow and let the vile, scorching torrent take me.

I slide for too long. I’m losing focus, in real danger of unconsciousness. This was a mistake. I am helpless. I begin to panic that the wounds in my arm have opened, that I’ve lost the Vitaeria embedded there. It feels like it. More and more.

I am dying.

Then, air.

I flail and slip and scrabble blindly to stop as I retch and hack, poisonous fluid ejecting from my lungs. My vision is blurred, filmy and vague, but I can make out light. I throw myself upward toward it. There’s a ledge. My fingernails rake along its smooth surface as the water continues to drag me too fast. Enough of the acidic slime coating my hands rubs away and I manage to find purchase on something, a narrow pipe I think, just enough to haul myself out, rolling away from the stream, weeping and choking in alternate fits.

I scrub furiously at my eyes, the act painful but no more so than leaving them alone. I brush against something wet and soft and warm, and recoil but can’t see what it is yet. It doesn’t react to my touch, though. My breathing becomes marginally easier. My head clearer. There’s still pain but it’s background now, not nearly as bad as the still-fading panic.

My vision gradually returns. I clutch at my arm, feel the lumps of the Vitaeria still there. My skin, beneath the burning, remains intact. Unblemished.

Finally, after what feels like minutes of blinking away the remaining sludge from my eyes, I can see again. I’m kneeling on the edge of a narrow canal cut into the stone floor.

I raise my eyes and stand and turn slowly, breath suddenly short again.

I am in a room large enough that I cannot see its end in any direction except the opening-dotted wall from which the water emerges. Mine is not the only canal; stream after stream flows in its own half-cylinder slit, every second one tinted a sickly green. The alternate ones are lit a soft white, and have only trickles of water dribbling along them. Together they provide the dimmest of light, barely enough to touch the low-hanging roof that sits uncomfortably close, not a half foot above my head.

And just enough to silhouette the supine, twitching bodies.

There are hundreds of them. More. Positioned in between the canals on slightly raised slabs, a little like in the Nomarch except these have no light around their edges. Men and women alike, convulsing and shuddering in constant motion. Only in increments, though. A kind of shivering judder, not enough to shift them to one side or the other. They form a dark sea of silent, twisting, trembling flesh.

Stone pipes rise from the canals. Curve up and over the bodies.

Into gaping wounds in their stomachs, pinning them in place.

I just stand there, confused and disgusted and agitated all at once. Wondering if this is some trick of the poison that’s been flowing through me, even as I know it can’t be. I step hesitantly closer. They are clothed like in the Nomarch, but the linen here is tattered, frayed and crumbling around the edges. They’re all wearing collars, too, I can see now. An entire string of small, thin stone discs arrayed against their throats.

In the dim light, each circle shows the faint etching of a scarab beetle.

I gaze at the nearest one, dazed, then touch the pipe I used to drag myself out of the canal. It quivers beneath my fingers. Toxic water rushing through it. I crouch to see another pipe emerging from the base of the table, beneath the shuddering body on it.

A small, steady stream of clear liquid leaks from it into the white-lit canal.

Before I can properly comprehend it, there’s an oblique movement in the far distance, barely visible but above the height of the tables; I drop to my knees, concealing myself behind the nearest twitching corpse. I don’t think I’ll have been noticed. Not with the constant motion around us.

My skin crawls as I peer over my unsettling cover. The silhouetted woman I spotted wanders the rows of tables, examining each shivering corpse as she passes, her attention upon her work. Her black, ragged clothing, as well as her perfectly repetitive motions and unswerving focus, marks her an Overseer—albeit one far more shabbily dressed than any I have seen. No indication she has spotted my presence or anything unusual. I can’t imagine she would have been instructed to look. Wherever this place is, it surely gets few intruders.

The Overseer is closer now, walking off to my left; I move gradually to my right, keeping plenty of bodies between us, and then forward, positioning myself behind her. She never turns as I creep closer.

Twenty feet. I cannot see a way out of here but there must be one, must be some path down through which these iunctii were brought. Ten feet. Two.

I grab her arm. “Remain still and do not make any unusual reports. If you are in communication with any other iunctii, continue that communication as if nothing has happened here and you are successfully going about your task.” It comes out hoarse, barely a whisper, the fire of the toxins in my lungs unabated.

The Overseer stands there, motionless.

I relinquish my grip, wincing as the water still on my hand leaves a red, suppurating print on her skin. “Now answer my questions, and answer wholly and truthfully. What is this place?” My voice shakes.

“A purification room.”

“What does that mean?” Bile in my throat. I know the answer. I still have to hear it.

“Contaminated water is drawn in. It is treated, then redirected to the city’s wells.”

Oh, vek, no. “Treated?”

“Internally. It is the only known way to remove the worst of the toxins.”

I say nothing, just looking at the nearest corpse quivering on its table. I’ve been drinking from those wells for the past few months.

Then I bend double and retch the meagre contents of my stomach onto the grimy floor.

The bile trickles away into the closest of the green canals. The floors are all mildly sloped toward them, I realise. Ensuring the least chance of dirtying the “clean” water, presumably.

I spit and wipe my mouth. “How many more iunctii like you are there down here?”

“I am the only one assigned to this room.”

“No other Overseers? No guards?”

“None.”

I glance around. “Where’s the way out?” I’m not intending to use it, but it would be good information to have.

“The entrance is sealed.”

“Sealed?” My heart lurches with a fresh wave of unease. “When?”

“Six hundred and thirty-three years ago.”

I don’t say anything for a few seconds. Close my eyes against the horror of it.

“Rotting gods,” I whisper.

I ask more, but get few answers as helpful as what has already come. She is certain that the waste canals from here lead outside and rejoin the river north of Duat; though she cannot speak to the specifics, she assures me that in the “early years,” iunctii who could no longer perform their tasks were disposed of that way.

No longer perform their tasks. I shiver at the cold delivery. The pipes are wide enough to accommodate a body, even if the information gives me no indication of whether the way is entirely submersed, or there is a long drop onto rocks at the end, or anything else useful. But it’s something.

I do all I can to focus on the questions and block out the shuddering mass around me. There are no moans of pain, no sounds at all except the gurgling of water. Somehow, that makes it worse.

Eventually, I finish. Loathe to proceed, but even more loathe to stay. This place is a dark, repellent fever dream.

I hesitate one more time. “Are they in pain?”

“I do not know.”

I just nod, though it’s not as if she can see my reaction. I don’t know what else I expected.

“When I finish speaking, you will resume your duties. You will not report my presence or these questions. You will forget that I was ever here, and that you were interrupted in any way.”

She stands there for a few moments and then, content I’m done, moves again. She doesn’t even glance back in my direction.

I watch her, then push my attention back to the convulsing dance of flesh around me. No chance they’re not in pain. I could put them out of their misery. Gods, I could use a few of those collars myself, even if the chains stringing them together would be almost certain to disintegrate.

But I would likely raise an alarm. Not to mention that for all I know, interfering could cut off the entire city’s water supply.

I walk slowly along one of the green canals, eyes still sharp for any unusual movement ahead despite what the Overseer said about her working alone down here. Sure enough, though, there’s nothing.

It’s almost ten minutes before I see the far wall. See the dark holes into which the toxic water vanishes. The white-lit canals don’t travel that far, instead trickling into small pools which seem to have some sort of drainage in their base.

I don’t look too closely. At some point, horror overcomes even morbid curiosity.

It’s harder, this time, stepping into the burning water. Knowing what it is like. Knowing what’s coming.

But I have no choice, so I do.

The pain climbs. Wraps its fingers around me, squeezing muscles, shortening breath.

And I slide into its violence once more.

LXII

I AM WEARY THE NEXT MORNING IN THE DIM, FOGGY predawn chill, my skin oddly itchy as if I have been sleeping on nettles, but it does not matter next to the pulse echoing in the back of my mind. Perhaps a mile to the south, now. A faint but steady presence.

As we break camp, I feel better than I have in a long, long time.

“You seem in a good mood.” Lir makes the observation as we continue our journey eastward. The druid hasn’t given any indication he was aware of my absence last night. Nor, frustratingly, been willing to say a word about what I should expect today.

“I am looking forward to getting this done.”

“Hm. Do not be so eager to embrace this test.” A mildly worrying solemnity to his tone.

“Because it is dangerous?”

“Any test that matters is dangerous.” He hesitates. “And this one matters a lot, Deaglán.”

His lips thin abruptly, as if displeased at himself, and I can see he will say no more on the matter.

We walk for two hours. Dawn breaks ahead. The fog is burned away and the weak winter sun does its best to warm our faces. A small river wends its way beside us. The air is fresh and the moors ripple with the caress of an icy morning breeze.

Uncertain though I am about today, anxious about the war and desperate to rejoin my friends—I find myself taking a kind of peace from the journey. In part it is my father’s pulse trailing us, always just within range, settling me. And in part it is the journey itself. The beauty of these lands is different to the golden warmth of Suus. Less joyful, perhaps, but calmer as a result. Deeper. Just walking these paths seems to ease heart and mind and makes whatever I’m marching toward this morning just another obstacle to be overcome, not something to fear.

I could live here, I realise. Live here and call it home, and I would be happy.

Eventually we meet an overgrown road, centuries past disrepair, and begin to follow it. Around midday I spot a short column of stone rising by it, crumbling and covered in lichen. I frown as we approach, then pause and wipe some of the detritus from its surface.

“There are several along this way,” observes Lir disinterestedly.

“It’s a mile marker.” Caten has these along many of its outer roads. This one, though, is inscribed in Vetusian. “Seven miles from … Lapides Animarum?”

“You can read this language?” More interested now.

“A little.” I wipe away more accrued dirt, but there’s not much else remaining. “Lapides Animarum. Another name for Fornax?”

Lir thinks. “Seven miles,” he concurs, examining me thoughtfully.

We press on.

I see three more of the markers along the way—two of them little more than rubble—before we reach the top of yet another rise, and Lir stops. “We are here.”

I frown down at the valley sweeping away below us. It’s wide and long, wooded in some areas but dominated by a massive lake in its centre. Five miles across and at least double that to the far shore, dwarfing the one on which I’ve spent much of my time in this world. There are no crannogs, no signs of civilisation. Just glassy water reflecting the forests and hills surrounding.

“This is Fornax?”

Lir, as I’ve come to expect, doesn’t elaborate, instead descending toward the lake. I follow. The remnants of the road lead straight down, but I see no other sign of human habitation, ruined or otherwise, as we enter the forest. The trees are tall and old, the way ahead dappled with constantly shifting shadow. Leaves rustle and branches creak around us. After days travelling the open moors, it feels suffocating.

When we finally emerge, the trees give way immediately to a short beach; the opposite shoreline is visible only thanks to the rising hills beyond. Water glimmers as it laps gently.

And a large stone archway sits about twenty feet out from the bank.

Tired and uneasy though I am now, curiosity bids me closer. Its apex has three whorls carved into it, connected at the centre. A familiar design for these lands, often painted on warriors’ bodies, though I do not know its significance.

Surrounding the symbol is Vetusian.

“A path to the … consideration of those … who would serve?” It’s rough, as it always is with this ancient dialect.

“‘Testing.’ Not consideration. It says ‘testing,’” corrects Lir from too close behind me. I flinch around to see him watching me with undisguised curiosity.

“What is it?” I look at the stone mistrustfully. The last gods-damned Vetusian test I went through cost me an arm.

“A remnant of another time.” Lir motions me back from the water. “You should eat, now. And rest.”

“Until when?”

“Until I say otherwise.” He has the decency to give me a half-apologetic shrug, this time.

I’m past the stage of irritable arguing in the hopes of wearing him down, and so take the druid’s advice. We make camp, early though it is. Eat. Neither of us talk. I gaze out over the lake contemplatively as afternoon wanes. Soon a deep orange is reflected in the water.

“The time between times approaches.” Lir finally stands, and I follow suit. Heart beating a little faster. I reach to retrieve my unmarked spear.

“No.” When I frown, he just shakes his head. “Only you.”

Despite his firmness, my hand still hovers. Pádraig’s voice snaps at me that a true warrior and his weapon should never be parted. That he is incomplete without it.

Part of the test? Perhaps I’m meant to insist?

I exhale, then clench my hand into a fist and straighten, leaving the spear on the ground.

“Interesting.” The way Lir says it, he wasn’t expecting me to accede. Vek. Before I can try and renege, he turns, watching with his staff clasped in both hands as the last of the setting sun vanishes behind the hills, plunging us into the dusty half-light of dusk.

Then he steps into the water. The hem of his white cloak darkens. “Come.”

Shivering and reluctant, I remove my boots and step in after him. The icy lake pricks at my skin through my breeches. I clench my jaw to fight chattering teeth.

The druid goes deeper, past his knees. The base of his cloak spreads behind him atop the calm waters. The lake is an undulating mirror, reflecting orange and purple clouds that are fast fading to night’s grey. He reaches the archway and casts a glance back over his shoulder. Waits for me to reach him.

His eyes, I can see in the gathering gloom, are completely black.

Then he dips his staff in the water three times, reaches up, and touches the centre of the arch’s spiralling icon.

It glows. Abrupt and virulent. I take an instinctive step back.

“Steady.” Lir grips me by the shoulder. I watch as the white illumination travels along the engraved lines of the whorls, spreading outward through the design until the entire symbol is glimmering.

It winks out.

Silence. Not just the absence of most sound but true silence, a void, completely empty. No lapping of water. No distant rustle of leaves.

Then it all comes back. Like a popping of my ears. I hear my exhalation as I breathe out.

And the lake begins to froth.

Lir’s hand remains firm on my shoulder, resisting my urge to retreat. Waves begin to chop around us, the whole lake trembling in the hazy illumination of dusk. Bubbling, foaming in the grey and then, suddenly, motion. The surface everywhere broken. Water thunders as it pours off steadily rising stone and swells batter us now, almost too much to stand against. Still, I brace myself and watch. Mesmerised.

Buildings begin to slowly, majestically emerge from the lake. Grinding, roaring, glistening into the half-light.

Hundreds upon hundreds of them.

I just stand there, damp and shivering and tensing at each new wave pushing against my waist. Watching miles upon miles of structures sprout into existence. Stone slick and shining. Not just buildings but towers, fountains, temples, statues. A great city, hidden beneath the glassy surface.

And it all feels unsettlingly familiar. I’m too shocked to register it at first, but as archways and columns and friezes burst into view it becomes impossible to miss.

It’s not Caten, but it gods-damned feels like it.

“How?” I whisper it, rhetorical, the words lost to water crashing on water for miles and miles. It is deafening. Overpowering. The swells continue to shove at us but there are no great waves, as if the majority of the water’s displacement is somehow being contained. Buildings rise for thirty seconds. A minute. Streets emerge, water rushing off cobbled stone that sits a hair’s breadth above the level of the lake itself. Stairs appear in front of us through the archway. Everything glimmers in the dying light.

And then it stops. Water still sloshes and pours and slurps, echoing everywhere, a dying cacophony across the valley.

“How?” Just loud enough for Lir to hear, this time. I don’t know what else to ask. Clearly this has been achieved through Will, but even in Caten I have never seen anything of its like.

“Your answers lie on the other side of Fornax, Deaglán.” Lir doesn’t take his eyes from the silhouetted stone marvel in front of us. “Travel to its centre. You will see a building there, much larger than the others. Enter it, and do as you are asked. Then proceed to the far shore.”

“What will be asked?”

“It is different for everyone. I can say no more than that,” he adds firmly. “But you must do it, and leave, before dawn.”

I nod slowly. “And if I’m too slow?”

“Then Fornax will take you when it sinks again.”

I stare at the short set of stairs through the archway, mostly submersed beneath the still-disquieted waters. Fornax’s streets are virtually level with the water line. “No weapons,” I reconfirm.

Lir nods, though I think I see a hint of amusement in the motion. “No weapons, Deaglán.”

“Fun.” I mutter the word beneath my breath, then look across at the druid. “I’ll see you on the other side, Lir.”

I step forward through the archway. Soaked, freezing, uneasy. Slowly climb.

As I take the final step and my bare feet touch the glistening, cobbled stones of the floating city, there is a faint pulse. The sense of a ripple of energy racing away through the stone ahead that makes me stop dead and glance around uncertainly.

Lir is still watching. Impassive. Around the white of his form, only the undulating lake and gathering murk of dusk greet my gaze.

I shiver, and head into Fornax.

LXIII

THE DRIPPING, SILHOUETTED FAÇADES AND SLICK streets of Fornax are menacing and silent and cold. I jog, numb soles slapping against wet stone. Hurrying but cautious. No lights here to fight the steadily deepening dusk, but a sliver of moon has already started to rise and I don’t think I’ll be left completely blind tonight. Even so, I keep to the main road, the widest and straightest of the ways. Water still trickles. Dead shadows and empty structures yawn everywhere. I feel as though I am treading the spine of a corpse.

Stranger still is the increasing feeling of familiarity with each passing landmark. Even in the gathering gloom, I see Caten. Nothing directly recognisable, but the Republic shouts from every line and though I haven’t seen any great cities since coming to this world, if there are any, the people I’ve come to know would not build them like this. This is too grand, beautiful but far too proud of the fact. Some common remnant from the distant past, perhaps? It’s too similar to be coincidence. The statue on my right that could almost pass for Vorcian. Friezes on the walls to my left that could have been ripped straight from some Catenan myth, though I don’t recognise any of the characters or situations. A man holding a glowing ball. An eagle fighting a wolf. I do not pause to study them more closely. Cannot. The last of the bloodied light is bleeding from the west now and all that paints the way ahead is silver and black, glistening rivulets and shining drops flowing everywhere.

My father’s presence on the hill far behind grows fainter. And fainter. And then is gone.

And then the statues begin.

These are not like the ones carved atop the pedestals; in fact when I first see them I freeze, certain in the dim that I have met enemies, and only willingly push on after almost a minute of crouching warily behind a column. They kneel at the edges of the road, lining it for as far as I can see. Darker shadows, their wet forms glinting dully in the wan moonlight.

As I focus on them, they pulse softly in my mind. My father confirmed last night that I’ve been sensing the Will imbued in him that’s keeping him alive. Which means I was right about why I could sense a weaker version of the same thing from my spear.

And also means that all these statues are imbued, too.

Finally, I pluck up the courage to creep closer. There are hundreds of them. Androgynous bodies with what look like flat, wide discs for their bowed heads. All the same height, the same build, the same pose. I crouch beside one. It is exquisitely made. Entirely constructed of what looks like obsidian, polished completely smooth. Though not one piece, I realise after a moment. Each limb looks separately made and articulated. Down to the joints in the fingers.

I peer closer. Where a face should be, the symbol of the Hierarchy is precisely etched.

I stare, and shudder, and without touching it, move on.

I continue through the gauntlet of disquieting statues for ten minutes. Twenty. There are thousands of them, not just along the road I’m travelling but along every street I pass. They and the hollow, dripping city leer around me. The exertion is enough to keep me from freezing, at least.

Finally I spot the building Lir was surely talking about. At least a hundred feet tall and wider, grander than its surrounding counterparts, its sloping roof supported by huge columns covered with intricate friezes. More depictions of events I don’t recognise. More displays of myths I do not know. It feels wrong, somehow. Catenan civilisation that is not Catenan. Familiar and foreign, all at once. Like looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger.

But it is what I’m looking for. Even disregarding its size, the rows of kneeling statues provide a path leading directly to its central, triangular archway.

I approach uneasily. Water still dribbles like a liquid silver curtain across the entrance, fed by some remaining catchment higher up. The moon reveals an inscription running along its length. More ancient Vetusian. For the safety of Luceum.

“Well that’s promising,” I mutter.

I stand there, then turn and examine the way back. The strange statues lining the way draw my eye, but they are as they were before. There is nothing out here to suggest what might be in there.

“Inside.”

I flinch around wildly, staring for the source of the word. A woman’s voice. No one near me, but the whisper was as if it were in my ear. I stare madly into the shadows for five seconds, heart pounding. Ten. There’s only the trickling of water.

If I was uneasy before, I’m near frozen in place now. Shivering. One armed and without a weapon. I could simply avoid this place. Press on and hope that I can answer whatever questions Lir might have for me on the other side.

But the truth is, I have no idea if that’s even possible. I might be killing myself in trying. And Tara, Pádraig, Lir—they wouldn’t have sent me here unless they thought I could pass whatever test lies inside.

I climb the steps to the archway and, ducking my head against the icy beads of water splashing down, pass through into shadow.

THE INTERIOR OF THE BUILDING IS NOT DARK FOR LONG.

I am not more than ten steps inside when I spot silver again up ahead. Soon I’m stepping through another archway, and into the cold light once more.

I falter to a halt.

I’m at the entrance to a massive, elongated atrium, lined with two rows of thick columns and beyond them, smooth walls that glisten wetly as they stretch upward. Between the columns are more of those black statues. Hundreds of them, polished and faceless except the three lines joining at an apex, standing eerily at attention. Though these, at least, do not pulse with Will the way the ones outside do.

The majority of the three-hundred-foot space is slightly sunken, creating a pool no deeper than a foot; the water reflects the dazzling yellow pulse of the column that rises from its centre, stark against a monochrome sky above. The pool seems to quiver. Perfectly calm and yet somehow agitated to my eye, bending the light as I look at it, hurting my head.

The light itself, casting long shadows everywhere away from the pool, emits from a massive white obelisk. Veins of golden light wrap around it, throbbing.

I’m off-balance enough that I don’t realise what it is, for a second. Despite it filling my view. Despite the scars on my back burning on instinct.

An Aurora Columnae.

I stare, dazed, trying to understand the importance of it. It’s far brighter than the Aurora Columnae that I know—the glow from the one in Tensia was barely visible—but there’s no doubting it. It feels impossible to see one here like this, when in the Republic, each one is guarded constantly. When every known one is under the complete control of Caten.

I don’t move, bathed in the golden light, gaze finally moving on. Two statues stand to stiff attention in the water, too, between me and the obelisk. Different from the ones I’ve already noted; these are made entirely of silver, and rather than being smooth, every inch of their bodies is inscribed with symbols reminiscent of those painted on by warriors for battle. Their heads are thin but instead of a disc, they are wrought, glinting endless knots. Each holds a spear and, unlike the hundreds of black forms lining the sides of the pool, these ones emit that same, faint pulse of Will that I sensed within those I saw outside.

There’s an unsettling vibration deep in my chest. The cold, biting only a few moments ago, has vanished to something thick and warm. “The worthy and the riven will proceed. Walk to the menhir.”

I flinch at the whisper, but again when I look around, there’s no one. The worthy and the riven? I have no idea what that means. As for the rest, though, it’s not as if I needed the instruction. There’s nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do.

I step into the pool.

The water is warm and, more unsettlingly, doesn’t seem to ripple when I stand in it. I frown, then crouch down and scoop some one-handed, letting it dribble through my fingers back onto the glassy surface. It’s absorbed silently, without a single splash.

I wade slowly forward. As I do, I start to spot sharp glittering beneath the surface. Metal, scattered at the bottom of the shallow pool.

Weapons.

There are blades down there, and spears, and knives. Some are gold, some are iron or stone. Many have wooden elements, but none appear to be rotting or warped. Even through the distorting lens of the water, it’s easy to tell that each one has the same markings as Tara’s, Pádraig’s, and my own. Nine distinct sections, each part with a different symbol.

I walk carefully, considering them. This test is for warriors and druids alike; surely a warrior would be expected to take one. But that is not how warriors here think. A weapon is special to them. A part of them. Particularly to the nasceann.

I ignore them. Walk on, past the lines of empty black statues and then between the two pulsing silver ones, until I stand in front of the Aurora Columnae. It towers above me. Its radiance bright enough that I have to shield my eyes.

“Place your hand on the menhir.”

This is it. Unsurprised by this instruction, too, even if the whisper still unsettles me more than I can say. The nasceann ability, the need to go through this test, makes so much more sense now, even if I still don’t understand how weapons alone can be providing Will to their wielders.

The only strange thing is that I have already used the Will my spear imparted. Which should be impossible.

“Place your hand on the menhir.”

I spent years fighting this. I chose to be flogged, again and again, rather than submit at the Aurora Columnae at Letens. And yet, this is not the same. This is not the Hierarchy wanting me to become one of them. As hard as it is to separate, this is no longer about making a stand.

I still hesitate.

“Place your hand on the menhir.”

“Why?” I ask the word aloud. It feels like it’s swallowed by the viscous pool.

The throbbing of the Aurora Columnae seems to heighten in response, but there is no other answer.

I stand there for several more seconds. Reluctant more than indecisive. But there is still a clock on my time here.

“Place your hand on the menhir.”

I growl, and slam my hand against the vibrating, glowing veins of the Aurora Columnae.

In Caten, there’s a ceremony required for the Columnae to impart the ability to use Will. Words that need to be said in order for anything to happen. I know this, because I have touched the Aurora Columnae there many times before. Been physically held against it by Matron Atrox as she screamed at me to submit, over and over again in the early hours of the morning, before there were any witnesses other than the priests. But I never did, and so the touch was always simply skin against unresponsive stone.

This is different.

There’s a thrum as I make contact. Like a release of energy that’s been silently building around me, an invisible wave that explodes outward from the obelisk, racing through stone and away into the rest of Fornax.

Then pain in my head, sharp and cold and clear.

“SYNCHRONOUS!” The woman’s scream is panicked, a shriek so abrupt that I stumble. The word ricochets through my skull.

And then, there are pulses everywhere.

Nothing has changed in my surroundings, but to my mind, the city is suddenly alive with presence. Those statues outside shining like beacons. Thousands upon thousands of them.

As well as the two that are in here.

I barely have time to register the movement. A flicker of shadow interrupting the light cast by the Aurora Columnae to the left, a glimpsed glimmer of reflection off damp stone.

I dive to the side, rolling through the unnatural water as a spear slices the space I was standing a moment ago. I sputter to my feet, the strange, thick liquid dripping dully into the motionless pool, to find the two silver statues have moved. Are moving. Their intricately wrought heads facing me. Their spears held in attacking poses.

“Vek!” I shout my alarm and stumble backward as the nearest one jabs again, fast and fluid, belying the metal nature of its body. They pulse wildly to my vision as they stalk forward in eerie tandem. Slowly, but no hesitation or inclination to mercy.

I twist toward the entrance, just in time to see thick stone sliding down to seal the archway.

“Ohh, vek.” Hard not to panic. No other way out that I’ve seen. I keep backpedalling and then crouch, snatching up a pulsing blade I see in the water nearby.

UNWORTHY. The impression shudders through me, sick and unhappy, beginning as soon as I touch the hilt. UNWORTHY.

I flick the blade aside in horror and snatch another one, slightly longer and narrower.

UNWORTHY. I slap away another thrust from the statue, and resist the urge to drop this one too. UNWORTHY.

I scramble, out of the pool and between the columns and the thankfully motionless black statues. The farther silver statue circles around as the closer one engages me again. Trying to get into my blind spot. The dread trying to overwhelm me increases. They’re intelligent, then.

UNWORTHY.

“Shut up!” I shout the words in frustration. Slide past another strike, months of training taking over. These things are fast but they’re not inhumanly so; in fact, they’re slower than Tara and Pádraig, and maybe even Conor. Not that it will matter. Even with this sword, I have no idea how to kill something that won’t bleed.

UNWORTHY.

I keep circling, dodging around columns and statues, keeping space and stone between me and my attackers. They’re unhurried, seem content to let this gradual, awkward dance continue indefinitely, which at least allows me the chance to regain a fraction of my composure. Could this be part of the test? Unlikely. If nothing else, the way the word “synchronous’” was screamed—the term my father used for me, last night—suggests that I’m an enemy here.

UNWORTHY.

Oh. And that, too.

I dodge and deflect as one of the silver forms closes again, thinking desperately. They’re being powered by Will, clearly. Does that help me? Rotting gods. Maybe. Keeping Will imbued without ongoing line of sight needs a clear mental connection to the imbued object, a memorisation of its exact form. If that form is altered enough—if it strays too far from the imbuer’s image of it—then the Will is lost. Returned to its owner.

UNWORTHY.

I reverse direction abruptly, slither forward into the restricting water to place the nearest statue between me and its counterpart. My blade flashes. Parried. Again, and again, a flurry of frantic strikes as the second gleaming body moves to gain position. I’m faster and my blade hits silver once, twice. It scores and dents the softer metal. The statue appears unfazed.

I dance back, breathing hard. Not damaged enough, or an ineffective strategy? Gods-damn it. Will shines at my feet, every weapon in the water glimmering with a softer pulse. At some point, surely, these statues would become so broken that the force behind them would be simply rendered impotent. But the number of hits even one would have to take …

It’s not like there’s a choice, though.

I stumble around the blinding throbs of the Aurora Columnae for a minute. UNWORTHY. Three. UNWORTHY. Longer. Mostly out of the water weaving between columns, but then dashing in at irregular intervals too, metal ringing against metal as my blade becomes a hammer. I take what I can, but after the first few strikes, begin focusing on their heads. It’s not just the most distinctive part of them—it should be the easiest to deform.

But it’s also a difficult target, and I’m tiring rapidly, while they do not appear to be. They move no more slowly than they did in the first few seconds of our fight. They’re too heavy to shift, to ram into and throw off-balance.

I’m too many minutes into the awkward cat-and-mouse skirmish when, finally, I land a true hit on the silver head of one of the statues. A solid blow, all my strength behind it. The symbol crumples, interlocking silver lines jamming together and bending in on themselves three layers deep. My arm shivers at the hit and I almost lose the blade before stumbling back, panting my triumph. Half the gods-damned design is caved in.

The statue pauses, and for a heartbreakingly hopeful moment, I’m sure it has frozen in place.

UNWORTHY.

Then it comes again. As if nothing had happened.

I groan, my arm leaden now not just with exhaustion, but with the slow and heavy certainty that’s now crushing me with each passing second and each futile burst of effort. My heart pounds with sick dread. Vek.

I am going to die here.

LXIV

FEAR IS A LACK OF CONTROL, REALISED.

My father told me that, once. Explained that it is not the absence of control itself, but the understanding of it. The true, stomach-churning grasping of the fact that we have no significant way to affect what comes next in a given situation.

As I retreat, my limbs leaden with exhaustion and lack of hope, my options turn to the desperate. I try rapidly forcing aside the massive stone blocking the exit, to no avail. I try touching the Aurora Columnae again, but nothing happens. I even try hammering at it, quickly finding the metal of my sword does even less damage to the glowing stone than it does to the statues stalking me.

My blade is blunted, now. Still pulsing with Will beneath my grasp as I stumble through the eerily motionless pool. UNWORTHY. I am so tired. Cuts across my torso and arm bleed down onto my hand, drip into the motionless water. I bat away more strikes clumsily, barely staggering away again. UNWORTHY.

And then, as the Will throbs against my hand, I suddenly register that I can feel it.

A force that, if I want to, I can use.

I don’t know what makes me think it’s possible. Some desperate memory pulled from some obscure text I read in the Academy, I suppose. Maybe just instinct. But I focus on the blade. Set it in my memory, using the same technique we were taught to imbue something.

And I take the Will from it.

There’s a hollow, screeching impression of a scream that makes me stagger, slow, almost lose concentration, but then it’s gone and I feel suddenly sharper. Too late, though. Precious seconds of movement lost to mental disarray. The closest statue jabs with its spear and I slide aside, but before I can dive away, its hand is snaking out, clamping on my shoulder with an impossibly crushing grip.

I cry out my pain as it lifts me from the water one-handed. Reach out and fumble against the symbol of its face. There’s Will inside it too, but this time there’s a resistance, whatever I managed to do to with the sword failing. The statue’s other hand reaches for my throat.

Harmonics.

I’ve been practicing the mental forms for it a lot, this past month. A mixture of Pádraig’s exhortations and gut instinct that the nasceann, the connection to their weapons, have something to do with that branch of Will usage. Still, it’s no different to my taking the Will from the blade. Instinct rather than thought, reflex far more than any logic. And once again, I cannot say what drives me to attempt this particular technique as my only, desperate chance, when imbuing something that’s already imbued should be utterly impossible.

But I imagine us both as warriors. Me, and the statue. United by the fight.

Connection.

“STOP!” I scream it desperately, almost weep it. My hand still miraculously against the lines of its face, metal vibrating beneath my palm.

There’s a full second where I’m frozen, expecting cold silver to wrap around my neck; when it doesn’t come, I manage to croak “Let go,” just as the other statue gets in position and pulls back to strike.

I fall to the water as its spear slices the air where I was hanging a moment earlier. Pain arcing through me I manage to roll forward, evading another jab and slapping my hand against the first, still motionless, statue’s leg. Hope firing in my chest. “Protect me.”

It moves.

The unaffected statue—the one with its head still completely intact—tries to skirt it to stab again, but the one I commanded attacks, swift and violent. It doesn’t bother with its spear, bodily slamming into its counterpart and wrestling it into the water. Metal screeches and the unnatural liquid sprays, though still refuses to ripple. Silver hands scratch and punch and claw. I scramble to my feet and away to the safety of the columns, shaking.

The one following my order seems to swiftly get the upper hand, straddling its twin and grasping the silver knot of its head.

With a wrenching twist, it tears the symbol clean off.

The pulse of Will from the beheaded statue vanishes. The silver body in the water lies still, and the one on top of it stops moving too.

I watch for an eternity. Still slowly backing away, past the black statues until I am in shadow up against the slick wall. But nothing more happens. The two masses of silver are as motionless now as when I first arrived.

I slide to a seated position and, hiding from the virulent, unceasing glow of the Aurora Columnae, weep my relief.

I DON’T ALLOW MYSELF LONG TO RECOVER, NOR CONsider the impossibility of whatever it was I just did. Not because I don’t need to, but because I know that outside, the moon is travelling across the night sky, and I am still very much trapped in here.

I examine the stone covering the exit, first. Hoping for some hint of how it might open again. But it’s smooth, Will-cut like the rest of the structure. I can’t even get a fingernail beneath it to try and pry it upward.

It still takes some resolve, after that, to approach the motionless silver statue again. But there are no options and no time so I do, ready to spring back at any sign of danger. Tentatively crouch behind it. Place my hand on its shoulder. I feel it in my mind. A true extension of myself. I cannot comprehend how fortunate it was that the bizarre Harmonic connection I chose to try for the first time, in the heat of the moment, worked. Nor, in fact, how I was even able to get the Will to create it.

That’s a puzzle for later, though.

“Get me out of here.”

I flinch back as the statue stands, then moves calmly to the entrance. It presses its engraved silver palm against the surface blocking my path.

With a shudder, the stone rises.

I resist the urge to sprint and leave all of this far behind. That sharp sense of Will has faded a little since I touched the Aurora Columnae, but I can still feel more pulses out there. A lot more. I step out and creep along the short passageway. Inch to the edge of the exit, still curtained by thin dribbles of water, and peer into the moonlit streets of Fornax.

I was half expecting what I see. My heart sinks anyway.

The black, polished statues that knelt along the way have risen to their feet. Hundreds upon hundreds of them clog the streets, completely motionless but all facing the archway where I’m concealed. Pulsing with Will, just like the one inside.

I watch for a few minutes but there’s no movement, no change.

Heart in mouth, I take a single step out onto the street.

Motion, sharp and violent. A thunderous clacking as the horde of dark statues burst at me with terrifying synchronised intent; I shout and leap back, about to flee, but as soon as I’m beneath the archway again the things stop. Shocking in their abrupt freezing, snapping back into the same ready pose they were in before.

Just … closer now.

“Not this way, then,” I eventually mutter shakily to myself as I retreat to the pool.

I sit with my feet in the water for a while, staring at the faint shimmering of the scattered, submersed weapons that lie throughout the atrium. Even if I took Will from each one of them—and I’m not sure I could, given the mental effort required to keep all of them locked in my mind—it would be impossible for me to imbue more than a few of the statues outside, the way I did the one in here. Not nearly enough to fight my way through.

I hesitate, then stand. Walk farther into the pool and scoop up the first weapon I see. A knife.

UNWORTHY.

“Rotting … gods-damned vek.” I drop it again into the soulless water, gaining instant relief from the staining discomfort the impression brings. This test has almost certainly gone wrong: I’ve assumed as much ever since the panicked voice screamed “synchronous,” and I very much doubt that whatever I did to command the statue was an intended part of the trial.

“Don’t suppose you could tell me what to do next?” I ask the symbol-covered silver figure that still stands motionless by the entrance. There’s no answer, as expected, but my weary smile slips as I consider. The worthy or the riven. The first is clearly not happening. The second … gods. I have no idea. But what it does suggest is that the druids’ task is different: If nothing else, there are no staves lying around in this pool to administer the same sort of test.

So perhaps what I managed to do to this sentinel, is at least an approximation of what they are meant to do?

I haul myself to my feet and grasp its shoulder. “Get me past the black statues outside. Alive,” I add, as a hurried afterthought.

There’s a long moment where nothing happens, and my heart begins to sink.

Then the silver form grips my arm, and starts to drag me toward the entrance.

“Ow. Vek. Wait!” I wrest myself free again. Shake my arm, glare irritably at the frozen-again statue, and think. Tara’s comment to me as we parted makes more sense now; I suppose that by using the nasceann before coming here, my spear has already implied that I am “worthy.” So I could surely use it in battle, rather than one from here. Still. I need something to prove to Lir—truthfully or not—that I went through this gods-damned test. “Just … wait.”

I spend the next ten minutes picking up every sword, knife, and spear in the pool. Some are beautiful weapons, the nine symbols on them gilded and masterfully crafted. Others are roughly made, entirely unremarkable except for their inscribed patterns.

No matter their appearance, though, every single one shivers a sickening UNWORTHY through me, again and again, until I drop it. Without fear for my life coursing through me, I’m barely able to withstand the nauseating wave of sensation that accompanies it.

Eventually, I return to the silver statue. Stand, and peer out over the pool grimly. I just don’t know. Perhaps if this test had gone the way it should, I’d at least have a better understanding of what I need to show on the other side of it.

“Rotting …” I put my hand on the statue’s shoulder once more. “Bring me something I can use to prove to a draoi that I passed this gods-damned test.”

The silver form doesn’t move for a second, and I sigh, assuming it’s not going to work.

Then it turns. Strides through the pool and over to the body of its fallen counterpart. Reaches down and with a series of sharp, twisting motions, wrenches the body’s left arm from its shoulder joint.

I watch the violence with vaguely disturbed horror, even if it’s not against flesh. The statue returns and thrusts the arm at me, an almost angry motion.

“No need to be petulant.” I take it. It’s hollow, though the silver is still thick enough that it’s almost too heavy to hold one-handed.

“Alright. This will work,” I eventually mutter, understanding even as I struggle with its weight. There’s no way I can secure it to the stump on my arm, but it doesn’t matter. The symbol alone will be enough.

I stare at the statue. Motionless again in front of me, but this … this choice was a reaction. Based on situational awareness. Based on me.

I put my hand on its shoulder once again. “Are you able to communicate?”

No answer.

I hold my breath until I’m certain nothing is forthcoming, then let it out with a sigh. Above, the moon has started heading for the horizon. “Probably for the best; I get the impression you don’t like me much. Get me safely out of Fornax.”

The statue moves and before I can resist, wraps impossibly strong fingers around my waist, painfully tight. I shout in alarm, drop the silver arm and try to twist away, but it’s hoisting me, throwing me unceremoniously over its broad shoulder and pinning me there with one hand. Then, as I snarl against the uninvited abuse, it crouches and picks up the arm.

Leaves the massive atrium, and the golden glow of the Aurora Columnae, behind us.

I recover my senses enough to put my hand against its silver flesh. “If it’s … safe for me to … just walk … then let me down … you ass,” I gasp as the air is jostled from my lungs.

The statue keeps on moving.

“Rotting … gods-damned … vek.” I force myself to stop fighting the thing’s grip, and do my best to position myself more comfortably. The statue is moving at the same deliberate pace it adopted when chasing me. We have two or three miles to travel to get to the other side of the lake. Probably an hour of this, at minimum.

I grit my teeth, and try to ignore the powerlessness of the situation. If this is what it takes, then this is what it takes.

I’m carted in undignified fashion out through the short, dark passageway. Can’t help but tense, heart pounding, ears straining, as the dribbling water runs over me and then the outer archway is in my sight behind us.

Cold, thunderous clacking of stone against stone again, and my breath shortens to panic.

I twist around as best I can, trying to see what I’m imagining in my head as every muscle waits for the attack. There are dark shapes from the corner of my eye. Moving, but—I realise after a rattled few seconds—not madly rushing like they did when I came out here alone.

Finally, some of them come into view. They’re crowding around us but pausing a few feet away, as if at an invisible barrier. Not reaching out, even if menace rolls off the inscribed obsidian discs that comprise their faces. Each one is turned toward us. Toward me. And every step the form carrying me makes, every single obsidian statue takes a corresponding one.

They’re coming from everywhere. More. More. Flowing around us, barely any space between them. All pulsing in my mind. The silver statue walks on, a bright island through a sea of black. They follow in a rippling, dark wave. Clogging the street, now. Still only a few feet between me and the nearest of them. Never any closer. Never any farther. Only the thundering clattering of their polished feet against damp stone to accompany us.

“Um,” I whisper shakily. “Could we go a little faster?”

We do not.

We move on, shadowed by our eerie, massive coterie. Me barely able to breathe from both position and dread. Willing the body beneath me to increase its pace. There’s a faint light in the sky to the east. Getting rapidly stronger. I don’t have long, but I think we can make it.

We walk the slick streets for twenty minutes. Forty. My muscles ache from trying not to move, from the constant tension and terror. The glow on the horizon is too bright. The clicking roar of a thousand feet stamping in time to keep up, never breaking position, never getting too close or too far.

Then, finally—abruptly—we stop.

I have time only to register the sudden lack of motion before silver hands are hauling me upward and then tossing me bodily forward. I shout and twist awkwardly in mid-air, manage to land on my side and roll to lessen the impact. Scramble to my feet and then backward, hand out defensively, expecting a flood of obsidian to be rushing at me.

Instead, I am met with a sea of silent, motionless black forms on either side of the silver one. They are arrayed in a perfect, invisible line that extends between the edges of the two last buildings on either side of the street, and I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to find only cobbled stone and an archway, identical to the one through which I entered the city, ahead. The shore of the lake past it is tinted a rapidly lightening blue-green as it reflects thickly forested hills beyond. A lone, white-cloaked figure waits beneath the trees.

We’ve reached the outermost edge of Fornax.

The silver sentinel suddenly moves again. Tosses its counterpart’s arm after me with a disdainful, almost peevish motion. It makes a hollow ringing as it clangs and clatters and rolls to a stop next to me.

“A pleasure spending time with you, too,” I mutter acerbically. Cautiously pick it up, struggling again with its immense weight. Never taking my eyes from the massive crowd of watching, pulsing statues only a few feet away.

The first rays of sunlight hit the buildings behind me, and the ground trembles.

Vek.

I run.

Nothing chases, no terrifying clatter of feet in pursuit as I struggle with freezing, stiff limbs and the burden of my trophy. The water over the steps ahead, leading down from Fornax, has started to froth. The stone begins to sink.

Then I’m stumbling through the archway, leaping wildly. My feet hit the sludge of the lake’s floor. I splash madly toward the shore, ignoring the renewed shock of the icy water.

Lir is waiting. The white-robed druid looks horrified as he watches, his gaze fixed behind me. I don’t dare turn until I’ve reached the safety of the small beach; when I do I see the city has already sunk several feet, the heads of the statues that followed me just now level with the surface. They are still gathered, crowded at the city’s edge. Motionless. No struggle as they slip beneath the waves.

I collapse onto the shale. Breathing heavily.

“Deaglán.” Lir’s voice shakes. Something is wrong—anger or fear, and either way not a good sign—but he is following the forms. “What favour have the gods shown you in Fornax?”

With an exhausted motion, I slap the silver arm down in front of the dismayed druid.

“A great gift.” The heavily engraved limb lies there, palm upward, the three interlocked whorls of Fornax visible on it. Lir pales as he stares, transfixed. The dawn casts his haggard features in sharp relief.

I take in his expression. Unease suddenly overcoming relief.

“A great gift indeed.” The deep, amused voice from behind him sends my bare hands twitching for a weapon I no longer have. A hulking shape emerges from the trees. Then three more behind it, cutting off any thought of flight. “Surely the gods have favoured you.”

There’s motion, the tossing of something toward me. Several pieces of wood, rent and splintered and hacked and charred, scatter in front of me. I stare, confused, until I gradually spot familiarity in the symbol-covered remains.

My heart drops. No pulse coming from any of the pieces, but I know straight away that I am looking at the shattered remnants of my spear.

The largest of the shadows steps forward out of the forest and into the dawn.

“Good to see you again, Leathfhear,” says Gallchobhar.

LXV

I SLAM OPEN THE HEAVY OAK DOOR TO DOMUS TELIMUS with my shoulder, stumbling from drizzling darkness into warm lantern-light. Curse my complacency as I shove it closed again and then lean briefly against the wall, rain-soaked and wheezing. Vek. Too close. More shouts echo from outside, urgent questions called and answered as the Quintus and his men continue their search for me.

I let the metal of my mask, so tremblingly close to slipping throughout my escape, return to my chest atop Ostius’s stone medallion. Same with my arm. The manipulation of the Harmonic imbuing happens easily now, constant use over the past two weeks building that muscle in my mind into something close to instinct.

Diago darkens the archway to the atrium as the iron triangles slide from view, padding over and giving me a vaguely concerned sniff before licking at my bloodied side. I swat him away and immediately groan at the motion, collapsing to a nearby bench. The crossbow wound is a graze, but it’s more than thoroughly bleeding. “Kadmos!”

The balding Dispensator appears within a few seconds of my shout, the Will-locked alarm he keeps on his person no doubt having already alerted him to my entry. His relief at it being me—we haven’t yet had any invasions from enterprising mobs looking for proscribed fugitives, but he’s all too aware of what’s happening out there—segues to concern as he sees my battered state.

“Master Vis.” He’s brushing my hand to the side and examining the injury with an apprehension that quickly degrades to tutting irritation. “Again? Rotting thugs out there. Stay here. I’ll fetch some gut string and—”

“No time for that. We need to clean it and hide it, and I need fresh clothes. A robe—I’m sweating and wet, I’ll have to say I was using the baths. And prepare some tea. There are people chasing me but they don’t know it was me, and they will almost certainly be checking in here soon.”

Kadmos, to his credit, suppresses his questions and immediately fetches what he needs as I start stripping off, layering my iron triangles to the hidden underside of the bench I’m sitting on. Kadmos knows there’s a search on for the man who executed Military’s leadership and continues to haunt the city, but he doesn’t know it’s me. The streets are dangerous, and so he hasn’t questioned my injuries thus far.

I don’t think he would give me away. I am a Telimus and he has expressed, several times, that he thinks that what happened to Princeps Exesius and the others was simply justice. Plus, his technically Military-affiliated name was kept off the Proscriptions only at my insistence, with me officially taking possession of all things Telimus. But still. There is no benefit in exposing either him or me unnecessarily.

Once the metal triangles are concealed, I use the cleanest parts of my tunic to wipe up droplets of blood that have spattered on the bench and mosaic underfoot, still cursing myself. After two weeks of effective and increasingly notorious nights skulking Caten’s streets, I should have expected the trap. Too much success, too much flaunting. Too predictable in only targeting those going after the proscribed. I know word has spread rapidly of my interventions. Iron mask bringing the terror of what they think I did to the Princeps. Sharpened iron pyramids leaving moaning, and bloodied limbs, and grateful Octavii and Septimii escaping in my wake.

Governance and Religion were inevitably going to feel that my continued appearances were making them look either weak or complicit. Thus, the Quintus and Sextii forming the loudest of the mobs tonight: hardly the most complex of ruses, and if I’d checked for just a moment before rushing in, I could have sensed their Will.

Within a minute Kadmos is back with water and cloth and bandages and a robe, wincing as he sees the dark bruising across my chest, but swiftly going to work on the more immediate problem.

“You should know, Master Vis,” he says as he cleans with painful but necessary efficiency. “You have a visitor.”

“What?” My heart clenches. “Who?”

“He wouldn’t give a name. A middle-aged man. He has been nothing but courteous, though, and said to give you this.” He hands me a stylus; at first it means nothing but as soon as I touch it, I feel the Will—my Will—in it. One of the imbued ones I gave to the Iudicium survivors. “I’ve made him comfortable in the dining room, but if we are expecting more visitors …”

Vek. My classmates who are still in the city, from Religion and Governance, wouldn’t need to send someone anonymously.

Punctuating the fear, a bashing on the front door ricochets through the house like an angry shout. I flinch at its announcement. Diago growls.

“Put him and anything with blood on it in Ulciscor’s office. Seal the door. Eat the gods-damned key if you have to.” I whisper it. Keeping my arms raised as Kadmos finishes winding the bandage around my stomach, ties it off painfully, and scoops up all traces of our medical intervention. Then I shrug on the robe and slick back my hair a little. “Can I pass for just having bathed?”

He never thinks I bathe enough, and I can see him almost physically restraining the joke he wants to make, despite the urgency. Instead he summarizes it with the faintest of smiles. “Having been interrupted, at least, Master Vis.”

I make a face at his back as he hurries off to conceal our mysterious visitor. Wait a few seconds—allowing a second thumping at the door, this one even more urgent—and take a deep breath. Straighten, ignoring the lingering pain of my body, and feign bemused concern.

“Hail?” I open the door a crack, checking who it is, then widen it as if relieved to see the dripping Quintus standing outside. “Tanrius?” One of Quartus Laurentius’s commanders. Military, but at least nominally on our side. My promotion to the same rank as him, after the carnage of the festival left so many openings above me, allows the more familiar greeting.

“Catenicus. I am sorry to bother you at this hour.” Tanrius is a big man. A thick, rain-beaded black moustache stretches across his face. “We’re chasing Carnifex. He disappeared around here. Have you seen or heard anything?”

I frown. “Carnifex?”

“The man who assassinated Princeps Exesius and the other senators.”

“Oh. Rotting gods.” I hide my discomfort behind an apprehensive reaction. Executioner, in Vetusian. I wonder who came up with the name. I haven’t heard it before. “No, Quintus. Sorry. All’s been quiet.”

He nods and almost turns to depart, then eyes my attire. “You’ve been bathing?”

“Yes.” Vek.

“So you wouldn’t have heard if someone got in.”

“My Dispensator is around. And Diago would have noticed, I think, too.” I give him a crooked smile as the alupi pads up to us, sniffing Tanrius suspiciously.

“Of course. Of course.” Tanrius eyes the animal nervously. “Why didn’t your Dispensator answer the door?”

“I’ve instructed him not to under any circumstances. He’s not on the Proscription lists, but even so …”

“Understandable. Our duty of care is heavier than ever in these times.” Again he seems almost ready to leave, but either greed or discipline—or the half dozen Sextii behind him—gives him some frustrating trace of backbone. “And in saying that, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least check …”

I don’t hesitate, with a casual shrug swinging the door invitingly wide. “Do you have a description yet?”

“Not much more than you would have heard, though we caught a glimpse of him earlier. Probably a little taller than you, strongly built. And he might be injured, though it depends how much Will he was imbuing.” The Quintus shakes the damp from his uniform and beckons his men inside. “We’ll be quick.”

“Thank you, Tanrius.”

I wander somewhat aimlessly after the group as they swarm with grim purpose into the atrium. Kadmos appears a moment later, a tunic draped across his arm and steaming cup in his hand. “I assume you’ve finished bathing now, Master Vis. Here’s your tea.” A normal volume, but at least a couple of the intruders will be able to hear. Quick thinking. It would’ve been strange if they’d checked the baths and my clothes weren’t there. Kadmos hands me both, then eyes the men vanishing into various rooms. “Who are our guests?”

“They’re chasing a criminal. Just checking he’s not hiding in here.” I take a long draught of the tea, the urgency of its effects outweighing its scalding nature.

“I think we may have noticed.”

“They’re just doing their job.”

Apparently determined to make me a liar, one of the Sextii still in the atrium eyes Kadmos. Walks up to him with insolent swagger and studies him. “Your name?”

I don’t let him speak. “His name is Kadmos, Sextus. He is the Dispensator of the Telimus family and is not on the Proscription lists,” I say firmly, stepping between the men so that I am face-to-face with the blond man. “He is a Totius Septimus and is a member of my household.”

Diago pads forward. Sits prominently beside Kadmos.

I don’t glance at the alupi: confidence, rather than discomfort now. Two weeks, since he killed a room full of men in a matter of seconds. If not for the churning chaos of those first days after, the complete lack of any way to get out of the city, I may well have taken him back to Solivagus for fear of him snapping again.

Instead, I kept him in my rooms in Domus Telimus, unsure what else to do with him and with far too many other, more pressing concerns at the time. He slept on the floor, the first night. I woke to him curled up by my feet on the second.

And then on the third, to my choking on his fetid breath with his nose almost touching mine. He grunted sleepily and rolled onto his back as I shoved him away. And as I vainly tried to haul his massive and somewhat comically unwilling form out of my bed, I finally registered that I wasn’t afraid of him. Allowed myself to replay the nightmare of the Basilica, and realised just how targeted Diago was in his fury. No hint of threatening me. No hint of even threatening Ostius.

Only the men who arranged for the deaths of my friends. Only the men who would have ordered mine, had they been allowed to leave that room.

The Sextus’s gaze slides from me, to Kadmos, to the alupi now, uncertainty colouring the wild hunger in his eyes. I watch him carefully. I do think Tanrius is genuinely after Carnifex. These others with him, though … the way they look at everything reminds me of the ravening mobs I’ve been fighting. As if they are possessing everything with their eyes, and calculating how short a step it would be to make their desires reality.

The Sextus finally looks to the side. “As you say, Catenicus.”

I breathe an inward sigh of relief. Diago pushes his head against Kadmos’s side, and the Dispensator scratches his head absently. It’s been a gradual relaxing around the massive wolf, since those first few days. A mixture of increasing certainty that the alupi’s actions were in my defence, his ongoing calm obedience, and the growing necessity and comfort of his deterring presence.

I still don’t know exactly why he did what he did at the Basilica. Some effect of our strange connection that drove him to protect me, perhaps. But I am certain now that he was protecting me.

In these uncertain days, that has been enough for me.

“Catenicus!” Tanrius is calling from the next room, and I know immediately what it will be about. I take another sip of the tea, leave Kadmos with the watchful alupi, and make my way to the entrance of Ulciscor’s office.

“This door is locked.” The Quintus looks at me expectantly.

“And my father, wherever he is, is the only way in. Unless you think he’s the one you’re after?” I allow my gentle smile to falter as Tanrius continues to look dissatisfied. “Alright. You’re a Quintus. Smash away, I suppose. I’ve been wondering what was in there myself.”

Tanrius examines the door. It’s stone and wood, the majority of it covered in a beautiful relief of Etrius. The uniqueness of the art is meant to make it easier to imbue. “This looks expensive.”

I see his hesitancy. Wrack my brain. Tanrius. He’s from a family of knights. New money. “What do they say? Wealth is buying luxuries without having to think. Generational wealth is buying luxuries without thinking.” I give a rueful shrug. “My father falls into the latter category, sometimes, I’m afraid.”

Tanrius chuckles, nodding his like-mindedness. Considers me anew. “I forget you weren’t always a Telimus, sometimes. I hear your name so much, it feels as though you’ve been a part of the city forever.” He sighs, waves his hand. “Never mind about the door. Our time will be better spent moving on. Thank you for your accommodation, Catenicus.”

My relief is strong enough that it threatens to show itself, but I nod calmly back, Tanrius calls his men, and we walk to the door. I happen to glance down. Spot a dot of red beginning to leak through the right side of my robe. I dangle my arm to hide it.

The Quintus’s nose wrinkles as we leave the atrium. “What are you drinking?”

“Tea. It is as unpleasant as it smells,” I assure him, keeping to his right and doing all I can not to seem like I’m shielding something from him. “But it helps with the aches.” I motion with my stump. Draw his eyes away.

“Ah.” Just slightly uncomfortable, as almost everyone is when I call attention to the missing limb. “Well. I have been placed in charge of capturing Carnifex, so if you hear or see anything …”

“I’ll make sure I get word to you.”

Tanrius smiles tightly. His eyes weary. Not like the men I’ve fought over these past weeks, maddened with greed or bloodlust or in some cases, simply lust. He really is just trying to find a man he thinks is dangerous. The man he blames for tearing his world apart. Hard not to feel for him, in that moment. “Stronger together, Catenicus.”

“Stronger together, Tanrius.” I shut the door behind him and wait a long ten seconds before sliding to the floor. A release of tension more than from pain or exhaustion, now. Kadmos’s tea is doing its work.

I discard the robe, grimacing at the blood seeping through Kadmos’s hasty bandaging. Check my metal shards are still hidden beneath the bench, then pull on the tunic the Dispensator gave me, and make my way stiffly into the atrium. The wound needs stitches, but it can wait a little longer.

“Well done, Master Vis,” says Kadmos quietly. There’s a cautious question behind the praise.

“You as well, Kadmos.” I move limbs experimentally, trying to decide what’s stiff and what’s injured. “Do you need me to explain?”

“No.” He inhales, then gives me a light squeeze on the shoulder. “And I won’t say anything.”

I nod. Put respect and gratitude into the motion, expecting the statement though I was.

“Then let’s go and greet our guest,” I say wearily.

LXVI

THE DOOR TO ULCISCOR’S WINDOWLESS OFFICE SLIDES open at a click of the Will key, revealing the man sitting comfortably in an armchair in the corner. He stirs at my wary entrance, holds up his hands in a gesture of genial surrender as he stands. A big man, taller than me as he unwinds his length. Broad-shouldered and muscular, pale and blond. A braided beard. A silver torc at his neck. “Catenicus. My name is Baine Breac. You know me?”

I examine him. “I know Eidhin. I also know you are a Quintus in Military.”

“Quartus, actually.”

“That wasn’t the important part.”

He smiles slightly, nodding. “I am not here for them.” His Common is exceptional. Barely any trace of the accent that Eidhin has. “Quite the opposite.”

I squint at him. No telling if he’s being truthful about the rest of it, but I can see Eidhin in every line and motion. “Alright.” A quick focus on my sense of Will confirms he’s a Quartus. Gods’ graves. If he wants to hurt me, I’m not going to be able to do much about it.

Baine says nothing for a moment, and I get the impression his cool assessment sees a lot. “My son has talked of you. Not much, because we do not talk much,” he concedes heavily. “But he has an admiration of you. A respect. That is why I am here.”

Direct. Simple. It reminds me so much of Eidhin. This is the man who taught him. Who raised him to be the man he is.

And who, according to my friend, betrayed everything he believed when he submitted to the Hierarchy.

“First, though, Catenicus,” Baine adds, “it seems you have an injury that needs tending.”

Kadmos grunts, spotting the increasingly large patch of crimson staining my fresh tunic. “Rotting gods, Master Vis,” he mutters in disgust, pressing me into a seat. “Don’t get it on the chair. I’ll be back shortly.”

He vanishes, and Baine and I watch each other. Me wary, the large man entirely relaxed. My injury is more irritation than pain now, Kadmos’s tea as effective as always. “Have you spoken to Eidhin, since this all began?” I ask eventually.

“Briefly. We are both under the command of Princeps Redivius.” He sees my need for more. “He is alive, Catenicus. For now.”

He falls silent as Kadmos returns, evidently wishing this conversation to remain a private one. I’m reluctant to show the extent of my injuries to Baine, but the alternative is leaving him alone again, so I strip off once again and allow Kadmos to work needle and thread.

As the Dispensator fusses beneath his breath, Baine starts talking about the news he’s heard from outside of Caten. Some of it Tertius Ericius has already apprised me on, but not all. Redivius is one of four former Quartii to declare themselves the rightful Princeps of Military; he commands only a single legion—five thousand Sextii—but has them in by far the best position, ensconced now barely a day north of the city. Only a fraction of the Septimii and Octavii in those pyramids are encamped with the army, so the lush senator-owned estates up there will easily support his troops for a while.

Kadmos soon finishes his stitching and rebandaging—the wound is, all told, not bad—and glances askance at me. I hand him the dregs of my tea with a reassuring nod, and dismiss him.

“So you’re here because Eidhin’s in trouble,” I say as soon as the door closes. Our conversation thus far has left me in no doubt that Baine genuinely wants my help: as Tertius Ericius’s man, I’ve been privy to many of the discussions around our intelligence, and Baine’s information is more up to date than anything Governance and Religion have. But if he was here to defect, he wouldn’t be talking to me. Which leaves only one real conclusion.

“Yes. Redivius is intending to attack the city tomorrow night. A few hours before dawn. He’s arranged for a diversionary force to hit the docks first, and though he would deny it, he sees the Cymrians under his command as more expendable than Catenans. Eidhin will be in the first wave.”

Vek. It’s not a completely unexpected move from Redivius: he has to act before the larger armies of the other Quartii get here, and he knows holding Caten will give him a stronghold with ample food stockpiles, legitimacy, plus—probably most importantly—access to the treasury, so that he can actually pay his men. And while Governance and Religion have endorsed Quartus Laurentius, it’s really only because his single legion was already in Caten, and as a bonus he’s been willing to negotiate. It won’t matter that Redivius’s name is on the list of traitors signed by his former Princeps. If he defeats Laurentius’s forces and takes Caten, the Senate will almost certainly choose to recognise him over the alternative.

“Wait. The docks? How are they getting there if the chain … oh.”

“Magnus Quintus Otho controls the chain across the harbour mouth,” confirms Baine. “And Redivius has a fleet at his disposal. The idea will be to have each ship manned by only one or two soldiers.”

I calculate. Will-powered ships are fast and all but silent: not a terrible plan for an invasion, if it wasn’t a feint. Good enough to draw most of Caten’s defensive forces to the harbour once the alarm goes up—which, with a waxing moon and probable cloud at this time of year, could be quite late. “I could make this work. I’ll tell the Senate that Eidhin is the one who let me know the plan, in exchange for sanctuary. We could arrange for him to—”

“You misunderstand.” Baine holds up a hand. “He is not intending to defect. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

We stare at each other, me caught off guard.

“He’s … intending to fight?” I ask it dubiously. Eidhin thinks very little of Redivius; evacuating to his camp would have been the right choice, but I can hardly see him being willing to give his life for the man.

“Redivius is sending the Cymrians. Any man who refuses to go will be executed and replaced. And if any are captured or defect—if their pyramids cannot cede to someone else useful—then those pyramids will be purged. To ensure they are not ‘used by the enemies of Caten,’ says Redivius.” Baine’s disgust is undisguised.

My shoulders slump as I understand. “And those pyramids are filled with your people. Eidhin’s people.”

“Yes.”

“Then what can I do?”

“You could defect. Go with Eidhin. His retreating would be justified, if he was bringing you with him.” He sees my expression and smiles slightly, evidently knowing it wasn’t an option. “Or, you can meet him at the docks. Talk to him. He will not fight you.”

I gaze at him, a gradually dawning horror at the impossible situation he’s asking me to put my friend in. “My being there won’t change anything. He believes in the ddram cyfraith. He’ll commit himself to dust, as you’d say, before sentencing others to it.”

Baine pauses, looking mildly impressed at my knowledge. “Maybe so. But he’ll have days before Redivius actually acts to purge his pyramid. Time enough to at least try to find a way to stop him. He won’t hear it from me because I have put his life above his wishes before. But he listens to you, Catenicus. You must convince him.” He exhales, and I see it, then. Weariness and desperation hiding behind that calm exterior. He doesn’t have some clever plan, and he doesn’t have alternatives. Just a father trying to save his son. “He is not saving them by dying. He is handing them to the next man to be used in just the same way—or if Redivius falls, maybe worse. Tell him that if he still believes in our ways, then their deaths in the service of his freedom are worth more than his death in the service of their continued imprisonment.”

I stare at the ground. Good, fine words. Maybe even true. Eidhin won’t believe they come from me for a second. “There’s no way you can get them out, once the attack begins?”

“No. I will be part of the main assault. Unless you choose to kill me here, of course.”

I almost choke. I don’t think it was a joke. “Eidhin might disapprove.” I rub my forehead. “Where will the main force strike?”

“Alta Semita. The housing for the Octavii and Septimii there.” He nods when he sees my expression. “Yes, Redivius knows. He has his spies.”

“That’s the middle of the city, though. Even with Laurentius’s legion spread thin, that’s not an easy target.”

“Redivius has full control of a Transvect, as well as the anchoring points at Agerus and Tolverium.”

I frown, picturing it. Tolverium’s in Lyceria. “That surely doesn’t run through Caten, though.”

“It used to be a little south. Redivius is repositioning the Tolverium anchor as we speak.”

Silence after that, for a while. My mind racing. I need to get this information to Ericius, and quickly. But I can’t tell him about Eidhin. This is war. My friend’s life won’t be allowed to enter the equation unless the Tertius thinks he will be an asset.

“How would I even find Eidhin?” I ask heavily. It’s an accession. I don’t know if I can stop my friend from dying. But I gods-damned well have to try.

Baine tosses me something. An armband with polished turquoise at its points, the silver finely worked into a tangled, endless knot. “He’ll wear this into battle. A symbol of our people.”

I nod. Memorise one of the stones carefully, then imbue it with a sliver of Will and hand the armband back.

“Alright,” I say quietly. “Tell me everything you know.”

WE SPEND THE NEXT HOUR IN DEEP DISCUSSION, AND for all my continued wariness of the man, Eidhin’s father presents himself as thoughtful, calm, and willing to freely share information. He reminds me more of his son than I expect, albeit a far more relaxed version. Not given to emotion, certainly, but less inclined to completely shun his feelings as he gives me everything he knows about Redivius and his plan. Numbers, timing. Targets. Tactics.

What he asks in implicit exchange, I gradually realise, is personal rather than strategic. For the most part, his careful interspersing questions revolve around Eidhin—his time in the Academy, his friendships and frustrations and successes. He glowers along with my description of our time under Praeceptor Dultatis. Unconsciously beams as I relate his impressive progress learning Common.

I am slow to reveal much, at first. Suspicious. But the more I speak, the more I see the eagerness Baine is trying to conceal. I feel it in his cautious chuckles at my explanation of our early interactions, or the way he emanates pride when I describe our efforts in the Labyrinth. There’s a greed there not for information, but for the heart behind it all. A desire simply to know his son better.

So I talk. Eidhin, perhaps, would not approve. But I miss my father every day. I will not be the one to stand in the way of a chance for them to make a better connection.

When I get to Callidus, Baine nods sadly, and not just because he hears the scars in my voice. “Eidhin took that hard, too,” he observes softly. “He was never an expressive boy, and I no longer expect his joy to be directed at me. But I have watched him, these past months. More than he realises. I don’t think he has smiled once.”

I think about it. Vek. “You’re right.” He hasn’t been overtly melancholy, but Eidhin is never overtly anything. And while it’s hardly surprising, he has felt … more grave, I suppose, since the Iudicium. Before, he would at least allow a grin now and then. Restrained when they came, but all the more bright for their rarity.

Perhaps because he emotes so little, Eidhin has always seemed a rock against the waves of grief and depression. But now, talking to his father, I wonder whether I have perhaps been paying too much attention to my own burdens, and not enough to my friend’s.

“He feels a sense of responsibility because he chose not to be in the Iudicium. Even though it was for the right reasons. Honourable reasons,” I say eventually.

“The hardest thing in the world, Catenicus. To regret what was right.” Baine sighs. “He sounds so much like his brother.”

I blink. “Brother?”

Baine pauses. Assesses me, then nods slowly. A thoughtful motion. More one of realisation within himself, than an acknowledgement of my surprise. “Cathair.” He says the name as though it might break. “Older than Eidhin by a few minutes. Returned to dust when the Republic attacked. Four years ago, now.”

My heart wrenches, for my friend and for the old, unhealed grief in Baine’s voice. “I didn’t know.”

“Do not take it as a slight. The fact that Eidhin has confided as much as he has in you …” Baine smiles sadly. Shakes his head. “We lost Cathair and then I was given a choice by the Hierarchy. I believe you know much of the rest.” He studies me with sad eyes. “My son has told you why he no longer speaks to me?”

I exhale. Nod. “He believes you betrayed ddram cyfraith. He says you preached your entire life about knowing the line you will not cross. And then in the end, you crossed yours.” I don’t put any accusation into the words.

Baine thinks sombrely.

“We do not stop learning when we get older,” he eventually tells me. “‘Know your line.’ It is good advice for a son. For a man, even. But for a father?” He leans forward. “To protect our sons, Catenicus, there is no line we will not cross.”

There is something about the way he says it. Sadness and fierce, unrelenting conviction. Though my father never said anything similar, I see him in that moment. I see the desperation and the determination.

I understand my friend’s pain, perhaps even more than I did before. But from what I know, what I have heard here, it is hard to fault Baine his decisions.

After that, we speak a little more about what may happen should Eidhin agree to stop fighting. Baine has several suggestions for ways to sneak him out of the city—including the sewers, which is how he got in tonight, apparently—and also where he might go after that to stay safe. He warns me, time and again, not to mention his involvement in any of it. Knowing Eidhin, I don’t argue.

Finally, though, as the late hours turn to early, we stand. Our conversation and bargaining done, our ideas spent.

I hold out my hand. “I hope we can speak again, after tomorrow.”

His smile is tight at the unsaid remainder as he clasps my wrist. He knows the information he’s given me will almost certainly spell defeat for the invasion, and that means there’s a good chance he won’t survive it. “I cannot change how fate weighs my son’s life, Catenicus. But I have at least tried to put my thumb on the scale. And if it means Caten does not fall to Redivius, then all the better. No matter my own destiny.”

We start walking to the door. “He is that bad?”

“He is a pitiless and calculating man. But then, so are most leaders in such times. Civil war is always about personal gain, no matter what the mob thinks as they die.” He pauses. Examines me. “A shame you do not have a command of your own, Catenicus. Men speak your name often. Many would follow if you declared yourself a contender. The Republic could use a leader trying to unite, rather than conquer.”

I snort, assuming he is joking, and it only fades to a more vague amusement when I realise he’s genuinely having the thought. “I am happy as I am, thank you.”

“The happy are never great, Catenicus. I know you are not Military, but your family is. You were Domitor and would have the support of Governance and Religion. Find a few skilled generals and a legion or two, and it is not as foolish as you think.” He claps me on the back. Understanding the impossibility of it, even as he’s being serious. “Perhaps not soon, but in a few years. Do not dismiss it out of hand. I do not know what shape the Republic will take when all of this is done, but it will need leaders made of better stuff than our current ones.”

We pass through the atrium—deserted, Kadmos presumably abed—and reach the entryway. Baine raises the hood of his cloak and steps out into the darkness of the empty street. The pulsing light of the Aurora Columnae touches the low clouds in the distance behind him.

“Catenicus.” I pause as I move to shut the door. “Eidhin trusts you, in a way I did not think he would ever be able to again. I protected my son, with what I did—but I broke him, too. And as much as I wish to lay the blame at the feet of the Republic, it was not their duty to keep him whole. It was mine.” He swallows. The admission hard. “That trust is a delicate thing, now, no matter how it might seem to you. As fragile as glass. If you break it, you break him all over again. Maybe forever, this time. I know I already ask the impossible, but I ask for one more miracle. Help him without betraying him. Save my son without destroying his desire to be saved.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. Nods.

Vanishes into the small hours of Caten’s glowering darkness.

LXVII

WE WALK IN SILENCE. ME STILL DAMP AND SHIVERING in the clammy winter morning’s air, Lir thoughtful as we’re shepherded by spears and glowering men up the green hill, away from the lake. No trace of Fornax in its mirrored surface. The druid keeps giving me sidelong glances. Curious. Uneasy.

My one comfort as we shuffle along is the bright pulse in my head. Close by, in the trees.

My father is watching.

We crest the hill and come to a halt. Several horses stand tethered in the makeshift camp. Gallchobhar, who went on ahead, has already taken a seat on a fallen tree and is watching past us, back down into the still valley.

“I remember my journey here.” He speaks absently as we are brought before him, gaze fixed on the motionless surface of the lake. He’s holding the engraved silver arm I returned with, the thing looking small and light in his hands. “The gafa and their bargain. Me choosing my spear. I was so proud, when I left Fornax. So confident that I was destined to be a Champion for the ages.” His gaze finally slides to us. Bitterness in his expression. “I thought that for fifteen years.”

When neither of us respond, he stands. Towering, even over the other muscular warriors under his command. “Why was he different, Druid?” He addresses Lir and points the silver arm at me. “Why did he receive this instead of a weapon, and why did the gafa follow him like that?”

“What befalls each of us in Fornax is not to be spoken of. You are nasceann. You know this.” Lir says it calmly, but I do not miss the meaningful glance he gives me. He doesn’t know either. And he’s warning me not to tell anyone.

I’m gathering the way I got out isn’t the way it usually happens for druids, then, either.

“And yet here I am. Speaking of it.” He tosses the metal arm into a nearby pack, and comes to stand in front of Lir. Slightly higher on the hill, making him loom even more than he normally would over the white-cloaked man. “I would know what makes him so special.”

Lir smiles tightly. “There are some things that are impossible to explain to men like you, Gallchobhar.”

Gallchobhar’s smile is slow. He finally looks over at me. “He tried to protect you, you know. Lied to me. Said you had already failed,” he chides, shaking his head as he gestures to Lir. “Can you believe that? One of the draoi. So high-and-mighty in their neutrality.” He spits the words.

Steps forward and with one smooth motion, drives his spear through Lir’s unprotected stomach.

I shout in fury and horror as the druid moans and sags, kept upright only by the men on either side of him holding his arms; I thrash against my own captors, roar for the massive man to stop, but it makes no difference. There is a manic light in Gallchobhar’s eyes. Something wild and feverish.

With a muffled groan, somehow, Lir manages to get his legs under himself again. The spear jutting from his stomach, bright blood soaking the white of his clothes. His eyes are black. He stares at Gallchobhar, meeting his gaze. In evident pain but unafraid. Proud and defiant as he holds his staff.

“Maybe you are right, Druid,” says Gallchobhar, his lips bared back into a rictus of a smile. “But then, there are some things men like me do not need to know.”

He rips the serrated spear from Lir’s flesh, eliciting a gargled scream from the man, before drawing his iron dagger, grabbing the druid by the hair, yanking his head back and slitting his throat.

I am light-headed with shock and rage, flail futilely against the hands keeping me at bay. Lir slumps to the ground, both light and dark fled from his eyes, his staff clattering away down the hill. Blood pulses onto the grass and is drunk by the dirt. Gallchobhar barely notices, stepping over the body and moving on to stop in front of me. Examining me with disdain.

“King Fiachra besieged Caer Áras two days ago. I half expect when we get there, your king’s head will already be on a pike.” Still examining me as if trying to find some great secret hidden somewhere on my person.

I barely hear him. Can’t take my eyes from Lir’s motionless form. He was draoi. Sacrosanct in a way I don’t think anyone in the Republic ever was. Even having witnessed Cian’s death previously, my mind can barely process the reality of it.

“So you are Fiachra’s man,” I eventually say bitterly.

“I am his Champion, once I deliver you.” He sounds angry again. “Ruarc knew you would be taken to Fornax, so Fiachra sent me to collect you. You are his price, and your death is Ruarc’s. One I am more than happy to pay, but still.” He walks up and stops directly in front of me. Face inches from mine, breath stinking of old mead and meat. Inviting me to struggle, to do something to provoke him. Even through my rage, I know better than to give him the satisfaction. Men like Gallchobhar thrive on such displays from their enemies. “No quiet grave for you, Leathf hear. You are to be sacrificed in Lake Áras upon our return. I would say …” He glances at the sun. “Dawn in two days?”

He produces what looks like a stone brooch, the pin on it impossibly thin and sharp-looking. Its body shows an intricate carving of the three joined whorls, same as on the entrance to Fornax.

“A gift from Ruarc,” he explains to the question in my eyes.

Then the man on my left is grabbing my chin with force, holding my head still despite my suddenly panicked efforts to shy away. Gallchobhar holds the brooch like a dagger. His eyes gleam.

He stabs the stone needle into the base of my neck, and all I can see is bright, quivering pain.

It’s not the wound that hurts worst, though it certainly does hurt. It’s my head. Like I’ve been in utter darkness and emerged into the midday sun, except my eyes cannot adjust and I cannot shut them. I moan as agony ricochets through my skull.

And I realise through it all that my father’s pulse, strong moments ago, has vanished. I cannot sense him. That small feeling of security, however false, however childish, is lost to me.

I’m jerked to my feet. Bound, and slung unceremoniously over horseback.

We start riding.

We travel hard and rest little, breaking only for a few hours in the evening before pressing on. Gallchobhar, for his part, largely ignores me. My legs stiffen and ache awfully from my uncomfortable positioning. The pounding of my head is unceasing.

The sounds of the siege reach us long before we see it.

It is night again as we draw close to Caer Áras. Cold and recently wet, the angry glow of fire highlighting low, racing clouds. The same wind that hurries them brings us the cacophony of battle. The guttural snarls and clashing of steel as warriors smash together. Screams and cries and moans cut frighteningly short. A hollow wail of death.

We crest the final rise and though I am weary, and sore, and shivering, I wrench my head up enough to take in what lies beyond.

The Caer is surrounded.

There must be five hundred warriors in the valley around the walls. More. Men naked to the waist, women with chests bound. All of them tattooed, hair spiked. Torches and campfires have turned the surrounding fields into a bright, bristling hell of armed men and women, encamped just out of bowshot. There are no siege weapons in Luceum, as far as I know, no catapults or trebuchets or the like. Half the camp is raucous with drinking and laughter.

The other half is in the midst of an assault upon the walls.

Warriors hurl spears to and from the barricades; they fling torches at the base which are hurriedly extinguished by defenders; they charge and try to use ladders to scale the spiked fortifications. Slings heave stones, and the twang of bows releasing whistling arrows fills the air between the screams of the injured and dying.

I watch as I am jolted closer. The weapons of war here are brutal but not destructive in the way the Catenans’ are; there are more injuries than deaths, and the casualties, while many, are likely not so drastic as to significantly deplete one side or another. At least at first glance, the entire thing feels like posturing. Fiachra cannot think that he is going to breach these walls like this, with these numbers. And the defenders surely realise that eventually, they will run out of food. For all the blood and screaming, it’s a stalemate.

Though, I suppose, I do not know what the Grove are capable of.

Heads are piked along the road to the gate, leering displays no doubt meant to taunt those behind the walls. My stomach churns as I squirm, try to make out features. I’m too far away. My imagination places my friends’ faces on each one.

“You see now, Leathf hear.” Gallchobhar has spotted my dismay. “And this is far from the entirety of Fiachra’s forces. Rónán may not yet be dead, but he was never going to win.”

We press downward and into the midst of the chaotic encampment. It smells of sweat and urine and blood as Gallchobhar rides proudly along, and warriors turn and watch as I’m carted, sack-like, along behind him. He is recognised by all, clearly. Not beloved, from the looks; these are Fiachra’s men, and no doubt they are still adjusting to seeing Rónán’s former Champion as their own. But no one moves to stop us.

“You. You are one of the chieftains?” Gallchobhar shouts to one man as we approach what seems to be the heart of the siege. When the stranger nods, torc glinting, Gallchobhar pulls up beside him. “Where is King Fiachra?”

“He has taken his personal warband to meet the Grove. Seems Rónán left a surprise for the druids up north.” The symbol-covered warrior smiles as if he finds the plight of his presumed allies more amusing than upsetting. Examines me with disdain, and, interestingly, Gallchobhar with not much less. “You are Rónán’s traitor?”

I can’t see Gallchobhar’s face, but he stiffens. “Watch your words, little one,” he growls. “I slew Mel ap Mor not three months ago. I am your Champion.”

The warrior waves his hand. “My apologies, Gallchobhar ap Drin. King Fiachra left word that if you were to return, to simply do as you had been instructed.”

Gallchobhar nods, apparently unconcerned by Fiachra’s absence. “As you say.”

Before I know what’s happening I’m being hauled down from the horse; my body is so stiff that I can barely stand as Gallchobhar ties a noose around my neck with a long length of rope. When he’s done, he tugs it experimentally and I jerk forward. Still bound, I cannot prevent the motion. Too much resistance and the noose will start restricting my airways.

Then Gallchobhar is striding, a leather sack now slung over his shoulder, and I am stumbling helplessly behind him.

It’s not long before I realise that we are heading for Caer Áras’s main gate. The defensive wooden platforms overlooking it are crowded, though wisely, the torches up there are few and it is hard to see faces. Less for the men armed with slings and arrows down here to aim at.

Gallchobhar drags me along the main road, lit by fires on either side. Pulling me behind him as if I am a stubborn animal on a lead. He says nothing, neither once glancing back, nor up toward the Caer.

Then he stops. There has been a lull in the assault over the past few minutes, both sides catching their breaths and tending the wounded. Gallchobhar’s massive form commands the eyes of everyone in the area as he finally raises his head toward the gate.

“Do you remember Leathfhear, Rónán?” He bellows it as he yanks me forward, bringing me to my knees at his side, though there is no indication the king is actually up there. “One of your elite warriors from Loch Traenala.” Laughter at that, from nearby. “A man who was sent to become nasceann, but instead tried to return with a lie.”

He rummages in the sack he’s been carrying, then holds aloft the silver arm. The laughter slowly dies. Replaced by darker, far more uneasy looks. If Lir had been here to confirm I got it from Fornax, it would have been seen as greatly auspicious. Without him, with only Gallchobhar’s accusation, it will be viewed as nothing less than a deceitful profanity.

Gallchobhar carefully uses the rope around my neck to attach the silver limb by its wrist. Reddish-brown smears mar its surface. The weight drags down the noose, threatens to do the same to me. My neck strains, already painful from the stone brooch stabbed into it; I keep myself as straight as possible, placing the weight on my shoulders, but Gallchobhar’s constant tugging me forward keeps making it slip.

“Oh.” He dips again into the sack. “And your friend, the draoi? The one who would have helped with this man’s falsehood?”

He brandishes the staff and Lir’s head, holding the latter by the hair, showing them both clearly in the light of the fires.

Howls of outrage from the walls, now, a hail of arrows falling well short as he smiles broadly. Goading them, and for a few moments I wonder if he might succeed. But the arrows stop, the shouts ease, and the gate remains closed.

“Now,” roars Gallchobhar, turning back to Fiachra’s gathered forces. “Let us show King Rónán what we think of one of his best!”

We begin to walk.

I do not know how long it goes on for. Men and women line the way, and they hurl rotten food and faeces and stones at me. I become covered in refuse and bruises. The weight of the bloodied silver arm tears at my neck. And still I am not allowed to stop, to collapse. I am dragged relentlessly forward through the gauntlet of howls and muck. Watched by silent eyes from the walls above.

Eventually, finally, it ends; whether because of some signal or because we are simply too far from the Caer’s view for it to matter, I don’t know. But there are men dumping buckets of water over me, washing the worst of the filth from my hair and eyes, erasing the last of Lir’s blood from the silver around my neck. And then I am being dragged into a small tent, Gallchobhar setting a guard at the entrance. Bound and injured as I am, there’s little I can do to resist.

So I lie there. Beaten, frozen, exhausting pain still ricocheting through my head. The sounds of laughter and drinking and war outside, shadows making grim silhouettes on my tent walls against the orange of the flames beyond.

And all I can do is await the dawn.

LXVIII

CATEN BURNS.

The gaping wounds of the city seep rubble and smoke around me, the snapping of sporadic fires a counterpoint to the anxious silence that creeps along every street and alleyway of the suppurated heart of the Republic. Alta Semita, with its stone structures, still retains some memory of its former self in the layout of streets, if not their ethos. Ahead, though—Aquilae District—at least one in five buildings are no longer. More, probably. The docks beyond are a carcass. The great Will-based machines there mute and still. And the predawn clouds above Praedium say the fires have not yet been controlled in the west, either. Governance’s fire brigades have been stretched too thin. Even here, still some distance away, the air is a sick haze of charred homes and charred flesh.

I press on, not seeing anyone for minutes at a time and then when I do, only in the distance, people dashing away, recognising that anyone walking alone is either too powerful or too broken to risk passing. Tens of thousands of Octavii and Septimii were trapped here in the initial madness of the Festival of Pletuna, hiding in their homes until the worst of the fighting was done. Three days later, with the city’s borders sealed, Governance and Religion began distributing the Proscriptions. Massive lists of names they drew from the Census of people living in Caten, and whose Will was going toward Military pyramids no longer sanctioned by the Senate. For anyone on those lists, Birthright was revoked. Along with the public proclamation that if you handed in the head of someone on such a list, their property and possessions became yours.

It took one more day for Caten to become a slaughterhouse.

Diago pads through the leaden morning behind me, ever watchful. The blaze on the horizon is mirrored in his eyes as he tests the air. In the ten days since the Proscriptions, we have been attacked in broad daylight three times. The first by a Military Quintus whose hiding place I simply stumbled across. I was lucky to escape. The last two times have been by opportunistic looters. Too blinded by greed and lust and rage to recognise who I am until far, far too late.

My alupi did his job, and not once were there survivors.

The shattered remains of the Forum, when we reach it, bristle with Sextii despite the early hour. Cloaked in either green or blue, but none are out of uniform and those two colours are very clearly not mixing. The southern side where I enter is watched by Governance, and I receive an acknowledging nod as I pass through the initial cordon. As one of Tertius Ericius’s officers, my days have been a strange mix of running messages and participating in strategy sessions. But I’m here most of the time. I’m recognised by even the Tertii now.

I skirt the rubble that still covers much of the formerly pristine space, picking my way through ruined buildings to the Temple of Jovan, one of the few structures functionally intact after the chaos of the festival night. Climb the stairs and am admitted, the guards at the door eyeing a trailing Diago nervously but making no move to stop him from entering with me.

“Catenicus!” Livia’s the first to spot me. Stops her note-taking and jogs over, voice pitched to a conspiratorial whisper so as to not interfere with the intent discussions on the other side of the room, where a dozen or so people cluster around a table. “They almost caught him last night.”

“The masked man?”

“They’re calling him Carnifex,” she confides with a confirming nod.

“I heard. And, I heard. It was in Alta Semita, apparently. Close enough that the Quintus looking for him dragged me out of a bath to make sure he hadn’t snuck into my house.” I pitch my tone between amused and irritated.

Livia’s eyes widen, but before she can ask more, her father’s voice booms across the room. “Catenicus! Finally. Come.”

Livia rolls her eyes at the interruption, unseen by those at the table. “They’re going to refuse to start without you, one day. War or not.”

“As it should be.” Callidus’s sister has been far more amiable, friendly even, over the past couple of weeks. I give her a quick grin and join the group on the far side of the massive space, who are ignoring the general bustle of activity around them. A mix of Quartii, Tertii, and their most trusted retainers; the Dimidii and Princeps are rarely seen here, having created separate headquarters in Alta Semita and Praedium. A perfect encapsulation of the city, right now. Governance and Religion theoretically working together, but each district is under clear control of one or the other. United, except not trusting each other enough to risk a meeting of their most powerful members.

A few of the senators note my approach with accepting enough acknowledgements, even if their glances at Diago are far less comfortable. It’s my peers from the Academy who provide the friendliest looks. Aequa smiles, genuinely happy to see me. Marcellus and Felix, standing to either side of Magnus Quartus Aelius, a dark-skinned Jatierren, nod to my arrival. Marcellus once again wearing his tinted glasses despite the dim, an affectation I find especially annoying on him.

And then there’s Indol, here working for Tertius Decimus. Eyes and cheeks hollow as he slaps me on the back when I come to stand beside him. Lack of sleep painfully evident. Truth struggling against loss, neither allowing the other any measure of rest.

I smile a greeting that contains no trace of the crushing guilt I feel every time I see him.

Iro’s father himself is among the group, too, as he has been most of this week. Today, to my surprise, he nods to my inclusion with surprising civility.

I give a cautious response in kind. The man has pointedly ignored me thus far when we’ve both been here. Perhaps Iro’s health is finally improving. Or perhaps the spectre of what is to come has finally become enough for him to put aside our differences.

“I hear you got a visit last night, Catenicus.” Quartus Iovita doesn’t look up. Military, and the sole woman among this group. Also one of the more formidable of it. “I hope it was no inconvenience.”

“Not at all. Tanrius was pleasant and professional. He seemed to feel he was quite close to catching Carnifex, too. Did he?” Iovita shakes her head, and I grimace. Tempted to press on with my questioning, but everyone here is curious, and most of Governance and Religion are still displeased that Military have taken point on finding him. Someone’s going to ask.

“Does he have any leads, at least?” Quartus Aelius rewards my patience almost immediately.

“He is getting closer.”

“So, no.”

Iovita finally raises her head, meeting Aelius’s gaze calmly. It is Aelius who looks away first.

“Catenicus. We’ve just had a report of Corenius moving his legions south. Here.” Ericius commands my attention, pointing to a marker on the massive map pinned to the table. “He’s still at least a week away from Caten without a Transvect. You were close with his daughter. Any insights?”

I peer at the positioning. Northern Masen. Clear lines, supplies and plenty of high ground. “He’s a cautious man. And he won’t be desperate to take Caten. He has a lot of support out in the provinces, and already controls two Aurora Columnae.” I don’t hesitate, though it feels a betrayal. I need these men to trust me. “If I had to guess, I don’t think he’s marching on us. Not yet. I’d say he’s just relocating. Strengthening his position and waiting to see how the others proceed, before making a move.”

“Agreed,” says Quartus Laurentius—ratified by the Senate as the next Princeps, technically, though given their price was his committing all of his Will to the defenses, few in the room treat him as such—as some around the table nod, while others look annoyed. I’m only a Quintus and my voice isn’t one that will sway these men, but my reputation, and Ericius’s confidence, has afforded my opinion some respect in these meetings.

As, to be fair, has my ongoing flow of accurate information.

“Any word from your source, Catenicus?” prompts Tertius Faustus, the first to voice the inevitable. Ostius’s information over the past two weeks has been plentiful and verifiably accurate, and has saved us from several martial missteps. Though I’d like to think my contributions to these discussions have mattered, in reality it’s the intelligence I’m getting that has given me regular access to this group.

Ostius’s intent, no doubt. Positioning me again, even as he’s helping me. I feel his medallion sitting against my chest, ever-present. Every move a way to further his own agenda.

“Yes.” I tell them about the plans Baine revealed to me. Redivius’s intended feint at the docks, and then his use of the rerouted Transvect. Ostius’s previous reports have given me both credibility, and an easy excuse for having the information in the first place.

I say nothing of Eidhin. As soon as I start to want anything, it will be seen as weakness. Or perhaps evidence of my being manipulated.

When I’m done, there’s a grim silence.

“This is more significant than anything else your source has given us,” observes Tertius Kanifer, an olive-skinned Nyripkian man from Religion. “I would once again very much like to know who you are communicating with.”

“As would I,” says Magnus Quartus Claudius, his high-pitched voice cutting across the group. Aequa’s father has been broadly supportive of me, but I think he’s also been mildly displeased that I’m invited here more often than his daughter.

“For all we know, all the previous information has just been to set us up. Get us to commit to the wrong position when the real attack comes,” agrees Laurentius quietly. “We only have the one legion.”

I nod, sympathising with his reservations, at least. I’ve already assumed that the information I’m getting from Ostius is being carefully doled out, used to nudge events in a particular direction. But whatever inferences I can make from that have not yet been enough to form a clear picture of what he really wants.

“I’ve said this from the start. I am confident in the information, but I cannot tell you where I got it. I will not.” I meet their gazes. Once, I would have been terrified of this group. Would have inwardly trembled at their mere proximity. But that time has long passed. I have spent months working around them and for them. Observing and learning. They are just men. Not even particularly smart men, in many cases. Grasping and charismatic, ruthless and quick with words, but here thanks more to their bloodlines than intellect. “I understand your concerns, but the fewer people who know, the safer my contact will be.”

Dissatisfaction, but a grumbling acceptance that indicates the answer’s expected. Most of them think I must be using this information for my own advantage, to advance myself. That’s fine. It’s what they would do. It’s something they understand, even if they don’t like it.

I suspect a few of them still worry I might be working for Military because of my adoptive father, too, but the information I’ve passed on has disadvantaged Magnus Quartus Servius’s camp as much as anyone. I have to assume that’s where Ulciscor is: he’s in the man’s pyramid, after all. But I’ve had no word from him since the festival.

The conversation moves rapidly on. First to the defences; men and women are sent running with instructions over the next half hour as plans are made. After that, a lot of the discussion centres around long-term supply lines as much as the attack tonight; the evacuation of the legions by the various Quartii pretenders is beginning to show signs of destabilising the provinces, and food in Caten is going to start running very short, very quickly. Rationing is already in place, but the argument revolves around whether it needs to be more strict.

The overwhelming disaster of it all hits home anew as I listen grimly. The price of the Republic’s constant expansion, the internally fragile patchwork of dependencies that have built up to allow for it, never more evident than now. It’s just as my old tutor Iniguez said, all those years ago. The Hierarchy is a monster that has to feed to survive. And inevitably, once it has eaten everything else, all that is left to consume is itself.

Five years ago, a naïve young prince of Suus wanted this.

I stay for a while, Diago at my feet. Contributing when I can, though the bulk of the decision-making comes from the Tertii. Everything they propose seems sound, but I can never quite shake the knowledge that our numbers are too low and that aside from Laurentius, these men are far more political strategists than military ones. Those who do excel at command are, unfortunately, naturally on the sides we find ourselves facing. The only reason we haven’t yet been annihilated is that our enemies see one another as more of a threat than us.

Twice, I catch Decimus watching me silently. Expressionless. I uncomfortably ignore him and, when the meeting finally breaks, draw Ericius quickly aside.

“I would like to be in the group that defends the docks.”

“You know we can’t risk you,” he says, not looking up from the wax tablet he’s reading. “Both because of this information you’ve been getting, but also because you’re too much a symbol. The others won’t admit it, but with these fools out there breaking a century of tradition and raising their own pyramids, we need the loyalty of the Octavii and Septimii more than ever. Losing you would be a serious blow to that.” He grunts, finally glancing up at me. “And I suppose I would personally prefer it if you didn’t die, too.”

I grin. I don’t entirely trust Callidus’s father, but I don’t dislike him. “Thanks. I can be careful, though.” I motion to Diago, who is sitting at my side.

He studies the alupi, then me. “Redivius’s Cymrians,” he says suddenly. “Yours and Callidus’s friend will be with them.”

“Eidhin. Yes, I think so.”

He sighs. “What’s your plan?”

“Redivius is on the Iudicium list. Eidhin will take any chance he can get to turn,” I lie. “If I can talk to him, I can get him to defect. Maybe even spy for us.”

Ericius taps a finger against the tablet. “Alright.” He throws a glance at the other senators, most of them still huddled in tight clusters around the main table. Understands immediately why I didn’t bring this up with the larger group. “I can’t get you a command, but I’ll make sure the right people know you’re allowed to be there.”

“Thank you.” That’s all I was hoping for; the last thing I wanted was to try and find Eidhin while dodging my own side. “Anything else you need me for, right now?”

“Not unless you can conjure a legion or two.” The Censor says it lightly but there’s grim truth behind the joke. Knowing about the attack tonight should give us an advantage, but there will be losses, and those are something we cannot afford. Without more soldiers, we’re eventually going to be overwhelmed by one Military Quartii or another. “Go. I know you and your friends like to debrief among yourselves after these meetings. After that, find Faustus. He needs another set of eyes on logistics.”

I accept the handing off of my services without complaint. In war, you go where you’re most needed. “As you say, Tertius. If I don’t see you before tonight …”

Ericius nods solemnly. Clasps my wrist. “Stronger together, Catenicus.”

I FIND MY ACADEMY PEERS IN A SIDE ROOM ONCE REserved for the priests to prepare animal sacrifices. Its east-facing windows provide a view mainly of rubble and beyond, a dark cloud over Aquilae District, which was worst hit in the initial riots. Even the looters have largely abandoned its smouldering remains.

I ignore it as best I can. I’ve helped set off events that I have no control over anymore; I’m adrift on a river of violence, facing a broken dam that I can never build back. I barely notice the horror of the destruction this time. It’s a familiar backdrop, now.

“Anything new?” I ask it briskly as I sit between Aequa and Felix, opposite Indol and Marcellus. No time for niceties, these days. One of us will inevitably be summoned in a few minutes.

Indol leans forward and pushes a single sheet of paper across the table. “They caught Magnus Quintus Blasius yesterday evening.” He nods seriously as my gaze turns sharp. “He was hiding in Aquilae. Took out a dozen of Laurentius’s men, but they got him.”

“Rotting gods. How have I not heard—”

“Laurentius asked Decimus to keep it quiet. Not secret,” he emphasises, “and someone from Governance surely knows too. But that list is everywhere. He doesn’t want a riot for the man’s head.”

I exhale. One of a half dozen names on the list still alive. “Any way you can get to him? Or at least find out what he’s said?” I don’t bother asking access for myself: we’ve been meeting like this less for friendship’s sake, and more to ensure that the men named by Military’s dead leadership aren’t overlooked in the chaos of war. Don’t quietly get the opportunity to make deals to save their own skins, or have their crimes absolved by distraction.

Indol shakes his head. “Laurentius doesn’t trust me any more than he does you. I don’t even know where he’s being held.”

I grunt, nodding acceptance to the observation. Both of us are effectively defectors from Military, with Military fathers who would have opposed Laurentius’s claim for Princeps. Hard to blame the man for his suspicions.

“I might be able to find out where he is.” Marcellus’s announcement draws dubious gazes from the rest of us, and I catch my own weary reflection in his tinted glasses as he cringes a little beneath them. His actions during the Iudicium didn’t endear him to any of us, and he knows it. Still, he’s always had charisma and has advanced rapidly through Religion. He’s well placed to hear things, and as such, it makes sense that he’s here.

“How?”

“Tertius Kanifer is in charge of the prisons on our side of the city. They wouldn’t risk holding Blasius anywhere without a Sapper.”

I grunt as Indol and Aequa both nod. Marcellus is Kanifer’s attendant, and he’s right—if they’ve captured a Quintus, there aren’t many places to keep him. “If you get a location, let us know.”

Silence, and then, “To do what?” It’s Aequa asking the pensive question.

I glance around at the others before answering. Assessing. The others want justice, or maybe just revenge. And I do too, but there’s extra motivation for me. Likely another reason Ostius gave me the list, other than just to sow chaos and “reward” me.

I have no idea how much the surviving Military collaborators know about the Anguis. Whether one of them may be aware of Relucia.

And knowing of the Military facility at the Necropolis, now, I simply cannot risk her being exposed.

“Just to keep track of him, for now. Make sure he’s not being given any deals. Maybe find out any information he’s given up.” No suggestion of doing anything the senators would disapprove of. Indol and the others might have been willing, two weeks ago. Not now. Their world has changed forever, and they’re surviving only on the idea that the people in charge actually know what’s best.

“Let us know, Marcellus,” agrees Indol quietly.

Marcellus nods. A reluctant motion, but he makes it nonetheless.

I stand, assuming our usual short exchange of information is at an end.

“Something else you should know, Vis.” Indol again. His expression is so grim that for a second, I wonder if he’s found out something about me. “I had a list of inmates in South Caten Prison pass through my hands a couple of days ago.”

I frown. Turn back to him. “Alright.”

“Lanistia Scipio was on it.”

No one says anything as I process the news. My emotions twisting from confusion to concern to anger. This has been kept from me. “In a Sapper?”

“It didn’t say.”

Vek. The plan to free her on the night of the festival must have failed. I should have taken the time to check. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I let a sliver of ire into my tone.

“Because it’s in Aquilae, and I know you.” He gestures apologetically. “The last thing Caten needs is Catenicus lighting fires.”

I grimace. Aquilae is Religion-controlled territory. I take a breath, mind racing. He’s right. So why tell me now? What’s changed?

My heart stops.

“The attack.” I say it with slow trepidation.

Indol nods. Pained. “Most of those Sappers are flowing to Military. You know how they work?”

I nod, dread building. A Sapper forces ceding to a particular person and—aside from all of the prisoner’s Will being given, rather than just half—that works exactly like any other ceding. Freeing someone from their Sapper does mean they go back to ceding only half their Will, but the link itself cannot be broken without it being relinquished by whoever’s on the receiving end.

Or by death.

“The plan is to wait until there’s an attack underway,” finishes Indol grimly.

Aequa’s been following the conversation, turning increasingly flushed as she understands. “That’s barbaric.”

“A cruel war is quickly over,” quotes Marcellus, adjusting his glasses.

“What about Birthright?”

“I don’t think Birthright exists anymore.” I close my eyes. Smart, as awful as it is. There are thousands in those Sappers across the city, and most of them are ceding to Military. Cutting off the flow of Will at the right moment could be an enormous advantage.

I feel the bruises and bandaged wound beneath my toga. Kadmos’s tea lets me ignore it all in movement, though. And I did get more sleep last night than I often do, these days, even after Baine’s visit.

I would have liked some extra rest before going to find Eidhin, but I’ll manage.

“Thanks for letting me know.” I give him a genuinely appreciative nod. “Tertius Faustus needs me. I should find him.”

“I’ll walk with you.” Aequa’s been watching my face intently.

Indol and Marcellus bid their farewells, and we walk out. Aequa’s silence only lasts just past the door, to check we’re alone. “I’m coming with you.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

She punches my arm. Hard.

“Ow.” I haven’t decided whether I can afford to go in as Carnifex—probably not, given that Indol would immediately make the connection now—but I at least need the option. Aequa being around will make my task harder. “No.”

“Yes. I’m a Quintus too, and I know people you don’t. I can get us in.” She eyes Diago. “Without making a scene.”

“Then get me in. There are going to be consequences, after. There’s no need for you to get caught up in them.”

“If you’re right about tonight, nobody’s going to care tomorrow morning.” She smiles sunnily. An expression she often uses to indicate there’s no moving her.

“Gods. Fine.” I snort a relenting laugh. “Thanks,” I add, more sincerely.

“Of course.”

“Speaking of tonight,” I add, smile fading. “I could use your company then, too.”

I tell her about Eidhin, about his father’s visit, as we walk the hallways. There’s bustle everywhere, people talking urgently in hushed tones. Many of the senators are back around the table, gesticulating at the map. Aequa ignores it all and listens with her familiar, unspeaking intensity.

Except for the circumstances surrounding my being Carnifex, I don’t leave anything out. “I’ll be there” is all she says when I’m done, and I realise with a warm glow that I never expected anything else.

We meander and talk a little further, but eventually find our way to the entrance; Tertius Faustus will be expecting me, and I know Aequa has things she needs to do too. “Dusk?” We’ve agreed it’s the best time for it. Late enough that at least some of the prison guards will have been drawn away for the defence of the city, but early enough that we can still get to Eidhin after.

“Dusk,” Aequa confirms. She hesitates. “Oh. And before you go … I hear Emissa’s alright.”

I miss a step, then glance across. “Really?”

She gives a wan smile. “Report on Corenius’s camp came in yesterday. She’s been spotted there.”

I exhale. I’ve tried not to think about it too much, but I’ve been assuming Emissa is with her father. Hoping. She would be a valuable hostage for any of the other Military pretenders. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” I can see there’s more, so I wait. She examines me. “We’re probably going to end up fighting her.”

“I know.”

“Do you still love her?”

I blink. Uncertain as I interrogate the question. Most other people and it would be too forward, far too personal for me to even consider answering. But Aequa and I have been through the naumachia and the Iudicium and more together. Aside from Eidhin, she knows me better than anyone.

“Can you really love someone you don’t completely trust?” I ask eventually. The same question I’ve asked myself too many times, since the Academy.

She considers. Nods slowly, and squeezes my arm in farewell.

“See you tonight, Vis.”

LXIX

ALL IS SILENT AND STILL AS I CRAWL, STINGING AND burned and naked, into the vast darkness of Qabr. I drag myself unsteadily to my feet once through the tunnel, ignoring the cuts on my knees and instead scrubbing at my arms madly, finally able to properly address the blistering itch again. I used sand, initially, to try and scour myself of the toxic water once I finally emerged, rasping and spewing, from the nightmare of the drainage system and into the desolate delta of the Infernis. Barely had the strength to find the surface and drag myself to shore. It was fortune alone that the moon was already out in the young night, and that the sky was cloudless. Without that faint silver to guide me upward, I may well have flailed in the noxious muck until I succumbed.

I gaze around now, eyes adjusting enough to see by the faint light that leaks through the crevices above. Wary and tense. I have already desperately buried myself twice to hide from Gleaners on the journey here; whether they are patrolling more frequently or I have simply been unlucky, I do not know. Sand still coats the inside of my mouth, scratches at my eyeballs. A minor discomfort next to my lack of clothing, which eventually sloughed away like rotting skin as it yielded to the acidic waters. I am beyond thirst and beyond hunger, barely able to focus for more than brief periods. My legs ache awfully and I would have fallen a thousand times over if it were not for the scarabs still embedded deep beneath my skin.

No sign of Gleaners, here and now, but I still have to be cautious: not having left a watch on this place doesn’t mean they won’t patrol it. For the moment, though, it seems I can move in relative safety.

I need water before anything else. I make for the garden.

As I stumble past the familiar dark maws and gilded glyphs, some distant part of me realises how strange it is to feel truly alone again. The stretch of stone ground where the Qabrans were laid out is bare, only a faint, ugly darker stain to mark what occurred six months ago. None survived, none still lurk here, of that much I am certain. And if Caeror did avoid capture, he will not risk returning. Which means that—discounting the times I was actively either running or hiding—this is the first I have been entirely without the company of others in … I don’t know when. Possibly the first time in this world.

My thoughts drift briefly to Ahmose as I struggle my way up the stairs to the garden’s entrance. My heart aches for what he was driven to do, and yet I find myself again probing my own sadness. The man was already dead. Should that matter? I didn’t know him when he was alive and I am not sure we would ever have become friends, if I had. But we were friends, in the end.

Not really something I thought about, when he was here. I suppose maybe my answer lies in that.

I finally reach the obsidian door and touch the symbols for entry, barely able to stand as the stone folds away.

“Oh, vek,” is all I have the energy to mutter.

I start in at a slow, dismayed stumble, collapsing to my knees among the brown plants. Dying but not completely dead, on closer inspection. A few bits look edible, and I carefully snap them off and stuff them in my mouth. My hunger easily overcomes their bitterness, and I chew and swallow gratefully.

After taking some breaths to recover, I start my examination of the garden. Its failure is not deliberate, not some act of sabotage as far as I can tell. Instead, it seems its supply of water has simply dwindled to the point that the plants were unable to survive.

Which is a problem, because while I’ve eked a little moisture, I am still desperately in need of a drink.

I head for the well, leaning down and scooping my hand through the soil as I go, searching for any trace of dampness. The dirt seems darker to me as I let it crumble through my fingers, but there’s no hint of what I need. Some trees along the way are wilting but remain intact, and I pause to salvage what fruit I can, careful to save any juices that threaten to flow from the corners of my mouth. The Gleaners somehow got past the door, but it seems they didn’t destroy everything. Just what might have allowed a community to thrive down here. Following orders. Chasing efficiency, I suppose, not hatred.

My mind, so intent on simply getting here up until this point, races. What could have stopped the water from flowing? I asked Caeror where it came from, once, and he admitted he didn’t know. He’d assumed that it was some deep underground aquifer that had remained untainted.

I think of the “clean” water in Duat. I think of how it tasted the same as it did here.

Vek.

My fears increase as I pull up a far too light bucket from the pitch of the well; there is an inch of moisture in its bottom and I gulp it greedily, firmly refusing to think about its possible source. The drink is enough for my head to clear; I drop the bucket and I think I hear an echoing splash as it hits the bottom, but when I draw it again, only a few drops sit inside.

I stare into it grimly. This isn’t enough. I need more to recover my strength, and to rinse the toxins from my body, and to fill a waterskin before I undertake the journey back to Duat. The Vitaeria beneath my skin can take me only so far.

With a sigh, I estimate the length of the chain and then test its strength. It should easily hold my weight.

I unhook the bucket, wrap the links several times around my waist, and begin lowering myself into the black.

The well is barely a few feet across, and my shoulders brush the stone sides as I descend, already exhausted muscles straining. Complete darkness comes quickly, the warm lights of the garden consumed by the stone surrounding me. Soon my only point of reference is a bright dot far above, though I have the vaguest sense that the space around me is opening out.

Then the hint of a splash as my bare feet touch a veneer of liquid over rock.

I drop to my knees and scoop up water into my mouth, trusting that any poisonous residue washing from my skin won’t be enough to taint it. After that, I sit in the pool—more of a puddle, less than an inch deep—and carefully scrub myself. Almost weep in relief as the cool liquid removes the last of the burning from my skin. I splash my face and close my eyes without pain. Rest my head against stone. It has been more than a day since I was in the Infernis.

I allow myself several minutes to revel in the complete, soothing lack of unpleasant sensation, then force a breath and begin feeling my way around the pitch-black. I was right; the walls here have tapered outward, and the space I’m in is closer to ten feet across now.

It doesn’t take me long to find what seems to be a tunnel entrance.

It’s as dark as everything else down here, and not large—a cylinder only a few feet across, sloping gently upward—but it’s the only opening I can find, so I grit my teeth and start along it. Slowly, slowly feeling my way. The stone beneath my hands and knees is slick with damp and the slope means I slip more often than I would like, but it rarely sets me back far. I scrape my head a few times as the way twists ahead, but to my relief it does not get smaller.

There’s a smell, after a while. Rancid, sickly sweet, clogging my nostrils. I do my best not to breathe it in, but it only gets thicker as I proceed.

And then, light ahead.

Gaze fixed, I crawl eagerly toward it. It’s dim, not like the light from the garden. Broken by a bronze grate. Finally I reach it and pause, caution chastising me to inspect what’s ahead before simply pushing it open.

Bile rises in my throat.

Bodies. A dozen that I can see from my darkness in the wall, broken and dismembered and rotting where they lie on stone slabs. Dried blood coats every surface I can see. Pipes, like those I saw in Duat, sprout from distended and decomposing stomachs.

There is no movement. I observe in frozen, nauseous horror for almost a minute before finally pushing the grate aside—relieved to find that it’s not fixed to the wall—and then reluctantly climbing from the tunnel.

The stench hits like a physical force when I stand, and I choke, almost heave up liquid I cannot afford to lose. I’m in a cavern, lit like the rest of Qabr by narrow crevices high above. There are tens of bodies stretching away from me. Dark, misshapen forms, each one with the pipes that jut from a now eroded stomach. It’s the same setup as the room from beneath Duat. Dual channels; one side still trickles liquid and though they are not colour-coded, I can taste the burn of extra acid in the air.

I wait until my stomach settles a little, then walk closer. I am here now. I may as well understand what in the gods-damned hell this horror actually means.

I frown as I check the first body. Its lower arms are missing, both ending in stumps at the elbow. So are the next man’s, and then the woman’s along from him. Not dissolved, the way the gaping stomach wounds are, but sliced cleanly.

These were Gleaners.

The realisation makes the butchery no more tolerable, but it does raise a hundred more questions. Was this Ka, or the Qabrans? If the latter, then how? When? I can see suppurating wounds in the chests of every body; I assume the Gleaners’ blades were used to keep them under control. Their counterparts from Duat must have taken the weapons when they did this.

I do my best to replay my conversation about the water source with Caeror, but it is a distant and hazy thing, too far removed for clarity. Still. I remember no hesitation when I asked, and I see no reason he would have kept this from me if he’d known. And even if he was trying to protect me from the knowledge—what does it matter now? Vek. This world has been at war for thousands of years. Perhaps the repurposed Gleaners had been here as long as the iunctii beneath Duat. The Qabrans themselves may not have known of their existence.

I move on but eventually, the bodies blur into one. They bear the same marks, the same poses, the same injuries. The stench is overpowering. The room stretches on. I will not find answers here.

But I still need to fill my waterskin, and to drink my fill before leaving. And the only remaining safe liquid outside of Duat is pooled in these gutters.

My feet unwillingly drag me step-by-step. I drop to my knees beside a puddle and, hands shaking, scoop and drink before I can think about it.

It tastes the same as it ever did. It doesn’t help. My already tender stomach threatens to bring it back up but I refuse to let it, and my body’s need eventually beats the queasiness. I give a little sob and then take another mouthful. Easier, this time. Disgusting but it’s not going to make me sick. I know from long experience that sometimes to survive, that is all you can ask.

I finish and then stand, a little shaky, but more from revulsion than weakness now. My mind is clearing. I fill my waterskin. It will be enough to get me back to Duat.

When I am done I return to the drain, the only exit I can find. Leave the dimly lit slaughter behind.

This, unfortunately, was the easy part. Now I have to do what I actually came here to do.

My dread only builds as I crawl into the darkness.

LXX

THE HOLLOW WEIGHT OF QABR’S THOUSAND ROOMS presses against me as I ransack them for anything that might be useful.

I search with methodical purpose, glad to have at least now found clothing enough to protect me from the oncoming chill of night. Every new space I enter, I find myself scanning in trepidation for a body. A sign that Caeror didn’t make it. But there is, to my still-tempered hope, no trace of my friend. This section of the catacombs was where we parted, and the one in which most of the Qabrans lived—close to the gardens, far enough from the entrance to be able to conceal themselves if need be—but I wasn’t here enough to know which tombs were being used as quarters. And as was the purpose, unfortunately, there is no obvious way to tell.

But in the rooms which were evidently occupied, I have found a few helpful things secreted away. Clothes. A keenly bladed stone knife with a leather sheath, which I’ve tucked into my new belt. A couple of half-full waterskins, too, though I decide these are to be for emergencies only. I have no idea whether their contents will still be safe to drink after so many months, particularly given their source.

It feels doubly uncomfortable, pawing through the personal belongings of the people I watched die. At one point I think I’ve found a better-quality tunic, only to discover that it’s far too small. I replace it gently. There were few children down here, and the only one I remember who this would fit was Nofret.

I look around the shadowy room sadly. An awful place to live for anyone, but surely a nightmare for a child. Bleak and dark and barren, the only excitement being the terrifying spectre of the Gleaners and all they entail. I’m reminded again of the girl’s desperation in not wanting me to open the mutalis door, and suddenly I find myself searching the space with extra care. As if, somewhere in here, she has hidden a legitimate reason for me to abandon my plan.

After a few minutes, though, I shake myself from the process. I found the clothes I needed an hour ago. The light outside is vanishing.

I clench my fists, leave, and start back toward the garden along the increasingly dim crevasse.

Though it’s been several months, my memory of how to get to the golden door is uncomfortably clear. I light the torch at the entrance to the narrow tunnel system, grateful for its flickering defence against the rapidly encroaching night. Press through long dark corridors of stone and obsidian and then stone again. Only a few turns, only a few minutes. My still-sore legs and leaden feet make it feel forever.

Long before I can see the end, I hear it.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles as I feel the rhythmic pulse in my bones. Steps slowing, despite myself. I came here so many times before the Gleaner attack. Inoculating myself. And in some ways, it has worked. I’m not going to run. I have control. Especially now I am certain, after Duat, that contact with the terrible power won’t destroy me.

Still, this is far worse than that escape into the city almost six months ago; without the deadly pressure of the Gleaners behind me, this time, the sound evokes something primal, and I find myself steeling desperately against the memories it conjures. Thrum. Thrum. The naumachia’s there. Even with all the horrors I have seen since, I have yet to feel that same sense of terror. The complete, helpless, suffocating purity of the panic that gripped a hundred thousand of us together as we watched a single man transform swathes of our number into nothing but a red haze in the thundering dark.

But it is a memory. A memory. I cannot help but bring it to mind but I am not there, anymore. I am not there. It is a past pain.

I round the final corner. The flickering image of the crossed crook and flail on the golden door shatters and fuzzes and re-forms, ethereally lit one moment and plunged into darkness that my torchlight does not breach the next. Once again I find myself stopped. Staring. Trying to make out those glyphs, even knowing I won’t be able to decipher them.

Then, fingernails digging into palms, a step. Slot my torch into a sconce on the wall. Another. Another. Closer than ever before and it’s a physical presence pushing back against me now, but I continue. Ten feet. Five. I can see the intricate gilding on the face of the door. Nofret’s words scream in the back of my mind.

I am there. Hand hovering over soft metal. My fingers flicker and fuzz in my vision. My breath is violently short.

I push.

The soft gold is hot beneath my hand, though not painfully, and nor does it quiver the way the stone stylus did at the naumachia. A tremor runs through my arm as I make contact with the metal.

The door solidifies, freezes in time for just an instant before it swings away from my touch. Immediately, the wild, frantic fuzzing around it begins again.

I wait, heart pounding, not sure what to make of it. But nothing happens. I am alive. Unharmed.

I step inside.

The room beyond is bathed in warm golden light and is as large as the massive door intimated. The walls slope gently inward as they rise, eventually meeting at a point high above; the intricately carved ceiling has a glittering illumination worked into its design, highlighting the reliefs that cover both it and the walls. More gilded symbols are inscribed everywhere, glinting and shimmering in the glow.

It would be beautiful, if it were not for the way the entire space wavers and judders and seems to threaten to break apart at any moment.

Aside from the elaborate carvings, there is only one thing in the room to draw the eye. At its very centre—lowered from the entrance by four concentric triangles cut into the stone, stepping down—is a pool, surrounding and submersing a long golden altar. Though everywhere in here shudders viciously, the water is particularly agitated, an ocean of shimmering, throbbing motion that scatters and breaks the reflected light above. Shimmering with ethereal energy, dizzying even to glance at. Even from here, several feet away, the immense force of that energy—the invisible crashing and grinding of it all around me—is nauseating, disorienting. Flickers of concealing black streak through it at intervals, water and everything in it vanishing to complete and utter darkness for less than a heartbeat before returning.

Finally I adapt, steady enough to realise the boxlike gold in the pool is not a shrine at all. It’s tapered slightly, shaped. And while hundreds of intricate designs cover its sides, there is only a single, massively detailed image on top.

A man. Eyes closed. Arms folded over his chest. A long, gold-and-blue striped headdress drapes down past his shoulders.

It is a sarcophagus.

I frown at it as I carefully move around the edges of the pool. I’ve seen plenty of these in the other tombs in Qabr—even slept in one—but never anything approaching this extravagant. Beneath the fiercely buzzing water, the writing on it crawls to my sight as if alive.

I’m curious about it, about who in all the hells would be buried down here like this—assuming there is even a body in there—but the fact is, it doesn’t matter. Immune to its effects or not, I’m not about to step waist-deep into that. Not unless I’m desperate.

And thankfully, I’ve realised that it is not the only object of note in this tomb.

The golden crook and flail hang crossed on the far wall. The real thing, this time, not just a symbol. They have to be important, surely. And there is little else in the room to interact with.

I skirt the pool of sputtering darkness and stand in front of them. Beautifully crafted for such simple implements. Gilded glyphs on the handles of both, lapis lazuli inlaid to the gold. They do not pulse like the door and pool behind me.

Hesitantly, I reach out and grasp the crook.

I am bound, desperate and fearful and cold and pained, as I am carried on horseback toward the howls of battle.

My heart races as I try to calm a black-eyed man while he grips a panicked, struggling Aequa by her head with one hand.

My left arm screams. It is metal. It is gone.

And then with a shouting, panicked gasp I am back and though I am no different and the object in my hand looks dormant, I can feel the vibrating thrum within it.

I almost drop the crook but manage to keep my grasp, fearful it will bounce into the throbbing pool behind. I stare at it for a second. Five. There is nothing more.

Licking my lips, I take the flail in my left hand. I’m braced but there’s no reaction, this time. What did I just see? It felt like me. Not like a memory I never had, but like something I was genuinely experiencing, right then.

The other versions of me? That was Aequa, at the end. I’m certain of it. She looked older. Wearier.

In trouble.

I dwell for a little longer but in the end, I see no way to know, and though I let go of the crook and flail and try again, I cannot repeat the experience. Still. These have to be what Caeror—or his former mentor, anyway—was talking about. They must be something to do with my being Synchronous.

I take a last look at the submerged sarcophagus and then walk back outside, unconscious relief easing taut muscles as I leave the unrelenting visual pressure of the room behind. After a moment, I shut the door, too.

Caeror was probably right about Nofret and her “curse.” But there’s no point in taking chances.

Once I’m back in the obsidian hallway, I hold up the two implements. Examine them. Finely crafted, entirely impractical. Weighty enough to make good blunt instruments, perhaps, but whatever power they contain seems … internalised.

I tap the crook against the unbreakable dark stone of the corridor. Nothing happens.

“Rotting gods. Come on.” I try again, harder this time. I’m rewarded only with a metallic thunk and ricocheting vibration up my right arm. Not even a chip in the façade. “Vek.”

Caeror—or Yusef, anyway—believed there was a weapon in that room that could use mutalis to break even this surface. It’s the only reason I came back here.

I chew my lip. Examine the hilts of both implements, try to see if any of the glyphs stir a memory. My understanding of them is still shaky, but it has improved after my time in Duat.

I see the union symbol. The glyph that indicates the number three.

And then, father down, one more that I recognise.

Blood.

I look closer. It appears on both crook and flail. Caeror and I had a long discussion about the possible importance of blood, once. Why an Instruction Blade had to pierce the heart. Why, during the naumachia, the stylus had needed my blood to protect me—and why, afterward, the man from Military took some of it to test.

I draw the stone knife I found earlier. Lightly nick the edge of my finger, so that a red droplet beads there. Surely this won’t work.

I smear it on the hilt of the crook.

There is a hiss. Steam, as if the handle is red-hot and the liquid is evaporating.

The crook pulses and flickers to life in my hand.

“Vek!” I shout it, startled, flicking the weapon away from me in instinctive panic. It strikes the polished black of the wall.

Thrum.

And the hallway explodes.

I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG HAS PASSED WHEN I WAKE, FUriously coughing grit from my lungs and groaning my way to my knees. I am covered with loose rubble, and wisps of fine dust still curl across through the last vestiges of the torch that threatens to gutter out on the wall farther down.

I use the sleeve of my tunic to breathe, and stagger to my feet. Shards of obsidian ripped into my arms and legs, opening slices along them, but it’s all superficial, and my face seems to have escaped unscathed. I blink more dust from my watering eyes and spot the crook poking from the crumbled remnants of the black wall. No longer flickering. I stumble over to it and, with delicate caution, touch the glimmering gold.

Nothing happens.

“Rotting gods,” I mutter in a rasp, picking it up with great care not to brush it against any of my myriad cuts. It’s dusty, but no sign of damage. “Rotting gods-damned gods.”

Well. This is, I suppose, what I need.

I find my way back out into Qabr proper and practice for another hour, after that. Cautiously at first but with increasing confidence as I test the odd weapons’ limitations. They operate independently but in exactly the same manner, absorbing blood in order to activate. The amount of blood seems to matter, with greater amounts activating them for longer, but not increasing their intensity in any way. I soon find that if I keep an open cut pressed against the gold, it stays pulsing and buzzing and destructively potent for as long as I choose to hold it.

My tests against the obsidian of Qabr are careful and have the expected results; even a simple, light score across its surface creates an immediate spiderweb of cracks emanating from the point of contact. Harder force, and the crook and flail slice through it without pause or effort, barely even registering the resistance. They leave only dust in their wake each time.

The same goes for regular stone, I soon find. And metal. And cloth. And bone.

As far as I can tell, while they’re active, they will destroy anything they touch, except for me.

It’s unnerving, and exactly what I was hoping for.

Eventually I conceal the golden crook and flail beneath my cloak, and crawl my way out of Qabr into the frigid, silver-tinged sands of a moonlit desert night.

Head for Duat.

LXXI

CATEN IS COVERED BY AN ETHEREAL, RAY-STREAKED smoky haze, thick winter clouds bleeding from gold to orange as the sun peeks through and touches the horizon. There are few people on the street between my concealed rooftop vantage and South Caten Prison. Few people out at all, as far as I can tell. Uneasiness coats the city, chokes its streets and stills its usual conversations. Not everyone has been told about the attack coming tonight—in fact, its knowledge has been kept relatively contained—but it’s in the air anyway.

A prescient, ugly mood as the sun burns through smoke and the mutters of the hungry drift upward. Surreal, how quickly this place has eaten itself alive.

I shift my gaze once again back to the prison across the way. Not the one Lanistia was held in last time, but it will inevitably be much the same layout. On the surface it looks identical, just a squat building with one barred window to view anyone arriving. A slot for papers and an impossibly thick stone door, which is meant to open only with a Will key or seal from Quartus Kanifer. No one posted outside.

Five men emerged ten minutes ago, and they admitted only two replacements. Probably the only guards, this evening. Not that they should have reason for more. Catenan prisons are designed to hold off an army, regardless of their staff.

“You look comfortable.” Aequa grins as I start at her voice by my ear, then lies prone on the rooftop next to me, shoulder to shoulder. “Hail, Vis. Nice and alert for tonight, I see.”

“I was focusing,” I grumble, though I allow a small smile of greeting in her direction.

“Been here long?”

“Faustus kept me occupied for about an hour. Figured it was safer to disappear earlier rather than later, before I got called in to do something I couldn’t get out of.” Her smirk widens as I roll my eyes. “So, yes. Long.”

“No Diago?”

I shake my head. I considered it. But if something goes wrong, if we’re caught, I can’t have him deciding to kill someone from Religion to protect us. That would turn a relatively minor incident—if disastrous for Aequa and me—into something far more destructive. “Domus Telimus is along our way to the docks. We’ll pick him up after this.”

She gives a cheery nod to my confident assumption of success here. “Guards?”

“Five out, two in. It should be all they need for tonight.”

Her upbeat demeanour finally falters at that, and she nods again, this time grimly. There may be only two people in there, but those two are doubtless prepared for some bloody work.

“We should go in soon, then,” she observes quietly.

I eye the sun dipping below the buildings. “One of us should check the street before we do. Given what they’re planning, there’s a chance they have someone extra on watch. You want to go, or me?”

She leans playfully against my shoulder, indicating me. “I’ll let you stretch your legs before the fun starts.”

I get to my feet, arrange my somewhat dishevelled toga and stare at her. “Gods’ graves. You’re actually looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

She rolls onto her side, lounging as she gazes up at me. “A prison break with the great Catenicus? Rotting gods, yes. Eidhin is going to be so jealous, and I am going to bring it up constantly.”

I cough a soft laugh, nudge her in mock reproval with my foot, and head down the stairs. The street is expectedly empty and quiet; it takes only a few minutes and a cursory tour to determine that no unwanted surprises are lurking. I take the stairs back up two at a time. Energised. I’ve had a fresh dose of Kadmos’s tea, and don’t even feel my various injuries. For all the horrors I know are coming, I have a plan. A narrow path through the darkness ahead.

I’m still thinking, and almost to the top again, when I hear the voices.

“It’s just me.” Aequa, and though she’s doing her best to hide it, she’s uneasy. She says it loudly, though. Clearly a warning. “I came to do Vis a favour and watch the prison. He’s not here.”

“Watch? I don’t believe you.” A familiar voice. Male. “And for your sake, let us hope he comes to find you soon.” I take a second to place it, heart sinking when I do.

Tertius Decimus.

I pause there on the stairs, frozen in place. For all his lack of aggression toward me at meetings, Iro’s father is no supporter of mine and won’t hesitate to try and stop me from freeing Lanistia. Is that why he’s here?

“Release me, please, Tertius.” Aequa is keeping remarkably calm, but there’s something more to her voice now. “You’ve no authority to detain me. I’m not doing anything—”

She cuts off with a low, pained cry, and my decision is made.

“Tertius Decimus.” I step up onto the roof and immediately prepare myself to imbue, though it will be pointless against the man. Decimus’s eyes are completely black and he is gripping Aequa’s shoulder with evident force. She’s keeping still, but I can see the discomfort in her eyes as she gives me a reproving look. Thinks I should have stayed hidden, clearly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Telimus.” Decimus’s smile broadens to something disconcerting and wholly false. A gleam in his dead eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here. I wanted to make sure you understand this.”

“Understand what, sir?” I keep my unease in check and take a mildly confused, acquiescent tone. Decimus is on edge. There’s no benefit to angering him.

“Loss.” His manic grin fades until he’s just staring at me. Aequa still held in his iron grip. “Helplessness and loss.”

My heart clenches. He knows why I’m here. He’s planning to stop me.

“Vis already understands those things, Tertius. Truly.” Aequa, speaking up quietly before I can find a response. “His parents were murdered when he was young. His friend died in his arms at the Iudicium. He was at the naumachia when—”

“The naumachia.” Decimus cuts her off and Aequa’s wince shows she sees the mistake, though I would have made the same one. “You were both there, weren’t you? And you saved her while thousands died. While my daughter died. Trapped in there like an animal.” He shakes Aequa as he says “her,” though his dark eyes never leave mine. She’s a Quintus, and self-imbuing, but still powerless to stop the effortlessly violent motion. “And now here you both are again. Here to rescue your … what? Former tutor? Though she is our enemy. Prioritising the personal over the many yet again.”

I see it then. Something in the way he spits it, sending a genuine chill down my spine. I see all of the grief and hatred he’s been keeping hidden as we meet, day after day.

Chained in the dark, as my mother once described it.

“Lanistia’s my friend, Tertius. She’s my friend and of no tactical importance, and if she’s in a Sapper, they’re going to kill her just in case she’s ceding to the wrong person.” Vek. Even if he wasn’t holding Aequa so threateningly, I cannot think of a way I can get past him, let alone beat him. If he imbues something, then maybe I can get to it. Adopt his own power and use it against him. But he’s self-imbuing. I confirmed months ago that I can’t take Will directly from other people, and the weapons I have at my disposal—the metal triangles sitting beneath my tunic—will do little more than dent themselves against him, and then give me away in the process. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner at the naumachia. I’m sorry Iro got injured—”

“Iro is dead.” Decimus’s lifeless voice cuts through anything else I might have said. Stills me to hollow silence. “He died three days ago. The Vitaerium wasn’t enough. He just couldn’t breathe anymore.” Fist clenching and unclenching. The words coming out so calm, and yet every inch of the man screams of pain and violence. “They knew it was coming. But I couldn’t go to him. I couldn’t be there to say goodbye because I. Had. Responsibilities.”

He takes me in. Shifts his grip so that his hand rests on Aequa’s head. “At least I am giving you the chance to say goodbye, Telimus.”

“What?” I freeze, hold up my hand as I see the sudden panic on Aequa’s face. She beats at him, tries to twist away but his grasp on her head is firm. No. This is a test. A means of extracting more from me. “Whatever you want from me, Tertius. Anything you want. Just let me know.” Test or not, I won’t risk it.

“I want my children back,” says Decimus softly. “Or in lieu of that, I want you to say goodbye.”

“It’s alright, Vis.” Aequa’s shaking. Stopped struggling, I think because it was hurting her as much as getting nowhere. But somehow, she still forces a smile at me. “It’s alright. Whatever happens, neither of us can—”

Decimus tightens his grip.

Aequa’s head caves in.

I just stand there. Limbs weak, heart stopped, breath gone. There is the cracking of bone and then an ugly squelching. This cannot be happening. My friend’s face is crumpled between his fingers. Her dark, straight hair molten with crimson in the dying light of the day. Decimus releases her. Flicks blood and brain off his hand as her body crumples to the ground, watching me the entire time.

A wordless cry. I am flying at him. All of my shock and rage a thin tunnel, unable to even process what I am doing as I am doing it. I hit him across the face, and he smiles at my pain as my fist near shatters in its meeting the immovable object. I try to force him backward over the edge, forgetting that it will take far more than twenty or so feet to kill him. He doesn’t budge. My throbbing hand around his throat. He doesn’t even blink.

Then he gestures. Disdainful. The backhand slams me ten feet into the far wall, raining rubble down on my head. My self-imbuing the only difference between pain and death.

I stagger to my feet and run and swing again through the tears in my eyes, but he moves as if I’m a child, avoiding the blow and then gripping my shoulder. He holds me up, feet dangling, so that my face is level with his. Soulless eyes examining mine.

“You think your children would be proud of this?” I pant the words. The only thing I can use to hurt him before I die. “Gods. Now I see you for who you are, Decimus, be grateful I made sure they never had the chance.”

I see it hit, though he tries to hide it. The twitch of his lip. The shortening of breath, the shaky exhalation. I stare at him boldly. I won’t go cowering. Not to this man.

He tosses me to the ground and, before I can move, grabs my lower left leg in both hands.

I scream as he snaps it.

Decimus drops the skewed limb calmly, despite my thrashing easily securing my right leg and doing the same. I writhe, and moan, and try to crawl away but he places a single boot on my back.

“I am going to leave you here, Telimus. Just like this.” His voice is somehow both conversational, and utterly dead. “Perhaps you can drag yourself down to the street with that one hand of yours, but even if you do, you will not be able to save anyone inside that prison tonight. You will leave, or you will be taken away, and you’ll know what is happening when it happens.” He looks down on me as I weep. For the broken and bloody mess I can see from the corner of my vision. For the agony I’m feeling. For Lanistia, and Eidhin, and the powerlessness of it all. “And then, you will understand how I have felt. You will understand the impact that you have had on my life.”

I can barely think straight. I want to goad him, to hurl insults, to do something. The rage almost chokes me to it.

Some distant part of my mind is screaming at me to keep my mouth closed, though. I don’t know whether it’s fear, or calculation, or both. But Decimus doesn’t know about the tea, numbing the pain to something merely awful rather than crippling. He doesn’t know about Carnifex or Adoption. I could provoke him into killing me, and part of me wants to, simply because my rage screams for an outlet.

But dead, my other friends are too. So instead I weep and let him see me wholly broken, as he wants me to be. As I almost, almost am.

“The interesting thing will be to see what you tell everyone. Because even if you think you can convince Governance of what happened here, will you try? Will you continue to be selfish and sacrifice the lives of thousands? You know Religion will side with me. And if anyone comes for me, I won’t surrender.” He spits to the side. Onto Aequa’s body. A fresh flood of rage wracks me and I thrash at him, but his heel keeps me pinned to the stone. “Men will die, and then more men will die because those men weren’t there to defend against Military. You may even damn Caten to one of the pretenders out there. So if you do come after me, it will only prove what I already know.”

“You’re a coward.” I wheeze it. Mind just clear enough to know he needs to hear it. Needs to hear me rail helplessly, throw pointless insults at him. Silence will only provoke. “And you’re wrong. Nobody’s going to protect a Tertius who breaks Birthright like this. With his own allies.”

He chuckles. Grabs my toga, pulling me up so that he can see my face. “Have you been in Caten these past weeks, Telimus? Sextii hunting Septimii and Octavii, every night. People value only one thing now, and it is the same thing they have always valued. What is it they say, again? The needs of the many will always be loud.” He leans forward. Hooked nose inches from mine. “But in the end, it is only the strength of the few that matters.”

He drops me again, so that my head hits stone. Black eyes disgusted.

Leaves.

I LIE THERE FOR MINUTES, UNABLE TO MOVE. PAIN BOTH physical and emotional crippling me. Kadmos’s tea means the agony of my legs is blunted, but I still feel it. Nothing can dull the ache of Aequa’s shattered form lying a few feet from me, though. She was just here. Just here. Smiling, joking with me in the dwindling afternoon light. The sun has only just set.

Eventually, the knowledge of what’s coming across the street intrudes on my anguish, and I allow my helpless, festering fury to bubble over the top of it. To compel some focus. Decimus was right: I could drag myself down there but to what purpose? The guards will not believe a man who cannot stand has been sent to fetch a prisoner. And using force—even as a Quintus against two Septimii—is an uncertain proposition right now. If nothing else, there are alarms they could easily trigger before I can deal with them.

And if I am caught, if I am stopped, then I cannot get to Eidhin, either.

I feel the metal armour beneath my tunic again. Months of constant practice the only reason I haven’t lost the imbuing there. It absorbed a lot of the impact, probably saved me from a broken back when Decimus threw me against the wall.

Decimus had to have assumed my injuries, awful though they are, were even worse. And he had no idea about my Harmonic imbuing.

I glance over at Aequa again, throat clogging anew. It feels wrong to just ignore her. To leave her.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her broken body.

I close my eyes, and force grief inward behind the rage, and concentrate on how I am going to ensure Decimus does not take everything from me.

If I’m going to get to Lanistia, I need to be able to walk.

The first part is the most unpleasant. I stick my right leg out, trying not to look too hard at the violent angle at which it protrudes just above the ankle. Align triangular shards around my upper leg, and wrap more around my foot.

My breath shortens, panic at the anticipation of pain. I do it quickly. Roar as I use the imbued metal to pull the leg back into place. Almost pass out.

Sobbing, I do the same for the other.

As soon as I’m done, I self-imbue my legs; it won’t allow the snapped bones to suddenly bear my weight, but it will strengthen the surrounding tissue. There’s a flash of added pain as I feel muscles forcibly aligning the bones further, and then a relative easing to a dull, angry throb.

Minutes pass. The distending lumps of skin in my legs gone, replaced by awful swelling and rapidly blushing bruises. I force back the encroaching shock, and breathe, and breathe again. Think. Kadmos used to have me read texts on Catenan battlefield medicine, back before the Academy. There were diagrams. Will-based devices for Sextii with injured limbs, constructed so that they could still fight. Imbuable scaffolding to prevent a leg from taking weight, distributing it instead across a harness to allow continued mobility.

Slowly, I try to build something similar.

A brace around each foot and beneath it, the base of the open metal boot sitting a fraction of an inch below my sole. Then a kind of harness under my armpits. Another around my thighs and waist. The Harmonic connection allows me to distribute my weight evenly across it all, and as I self-imbue into those areas, the discomfort of the metal digging into my flesh fades to mere irritation.

Gradually, shakily, I haul myself to my feet against the low wall. Let go. Wobble.

Take a cautious step. Stumble and immediately, painfully fall, biting back a gargling scream as I hit the stone.

It takes three more agonisingly awkward tries before I can clumsily move more than a few paces without falling. It’s effectively like walking using crutches as stilts, but stilts that I can shape and control at a granular level. The motion is a natural one, though; just like my false arm, once I have the basics, it’s not a mental strain to have my makeshift boots moving as if they were feet. Every step clanks as iron hits the ground, so once I’m satisfied it will work, I reposition my sandals so that they sit over the metal, as well as my foot. Once they’re retied—and with the scaffolding of metal hidden beneath my dirtied toga—there is, remarkably, no obvious sign that I’m using anything to assist my movements.

I keep practicing, knowing the need for confidence. Ten minutes. Twenty. It’s messy. Gods-damned painful where the iron cuts into my skin from the necessary tightness, as well as at the breaks. I can only imagine what it would be like if I weren’t a Quintus enjoying the added benefit of Kadmos’s tea. Throughout, I harness my seething wrath to focus on the task. Only the task. Fighting back choking breaths not from the pain, but from the constant glimpses of my friend’s motionless, ruined form. Each time I almost stop. Each time, I want nothing more than to sit beside her, and cradle her, and tell her I am sorry, and weep until I can grieve no more.

But as gloom congeals to night, I remind myself again and again that Decimus is aiming to take more from me than her alone. That Lanistia and Eidhin are still alive.

And after a half hour of tense, agonising, teeth-gritted practice, I am able to walk without being noticeably awkward.

I start down the stairs before I can change my mind. Careful and deliberate, one by one, each step anxious. It takes me at least a full minute to reach the ground. The murk of evening gathers around the empty street.

I take some deep breaths. Straighten. No telling if one of the guards might be idly looking out the window, as I so often did. I affect purposeful nonchalance and walk—slowly, still, but with barely a trace of the effort and pain it takes—over to the prison’s entrance.

No sound from within. I take out the forged document I created earlier today. The red seal is imbued with my own Will rather than Kanifer’s, but there’s no way for those inside to know that.

The outer door is familiar thick stone. I close my eyes, place my hand against it. Feel the Will holding it in place.

It becomes mine. I steady myself, and rap brusquely on the door.

“What in the rotting …” I hear a scrambling from inside, and a round, squinting face appears at the window. Bemused more than alarmed, clearly not expecting anyone. That’s good. “Who are you?”

“Catenicus.” I brandish the paper in my hand briskly. “Orders from Princeps Laurentius via Quartus Kanifer. I’m to relocate a prisoner from here immediately.”

The man’s eyes flick to my missing arm. Confusion fading to suspicion. “We weren’t told—”

“I’m telling you now, Septimus.” I roll my eyes at him. “Gods, man. I know I’m from Governance, but I have the documentation and if you have any idea what’s happening tonight, you’ll get this moving. Quietly.”

Some audible sputtering at my impatience, but he disappears and a few seconds later the small compartment next to the door slides open. I deposit the forged paper.

Heart pounding, I focus on the sliver of my Will as the compartment shuts again. It raises slightly in the room beyond as the orders are examined. A pause, a little too long, and I wonder through the pain whether this is as far as I’m getting.

Then my imbued seal moves toward the door, until it hits the left-hand side of it.

I focus on the Adopted Will in the door, and slide it smoothly open.

The guard inside is frowning as he looks between the door and its release slot, and I wonder if my timing was too far off. But either it wasn’t or, more likely, the man puts any minor discrepancy down to his imagination. I feel Will returning to me as he snaps the seal and ushers me in. “Who are you here for?”

“There’s a reason that order you’re holding doesn’t have a name. Where’s your ledger?” Impatient and authoritarian.

The woman in the corner looks displeased, but the man fetches the logbook of prisoners and thrusts it petulantly at me. They don’t like this, and under normal circumstances, even knowing who I am, I’d be detained until they could double-check my story.

But these are not normal circumstances. They know what’s planned for tonight. They say nothing as I scan through the names.

“Are these current?” I ask the question with a sort of irritable absence, though it’s an important one. Do my best not to sway as my legs scream at me and metal digs into my imbued skin in support of my weight.

“I’m not sure,” admits the woman.

So no, then. Not surprising; too many people would have been unlawfully added over the past two weeks to keep records up to date. But Indol knew about Lanistia; she should be on here at least, assuming she hasn’t been moved. Or worse.

I find her name. Not in the deep cells, to my pleasant surprise. Perhaps in the chaos of the festival, the severity of her sentence was suspended. Not that I’m going to risk leaving her here, whether the ledger is correct or not. But if she’s not suffering the effects of a Sapper, it will be significantly easier to get her out.

I almost close the ledger, doing only a cursory final scan, when my heart sinks.

Ulciscor Telimus. Deep Cells, North 79.

Vek.

I read the name again, some part of me hoping my anxious mind was making it up. Vek, vek, vek.

“Something wrong, Quintus?” The woman. More suspicious and less intimidated than her companion.

“No.” I close the book with a snap and hand it back. “Unlock the door, please. I’ll knock when I come back.”

“We can’t let you down there alone.”

“You can and you will, Septimus.” My legs choose that moment to fire pain upward through my body and I barely restrain a chasing, obvious spasm. “And when I return, you’ll both be busy at that desk”—I nod toward the desk up against the wall—“and won’t see the prisoners’ faces.”

“I thought you said it would be just the one.”

My eyes are already flooded with darkness, but I risk diverting some Will from my legs to my arm. Ignore the agony and take three falsely confident strides over to her. Pick her up by the shoulder and use my very real fury to slam her against the wall, eliciting a gasp of pain. Not so different from what Decimus did to me less than an hour ago.

“I don’t have time for this, Septimus,” I snarl in her face. Her eyes are wide with abrupt fear. I don’t know what the other Septimus is doing, but I have to trust he’s cowed rather than planning to attack me, because weak as I am, I doubt I can actually beat these two. “I know your business tonight. I know what you’re going to do. And Princeps Laurentius requires the information these people have. Now. You really think he and Quartus Kanifer would send me if they had better, more official, options? We are at war and the normal rules do not apply. So you can let me through, or I can kill you both. Whichever is easiest.”

She must see something in my eyes. The rage and torment and heartbreak that’s bubbling beneath the surface. Any fight she might have had leaks from her. “Of course, Quintus. Of course. Apologies. Apologies. I wasn’t thinking.”

I grunt and let her slide down the wall, affecting disgust. Wait impatiently for the man to unlock the door with a trembling hand. Snatch up the candle waiting just inside, and start down the stairs without looking back.

As soon as I hear the door close, I collapse against the damp stone wall, allowing a soft hiss between gritted teeth. Carefully sit to take the added pressure off my body. Just for a few moments. Just until I can get my breathing back under control.

Then I press on.

LXXII

I WAS EIGHT WHEN THE SHIP MY UNCLE WAS ON WAS LOST to a storm, killing all aboard. I remember my father’s immense sorrow well, but my own was a strange thing. There, certainly—but more confused, almost uncomprehending, and so something I instinctively tried to push aside until it went away.

Then, weeks after, I found a toy my uncle had given me. A stone horse figurine that I had grown out of so quickly that it had sat on a shelf behind books, forgotten, until that day. And when I happened upon it, when I remembered his happiness in the giving of the gift, I wept anew. Wept more freely than I had at his funeral. Unprepared for the sudden realisation of aching, complete absence.

My father found me like that, and we talked a while. About life, and death, and the way we deal with them. When I told him I didn’t want to feel sad anymore, he gave me a smile that wished it could take my pain. Grief, he explained to me gently, is a process that has only a beginning. We work through it, not get over it. And so attempting to just ignore its ache is inevitably a pointless exercise.

Tonight, though, I don’t have an option.

I feel no fear as I make my way carefully downward into the depths of South Caten Prison. No anxiety. I am focused on the task at hand, but the fiercely suppressed grief and anger is there, thick, muting everything else. I consider my actions in a hollow, detached way, as though none of these events are real. I suppose that is what my mind is doing. Pretending this is all some nightmare, until such time comes that I can afford to accept otherwise.

Like many things, Caten builds their prisons using a uniform layout, and it’s an uncomfortably familiar journey descending the stairs. I’m about halfway down when the smell first hits. I hold my sleeve over my nose and mouth immediately. It shouldn’t be this bad. Not this far up.

I press on. Reach the bottom of the first stairwell, the air thick and rancid, clogging my lungs. Lanistia’s meant to be on this level, past the Sappers meant for shorter-term punishments. I should find her first.

My light touches the first open chamber, and I freeze, bile filling my throat.

“Gods. Rotting gods.” Sticky brown blood coats the white stone. Has dribbled down into the gutter and clogged it. The naked man currently on the Sapper is alive and seemingly uninjured, skin wan and breath rasping. A replacement for whoever was killed here, then. Done in a rush. No care for cleanliness, no thought of preventing the onset of any sickness.

Probably some Octavus or Septimus unfortunate enough to have originally belonged to a Military pyramid. I doubt he even did anything wrong.

I stumble on, shakiness as much from horror as my legs, my gait requiring less focus now I’m on level ground again. One in every three or four Sappers shows signs of bloody execution. All the prisoners on them are dirty, emaciated. Not just uncared for but dangerously close to abandoned down here.

I limp through the stench and misery, and try to coldly assess. In my experience, most Sappers are devoted to Military pyramids, so if the killings were to do with the current conflict—a reasonable assumption—then they were targeting Governance and Religion. Military were in charge of the prisons, prior to the festival. When they withdrew, they must have done exactly what Governance and Religion are planning to do tonight.

And it was Military who staffed these places, too. Had the expertise to properly run them. Organised the supplies of food and water. Knew what was needed to keep prisoners healthy and clean.

I press on, between the smeared memory of the dead and the rasping misery of the rest, and it’s with no small amount of relief that I finally pass the last wheezing horror and into the hallway of true prisoner cells. By the time I reach the one Lanistia was listed as being in, I’ve endured desperate calls for help or information, studiously ignored, from a multitude of them. Hers, though, is silent.

“Lanistia?” I say her name low through the thick iron bars into the darkness. Nothing, and I shift uneasily, pressing closer and calling louder. “Lanistia? It’s me. Vis.”

A rattling of chains in the black. A shifting of shadows.

“About gods-damned time.”

My concern breaks to a relieved sigh as Lanistia’s form shuffles into the dim light afforded by the narrow slits of her cell. She’s haggard and thin, her voice croaking. Movements evidently painful. A ghost of the health she was in only a couple of months ago.

But the expression on her face is grim, not broken. Physically weakened, but she’s still the same woman.

“If I get those chains off you, can you walk?” I use the jailor’s key to unlock her door. Swing it wide. The motion one of bravado to myself; she’s no threat in her current state, but I have to believe she won’t be one regardless.

“Walk? Yes.” She shuffles another step toward me. Tentative. Left arm outstretched to brace herself. “Though you may recall, getting the direction right might be trickier. What in the rotting gods’ names has been going on? They were meant to put me in a Sapper two weeks ago, and that night there was a lot of yelling in the distance and then nothing else. I’ve had three, maybe four bad meals since then, and the last few days I’ve had to ration my washing water for drinking.”

I wince, even if being an Octavus and locked away like this is probably what’s saved her; with everything else going on, easier to not bother with her than to relocate her to a Sapper. And I’d already taken into account that she wouldn’t have access to Will.

Though, I’d also assumed Aequa would be with me for this part.

I ruthlessly force down the surge of emotion, and focus on Lanistia. “I’ll explain on the way out, but I’m going to need your help. Give me your hand.” I need her to be able to see, and probably to carry Ulciscor. In a better world, I would have found something imbued down here and Adopted it to bolster my own supply, just temporarily. But I’ve seen nothing and even if I had, I’m not sure I have the acuity to manage the extra mental load, right now.

She goes still. “Are you sure?”

“Of gods-damned course not. And just so you know, I’m a little injured myself. So I may have to take it back sooner rather than later.” I managed the Harmonic imbuing well enough as a Sextus, and even with half of my Will as Quintus, I’ll still be well ahead. I grasp her outstretched wrist before I can change my mind. Carefully reduce my self-imbuing, gritting my teeth against the extra strain, until I’m confident I’m not using more than half of my capacity. “I freely give my Will.”

She gasps as the energy pours out of me and into her; even braced for it as I am, I can’t help but reel from the shock of it. My legs immediately scream, and I stagger.

Lanistia catches me. Pulls me upright. When I take her in again, she seems taller. Still thin, far from hale, but it’s as if the abuses of the past few months are surface deep rather than worn into her bones.

“Good to see you again,” I mutter through a grimace.

“You too.” She casually snaps the chains holding her wrists together. “That’s better.”

“Good. Let’s move.”

Her focus turns to me. Hearing the short words escaping through gritted teeth. “We’re in danger, I take it? You sound tense. Even for you.” She smiles wearily and briefly, and then cocks her head to the side. Releases a sudden hiss of breath. “Rotting gods. A little rotting gods-damned injured, Vis? What’s going on?”

A lump in my throat. I force it down. “It’s ugly out there, Lanistia. Civil war. Military’s Princeps, Dimidii, and Tertii are all dead; Religion and Governance are in control of Caten, for now, and they’ve endorsed Quartus Laurentius as the new Princeps. But there are three pretenders with more legions than him, and they’ve all burned tradition and restructured their pyramids to actually make themselves Princeps, too.” I’d forgotten that her unique vision would be able to see the metal supporting me. See the swollen wreckage of my legs, otherwise hidden beneath the folds of my toga. But I can’t bring myself to tell her the details. “Redivius is going to attack tonight. Anyone in the Sappers still ceding to Military is going to be killed when that happens.”

Lanistia absorbs the information as quickly as ever. Expression flickering from understanding to disgust to determined gratitude as she realises why I’ve come, despite my condition. “I suppose we should go, then.”

“Ulciscor’s here too. Deep cells. I’ll need you to help him out.”

Dismay, briefly, then a breath and a nod. “Lead the way.”

We head back, through the rancid stench, lantern pushing against the miserable darkness. There are shouts again as my light passes cells that remain locked tight, and though we ignore them, I resolve again to ensure the people down here are looked after properly. The part of me that worked in Letens Prison for so long, especially, mourns what they’re being put through. But at least they will survive beyond tonight.

The people in the Sappers are a different story.

Lanistia, I think, senses my hesitation as we start past the first of them. “You can’t save them all,” she says softly.

“They shouldn’t need saving.”

She nods soberly. Hears my hatred of the fact we have to leave them, and shares it. “So this was what all the shouting was about.”

My stomach turns again as we pass yet another blood-soaked Sapper. “I don’t know who’s worse. The men who did it, or the ones who gave the orders.”

“Both,” says Lanistia quietly. “For things like this to happen, Vis, it takes a special kind of cowardice from both commander and soldier.” Her voice is heavy. “It must be a nightmare out there.”

I ignore the half enquiry. Don’t have the heart or the energy to explain it further. “Why didn’t Military let you go, if they went to the trouble of doing this?” I gesture to the latest blood-soaked open cell we’re passing.

“There was one Septimus and one Octavus running this place at any given time. During the festival? Probably not even the regulars.” Her face suddenly twists, but not at what she’s saying, I think. She falters. Massages her forehead, then continues, “Whoever was here was panicking, I can tell you that much. I imagine they just did what they were told as quickly as possible, and ran. I doubt whoever gave them the orders had me at the forefront of their thoughts.” She shakes her head. “I’m surprised they left this place open to access, actually.”

“They didn’t. There was a fight at the Forum that night, and Quintus Ferius was killed.” The Quintus was the senator in charge of prisons across Caten. It was his Will that would have originally locked the doors.

“Good. Odious … odious little man.” Her brow is furrowed.

“Are you alright?” I ask it absently, focused more on scanning our surroundings as we near the stairwell, trying to find another source of Will nearby that I might be able to use. But there’s nothing.

“Let’s sit. Just for a minute. We can afford that, can’t we?” She gestures to a short stone bench near the stairwell ahead. I don’t complain. No desire to linger, but my legs feel as though they’re on fire. I desperately need the rest.

We sit, and as I let out an inaudible breath of relief, Lanistia grabs my hand. “I freely relinquish your Will.”

A surge rushes back into me before I can react. I jerk away. “What are you doing?”

She leans back with a sigh. Doesn’t respond for a few seconds. “I heard the voice again, Vis. As soon as you ceded to me. And it was getting worse.”

I stare. Resist the urge to slide away from her, physical aches easing again as I unconsciously self-imbue everything she just returned. “The one from when …”

“Afraid so.” She smiles tiredly in my direction. “It’s gone now, though. I think as long as I don’t have any extra Will, it won’t trigger. And it was manageable for a while there; I can probably help haul Ulciscor up the stairs from here, if you want to risk it. But I don’t think I should try for anything longer than that. Sorry.”

I say nothing. Trying to focus on the present but lacking forward motion now, my mind is a wreck. Pain battling heartache battling anxiety battling wrath. Any one of them alone might be crippling.

“You know something about it, don’t you.”

I force myself back to now. Hesitate and then immediately know by my hesitation that I’ve admitted it. “You wouldn’t prefer to hear about what’s happening out there?”

“I’ll figure that out soon enough. You’re stalling,” she adds.

I gaze at the damp, glistening wall ahead. The stench is worse around the stairs, and my mouth is perpetually covered with cloth. I knew the question was coming, had considered my response earlier this afternoon. What to say, what to hold back. What could give her comfort and what would only make things worse.

But that all seems so distant, now. So pointless. Once we leave here, depending on how long this war lasts and where we end up, I may not see her in years. If ever again.

My chances for honesty are not infinite.

So I tell her.

I don’t go into the same detail as Veridius did; aside from anything else, there’s not the time. But I explain in the broadest possible terms about Solivagus, and the other worlds, and the Cataclysms. About Veridius’s version of events at her own Iudicium. The fact she tried to save Caeror. The fact he may yet even be alive in another world. I aim for speed rather than clarity, the weight of everything draining my voice of emotion and inflection. Lanistia listens without interrupting. I’m done in less than ten minutes.

“Don’t tell Ulciscor about Caeror,” I finish quietly, almost as an afterthought. Lanistia, I trust to approach this information with some level of circumspection. My adoptive father is another story. “I don’t think it will help him. I’m not even sure it helps you, but … I thought you should know.”

“It’s more than I’ve had in seven years, Vis. It helps. Thank you.” She gives me a gentle shove. “Speaking of your father. If your legs are up to it now, I’ll be fine here by myself for a few minutes.”

“Alright.” I stand, and though the pain returns immediately, between the extra Will and their brief respite, it’s manageable. “Don’t wander off.”

She snorts. I take a few steps, but before I can start my cautious way downward, she calls out to me again.

“And Vis?” Her voice is hard. “Caeror’s his brother, and I’m his friend. I’m going to tell him. Don’t ever ask me to keep something like that from him again.”

I grimace silently. Think about arguing but there’s no time, and no point.

Head into the fetid dark of the deep cells.

I PLOUGH MY WAY PAST NAKED BODY AFTER NAKED BODY plastered across the polished white of the Sappers, too many of them dulled and smeared with reddish brown and black. My lantern-light illuminates each in turn, and though I have Ulciscor’s cell number, I keep one eye on the prisoners’ faces as I pass.

Even so, I almost don’t recognise Relucia.

I stumble to a stop. The one side of her face that I can see is puffy, her long brown curls plastered over half of that. Strands stick to the blood-soaked Sapper behind her. Bruises cover her wrists and ankles. A sight I recognise all too well. It’s from where she thrashed in a panic against her restraints.

I hesitate for a long moment. Carefully place my lantern on the ground, and walk over to the crank in her alcove.

This will start a timer. There’s a Religion or Governance Septimus receiving Will from her, and while under normal circumstances her loss might trigger an official enquiry to Military, this will trigger an alarm. Especially so close to the attack.

I winch her carefully free.

She’s only been on the Sapper for a few days, clearly; it doesn’t take long for her breathing to change, for colour to seep into her cheeks and awareness back into her filmy eyes as she dangles on the chains. There’s a rattling as she tests her bonds. Then a flailing as she realises where she is.

“Get me away from this thing.” She croaks the words, barely wheezes them out. She hasn’t seen me yet, is twisting around wildly. “Get me out.”

I anchor the winch, then walk around into her view. Her eyes widen as she takes me in.

“Diago.” I don’t know whether she uses my real name as a deliberate ploy to appeal to me, or if she’s just panicking and it’s the name that comes to her mind. Luckily there’s no one else to hear. “Diago. Thank the gods.”

“Don’t thank them yet.” I ignore the deep horror I feel at what she’s been through. Keep my voice cold, and my gaze steady on hers.

“What?” She looks at me as if not understanding and then begins to shake. Pleading in her eyes and there’s no deception in them, for once. “No. You’re not that cruel. Just get me up and we can—”

“Tell me everything you know about the Anguis, about the Iudicium, about the naumachia. Names and plans. The weapon Estevan used. Everything.”

She stares at me. Wide-eyed. Shaking. “No.”

I take a step back toward the winch.

“Wait.” I take another step. “WAIT!”

I move back into her view. The seconds are already ticking, but this is an opportunity I can’t miss. “Let’s start with something simple. Why are you here?”

“I was meant to help Lanistia get out of the city, but something must have gone wrong. I waited too long for her. Lost my escape route. And then your gods-damned Tertius put out word for me to be picked up. He was worried I might wield an undue influence over you, apparently.” She spits the last.

Tertius Ericius put her in here? If I wasn’t already so dead inside, I would be disappointed. “Who else was involved in the attack on the Iudicium, that you know of? Either planning it, or actually there?” I lean forward. “I already know some. So I’ll know if you’re lying.”

I can see her thinking, trying to decide if she should answer. I take a half step back toward the winch.

It’s a flood of information, after that. Furious and self-loathing and I’m not sure how much of it, if any, I can trust. But I make careful note through the pain of my injuries and heart. Mentally record the names I don’t already have. She gasps most of the ones on the list that Ostius created, clearly more willing to give up Military contacts than Anguis. But as the seconds pass and I look increasingly unimpressed, she adds more. From obscure Octavii and Septimii, to a Magnus Quintus in Religion who has been involved in some of the meetings at the Forum over the past week.

“That’s all,” she says eventually. “That’s all, Diago. I swear it. Everyone who knew about the naumachia and the Iudicium.”

I commit the last of the information to memory, and don’t let up. “And the weapon you used at the naumachia?” I’ve been thinking about that a lot again, this past week. Not just its destructive nature, but the way it entirely muted the ability to use Will around it. One of the few things which, properly harnessed, could still stop these impending bloodbaths before they start.

“Only Estevan knew all the details. He said that using it was a great, necessary evil. He didn’t want to give anyone the chance to decide it should be used again after he was gone.” She sees my displeasure at the answer. Stammers. “Ostius! Ostius helped him with some of it, parts Estevan didn’t know enough about to put together on his own. I once heard him say it was a power that came from a fight far older and more dangerous than the one against the Hierarchy. But he never talked about any of that with me. Never. I swear it.”

I grimace, but nod to the honesty of her evident terror. Hard not to feel sympathy. Hard not to think she deserves every second of this.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t leave you here.” I don’t flinch away from her pleading stare. “You and the Anguis have been responsible for so much death, Relucia. So much pain. As far as I am concerned, if anyone belongs in here, it is you.”

She just hangs there for a few moments. Probably desperately trying to decide whether to speak honestly, or give me what she thinks I want to hear.

“Sometimes lives lived in misery have to be sacrificed so that the ones which follow aren’t even worse, Diago,” she says eventually. “I hate it, you know. Same as Estevan did. But it’s working. Haven’t you seen it, out there? The rumblings? The discontent? Octavii and Septimii have gone from accepting their station in life to seeing the truth of it. Seeing that their role in the Republic, because they were not lucky enough to be born otherwise, is to be tools. Just things to be used. The naumachia shook them awake. And then the Iudicium ensured that their masters began focusing more on one another, than them. It showed them that their rulers are petty, and small-minded, and never to be trusted. It showed them the truth.”

I shake my head slowly. Wearily.

“So an unhappy life now is worth less than someone else’s potentially better one in the future?” I stare at her. Even here, even now, she still can’t see it. “These people may be miserable, they may be being used, they may even be responsible for that. But that doesn’t mean they deserve to die. And it certainly doesn’t give you the right to kill them.”

“I never said I had the right, Diago.” More confidently now. As if by continuing the conversation, she somehow thinks she’s convincing me. “Just the responsibility. We’re doing what has to be done to effect change. You can see that, surely.”

“I can see that. You did what you thought is best for the world. And you were willing to accept the consequences.” I crouch by her. Let her meet my gaze. “Well here are the consequences. My friend was killed less than an hour ago. Her head was crushed by a Tertius. Some of that is my fault. A lot of that is my fault. But she would still be with me right now if it were not for your gods-damned war.”

She sees it in my eyes, then. Her chains start to rattle. “Diago.” She’s shaking her head. “Diago, don’t do this. I can help you. You need me.”

“I don’t, Relucia,” I say softly. “Thanks to what you’ve done out there, I really don’t.”

“Let me free.” She begins to thrash. Her chains scream at the darkness. “LET ME FREE, DIAGO! YOU ROTTING COWARD! YOU—”

I kick the winch. The chain unspools. Her screams cease.

ULCISCOR IS GROGGY, BARELY ABLE TO WALK AT FIRST AS I help him up the stairs. He never thinks to glance in Relucia’s alcove as we pass, too focused on trying to catch up, to get his sluggish mind back into working order. It’s not just the Sapper, I realise with some dismay after a minute or two. It’s that he’s lost his pyramid because of it. He’s an Octavii but he’s used to being a Magnus Quintus. Life must seem like it’s running through sludge for him.

We stumble along in silence, Ulciscor eventually mostly able to do so without leaning on me. My adoptive father has barely spoken, but as we come within sight of the stairs, he glances at me. “Lanistia?”

“She’s just up ahead. She’ll explain everything.”

“How is she?”

“Tired and grumpy.”

A pause as we labour our way upward, and then, “Any chance you can put me back?”

We share a soft chuckle, though my heart’s not in it. Stumble on, but then Ulciscor puts up his hand and sags against the wall. I wait patiently. I’ve seen men and women released from the Sappers before. None of them ever made it out the door without several stops for rest.

After a few seconds, Ulciscor’s breathing steadies. He looks up at me. “Why?”

I shake my head. “Why what?”

“I made you run the Labyrinth. I made you risk your life.” There’s something in his voice that I’ve never heard from him before. Shame? “I didn’t send you to die, Vis—I swear it—but … gods. I knew it might happen and I did it anyway. You don’t owe me this.”

“I didn’t owe you the alternative, either,” I say quietly.

He holds my gaze, then dips his head. A genuinely grateful motion.

We start up the stairs. Painfully slow. Unspeaking, more because Ulciscor needs his breath than because of any fear of being heard. Though I know it must still be a while until the planned attack, time feels as though it has no meaning down here. Only the length of wax inside my lantern reassures me that hours have not passed.

I cautiously cede to Lanistia again as soon as we reach her; risk though it is, I barely made it up the first flight of stairs with Ulciscor. She and Ulciscor’s reunion is almost comically perfunctory after that. A brief embrace. Nods of familiar recognition, as if they were meeting for dinner at Domus Telimus rather than being rescued from prison in the middle of enemy territory.

“You look awful,” says Lanistia to him conversationally, as the three of us stumble our way upward.

“The rewards of trying to rescue you,” he grunts between laboured breaths.

“Should’ve just sent Vis. He’s better at it.”

Ulciscor coughs something that falls somewhere between a snort and a laugh. And though I cannot find the energy to smile at the familiar banter, it eases something in me. Just a little. Helps me maintain my focus on what I’m saving, not what I’ve lost.

Soon enough I’m knocking on the guardroom door; there’s a pause, and I briefly panic that perhaps the Septimii beyond have had a change of heart, but then there’s a key turning in the lock. I hold the door closed. “Face away, Septimii. As agreed.”

An irritated grunt, another few seconds and then, “Alright. Come through.”

The Septimii are both facing the wall, arms crossed, as I swing the door wide. We’re halfway across the small room when Lanistia ducks smoothly to the side. Snatches up a knife and before I can understand what she’s doing, slits the throat of the man closest to us.

The woman half turns at the gurgling. Far too late. Lanistia has taken another two steps and has opened her jugular, too.

“What in the … gods damn it, Lanistia!” I put the emphasis in the words by hissing rather than shouting, though I sorely want to do the latter. “I told them—”

“You know what they were planning to do,” she says, tossing the bloodied dagger to the floor with a clatter. Cold.

Ulciscor gazes at the two bodies, then gives a nod which, if not approving, at least isn’t the opposite.

I just stare at them. Weary more than horrified. It won’t save the people in the Sappers for long. Will probably hurt our chances of repelling the attack tonight. I can’t figure out how I feel about the two murders I just witnessed. I don’t feel anything.

I slowly, heavily retrieve the Septimus’s Will key, and open the door to Caten.

“Do you know anything about my parents?” Ulciscor finds his voice again as the prison door seals behind us. “Or Relucia? Or Kadmos?” His mind is catching up.

“Kadmos is at home. They let me take over Domus Telimus, and he’s the Dispensator, so he’s considered Governance now. And he’s confident your parents got out.” I shake my head. “I haven’t seen Relucia, but I have to hope she slipped away too.” Her screams echo in the back of my mind.

“Any ideas how we can get out?”

“There’s a Military attack tonight. Redivius. East Caten will be almost empty, and I’ve left the scheduled patrol routes through there with Kadmos. Get him to give you both some of his tea.”

Lanistia cocks her head to the side, recognising the implication a moment before Ulciscor. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll walk you back. But I have something else I need to do after that.” I smile tightly.

“Of course you do.” Lanistia breathes a disbelieving laugh, and I can tell her focus is on my legs again. Then she abruptly freezes. Frowns, and pales, and grabs my hand, and says the words. My Will floods back into me.

“Again?”

She just nods grimly. Gripping my good arm. “We should get moving.”

It’s a tortuous walk back to Domus Telimus, almost an hour of skulking through dark alleys and gutted streets. We proceed largely in silence, both to conserve our breath and for the sake of stealth, though it’s only twice we come near any of the roving bands that “patrol” Caten after dark. The simple pain of walking while supporting the other two, I find, helps keep my mind from my more complex ones. When every step is an effort, it’s hard to dwell.

Finally we reach the lantern-light of Domus Telimus; Kadmos and Diago greet us at the door, the former with more of his tea as I instructed him earlier. I take it as he gives a soft cry of overjoyed relief at the sight of my companions, embracing them with unrestrained delight.

I’ve drained the pain-numbing concoction before the three of them have broken apart. “Luck, all of you.” I hand back the empty mug. Kadmos knows what to do from here, and I need to press on.

Kadmos’s lip twitches and then he’s enfolding me in a surprising hug, which I return with a bemused smile. The same quickly follows from Lanistia and Ulciscor. Warmth to them all and I cling a heartbeat longer to each than I mean to. Suddenly wanting nothing more than the comfort of other people.

“Be safe,” Ulciscor murmurs as he parts. “We owe you a debt, Son.” Eyes locked with mine.

For the first time, he doesn’t use the word lightheartedly.

I just nod, not knowing what to say. Clap him lightly on the shoulder, and head toward the street.

Diago pads after me, somehow knowing that this time, he’s required.

I limp away back into the darkness of the unlit avenues, until my and Diago’s shadows disappear, and then lean against a wall. Ruffle the fur on Diago’s head absently. Between my Will and Kadmos’s tea, I’ll be capable of making the docks. But it’s past midnight. We’ll have to be quick.

There are screams on the night breeze. They come fewer than they did even a couple of days ago. More surprised, harsher against the sullenness of Caten’s corpse. But one only has to listen for a few minutes in any section of the city to hear them.

People being killed. Or raped. Or dragged away to be fodder for the Sappers.

And so much of it is of my doing. Not my fault, perhaps—I am not arrogant enough to think that the machinations of empire revolve around me. But I played more than my part in beginning this horror.

I check I’m alone, and take the stone medallion Ostius gave me from around my neck. Examine it again. The faintest trace of Will pulsing from the Hierarchy symbol, as always. I’ve thought about this a lot, this past week. About what was said, that night, between him and Princeps Exesius. What it all means.

And I remember again Decimus’s last, sneering words to me. An ugly truth ringing in them.

The strength of the few is all that matters.

I pour Will into my hand, and close my fist. When I open it again, all that remains is dust.

I brush it off onto the ground.

“Come on, Diago,” I tell the alupi softly. “Time to be strong.”

I grit my teeth against the pain once again, and head for war.

LXXIII

IJOG ACROSS CRAGGY, CRACKED WASTELANDS BENEATH the burning afternoon sun, sweat seeping between the lines of the white face wrapping I retrieved from Caeror’s old quarters. The great black pyramid of Duat rises in front of me, filling my vision, its shadow stretching more than a mile eastward. Acidic air burns my lungs, entire body aching as I push from harsh light into deep shadow, focused on the movement near the eastern entrance. A line of iunctii trudging slowly as they haul a massive block of white stone on a sledge. Dwarfed by Duat, insignificant points of motion at the base of its enormous outline.

I’m unnoticed in my approach, despite how painfully exposed I am out here. The men ahead strain, heads down, gazes fixed on their next step alone. And as expected, the black-clothed Overseer watches them and nothing else. It won’t have been instructed otherwise, out here. Caeror and I discussed doing something like this many times.

Getting in the outer door was always the easy part.

Polished black reflects the crystal, cloudless sky as I approach. I haven’t seen Duat this close, not from the outside. Unblemished, despite millennia of being blasted by sand. Not even dust seems to cling to it. The polished dark surface rises, and rises, and rises as I draw near.

I’ve timed my approach well and though I have to jog the last few hundred feet, sweat drenching me, the Overseer is at the archway, and the obsidian folding away to reveal the darker antechamber beyond, just as I catch up. I draw my knife and slice a generous cut across each of my palms, trailing the last man inside. Still unnoticed.

The door to the outside seals again, taking with it the natural light and leaving only the dull green I would usually associate with Neter-khertet, though I know this southern entrance leads into Duat’s east. I breathe a small relief into the dark emerald glow. As determined as I am, I was loathe to open even a small hole in the outer wall; while Ka would surely have had a way to seal it—a place like Duat does not get built without fail-safes—I have no idea how long that might take, or the consequences for those living inside.

The iunctus nearest to me, finally, senses something behind him. Turns. More confusion than alarm in his stance as he takes me in.

There’s a great whooshing sound that seems to come from above; I almost grasp the crook and flail hanging from my belt in my alarm, but no one else is reacting with any particular surprise. The iunctus is still staring at me. Fazed far more by my presence than the noise. I go to take a breath, to whisper reassurance to him.

Nothing comes.

I panic. The Vitaeria in my arm keep me safe from asphyxiation, but being caught by surprise at the inability to breathe still triggers a natural terror in me that takes a moment to control. Behind the iunctus who spotted me, I see the Overseer moving methodically around the sledge and its massive cargo, waiting for each iunctus to unwrap their face before moving on.

There’s another gushing of air, this one ruffling my clothes, and I can breathe again.

“Great Overseer. Glory to Ka, but this one is not of our group.” The iunctus is backing away from me. Pointing.

I clench and unclench my hands, palms stinging, ensuring the blood still flows from the cuts.

Grab my weapons.

There’s a moment, and then they spring to life. Thrum and buzz beneath my grip, hot in my hand.

The Overseer stops. Assessing. Though its eyes don’t leave me, there’s the hint of black to them, and I know it must be communicating. Passing on what it’s seeing.

No going back, now.

The Overseer comes at me. So fast that though I’m expecting it, I’m almost still too slow.

I flick the crook up, and catch it squarely in the chest.

There’s a heartbeat where the man seems frozen in time. The energy pounding through the crook envelopes him. Distorts him, but not in the way it distorts the air around my weapons. Rather than quiver and snap back into place, his body seems to keep twisting, warping, distending and buckling.

He explodes.

Even knowing the destructive force of what I hold I stumble back, horrified as rent flesh spatters to the floor, red viscera rendered black in the eery light slashing across the stone block, thin droplets ricocheting back onto my clothes. There’s a mist where the Overseer was standing that rises and swirls and then drops again, settling into a fine paste over stone and iunctii alike.

I stand there, crook still outstretched, arm shaking as the blood-spattered iunctii scramble away with terrified moans. I knew what would happen, knew this was coming and had braced myself for it.

Still.

I glance at the trembling, huddled iunctii, a few with heads still half unwrapped, smears of dark liquid across their faces and clothes. I hold up a hand as if I can somehow calm them, reassure them. Explain why I’m doing this. Explain that I’m trying to save them.

But then I remember Ahmose. How he died. And I know there’s no point.

I drop my hand again. Wipe away the worst of the gore from my face with my tunic.

“Glory to Ka,” I mutter in frustration. I turn to the inner door, and swing at it with my crook.

A chunk of thick black rock the size of my head explodes outward, tumbling into Duat.

To a background of more low groans from the iunctii I attack the door with hurried fury, blow after blow clearing more of a hole; beyond I can see the stunned, horrified stares of a few frozen passersby. I must look a sight. Smashing my way into their city from the wastelands through their unbreakable walls, blood and eviscerated flesh coating my face and arms. Hard to blame them for their fear.

There are three Overseers approaching. Sprinting toward me from some sort of guard house nearby. I attack the door with renewed fervour, flail flicking and crook crashing against the obsidian, palms stinging with every blow. Chunks burst away with a shattering roar, rapidly widening the opening. The weapons, I vaguely note, continue to seem unaffected by the impacts. That’s good. If these break, there’s no secondary option.

The gap is large enough now for me to leap through and I do so, coming immediately face-to-face with the first Overseer. She swings a blade that describes a wide, lazy arc at my neck.

I move smoothly to the side. Under. Flick out with the flail, watch as it snakes and snaps into her arm.

Flicker. Thrum. She’s a pile of pulsing, quivering red flesh.

Blood and pieces of gore and bone spray into the two men behind her but it doesn’t give them pause; they dive through the red haze, the mist coating their faces a horrific crimson as the fearful cries behind them intensify. The iunctii’s fierce determination means nothing as I bring up my crook to meet the first blow, shattering the blade that attempts to cut through it. I almost stumble at the unexpected success, but recover in time to pivot and bring the flail squarely across at both the bodies hurtling at me.

Flicker. Thrum. Flicker. Thrum.

Shouts and screams from up the street, though they retreat in a hurry; no one, wisely, is choosing to face me. Within twenty seconds I’m alone, even if there must surely be at least a few pairs of eyes peering at me from within the safer confines of nearby buildings.

It doesn’t matter. This will be enough to draw Ka’s attention here, maybe even activate Gleaners within the city itself. But it’s also too far from Duat’s centre. Likely not even close to enough of a threat to draw out the ones guarding his pyramid.

I hurry forward, doing all I can to ignore the hot, sticky liquid clinging to my skin and clothes, and slip into the shadows of a maze of alleys.

Duat’s main streets are bustling at this time of day, but this area is quiet; I stop, strip away the wrappings and tunic and hurriedly use them to wipe my hands and face as best I can, removing the worst of the blood before discarding the sodden and stained garments. Then I retrieve the bundle I hid here a few days ago. Put on the clean clothes, and study my reflection in the distorted mirror of an obsidian statue, scrubbing away a few extra traces I missed. Dishevelled, certainly, but good enough to not specifically draw attention.

I breathe until I’m calm, wrap my hands using fresh cloth strips. Conceal my now dormant weapons beneath my robe again.

Move confidently into the unsuspecting crowd.

It’s not long before I spot more Overseers swiftly navigating in the direction of the destroyed entrance, but I use the skills Netiqret taught me to their full effect here. Pause when I have to, slow or speed up incrementally, weave and blend seamlessly. The people here know something’s happened; Duat’s eastern entryway is only a few streets over and the crashing of rubble is not something that’s often heard in the city. But no one seems to notice anything about me. No one seems to be looking for anyone in particular.

I progress unnoticed for almost ten minutes before reaching the tunnel entrance, gasping my relief as it seals shut again behind me. Heart still pounding, but the first part is done.

As I catch my shaking breath, I can’t help but wonder again at whether the information the Nomarch gave me can actually be trusted. I would once have assumed that after seeing what my weapons can do, Ka’s systems would naturally tighten security around him—regardless of what came after. No matter what disruption threatened the city.

I suppose I’m about to find out, either way.

I strip away the bloodied cloth around my hands and then take up the crook and flail again, gripping grimly as the thrum thunders through the triangular passageway. I don’t expect to run into trouble, but it’s too narrow down here to react quickly if I do.

The low roof makes me stoop as I hurry along, the humming pulse of my weapons echoing in front of me. No one appears, though; a taut and anxious hour later, I’m finding my way through the hidden entrance Netiqret first showed me, then beneath the river and up into the west.

When I finally emerge from the base of a green-lit obelisk, not fifty feet from the Infernis, all seems quiet.

I take a breath, ignoring the fresh burning in my lungs from proximity to the green-lit water. The razor-thin black bridge across it, not far away either, is empty at the moment. This angle shows again that it has no supports, no columns at all to hold it up.

It’s Duat’s artery. Its jugular. Aside from the secret, broken ways below, it is the only path between east and west.

I collect the fresh white cloth I left stashed for the purpose, wrap myself again, and make my way to the bridge’s entrance. There are few iunctii out at this hour, most still working. None give me a second glance.

When I come within sight of the bridge, though, three Overseers are waiting.

Vek. Better than the usual half dozen that guard the way across, but I was hoping my disturbance earlier might have drawn more away; if it had, there was a chance I could have used another iunctus and gained access without even alerting the Nomarch. No time to second-guess myself now, though. Three won’t stop me, but nor can I prevent them from sending for reinforcements.

Once I start, I’m going to have to be quick.

I cut away the wrapping on my palms. Reopen the wounds with a gritted-teeth hiss. Then I walk toward the Overseers. Posture deferent until the last second, when I reach beneath my robe with bloodied hands.

The Overseers see the threat, and attack.

Slide to the right and slash. Flicker. Thrum. Roll under a swipe and stab. Flicker. Thrum. Stumble to my feet and meet an overhead strike; the woman’s blade becomes dust and I lunge forward through the red mist created by the other two corpses, crook taking her in the forehead. Flicker. Thrum.

It’s over in ten seconds. I stand there, panting, hand cupped over my mouth, doing everything I can not to inhale the crimson that falls gently to the ground around me. I’m becoming gradually inured to the horror of these weapons, but the quivering piles of flesh around me still make my stomach twist. Still drag me back to the naumachia.

I don’t have time to linger on it, though.

I start onto the bridge.

My footsteps echo, the only other sound the rushing of water far below. I jog, leaving red footprints in my wake. Awfully, awfully exposed up here between the massive statues that line the way. But the bridge is long. I can see flashes of black in the distance where Overseers from the opposite side are running toward me.

I’m far enough in. Well over the water. I stop and without hesitation, plunge my crook down onto the reflective surface beneath me.

There’s the barest of resistance. A deep thrum.

Cracks spiderweb out from the point of contact, a terrifying splintering sound accompanying the sight. A groaning, and then shards of shimmering stone crumble and begin the long fall to the green-tinted poison below.

I take a heartbeat to feel my relief, and start dragging the crook along the width of the bridge.

There’s a screaming, a rending. The Overseers will be sprinting but they’re still thousands of feet away. My weapon carves more from the bridge. More. Dust cakes to the blood on my face and clothes, turning it from red to an ugly dark brown.

I finish with a last, triumphant hacking motion, a clear line of air now between the eastern and western sections of stone.

Nothing happens.

I gather myself, then step over the narrow gap and stamp forcefully. The bridge doesn’t budge.

“Alright,” I mutter, breath short with anxiousness.

I’d wondered about this; the bridge appears to be one seamless piece with the city on either side, plenty of anchoring on both shores. I need to cut another line farther along, then. Sacrifice an entire middle section to the depths.

The Overseers are almost halfway to me, and I can see more streaking black from the closer western side now too. I burst eastward. Falter for a second as Gleaners suddenly stream into the air from the temple ahead, arms at their sides, silhouetted in gold by the pyramid and then lit green from below as they arrow in my direction.

The Nomarch knows what I’m trying to do.

The plan is working. Gods help me.

I force myself to keep running, occasionally slashing my crook at the ground beside me as I go, shards exploding outward each time. Anything to weaken this section. I make it twenty feet. Fifty. Gleaners and Overseers alike are boiling from the city at both ends of the bridge. I hear faint cries as people begin to spot the flying monstrosities.

I’m tempted for a moment to think it done, but I know deep down it’s not enough. I’ve drawn their attention, but all I’ve really achieved so far is vandalism. Escaping now could mean those Gleaners clouding the air ahead simply return to their posts. I need them to be needed. I need to do damage.

So, to the echoes of distant screams, with the impossible fear of what is bearing down on me itching at the corners of my eyes, I begin to cut again.

I’m almost halfway through carving the second line, the bridge finally beginning to feel as though it’s giving slightly, when the first wave of Overseers reach me. I stop long enough to deal with them. They’re not warriors, not strategic, do little more than leap at me. Flicker. Thrum. Flicker. Thrum. Red mist coats me; I see more approaching through it, see the golden sky darkened by shadows that are almost here. Flicker. Thrum. I keep slashing the ground where I can, explosions of stone between explosions of flesh. Stomach churning. Heart hammering in my chest. Everything flashes of nightmares and blood and fear.

The Gleaners are coming. They’re almost on me. They’ll be too much to deal with.

I grit my teeth and, going down on one knee, drive the point of the crook as hard as I can into the bridge’s remaining sliver of surface. The ground beneath me gives a slow shudder, a groan, as the weapon sinks deep into the black stone.

Then there is a splintering, a cracking that seems to come from all around, too loud and violent. I rip the crook back out. Overseers silently pour at me from both sides. The air is thick with Gleaners, from the temple and from Neter-khertet, screams of terror and disbelief even over the pained rending of the ground beneath me, the citizens of Duat seeing what may become of them for the first time.

Cracks run and grow with frightening rapidity beneath my feet. The ground starts to wobble and twist and groan, making me stumble. The Gleaners are fifty feet away. Twenty.

I sprint clumsily for the side of the bridge. Too late.

The ground vanishes from beneath my feet, and I am slipping. Falling. The bridge screams and crumples around me. The Overseers closest flail and yet still have their gazes fixed on me, seem intent on getting to me even as the obsidian shatters like glass around them. But they are as vulnerable to the effects of gravity as I am. They topple.

I flick out my flail a couple of times as Overseers get near, but I’m not even sure if I make contact. The green-lit water rushes up to meet me and I use both flail and crook to shield myself from overhead as I hit it feet-first, the burn of poison racing through my nerves.

There’s an enormous crashing above, even from underwater as I sink. Pressure as there’s hit after hit on my weapons, masses of stone raining down on me, split and eviscerated by my protective stance and clouding around me. Huge chunks graze past me, opening wounds on my arms and shoulders that then sear with renewed agony in the acidic water. I gasp involuntarily and the burning is inside me, in my mouth and throat and lungs. I thrash, do all I can to keep my crook and flail above me. They, and my embedded Vitaeria, are the only things keeping me alive.

Something fastens around my leg.

I open my eyes, ignoring the pain enough to see, and almost drag in another lungful in sheer horror.

The Overseers have hit the water too; many are simply floating, heads caved in from rubble, but some are still conscious and those are swimming for me. Many have lost limbs and trail thick fountains of liquid dark behind them as they thrash toward me, staining the water an ugly black against the green. The skin on all of them is boiling, peeling, sluicing away in grotesque clumps. Yet still they come. One is close enough to be pawing at my leg, scratching it with its nails, though much of the rest of it has already melted away.

I bring my crook down and jab it into the monstrous thing’s face. It disintegrates into pockets of flesh that float away through a cloud of black blood.

Even with my pursuers clearly succumbing to the Infernis, the terror of it all is more than enough for me to start swimming lower, my strokes frantic as I try to escape the crowd of disintegrating nightmares following me. At least the Gleaners have remained above; I can see the swarm of them hovering, images wavering and shaking from the continued impacts of the collapsing bridge. I ignore them; the river is not awfully deep and I scan desperately along its floor, fighting through the pain of the experience and looking for the drainage that I know exists.

There. A slightly darker shadow nestled next to one of the lines of green light, impossible to see from above. No more than five feet wide.

I scrabble toward it, panic and pain almost too much to bear.

The Overseers, I think, have stopped following. The acid too much for them to take, finally shutting down their bodies. It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back up. The Gleaners will spot me in a second.

The current becomes stronger, sucking me downward as I approach the hole, and before I know it I have little choice in my destination.

I allow myself to be drawn into the darkness.

LXXIV

THE STRETCHED ANIMAL SKIN OF MY PRISON TENT IS AN angry, flickering red, broken only by the silhouettes of guards and passing soldiers as the night progresses. I work unsuccessfully at my bindings, blood slicking my wrist from where my constant straining has rubbed it raw. I could not sleep even if I was inclined to, the stone pin in the back of my neck unceasing in its sending of waves of pulsing agony. For a while the howls and screams and clash of wood and metal outside seem as though they will never end. Then they do. Some unheard signal, and hostilities pause. The camp becomes, if not quiet, then less unpleasantly raucous than before.

My eyes are closed, trying to divine what’s going on outside, when I hear soft grunting from the tent’s entrance; a few seconds later there’s a flash of light and a dragging sound. A body being hauled inside.

“Deaglán.” It’s Tara. Impossibly here. On her knees beside me, spear blade slicing through my bonds, blue eyes narrowed as she scans me for other signs of injury. As soon as my hand is free, I rip the brooch from the back of my neck, gritting my teeth against the pain as it slides free. The agony in my head lessens to a thumping ache. Still present—still affecting me, given that I cannot yet sense the pulse of Tara’s spear—but less. Infinitely more manageable. I breathe out in pure relief.

“How are you here?” Gallchobhar left the silver arm in here with me, but I leave it on the ground; any small value it has is gone, now. I’m still dizzy and every muscle is stiff and painful, especially in my legs, as I try to rise. Gallchobhar’s hospitality has taken its toll. “Where are the others?”

“The Caer. They wanted to come but you know how they are at sneaking around.” She speaks in a brusque whisper, snatching a waterskin from her belt and forcing a few drops down my throat. She doesn’t want to speak, but she can see I’m not ready to move yet.

“How many warriors do we have?”

“Not enough.” Analytical rather than desperate. “Fiachra attacked many of the outer villages in preparation for this siege. Wiped out several warbands we would have called upon. And food stores in the Caer won’t last a week.”

Bad news. Catastrophic, actually, despite the way she says it so matter-offactly. “What’s the plan?”

“We attack. Probably not long after dawn.” She meets my gaze. Unsmiling. “Thought you might like to join us.”

I push myself to my feet. Sway. Pull my cloak so that, as far as is possible, it conceals the space where my arm should be. “I would be delighted.”

We step over the guards’ corpses and leave the tent. The camp is still well-lit, fires everywhere, but they are dimmer, many of the men resting in these early hours. Most warriors still awake are arrayed closer to the Caer, watchful of its walls. There seem few barriers to our exit, but it will have to be in the wrong direction if we aim to rejoin our friends.

We walk at a steady pace, hoods up and faces shadowed, not uncommon given the icy night air. I do all I can to conceal my limp, the stiffness with which I move. We stride confidently until we can see the edge of the camp.

“Leathfhear?”

My heart drops at Gallchobhar’s amused voice from behind us. We don’t stop, pretend not to have heard, but after a second, armed men appear in our way. I glance at Tara, who grips her spear and slows. I do the same.

“Leathf hear! It is you. It seems I have underestimated your importance yet again.” Gallchobhar’s chiding is something dark as I draw down my hood. “And who is your saviour?” He motions at Tara to reveal herself.

She shakes her head, spins her spear. “I challenge you, Gallchobhar ap Drin. Let the winner take him.”

“Tara ap Rónán?” Gallchobhar is gleeful as he recognises the voice, realises who it is. He laughs, a boisterous roar. “Why would I accept—”

It happens as fast as blinking. Tara is moving. Her spear licking out. The warrior nearest to us drops, clutching his throat, gurgling as his life blood spills onto the dirt.

Gallchobhar’s laughter dies, and he bares his teeth into something more sinister as he waves back the other men stepping forward to attack.

“Show me your face, Tara. It has been so long.”

Tara shrugs and pulls back her hood. Her blue eyes are fierce. The scar on her face looks angry in the torchlight.

He inspects her. “Ugly as the day you left, I see.”

She smiles back at him. “And you, as stupid. Though I could have guessed that much.”

Gallchobhar’s sneer increases, evidently annoyed that Tara doesn’t appear to be intimidated by him. “Not stupid enough to fight you, when you are already my prisoner.”

“Spoken like a man with no honour. Spoken like a man who is afraid he will lose.”

Gallchobhar continues to study her. He is annoyed, but I don’t think she’s actually goaded him; he may be vile but he is not, despite Tara’s assertion, a fool. That doesn’t mean he’s not considering it, though. He is clearly confident in his superiority. And he knows that even with Ruarc and Fiachra’s apparent disdain of the Old Ways, he will look weak if he refuses.

“Very well,” he eventually says simply. “But we will fight with an audience.” He smiles slowly. “I would hate for your father to miss out on this proud moment.”

Tara and I both realise what he means as we’re marched toward the Caer’s wall. I grimace, and can see a similar expression on my friend’s face. I lean over, lowering my voice to a murmur. “If you would prefer me to embarrass him in front of everyone, I am more than happy to take your place.”

She grins, even as the warriors forcing us along jerk us apart, afraid we’re conspiring. Continues to smile as she meets my gaze and shakes her head.

Gallchobhar, striding slightly ahead of us, raises his arms as he reaches the well-lit point leading to the main gate where he will easily be heard by those defending, but remain out of range of their projectiles. “King Rónán!” he bellows to the walls. No way of knowing whether the king is actually present—likely not, given the hour—but no doubt someone will soon be fetching him. “It seems that as you are not capable of fighting yourself, you have sent your offspring to do it!” He laughs, a sneering, mocking sound that echoes over the silent battlefield, then turns to Tara. “Before we begin. Tell them!”

He says the last loud enough for those on the walls to hear too. Tara steps forward. Expression betraying no sign of fear.

“I have challenged Gallchobhar ap Drin. If I am victorious, Deaglán and I will leave unharmed.” She does not have to say what will happen if she loses.

“So the terms will be honoured!” shouts Gallchobhar gleefully. Somehow managing to mock the traditional form, even as he commits to the deal. I breathe out, the faintest hope sparking. There’s no way Gallchobhar could know just how good Tara is. And though I would not trust Gallchobhar himself to let us go, I do think Fiachra’s men will honour the deal if she wins. I think.

Tara is pushed forward, into the wide section of road that, while muddy, still provides enough of a stable surface to suffice as a space for fighting. Her spear clatters to the ground after her, the man doing the throwing ensuring he is far from in range when she picks it up.

Gallchobhar is twenty feet away, already holding his long silver-tipped spear in one meaty hand and a blade in the other. Even now, even having been in his presence for days, I cannot get over how massive he is. Far bigger than any of the other warriors. And I know how quick he can be, too.

As I watch him focus on Tara and start to stalk toward her, his eyes bleed to black.

The shouting starts. Warriors from the surrounding circle screaming their exhortations and hurling insults at Tara, while from the wall there is a more distant inverse, struggle though it does to break through the cacophony of the nearer voices. Many of the onlookers start drumming their weapons against their shields.

By the time the two combatants meet, the din is near overwhelming.

Gallchobhar strikes first, barely breaking stride as his spear licks out and then his blade follows in a vicious downward strike. Tara pivots smoothly and blocks the sword, the imbued wood of her spear absorbing the edge of the metal without a splinter. She steps calmly to the side and feints at Gallchobhar’s leg; the man twitches, almost falls for it. Tara shows her teeth in a slow smile that Gallchobhar does not return.

Tara does not seem fazed by the crashing noise that assails her, I’m relieved to see. Nor does Gallchobhar, though. In fact, the massive man seems to draw energy from it, his black eyes wide with excited fervour as he comes at Tara again, swinging and whirling in a frenzied attack that sees Tara deflecting blade after blade. Each strike is pushed aside with practiced efficiency and she never falters, never loses her footing.

As Gallchobhar finally tires, Tara goes on the offensive. Her spear blurs and Gallchobhar blocks again and again, his brow furrowed in surprised concentration. But he moves as well as Tara. Calmly, smoothly pushes aside every strike.

And unlike her, he doesn’t retreat.

It is not a question of skill; there, at least at first glance, they seem equally matched. Gallchobhar is simply bigger. In his early thirties and a mountain of muscle, taller and stronger. Tara is athletic, lean, toned, and incredibly quick. She might even have more endurance. But she is more than a head smaller. She generates immense power with her blows—I know this only too well—but Gallchobhar generates more. Has a longer reach. Is more easily able to absorb each strike.

Tara breaks off and though nothing changes in her demeanour or face, I think she knows it too. Not that there’s no chance of her getting an opening, of breaking through. But it is no better a chance than of Gallchobhar finding a flaw in her defences.

And if neither make a mistake, eventually she will lose.

The fight draws on for a minute. Two. Unrelenting thunder from the crowd, the noise only seeing ebbs and flows as each fighter makes their moves. There is admiration on the faces of many. Respect. Gallchobhar is a warrior about whom songs have been sung. Tara is proving his equal. This is a fight the likes of which they may never see again.

But eventually, Gallchobhar—patient even in his heavy, relentless attacks—starts to see cracks in Tara’s defences. Not in technique or speed, but simply in ability to withstand his brutal strikes. The way her spear shudders when it blocks, the way she is forced to take a half step back to brace herself now whenever she takes a blow on it, the way the flow of the fight starts to become much more Gallchobhar advancing and Tara calmly retreating. There’s no panic on her face or in her actions, but it’s obvious to anyone who knows the signs. And everyone watching here knows the signs. The crowd immediately around us somehow starts to get louder. More exuberant. Baying like dogs for her blood.

And then, finally, Gallchobhar’s massive swings create an opening.

His blade knocks aside Tara’s spear just wide enough for his own spear to flash out, a jab that she cannot block and cannot avoid. It takes her in the shoulder. Not a killing blow but a bad one; she moans and twists and dances away as the spear comes loose again, still manages to keep her form for a few more strikes, but it’s clear it’s over after that. Some of the black has faded from her eyes, and her movements are jerkier now, more forced.

A slash opens just above her eye. A heavy hit to her left leg. And then another wound, this one worse, in her side. No telling exactly how bad but the scream that accompanies it cuts through the crowd’s jubilation, tears at me as she falls. I find myself struggling forward to help. I am easily held back by my captors.

Her spear is still pointing at Gallchobhar as she is on her back, somehow still focusing through the pain, but Gallchobhar kicks it aside disdainfully and then bends down and rips it from her grasp. He is bathed in sweat, steaming in the frigid night air. Torches mirror the triumph in his wild eyes.

I watch. Still struggling. It all feels dreamlike, too much a nightmare to be real. I am helpless as Gallchobhar stands over Tara and raises his spear high. The crowd quietens. Stills. Fades to silence faster than I would have believed.

Gallchobhar pauses.

“Rónán!” he roars. Not turning toward the wall, never taking his eyes from the woman on the ground in front of him. “Rónán, are you watching?”

There is no answer, nothing but hush for several seconds. Gallchobhar’s arm tenses and he raises the spear a fraction.

“I am here, Gallchobhar.” Rawness in Rónán’s deep voice as it echoes out over the fires; I have only heard him speak once before, and that was a long time ago now, but I recognise it nonetheless. There is movement at the top of the wall and the king appears, golden cloak drawn about him. He holds himself tall, but there is a haggardness to his appearance that is impossible to disguise.

Gallchobhar just stands there, satisfaction written plain on his face as he sees what I see. His arm twitches.

“A life for a life, Rónán.”

A soft, pained, wheezing laugh from Tara. Not bitter. More mocking.

“You are an oathbreaker, Gallchobhar. How could I possibly trust you to keep your word?”

Tara’s laughter dies.

Gallchobhar’s teeth gleam in the firelight. “I would not ask you to. I will release her to the Caer. Once she is safe, you will surrender yourself.”

“No.” It’s Tara, but her voice is barely a whisper.

“You should hurry, if you wish to accept,” adds Gallchobhar, with a disdainful glance at my friend bleeding on the ground. “She does not have long, if she does not get a healer.”

It’s a bad deal, and everyone here knows it. A king for his daughter—one who has been disinherited, who he sent away and didn’t see for years. Who may die anyway, and even if she does not, will be trapped behind the lines of a siege that does not look like being broken.

And yet I knew Rónán’s answer as soon as he didn’t immediately refuse. I can see it in his eyes, even at this distance. Can see Tara’s pain reflected in them.

“You will let Deaglán ap Cristoval go as well.”

I look up. Surprised to hear my name on Rónán’s lips. Heartbeat quickening with impossible hope.

Gallchobhar just shakes his head. “Your daughter is running out of time.”

Rónán half faces away and I can see him speaking to someone in the shadows, though I cannot hear what is being said. Eventually he turns back. “Get her to us in time, and I accept.”

There’s a groan from around the walls, and despite what it means for Tara, I’m not sure I can blame them. Tara tries to say more but her injuries are taking a toll. Gallchobhar wasn’t exaggerating. In a few minutes, she’ll be beyond saving.

I watch in dazed horror as soldiers lift Tara—carefully and respectfully, I am glad to see, at least—and carry her to the gate. After they have left her there and retreated, the gate opens briefly, just enough for warriors to hurry through and steal her from sight. There is low murmuring from the camp, but otherwise silence. Time passes. I am bound again; after that, nobody pays me much attention.

And then the gate is opening again, and King Rónán is walking through.

My heart sinks. Part of me knew he wouldn’t betray the deal he made with Gallchobhar; from everything Tara and the others have said of him, his honour simply wouldn’t allow it. And I had not hoped that he would betray it. Just like Tara, he stands for something I had long thought lost.

But I do not wish to see him die.

Everyone stops. Watches. He is truly regal as he strides down the torchlit road. Cloaked as a king. The bearing of a warrior. No fear in any part of him.

I cannot say the same for me as I realise dawn is colouring the sky behind him.

He comes to stand before Gallchobhar. Not as tall as the other man, but no doubting who is the superior between them. “I surrender myself to King Fiachra.”

“You surrender to me.” Gallchobhar, smug up until this point, is suddenly angry. “That is the deal.”

“A lion cannot surrender to a dog, Gallchobhar. I place myself under your king’s protection.”

Gallchobhar’s eyes glitter, just briefly, in the torchlight. Then he turns his face to the oncoming dawn.

“Bind him,” is all he says.

Rónán’s hands are soon secured behind his back, though the men treat him with a care that they most certainly did not show me. A good sign. Then I’m being hauled unceremoniously to my feet and we are being led—shoved in my case, guided in Rónán’s—toward Lake Áras.

My dread increases. I have faced the prospect of dying many times, over the past few years. But always, I have had some level of agency. I have never been led, bound, toward my execution.

“Head up, Deaglán.”

Rónán’s murmured exhortation echoes my father so strongly that for a second, I feel as though he is here with me. I still cannot sense Will, but I wonder again if he is near, if he knows what is about to happen. Some small part of me, the part that is still a child, continues to believe he will save me. Somehow sweep in and defeat this army. But I know, deep down, that he has already tried. He begged me not to make this decision. He told me exactly how it would end.

We’re pushed out along the causeway, onto the wide wooden platform I know is made for offerings to the depths. Still within sight of the walls. We pass Lir’s severed head and staff lying on the wood near the shore, presumably in preparation for another showy sacrifice after we are done. The lake stretches out before us. Barely a ripple in the windless ethereal light, a mirror for the trees and rolling hills of the countryside amidst the portend of dawn. Stillness and beauty. Hard to believe what I would see if I turned around.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the crowd gathering along the shoreline. I can see them on the walls beyond, too. Watching anxiously. They were planning to attack at dawn—a desperate move anyway—but with their king here, in Gallchobhar’s grasp, I cannot imagine they will keep to that plan.

“Tell me, Rónán,” says Gallchobhar as another man jogs up and hands him something. The silver arm from Fornax. Gallchobhar clearly expecting it. “Do you regret letting the half man take my honour?”

“There was never any to take, Gallchobhar. And the gods have proclaimed him whole, no matter what you say. Certainly more whole than you will ever be.” He says it loud, so that all may hear in the deathly hush. The surrounding warriors. Those up on the wall, morning’s first light now illuminating their faces.

Gallchobhar’s face is dark. Something wrong in his eyes.

“Well,” he grinds eventually, holding back whatever just threatened to break free in him. “We should not dishonour Dia Domhain with only half an offering, then, should we?” He gestures to one of the men behind me. I am suddenly being kicked to my knees, and as I thrash futilely, hands hold me in place. Begin fitting me with a rough harness.

Then the cold of the silver is being forced over my stump. Cinched painfully tight, its weight almost causing me to topple, Gallchobhar now smiling as if at some grand joke. It doesn’t take me long to realise why.

This is my stone. The sign I supposedly received from the gods will weigh me down and drown me. A final, mocking surety against any who may complain that I was dealt with unjustly.

Nothing left now but to take a breath, and calm, and raise my head and meet his gaze without flinching as the silver tears at my shoulder. I won’t give him the satisfaction of anything less.

Gallchobhar sees my defiance. Nods to himself. Smiles.

And slides his blade into my stomach.

LXXV

EVERYTHING MOVES SLOWLY. DISTANTLY. IT IS A KILLING blow. Even if I didn’t know it from the searing of my stomach or from the helpless groan that wheezes past my lips, I can hear it in the raging protests from the walls. I manage to look up through the haze. Tara is there, I think. Supported by Fearghus. Her expression is murderous rage.

Her father, on the other hand, is watching impassively. I don’t know whether he feels nothing for what he is seeing, or whether it’s simply not to show weakness to Gallchobhar or his people, but it is the right choice.

“You see, Rónán.” Gallchobhar is breathing heavily. Steel still buried, his hand on the hilt. “Such is the fate of all you favour.” He pulls me close, hand behind my head, smiling in my face, his breath a hot stench in my nostrils.

Then he yanks the sword out and whips it around. A silver arc flicking crimson in the clean dawn light.

Rónán’s head rolls to the side as his corpse slumps to the wood underfoot, neck spouting bubbling blood.

Silence for a second. Two. Then an outraged scream goes up from the walls, fury and insults hailing down, and even the soldiers around us blanch, shocked eyes darting from Rónán’s headless corpse to each other and then back again. There is still much I don’t know about this culture, but Rónán surrendered himself to Fiachra and I know that a king—Old Ways or not, enemy combatant or not—would expect to have been shown far more respect in death. Even from Gallchobhar.

There is shouting from within the walls; I can’t make it out through the pain, but it sounds as though the warriors within are clamouring to fight. What Gallchobhar wants, I assume. To draw them out before Fiachra comes back. Claim the victory for himself. Everything is vague, remote. The weight of the silver arm drags at my shoulder, pulls at muscle, leaning me to the side. I think in the background I hear the Caer’s gate open. War cries and the clashing of steel.

As dawn’s first rays touch the lake, Gallchobhar kicks me over the edge and into the water.

It is icy. I am so tired, so hurt, that the shock barely registers. My silver arm is an anvil and I weakly thrash to free my real arm from its bonds, but Gallchobhar did his work far too well. I sink. The clean sunlight seems to follow me, always just above me. Just light enough to see, though the surface soon fades from view. The water is fresh and clear but there are only reeds and muck down here. Down, down. Too deep. I land, metal arm first, in the sludge. Still holding my breath, though I don’t know why at this point. Instinct, I suppose.

And then my father is there.

It takes me a second to understand as he crouches beside me, movements exaggeratedly slow thanks to the water. Barely recognisable in the murk, hair floating around him. I see an echo of Cari, and I almost let out my remaining breath in a sob.

But it is him. No pulse of Will from him, but he is here anyway, at the end. Blood drifts like smoke from my stomach. I am barely hanging on. He is tugging at the bonds that hold my good arm behind my back. Freeing it. But he sees that I am fading, and fading fast. There is urgency to his actions. I still trust him to save me.

He rips the rope loose. Crouches by me as I remain on my knees, silver arm still anchoring me to the soft lake floor.

He unloops the medallion from his arm, and secures it around my neck.

A pulse in the water, a jolt as it settles against my chest. Energy. Life. The agony in my stomach eases. My lungs no longer feel as though they are about to burst. It takes me a moment to understand, and when I do, I shake my head madly. No. I do not want him to do this. Not for me. Not again. I scrabble to take it off, to give it back.

He smiles at me, and restrains my hand firmly. Dark bruises beginning to blush around his neck. Impossibly, barely visible in the murky water, smiling. Comforting me. Him comforting me.

I am a child again, and all I want is for my father to be here. All I want is for him to stay.

His embrace is long and gentle. Cupping the back of my head, forehead against mine. I look at him pleadingly. Still weighed by my arm. I want to tell him what I should have, three nights ago. He told me that all he wanted was for me to be my own man.

But all I ever wanted, all I still want, is to be like him.

I want to tell him that I love him. I want to tell him just how much I love him. One last time. I mouth the words.

His eyes soften and he mouths it back. His arms slacken. He grits his teeth and makes one final effort, gripping my shoulder.

Courage, he adds. Still smiling.

Then he lets go, the light gone from his eyes.

I howl my pain into the water as he drifts into the darkness, taken by the current toward the river’s mouth. I clench my fists against the wash of grief, against the pain, against the nightmarish hopelessness of everything that is happening.

The air is gone from my lungs but still I am aware, still conscious. The blood pumping from my stomach has eased, I think. It aches, hasn’t magically healed. But my father’s medallion is flooding me with Will, keeping me alive. Preserving me, just as he said it would. Refusing to let me die as I sit, forlorn, on the bottom of the lake.

After a few seconds, I sense the faintest of pulses. Unnoticeable if it were not so close. Right behind my eyes.

And I realise that I am holding my head in my hands.

Dawn’s light is burning its way down to me as I hold my left arm up in front of my face. Turn it back and forth wonderingly. Slowly, disbelievingly, flex the fingers as they glint silver in the scything rays.

I can feel my hand.

The weight of it is gone. It’s not just the water. I can feel it, in the same way I could feel my spear when I used the nasceann. And yet, this is even deeper. Something more. I reach across and loosen the painful leather straps that bound the arm to my shoulder. It does not fall away.

I’ve imbued it. I know it’s true, can feel its certainty even as the impossibility of it staggers me. Just like in Fornax. Some distant instinct rather than knowledge, a reflex that I shouldn’t have and yet somehow do. The image of the arm locked in my mind.

Finally, through all the confusion and disbelief and continued pain, I stand. Push aside my grief and understand that whatever is going on, now is not the time to question it. For a wild moment I consider chasing the current, trying to find my father’s body and returning the amulet that gave him life. But I know that if I did, I would not survive. I know that he would not want me to.

And I know from what I heard before Gallchobhar tried to drown me, that the battle for Caer Áras is beginning up above.

I start to walk back in the direction of the shore; I may not feel the weight of the arm, but I have no idea how it will go if I try to swim with it. My surrounds become lighter. The water clearer as I climb. The green and murk is behind me. Flashing steel ripples up ahead through the lake’s undulating shallows.

I press forward at a steady, determined pace. My head breaks the surface. As soon as my mouth reaches air, I breathe in. Not that I need to, not with the medallion on. But it is an unsettling thing to not, and my body feels immediately stronger for the act.

Nobody notices me at first. Most of the warriors are facing toward the gate, where the fighting is heaviest; the gate itself is open and I cannot see what is happening due to the crush of people, but I imagine the conflict is significant and bloody. Gallchobhar has retreated to the shore but is still standing there with his men, watching. Sword in one massive hand and spear in the other. A pleased expression on his face.

“Gallchobhar!” I roar it, the name ripping from my throat as I wade higher. Chest emerging from the lake. The sounds of battle are loud, but we’re still far enough from the worst of it that my voice echoes over the water.

He turns. So do most of the men on the shore. They take a few breaths to spot me. Gallchobhar’s reaction is the one I am focused on, though. His eyes meet mine and he just stares for a second, blank. Not understanding.

I take another step. Another. Uneasy murmurs ripple through the ranks of his men and more and more turn away from the gate, toward me. I take another step. Another. My long hair drips as it hangs about my face. The tip of my glistening silver arm emerges from the water and there is an audible exhalation from the crowd.

I keep walking. Gaze fixed on Gallchobhar. I know how this will look to these people—me emerging from the lake at dawn, miraculously still alive—and part of me doesn’t want to take advantage of that, but I know I have to. Battles for these men are less about strategy and more about courage. About conviction. Once their fury at Gallchobhar’s treachery ran its course, those in Caer Áras would remember they were fighting for a dead man.

But now? Now it will seem as though the gods themselves have chosen them for victory.

The water reaches my waist, and I raise my silver hand high. Clench it deliberately into a fist, so that all can see.

A moan goes through the onlookers. Everything seems quieter. There is still the sound of metal on metal, but it feels more sporadic now, calls coming from both sides to the combatants. They are slowly breaking apart. Retreating.

Before anyone overcomes their surprise, I need a weapon. There is a pulse on the shore at the edge of the causeway, mere steps away. I move to it; if I’m rejected as unworthy again, I’ll simply do what I did in Fornax and take the Will from it.

I spot what’s causing the pulse. Next to Lir’s bloodied, vacantly staring head, lies his staff.

I hesitate, then stoop and pick it up.

The battle is gone.

An immense rotunda of white columns and white stone and beyond, white mountaintops. A chill wind cuts at my face, slices across the seeping wound in my stomach. I stumble, almost drop the staff in shock at the instantaneous transition. In front of me, the white-cloaked man chuckles.

“You continue to surprise, Deaglán,” says Lir.

“Lir?” I stare around, disoriented even as I recognise the place; there are other people behind him, men and women also cloaked in white. They hang back silently among the columns, watching. My gaze returns to the druid. I saw him die.

“Be calm. I have brought you to the tempeall albios. We do not have long and I …” He trails off as he examines me. Expression turning from determined, to puzzled, to sad.

“Oh, lad. The sorrows you bear, Deaglán,” he says softly. “I am so very sorry.”

I take a staggering step. Allow him to step forward and steady me. His arm is solid as it supports me. “I don’t understand. How did I get here?” Bewilderment muting everything else that roils within me, at least for now.

“You are still at Caer Áras. This is a place of the mind. And though this conversation will take moments at the Caer, those moments matter.” He grips me by the shoulders. Calm as he considers. “Keep on as you were intending. Challenge Gallchobhar. But first, you must announce that his offering has been rejected. Tell everyone who can hear that instead, you have been anointed a draoi nasceann by Dia Domhain himself, and that they are not to fight. Tell them that those on the side of Fiachra have dishonoured the Old Ways, and will be anathema to the gods if they continue on their current path.”

I lean on him, trying to take it in. I have no idea how he knows what’s happening, but he’s right: I was about to challenge Gallchobhar. “And if Fiachra’s men do not listen?”

He smiles grimly. “They will listen, Deaglán. And when you kill Gallchobhar, they will surrender.”

I nod acceptance, not knowing how else to react. “Lir. Are you … dead?” After my father, I have to entertain the possibility.

“A question with a complicated answer. I knew what Gallchobhar would do; he has always been a brute who believes himself blessed and protected by the gods because he was granted the nasceann. But, yes. My body, at least, is gone.” He sighs regretfully. “Time passes, Deaglán. You must go. Save Rónán’s people, and I will explain all of this. Save them and you have my oath that I will train you, and together we will find the meaning behind your journey here.”

He steps back, and grasps my hand in his.

“My strength to yours, Deaglán,” he says quietly.

Everything sharpens. My wound, less painful. Renewed energy in my limbs.

And then I am back on the shore of Lake Áras, and the battle has all but stopped, and everyone is watching.

A heartbeat, and I recover myself. No time for the luxury of confusion. I find Gallchobhar again, still staring in disbelief.

“Gallchobhar ap Drin, I challenge you.” My voice is sure and strong, seems louder than it should as it rings out across the battlefield. I am clear-headed, and the pain in my stomach is little more than an annoyance. Still. I am running on emotion. On rage and grief and desperation, despite doing all I can to maintain an outward appearance of calm. I raise Lir’s staff high. “The gods have rejected your offering. Dia Domhain has anointed me a draoi nasceann and sent me back to condemn you, and all who follow Fiachra, for dishonouring the Old Ways.” I turn to the watching men and women, and brandish my silver hand. “Warriors! By this sign you will know you have been deceived by your leaders. Throw down your weapons and make recompense, or suffer the gods’ wrath for your defiance of them.”

The last of the fighting has stopped. An eerie hush hangs over everything. I walk toward Gallchobhar. My bravado is having an effect. Fiachra’s warriors do not challenge me. In fact, as I walk past, stripping off my sodden tunic so that I am wearing only breeches like them, they step back. Move from my path.

Gallchobhar, for the first time, looks lost. He is angry but he does not know why, does not understand how this is possible. His lip is curled as he takes me in. Sees the open wound in my stomach. The way my silver arm does not weigh me down, how it moves as smoothly as any part of me.

And he sees the way everything has stopped, everyone is watching us. The way his men shy away from my presence.

He snarls, readies his weapons, and charges.

I am mobile again, alert again, but I am in no state to run. So I wait. He screams as he comes at me. There is desperation in his black eyes. He knows what I mean to this battle now.

He brings his blade down with all his strength.

The shivering note rings clear over the silent battlefield. I am almost as surprised as Gallchobhar as we stand there, both frozen. His blade pressing against my silver arm. The iron should have at least scored it. Instead, despite the wild power behind the strike, it hasn’t left a mark.

And I have not taken a step back. Gallchobhar is bigger and stronger and should be able to crush me, but we stand there and he pushes and I do not move.

He roars and pulls back and swings again, all his might behind the strike. This time I lift my hand and try to catch the blade. It shatters, glimmering splinters flying off in the sunlight. Gallchobhar screams as one embeds itself in his cheek.

I am as shocked as he is, but I make sure not to show it. This is a performance, now. Gallchobhar is thrown, unbalanced, and with this medallion around my neck, with whatever Lir has done to help me, I may even be able to beat him. But it will not matter if his army does not falter as well.

“Flee, Gallchobhar.” I wonder how far I can take this. “Flee, or die with dishonour.”

For a moment, I think it might work. Gallchobhar’s eyes are wide, and I can see him thinking about it. Can see him twitching, desperate to turn and escape the madness that has suddenly been visited upon him by my appearance.

But he doesn’t.

“Fight!” He hefts his spear and bellows the words at the men around him, his snarl echoing up to the gate and rolling over Caer Áras. “Do not stand there! Fight!”

They do not.

The two sides continue to back away from one another, and more and more, Fiachra’s warriors turn to us. Watching. Faces grim. They have not discarded their weapons. I suppose I did not expect them to, not yet. If I cannot defeat Gallchobhar, my words will still be proven lies.

Gallchobhar knows it too.

He comes at me, and we begin again.

I do not know how long the fight lasts. I get only impressions of the mute, gathering crowd which rings us. I am not as good as Tara, but Gallchobhar is not the same man who fought her. His confidence has turned to confused anger, his attacks from calculated to battering. My silver arm is more defensively effective than any blade. And though I am injured, the life my father has given me, the strength that Lir has given me, is enough. It hurts. It all hurts. But I keep going.

After a minute, I can see Gallchobhar’s belief start to wane. His screams of exhortation become increasingly desperate. His swings more wild. Three times he lands hits, blows that leave gaping scars, wounds that would fell normal men. But not me. Not today.

And then he leaves a gap, and I drive through it, and he staggers, knee no longer able to support his weight.

He stares at the buckled limb. Disbelieving. A crippling blow. Even for him.

My staff blurs again and takes him on the wrist; he drops his weapon and stumbles and falls backward, and suddenly the darkness is bleeding from his eyes. Leaving only confusion and fury.

“You are not nasceann. You were never one of the worthy,” he snarls.

I lean down. Pick up his spear in my silver hand. “Neither were you,” I tell him softly.

I drive it through his heart.

He stares up at me. Gives a little wheeze of surprise. Almost a sad sound.

He lies still.

I leave the spear in him. His empty eyes gazing up at the brightening sky. It is important that his warriors see him this way.

I start toward the gate, walking rather than running, and Fiachra’s men part like water before me. Many have started to flee, a scattering of men and women sprinting away across the fields and into the surrounding forests, the madness of the battle frenzy changed to panic.

It is a trickle. Then a stream. Then a flood. Those too far away to realise that Gallchobhar had fallen see me now, look back from their wary watching of the enemy and see his massive form on the ground, spear jutting plainly from his chest. He was not their king, not beloved, but he was still the greatest warrior among them.

Fiachra may not be here, but I do not think he will survive the consequences of this day.

I am so badly injured that it is hard to move, the extra wounds Gallchobhar gave me slowing me. Even with my father’s medallion, even with whatever extra strength Lir has lent me, I don’t know how much longer I can stay conscious. It is all I can do to stride, to look confident, to not show how close I am to collapse. Even now, I think if the charade is revealed, things may turn.

But I make it to the gates. The last of Fiachra’s warriors either surrendering or retreating, chased by exuberant, whooping defenders. And I am escorted quickly inside. Men I do not know but who treat me with reverence. I am too tired to tell them to do otherwise.

I find my way into a corner, out of sight from others. I sit against a wall.

I close my eyes, and know no more.

LXXVI

I RASP AWAKE, HACKING BURNING LIQUID FROM MY lungs and gradually realising that I am naked, lying on something cold and hard. The pain in my chest and mouth has vanished from the rest of my body. I’ve been stripped. Scrubbed, judging from the lack of stinging against my skin. I’m sprawled not far from the edge of the underground canal, in sight of the massive wreckage of twisted, rusting metal and just out of reach of the nearest cloud of toxic mist.

“When you said ‘meet,’ you could have mentioned the work that entailed.”

I roll and prop myself up on an elbow. Netiqret is sitting a short distance away against the wall. Watching me wearily. Kiya stands a little farther along, the child’s gaze as absent as ever in the faint green light.

“You pulled me out?” Netiqret raises an eyebrow, the motion asking how the hells else I thought I’d ended up here, and I grunt. “Thanks.”

“It seemed safe to assume you weren’t planning to float all the way back out again.” She nods toward the pipes I used only days ago to escape the city.

I struggle into a seated position. “How long?”

“A few minutes. Maybe ten. I came as soon as I heard the screams, got here just in time to see you get spat out. What in the hells did you do up there?”

“I damaged the bridge. We need to go.” I’m on my feet, urgency replacing the energy that pain and tension have sapped. “My weapons?” A flash of panic as I realise they’re nowhere to be seen.

“You damaged the …” Netiqret trails off her repeating of my words. “What weapons?”

Vek. “A crook and a flail.”

“They don’t sound very useful,” notes Netiqret doubtfully. “They might be down there, I suppose.” She nods to where the nearest waterfall crashes into the canal from the darkness above.

Wonderful. “I’m going to need something to wear. Do you have anything nearby?”

Netiqret thinks, brow still furrowed. “Maybe five minutes away?”

“Then meet me back here in ten. I need those weapons, and we need to hurry.”

“So that you can kill Ka?”

I pause, and immediately know that it’s all the confirmation she needed. Not a wild guess, I suppose, given what she overheard of my questions to the Nomarch. We watch each other carefully. Netiqret never believed Ka was a god. She’s been working against the system he maintains for twenty years, trying to save her daughter.

“So that I can kill Ka,” I confirm.

Netiqret considers. Her gaze drifts to Kiya, and a sadness I’ve not seen in her before flashes in her eyes. “Ten minutes, Siamun.” She touches the iunctus’s shoulder lightly, and the two of them start walking.

I conceal my relief, and start down toward the green-lit water.

IT TAKES ME ALMOST THE FULL TEN MINUTES TO FIND the crook and flail. The crook was easily spotted, lying above one of the lines of green light. The flail had washed much farther down, dangerously close to the pipes, and I was about to give up, eyes searing, before I spotted the slightly darker shape against the shadows. Neither, thankfully, seem to have been damaged by the acidic water.

I’ve barely finished scraping the worst of the toxin from my skin again when Netiqret and Kiya emerge from the dim. The older woman winces as she sees me. “You’re dry?”

“Enough.”

She tosses fresh clothes at me and I shrug them on—smaller than I’d like, but they’ll do under the circumstances—and then hook the weapons on my belt. Netiqret watches with a frown. “You went back in for those?”

“They’re stronger than they look.”

She gives a disbelieving snort. “What else do you need?”

“A priest to get me back into the Sanctum.” I could blast my way in, but that will draw the Gleaners before I reach the pyramid. I’ll have to face them eventually, but once I’m surrounded by the mutalis, my chances will at least be improved. Still low, but improved.

Netiqret examines me. Latent anger, still, in those hard brown eyes. But something else as well.

“Tell me how you got my name.”

I nod slowly. I’ve been thinking about this, too. About how we ended up together. There was never a chance of me succeeding in here, without having met her. “I told you the truth—a iunctus called Djedef said you helped him escape from the city. It’s all I know. Truly.”

“So he was sent to you.”

“He was sent by Ka. At least, that’s what we thought.”

Netiqret says nothing for a long moment, then nods. “Alright. When do we head for the Sanctum?”

“Now.” I stand, and start wrapping my face.

Netiqret grimaces, but accepts it without comment. The three of us begin making for the passage up to the east.

“Do you have a theory about Djedef, then?” My voice echoes as we cross the last of the culverts.

Netiqret glances at Kiya, then away.

“I worked in the Nomarch, before I had Kiya. Every child in Duat is eventually tested in the temple and I knew why, knew what might be asked of me from the day she was born. I didn’t think it would matter. It was meant to be a great honour, and so when the priests came, I convinced myself it was alright. I convinced Kiya it was alright. I let them take her. Even knowing what would happen. Even knowing what she would go through.” Staring straight ahead, jaw set, eyes fixed. Old hatred in her voice, directed inward. “I told her it was alright, and I let them take her.”

Kiya walks beside her. Listless. Listening but not reacting.

“I got a message about a year after, through a iunctus who had been controlled just like you can control them. He knew all about Kiya. He said that she was being prepared for one of the surrogate systems, but if I was willing to kill a priest, and make it look like a natural death, I could get her back before she was fully integrated. They would give me a house, and a way to move through the city without being seen, so that she would be safe.”

“And you did it?”

Her glance drips disdain, though I’m not sure whether it’s for the question or herself. “What mother wouldn’t?”

We start into the dark tunnel leading away from the canal. There’s silence for a time, and then she continues. “When the iunctus brought Kiya, he said she could never be the same, because the Nomarch itself would have to restore her. She’d been commanded to obey me but she was still linked to the Nomarch, and if she ever tried to manipulate it, tried to do more than gather information from the connection, it would … reclaim her.”

My brow furrows as we walk the narrow passageway. “So you became a mesektet?”

“I tried to find another way to save her.” Not particularly defensive or apologetic, just stating the fact of it. “I learned everything I could about the Nomarch from Kiya, but in the end I realised that I needed whoever had gotten her out: If they could control iunctii then with the right access, maybe they could control the Nomarch itself. I had no way of contacting them, though, so I needed information. Favours. Access to the sort of people who might have heard things.”

“But you didn’t find them?”

“Only hints and whispers, until you showed up.”

I exhale, nodding. She’s right. It’s more than a coincidence that we met. Still. “Twenty years is a long time to lay a plan like this.”

“Not so long if you’re trying to kill a god, I imagine,” she observes quietly.

We walk on, the conversation turning my thoughts toward what’s ahead. Though I have known its necessity for a long time now, it makes the concept of it no less dark to me. No less repugnant.

“How do you do it, Netiqret?” I ask suddenly. “How do you prepare yourself to kill someone?”

She cocks her head to the side. Seems about to answer, then glances at Kiya and considers a second longer. “I don’t. It’s different every time—sometimes violent, sometimes peaceful. Sometimes fought and sometimes welcomed. You would be astonished at how many times it turns out people have hired me to kill themselves, wishing to remain young and virile for the Field of Reeds without obviously violating Ka’s law against suicide. Imagining it will be one way or another only invites surprises.”

The end of the tunnel appears up ahead. “Doesn’t it … get to you? Affect you?”

She gives a rueful smile. Shrugs. “When you were a child, did you ever cry because you’d scraped your knee and saw you were bleeding?”

“Of course.”

“But now?”

I process the meaning behind her words in silence, then, “It’s not the same thing.”

She touches glyphs around the entrance in practiced order. “It’s not so different, either.”

The streets near Ka’s temple are packed and weighted with the grumbling of shocked murmurs as we emerge. Crowds gathered in frightened clumps, the occasional individual threading their way through the throng with evident urgency, though I have no idea where they could possibly be going. Nobody bats an eye as we emerge; almost every head is turned away, toward the Infernis.

Netiqret falters to a halt as she sees what everyone else is seeing, caution forgotten.

I join her and, even expecting the sight, still gape.

A haze of black dust still hangs like a dirty fog over the space where the bridge once was. The lines of emerald light have all but vanished from the river below, the small amount of illumination peeking through highlighting hundreds of misshapen bodies, drifting, as far as the eye can see. Gleaners are hovering all along the river, the gathered crowds shifting and stumbling whenever one of the monsters floats near.

“‘Damaged it,’ you said,” whispers Netiqret, unable to drag her eyes from the sight. “How?”

I don’t answer but when she finally looks at me, and her gaze slides to the crook and flail at my belt, I nod.

“Alright.” She’s dazed, turning back to take in the enormity of the devastation for a few more seconds. “Alright.”

Despite the overflowing streets, it doesn’t take us long to reach the temple, the few Overseers among the crowds easily avoided. As we come in sight of the three massive white stone statues guarding the entrance, though, my heart drops.

The obsidian doors between them are shut, guarded by a dozen black-clothed forms. A pocket of cautious space surrounds them, despite the crush elsewhere.

“Wait here.” Netiqret continues striding toward them, Kiya in tow, even as she utters the terse command.

I do as she says, watching pensively as she approaches the nearest Overseer without hesitation, stopping in front of it with arms crossed, her shoulder-length black bob swaying. No sign of the fear that must surely be clambering through her, face-to-face with one of the creatures she’s been hiding from for decades. Hard not to feel a pinch of begrudging respect for the woman, despite her choices.

The exchange is brief, and clearly not positive. Netiqret is outwardly calm as she walks back, but I know her well enough now to see the agitation in her eyes.

“The temple has been evacuated and sealed. No one is allowed in.” She ushers us over to the opposite side of the street, out of the way of the worst of the milling, distracted throng. “Not even the priests.”

Vek. I touch the crook at my side, heart heavy. I still have to try.

Netiqret sees the motion, and shakes her head.

“Those things over the river would be here in less than a minute. You won’t make it.”

“No choice. If they’re not over the river, they’re guarding the pyramid.”

A lull, as we regard the massive, sealed obsidian doors and the Overseers in front of them. Something seems to suddenly go out of Netiqret. She sits on the wall nearby. Still watching the temple. “When do you give up, Siamun?”

I frown at her tone. No longer her crisp, brusque self. A real heaviness to the words. “I’m not giving up.”

“No. Not you.” She finally turns to me and her eyes are tired and full of grief. “When do you give up on saving the ones you love?”

My gaze goes from her to Kiya, standing obediently off to the side.

My heart twists with horror and hope all at once. I open my mouth to tell her that it’s time, that she’s gone, that if Kiya can help then we have to take this chance. But the words don’t come. I think of Cari. Trying to breathe life back into her. Knowing she was dead, knowing they were coming for me, and still I tried. Again, and again, and again. Because leaving her behind felt impossible. Because living with the fear of having given up too soon was worse than death, and it wasn’t even close.

“When we can live with the regret,” I eventually say softly.

She meets my gaze, and I think she sees her pain reflected somewhere in my own because she nods in recognition, just slightly.

“I think some part of me knew I couldn’t bring her all the way back.” Her eyes glisten. “I just wanted her to know I was sorry.”

“And now?”

She smiles tightly. “Now I have to make sure no one else ever has to feel this.”

She turns away before I can offer any effort at comfort. “Kiya,” she calls.

Kiya comes to stand obediently in front of her mother.

Netiqret crouches, so that her face is level with the girl’s. Smooths back the carefully braided hair that loops in front of her face, and locks eyes with her.

“Kiya, I need you to do something.” Her voice shakes. Cracks. “One last thing. But …”

She chokes, turns away before gathering herself.

“But if you’re in there, if any part of you is in there, I want you to know I wish I’d been better. Braver.” There are tears leaking down her cheeks now, streaking the carefully painted black kohl around her eyes. “I didn’t … I shouldn’t have let them take you. I should never have let them take you.”

She embraces the girl in a tight, fierce hug.

Kiya, as always, doesn’t react.

“Kiya,” Netiqret murmurs after a few seconds. Still holding her. Stroking her hair. “If you were to connect to the Nomarch and get Siamun access to the temple. Stop it from paying attention to him. How long do you think it would be before it notices you interfering?”

Kiya’s eyes flash dark.

“Nomarch resources are at usage capacity. Perhaps an hour.”

Netiqret glances at me, and I nod. More than I could have hoped for.

“Alright. I want you to connect, and give Siamun here access to the temple. Keep the Nomarch from spotting him for as long as you can.” She kisses her on the forehead, one last time. “Please.”

She steps back. Face pale.

A pause, and then Kiya—her faraway look still firmly in place—moves forward and whispers in her mother’s ear. Netiqret nods. Smiles a tearful smile at her.

Kiya’s eyes roll back into her head, and she crumples.

There’s a little cry from Netiqret, and she catches her daughter before she can hit the ground. Hugs her limp form tight. Head bowed. The crowds in the street, not even feet away, don’t turn. Still transfixed by the wreckage of the bridge to Neter-khertet, and the monsters that now scour its ruin.

“It’s done,” Netiqret whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.

I watch for a moment. Feel like I should say something, but I know there isn’t anything I can, not that will help. I clasp her shoulder briefly, then start to walk away.

“Siamun.”

I turn. She hasn’t moved, still facing the other way. Daughter cradled in her arms.

“Make it matter.”

I nod, unseen, at her back.

Head for the temple doors.

LXXVII

I PRESS PAINFULLY THROUGH FIRE AND RUBBLE AND screams against a flow of bloodied, glassy-eyed Octavii so terrified that they barely even notice my growling alupi as we pass. Another explosion to my left causes me to shield my face as it shatters the warehouse there, massive stone chunks of façade landing dangerously close to Diago and me. More Will shells. Imbued, hollowed-out stone containers filled with an explosive mixture developed a hundred years ago by the Sytrecian University. Simply transported through the air by Will as far as desired, and then dropped. The smashing of the container releases the Will back to the imbuer, and the explosion kills anyone nearby.

A weapon not used in open conflict, to the best of my knowledge, since Birthright was established fifty years ago. They are brutal and indiscriminate and effective.

Especially for an enemy who is trying to draw attention.

The way ahead provides a clear view down to the burning harbour. The dark shadows of noiseless ships stream through the darkness, smaller silhouettes leaping off their decks and sprinting up wharves. Hundreds of them. Many will be Septimii, surely; I doubt Redivius will have committed too many Sextii to his distraction.

Still. The fighting in the streets is about to get bloody. A fifth of Laurentius’s legion has been secreted not far from the docks; the plan is to allow the initial response to appear feeble, ensure that Redivius believes his attack to be a surprise and that we will be rushing reinforcements here. And then—as his diversionary forces push farther in—to surround and crush them.

A plan which, it seems, also included not warning the men and women working through the late hours, loading and unloading goods in the harbour. I see a man walk past with an absent stare. Calm, almost distracted. His arm ends in a bleeding, blistered stump.

I don’t stop. There’s nothing I can do for him, for any of them. I check my sense of the armband I imbued for Baine and angle down a nearby alley, flinching again at another scream of torn masonry behind me. Eidhin is farther to the east. The edge of the assault, I think.

I hear the roars of attackers and the cries of those they cut down, but I slink along back ways, keeping to the shadows; Diago being here will help, but if I come up against a group of Sextii—or honestly, in my current condition, even just a couple—then I will be in trouble.

I push more Will into my legs. My fury has hardened into something colder now but I still use it, more than anything else, to embrace their aching discomfort. I’m getting better at adjusting the scaffolding that allows me to walk, more agile and moving with less thought. Kadmos’s tea continues to do its work and should until past dawn, numbing the grinding, digging pain of edged metal and broken bone.

The next half hour passes in a blur. Walking, jogging, hiding, fighting. The air buzzing with near-invisible projectiles imbued with Will, my only advantage that if I concentrate fiercely, I can sense them as tiny pulses in my head before they get too close.

At one point I see Octavii fleeing a half dozen Sextii and force myself to do nothing, watching from the shadows as they are cut down. Heart pounding. Drenched in sweat that feels icy against the night air. Silently watching the slaughter, and cursing myself for cowardice, and waiting until Redivius’s legionnaires have moved on before doing so myself.

Twice, I am forced to fight. Once to take down a single crazed Sextus who seems to have run far ahead of his comrades. Bloodlust lights his eyes, a fierce grin on his face as he chases terrified Octavii past the darkened alley where I hide. I almost let him go too, but can’t. My armour disintegrates into a cloud of spinning metal blades that I send at his back. His dying screams haunt me as I stumble on, ignoring the grateful shouts of the men and women I leave in my wake.

The second time, it is a dozen Septimii who sprint around a corner before I can conceal myself. They see me alone but approach smartly, cautiously, so that when my blades arrow toward them they are able to mostly absorb the attack, the triangles embedding in the wood of their shield wall.

It’s a good tactic; usually stone chips upon impact and the imbuing is lost. It’s especially true for Praetorians’ razors.

Unfortunately for them, metal has no such issues.

The Septimii realise they’re outmatched too late, their fear only exacerbated as Diago crashes into their line, snarling and knocking two of them over from the sheer force of his attack. One man’s throat is ripped clean out and as another goes to thrust his blade into my alupi’s side, I take him in the neck with a spinning shard. The remaining Septimii break, retreating. Diago kills another. I finish the rest.

It’s over in less than a minute. No time to consider. Bodies strewn. Blood coats the triangles as I bring them back to my chest. Bile in my stomach, but it was them or me.

I end the groans of the last surviving man, and press on.

I SEE SEVERAL MORE SKIRMISHES OVER THE NEXT FIFteen minutes. Sharp, visceral sketches of violence and panic and desperation painted a fiery red, each one a vital delay in getting to my friend as I’m forced to skirt them. The horror of what I’m seeing, the ache of my legs, the agony of what happened to Aequa only a few hours ago—it all recedes into a dull, thumping constant, an oddly detached concern when compared to the need to stay alive and find Eidhin.

Some distant part of me recognises that the toll of it all will be heavy, when I am finally forced to confront it. But right now I keep forcing it back, and focus on the beacon of Will in my mind that draws closer, and closer, until finally it is only one street over.

Quieter, here. Fewer Octavii working, less resistance. Whether through design or fortune, Eidhin has chosen well.

I hug the shadows as voices drift to me. Low and urgent. I peer around a corner to see a half dozen men swiftly walking up the street.

My friend is with them. Marching grimly, black eyes scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of danger.

I focus on the imbuing of his armband, and tug it toward me. He makes no outward sign of there being anything wrong, but after a few seconds he signals to the man next to him. “We should check these buildings are clear.”

“We need to hurry,” argues another immediately.

A fleeting discussion and then Eidhin is agreeing to stay with one other of his group, while the remaining four press on. Eidhin gestures his comrade to the other side of the street, then strides for my position. Eyes narrowed as he peers into the shadows.

When he sees me, he stops short. Touches the silver around his arm in confusion.

Shakes his head in disgust, then strides forward and embraces me in a crushing hug.

It’s a simple, heartfelt act, and suddenly the emotion of tonight, everything I’ve seen and been through, sweeps back and threatens to overwhelm the cold, furious determination that’s been driving me. Just for a second. I grip him back and swallow the lump in my throat. Shove it all back down. No time for grief. Not yet.

“You should not be here.” He growls it as he parts and pushes me back roughly, examining me with a frown. Ruffles the fur on Diago’s head absently as the alupi nudges him affectionately at the waist. “We need to get you to safety. They will know you are Catenicus and if they see you—”

“We need to get you to safety. Laurentius knows the plan, Eidhin. He knows this is a diversion. You’re walking into an ambush.”

He frowns. “Diversion?”

“Yes.” My turn to frown. “Your attack. The feint here, and then the real attack on the Forum …” My heart sinks. “No?”

“No.” He rubs his face. “Many are expected to die here, but we are just the auxiliaries. The first wave.” He leans forward. Urgent. “Redivius has a hundred more ships coming and they are filled with his legionnaires. We are only here to clear the shore defences. Hold back reinforcements long enough to ensure his main force lands safely.”

The same defences that Baine convinced me to reduce. I groan softly to myself, though I’m already wrung out enough that it hits more as frustration at the disaster than the gut-punch of it. “What about the Transvect?”

“They are going to drop Will shells from it. Thousands of them. After more of Redivius’s legion disembark here.”

Vek. Vek. “How long do we have?”

“Not long.”

I run my hands through my hair. Maybe Eidhin’s been lied to; it wouldn’t be the first time a general didn’t tell his troops the whole story. But if my friend is right …

I push it aside. Remember why I’m here, what I hope to do, and fill my tone with urgency. “It doesn’t matter. Not now. Come with me. I know Redivius is forcing you to fight, but I can get you out. You don’t have to give up your life for him.”

“It was never for him.” Apologetic and unswayed. “It is for my Septimii.”

“I know.”

He frowns. Anger in his eyes. “And you still ask? Would you do any different?”

“Would you not ask?” I reply quietly.

He’s silent at that. Grunts, then twists to peer over his shoulder. “We do not have long, Vis. Of course I do not wish to fight, but I will not hide so that others may die in my place. And I will not abandon my people. I hope you will believe me when I tell you that there is no choice.” He gazes at me ruefully. A gentle expression. “Will you stand in my way?”

I consider him. An ache in my chest as I shake my head slowly. “But there is a choice, Eidhin. It will be days before Redivius thinks you’ve defected. Time enough.” I put all my belief into the sentence. “We can rescue your people.”

“The two of us alone? We would not get within a thousand feet of them. No, Vis. I will not delay my death so that you can join me in it.”

I don’t pursue it. Exactly the reasoning I expected. “They won’t be free if you die. Your Septimii. Redivius will just force them to serve the next man, and the next, until finally they are tethered to one who lacks the honour that you have. Which I promise you, will not take long at all.”

A flicker in his eyes, at that. He knows the truth of it.

“You all believe in ddram cyfraith,” I press. Intent. It’s hard, conveying the right emotion. Everything’s so taut in my head and though I want him to see how desperately I need him to listen, some part of me has to stay tight and cold and in control. Otherwise, I may yet break. Break and not be able to recover. “What would they say, Eidhin? Which is the better sacrifice? Their deaths for your freedom, or your death for their situation to become worse?”

There’s a twitch this time, and I see the argument hits home. Eidhin wavers.

Then he frowns. Touches the armband again. “How did you come to imbue this?” he asks suddenly.

I close my eyes. I could lie. It would be easier.

“Your father.”

“My father.” He spits it. Anger erasing whatever persuasion he had begun to feel. “Of course he said that. He told you this was a diversion, too, did he not? Used you? You should know how I feel about—”

“Of course I do. But just because he lied about the one, makes the other no less true.”

“It does, Vis! The man does nothing but manipulate.” He issues a stream of Cymrian invective. “I am sorry. Truly. But I must go before someone comes looking for me.” He wraps me in another embrace. Lingers in it, just for a moment. This one is to say farewell.

Then he is walking away.

“Eidhin.”

He pauses.

“I do understand.” Heart thudding. Sick to my stomach, even through everything else. I knew it would come to this, and perhaps it’s the wrong decision. Perhaps it won’t make a difference. But if I don’t try, I’ll never forgive myself. I cannot lose him. Not him too. “I know what it’s like to be responsible for a people. To need to protect them above yourself. And I know what it’s like to feel like you have no choice but to do things you otherwise would never do.”

He frowns. Turns fully, now, to regard me curiously.

A heartbeat. Two. And I cautiously, cautiously let the tiniest shard of what has happened tonight back in. It hurts, far more than any of my physical pains. But I need him to hear this.

“My name is not Vis.” I’m almost light-headed at the words. “My name is Diago, son of Cristoval. I am—I was—a prince of Suus, before the Hierarchy invaded.” I limp back over to some rubble. Sit heavily. “They killed my family and they would have killed me too if I hadn’t escaped. I’ve hidden from them for nearly five years. And in that time, the only people who found out were the Anguis.”

I let the metal flow upward from my chest, until my mask settles in place. My arm forms from the supports of my legs, and I flex it for him.

“I let them use me.” My voice breaks from behind the iron. A desolate admission to myself as much as him, now. “I let them manipulate me because I was afraid—afraid for myself, afraid for those I cared for. They made me think I didn’t have a choice. They asked for more, and more, and I gave it to them.” I let the metal retreat again. Back to my legs. Back to the armour. “You’ll serve them until you break or die, Eidhin. And in the end, you won’t have done the right thing. You won’t have made a difference. You’ll just have mitigated one tiny part of their evil, by helping them advance another.” I shake my head slowly. Letting my weary grief infuse the words. “These decisions feel so impossible. I know. The consequences fill your vision. They know we value loyalty and family and friendship above all else. But my friend, they don’t, and there will always be people for them to hurt. To threaten us with. As long as we let ourselves be their prisoners, nothing will change.” I hesitate. “And in the end, they will destroy the ones we love anyway,” I whisper.

Eidhin sits. As stunned as I have ever seen him. He looks at me as if I am a stranger, and I cannot think of a glance that has hurt more, though I see no anger in it. Only lost, sad confusion.

Silence, and I stare at the ground miserably.

“You were forced to do this. To be … this.” He finally gestures. Says the words not as a question, but as a reassurance to himself. A desperation to believe it.

“No. I told myself I had no choice, but I did. That’s the point. I should have drawn my line long ago.” I take a deep breath. Lump in my throat, but then I’m crushing it down ruthlessly once again. Perhaps it is unfair to tell him this now. But he needs to know. “Eidhin, Aequa is dead. Decimus killed her in front of me today, because Iro died.” His face twists in unaffected pain but I press on, not letting the emotion stop me. “You once told me that death is meaningless if it does not change us. I can’t take back what I helped begin, can’t change any of this. But I can at least try to make it matter.”

He sits there. Horror painting his features. In shock, but he also knows the urgency of our situation, knows that whatever decision he makes must be made now.

“I have many, many questions. Most of them can wait. But I need you to answer me at least this one,” he says eventually. “These men—Redivius, Laurentius, Decimus—they are all the same. One monster with different faces. So what is your plan? Why should—”

“Breac?” The voice echoes in the abandoned alley. Only a moment’s notice and then the other man Eidhin was with appears, spear at the ready. Eyes widening as he spots me. My missing arm. “You’re Catenicus.”

“Siollan.” Eidhin puts up his spear, spreading his hands to indicate there’s no threat.

Siollan’s eyes flash to black.

It happens so fast. Eidhin steps between me and his comrade. Siollan’s face twists. Jumpy, or overeager, or just not willing to risk talking—it doesn’t matter. He’s angry, or scared, and his spear is in his hand. Arm cocked back. I send metal shards at him as he hurls, take him in the throat with a slashing, gurgling spray, but I’m too late. The spear is already airborne. Eidhin firmly in its path.

Then Diago is there, leaping.

The spear takes him in the throat.

There’s a heartbeat where I don’t believe it. A sharp howl of pain from the animal as it staggers back.

“NO!” I’m screaming the word. The alupi is on his side, twitching and yelping, the sound shrill. Siollan’s glassy eyes stare upward. Eidhin’s hands fall to his side in dismay and shock as I skid to my knees next to Diago; his teeth are bared and he almost looks like he’s going to snap at me, but I put a hand on his head and he just wheezes as I stroke him. Biting in occasional helplessness at the protruding haft.

“Vek.” I don’t know what to do. There’s blood covering my hands, but somehow, not as much as there should be. Perhaps it has missed the artery? “Do we pull it out?”

Eidhin is on his knees by my side. Gestures helplessly. “Won’t that just make it worse?”

I groan, using my blade to slice through the haft. “You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright,” I murmur to the wolf, the desperation in my voice a prayer.

Diago is still snarling, but he staggers to his feet. Eyes red. Dribbling blood from his mouth.

“How is he still standing?” whispers Eidhin, patting him as if the act will somehow heal his wounds. I press my head gently against the animal’s. It seems to calm him, just enough.

“I don’t know.” Heart pounding with terror and hope. The alupi should be bleeding out but he seems merely injured. Seems. “Rotting gods. We need to get him back to Domus Telimus.”

Eidhin gazes at the dead soldier. Closes his eyes. “Siollan was here for his Septimii, too. No different to me.”

“He was different because he had no option. You do.”

“Do I?” Eidhin finally looks at me. “You want me to come with you? How would me fighting beneath someone like Decimus be any better than this?”

“It wouldn’t be. Which is why I’m not asking you to. Gods, I intend to make sure Decimus sees justice and there is only one way that can happen.” I leave no doubt how serious I am about the last, that seething ice in my stomach back and focusing me again. “Your father has taken care of my going back, anyway; the Senate will think I’m a traitor soon enough. He probably thought it would force me to go with you. But there is another path.”

Eidhin frowns. “Which is?”

“We let this battle run its course without us, and use the enemy of our enemy to try and end the war.” I exhale. Can barely believe I’m saying it aloud, but this is the only way. “I think this whole conflict was started to disrupt the plans of the Concurrence, somehow. Princeps Exesius was working with someone. Ceding to them, along with the other two Princeps. It had to have been the man Veridius told us about. Ka. Not some unknowable force, Eidhin. A person. And a person can be negotiated with.”

Eidhin looks at me. “A person who wants to cause another Cataclysm, and kill you,” he eventually says disbelievingly. Clearly choosing, at least for now, to disregard what I said about the Princeps’s ceding in favour of my more pressing madness.

“But who for some reason didn’t want this war.” It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that fits with everything I know. “And is now short a Princeps.”

Silence.

“I know it sounds insane, but think about it,” I urge grimly. “I have a combination of things that none of these Quartii have. A family with a long Military tradition. A name big enough within the Senate to legitimise a claim. Popular support from Octavii and Septimii. Strong ties to Governance. I’m young, yes, but the pretenders have already thrown out tradition in order to favour strength as the only qualification, so, gods—if I can really threaten them, there’s a good chance I can get at least some to fall in line without bloodshed! And given what we know about Ka, a real threat is something he might just be able to provide.” I lick my lips. “I know it’s desperate but we are desperate, Eidhin. Ka won’t trust me. Probably will still aim to kill me, once I’ve served his purpose. But if he truly needs a return to stability for some reason—and given everything I’ve learned, I have to believe that he does—then I may actually be his best option. And that makes him ours.”

Eidhin runs a hand through his hair. Looking lost. “So to be clear: you want to go to the man who intends to destroy the world. Strike a deal to help him. Free my people. Become Princeps of Military. Bring an end to the civil war.”

“It’s ambitious,” I allow.

He grunts. “And then we stop him?”

“No, then we let him kill everyone.”

He glares. “Just making certain,” he mutters to my sarcasm. “And if all this man wants is for the Cataclysm to occur, and you—perhaps our only hope of preventing it—present yourself to him for a nice easy killing?”

“Then the inevitable just happens sooner, because we’re all dying anyway right now. Dying because greedy men want more. If you go out there, you will die. If I stay near Decimus, I will die. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but soon. And it will be for nothing.” I clench my fist. “Redivius. Decimus. Religion, Governance, Military, the Anguis. They’re burning the world, Eidhin, and they’re not stopping. If we let them, if all the good people end up dead, what’s even left worth saving?”

Eidhin gazes at the body across from us. Diago whines in pain, but is still, somehow, standing.

“Alright. Alright,” he says softly. Disbelievingly. “If this works, we rescue my people. If it doesn’t, then … well. I suppose everyone dies and it does not matter. So how do we make contact with him?”

I sigh. Let the metal mask form again.

“I stop hiding.”

LXXVIII

MY FOOTSTEPS ARE SWALLOWED AS I HURRY ALONG the vast, gold-lit colonnade crowned by the luminous pyramid ahead. The Sanctum has been a shell. Eerily, utterly empty. No sign of movement at all since the Overseers closed the massive obsidian gates behind me.

No hint as to whether the quiet is Ka’s doing, or Kiya’s. I pour more speed into my stride. Every moment she gives me is of value.

The triangular tunnel entrance across to Ka’s pyramid soon looms ahead. Soundless and dark, but this time it feels different. Hollow. Cautious fear dictates a pausing at its edge, a peering into its shadows, but I can see no silhouettes. No lurking forms attached high to the inwardly sloping walls.

I clench my hands into sticky, stinging fists, ensuring the blood from the cuts I made a few minutes ago is still flowing. Then I step into the darkness.

Nothing happens.

It takes me five minutes of anxious walking to cross. Every footstep echoes. My eyes strain, but aside from the distant triangle of golden light that marks the opening to the other side, I can see nothing of my surrounds. I keep to the middle of the path. Quick but careful. My alertness comes to nothing.

And then I am through, and out, blinking, into the radiance of the Pyramid of Ka.

The stairway stretches upward before me, each step lit with a fuzzing, thrumming line of gold. A thousand of them, at least, and the only door I can see is at the top. The very ground emanates heat, vibrates unsettlingly beneath my feet.

I start the climb.

After the first hundred stairs, the cover of the tall surrounding walls left behind, I feel naked. No shadows to hide in here. No side streets. No careful management of pace and positioning to avoid eyes. I am brightly lit, a lone figure steadily ascending the most visible structure in the city. Any eye turned this way will see me.

And many do.

I keep my pace steady, despite the temptation to climb as quickly as possible. I cannot afford to be exhausted by the time I face Ka. And so I stop every so often. Turn to find at first a few curious onlookers, then more, until finally it feels as though the streets are clogged with upturned faces. Silent, as far as I can tell. Watching with confusion? Fascination? Horror?

I am treading sacred ground, and Ka has not struck me down.

The city looks almost peaceful from so high up. I can see clear across the river to Neter-khertet, the green glow of the streets there flooding upward to create an ugly miasma, an ephemeral cloud that screams of death and decay. I see Westerners gathered over there, too; some are watching me, some are going about their daily business. Many more are clumped around the end of the shattered bridge, back some way to avoid the notice of the Gleaners which still glide ethereally over the now-smooth waters.

An Overseer must surely have spotted my progress by now, but none of Ka’s iunctii even twitch in my direction. The Overseers themselves cannot follow me, not here. But the Gleaners could, if they were informed.

Kiya’s interference continues to work. I wonder for how much longer.

I continue trudging upward. Higher and higher. Twenty minutes. Forty. No hint of resistance. The terrifying thrum of energy and pulse of golden light my only companions. Through my constant anxious checking of the scenes below, I cannot help but again wonder at what will happen, should I be successful here. Am I about to kill some, or even all, of the iunctii as well? I have no clear concept of what infrastructure Ka might be supporting through simply being alive.

But over my shoulder, I see the Aurora Columnae in the Sanctum pulsing more brightly than ever, too. It reminds me of Caeror’s exhortations. His brother and my friends in the world we left behind. The risk of something terrible happening here, or the certainty of it happening there.

And I press on.

It takes almost an hour to reach the entrance. My legs ache by the end despite my attempts at managing my pace, breath coming in hard gasps as I’m faced with a door made entirely of gold. Similar in construction to the mutalis door in Qabr, but no crook and flail on this one. Just a single, large symbol.

A scarab.

Unlike both Qabr and the rest of this pyramid, though, the door is oddly still, not pulsing and flickering and vibrating with the unsettling rhythm that I’ve almost become accustomed to over the past hour. I frown, then push against it tiredly. The scarab seems to flicker, just for a moment.

The door doesn’t move.

I push again, harder, but this time nothing at all happens. I wipe sweat from my brow and take a slow, deep breath to fight off the panic. There will be a way to open it. There has to be.

I glance around, my gaze sweeping the city below. Duat looks so calm from up here; I can barely see the people now. Except, I realise, for the Gleaners. They’re in a swarm. Seem bigger than everyone else.

“Oh, vek.” Not now. I’m so close. I snatch out my knife, slice across my palm again and grip my weapons. Slam the crook into the door as it thrums to life beneath my grasp.

It bounces off with a dull, metallic clang.

I try again twice more in frenzied panic before I recover myself enough to accept that it’s not working. Vek vek vek. The Gleaners are getting closer. Arrowing toward me. No question that they know I’m here.

“Think,” I mutter in desperate self-exhortation. “Think think think think think.”

Of course this door wasn’t destroyed by the mutalis; it’s surrounded by the stuff. But it’s inactive, too. Like my weapons.

I slam my bloodied hand against the scarab.

It quivers, thrums. Flickers.

The door swings open.

There’s a gold-lit stairwell. Descending, this time. I rush inside and try to shut the door again, but it won’t budge.

Rotting gods. No time. I give up, grip my thrumming weapons tightly, and bolt downward.

THE LONG, WINDING STAIRCASE HAS NO DEFENCES. NO one and nothing guarding the way. No traps. Not even any side openings. I think I can hear sounds of pursuit but the Gleaners will have to navigate like normal people, down here, too narrow a space for flight. The interior of the pyramid, however, does not pulse and quiver with mutalis. They won’t need to worry about making contact with its surface.

Once I stop, I doubt I’ll have long before they catch up to me.

I dash recklessly downward for what must be at least a couple of minutes before I reach another door. Simple wood, this time; I push it open with a mixture of urgency and caution, but there is no sound, no movement from beyond.

I slink into a massive chamber. The roof slants upward to a point a hundred feet above; the room itself is at least as wide and long. All hard angles and black obsidian, lit by the same golden lines as the rest of the pyramid.

I stare around at its contents, more bemused than anything else. Tall, long bookshelves create row upon row across the centre of the room, scrolls jutting haphazardly from slots clearly made for holding them. Around the edges of the room are several desks, each one covered in more paper. There are comfortable-looking seats. A couch in the corner.

I hurriedly drag the nearest desk so that it’s blocking the door—it won’t stop the Gleaners, but it might give me some precious extra seconds—and then snatch up one of the pieces of paper on it. Handwritten largely in glyphs, with some sort of technical diagram and notes in what might be ancient Vetusian in places, though I’m not inclined to divert my focus to translation right now.

“Vek,” I mutter, tossing it aside and looking around again. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this feels more like a library than the home of a god-masquerading immortal. It’s messy, in the same way I remember Praeceptor Taedia’s office being at the Academy. The product of an absent mind, maybe, but hardly a genocidal one.

No time to ponder it, though; I can already imagine the Gleaners clambering down the stairs. I push on into the room, skirting the central shelves, eyes darting for anything of significance.

I’m almost halfway across the space when I spot the triangular stone table, and the finely clothed man lying atop it.

I freeze. A breath to reassure myself that he’s not moving, not reacting to my presence, and then thrumming weapons at the ready, I hurry over. Asleep? No. It’s more shrine than bed, made of the same obsidian as everything else in here. The man’s arms are at his side and his eyes are closed, but there’s a stillness to his repose that speaks of more than just slumber.

There are lines around the table’s edge. An inscription that pulses. All glyphs; I don’t know their meaning but I recognise at least some of them.

The same as were written on the sarcophagus, in the room where I got the crook and flail.

I stop in front of the table. Lost. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it; there are no exits, nowhere else Ka might be hiding in here that I can see. But this stranger looks … normal. A handsome man in his mid-forties. A short beard, wavy black hair. More Catenan colouring than those from Duat tend to have, I suppose, but otherwise no different to anyone I might pass on the streets far below.

I walk around him. Careful not to touch the stone on which he’s lying. I feel a pulse coming from it. A Vitaerium? I close my eyes. There are traces of Will trailing away from each of the three corners of the table. Doing what, though, I can only guess.

It has to be him. It has to be. No one has been seen coming or going from this pyramid in living memory. And I don’t have time to be cautious.

“If I’ve got this wrong, then I am so sorry,” I mutter.

I carefully touch my crook to his chest.

Nothing happens.

It is Ka.

I exhale. Unsure whether to be relieved or horrified. This is so much easier, and so much worse. “I thought you’d be awake.” My lip curls in frustration as I say the words to the catatonic man. “I thought I’d get the chance to talk to you. To ask why you’ve done all this. To understand.” I slowly release my white-knuckled grip on my crook and flail. Hook them back on my belt, and draw my knife. Hover it over his chest.

A crashing at the door. A series of urgent, heavy thumps.

“Kiya better have been right about you controlling those things,” I mutter. Heart pounding. Sweating. Still delaying, still hesitant, even now. “Or this is going to be a very short gods-damned celebration.”

I have to do this. For the people he’s enslaved. For Caeror. For Emissa, for Callidus and Eidhin and Aequa back home. This man may look unassuming, here in front of me. But he has done monstrous things. Monstrous things. And will continue to, unless I stop him.

My father never sentenced a man to death. And yet he told me once that the price of a life cannot be incalculable to a ruler, no matter how much we wish it were so. That in the end, there would be situations in which we simply had to value it for ourselves, and live with the consequences.

There’s a splintering sound at the door. Pieces of wood clattering to stone. The Gleaners are through.

I push the knife into Ka’s heart.

LXXIX

I WAKE ON A BED OF FURS. SUNLIGHT STREAMS IN through a window. I am in a hut, not dissimilar to the one I was first kept in when I arrived at Caer Áras, but more spacious. I am alone.

I groan. Slowly, cautiously, prod at my body. Bruised but not broken. Wounds still there, but bandaged. I am in fresh clothes, and wrapped in a pure white cloak that suggests my claims during the battle have not been disputed, though I see no sign of Lir’s staff. Whoever treated me left the scarab medallion around my neck, tucked against my chest. Fortunate. I cannot imagine I would have survived any other way; I can still barely believe that I am breathing. I even, briefly, check my own heartbeat, admitting some relief when I feel its steady thumping against my palm.

And then I bring my silver arm up in front of my face.

It is still attached. Still works. I close the hand into a fist and open it again, waggling the fingers, marvelling at how it feels just like the real thing. Partly as if I was using the nasceann, my sense of it intimate, a true extension of myself. Partly as I was taught it should work in Res, with complete mental command over it and its moving parts.

I still don’t understand how it’s possible. How and why I was able to unconsciously imbue it as I did.

But it seems that I may, at least, still have the opportunity to try and find out one day.

I lie there for a while, then summon the energy to move. Slowly, stiffly rise to my feet, grasping the nearby table to prevent myself from simply falling straight back down. I hear voices from outside. Light and laughing, relaxed, and perhaps some children farther in the distance.

I open the door. A couple of warriors are lounging against the wall of the hut opposite, but the one facing me cuts short his conversation as soon as he spots me. His eyes go wide and he mutters something to the woman with him before hurrying off.

I stand there as the woman, and several others on the street, stare at me. Saying nothing. I sway a little, and bring up my silver hand to grasp the doorframe. Their eyes all go to it. It shines in the light of the winter sun.

“Deaglán!”

I turn, a hopeful, joyous smile creeping across my face. Tara is striding down the street. Smiling too, a broad, genuine thing that lights up her face in a way I haven’t seen before. The warmth is so foreign on her that I almost laugh.

There’s movement past her and I can see Conor charging behind, grinning fiercely. Fearghus and Seanna flank him. Miach just after them. They are all whooping and hollering like madmen. All of them.

I do laugh, this time. Loud and joyous.

“Tara, I—” I cut off with a grunt as I’m enveloped in an entirely too rough embrace, first by Tara and then immediately followed by the others, the group turning into a happy, bruising, laughing, jumping clump of excitement that I am powerless to escape. Eventually my pained protests make it through to them and they stop, albeit with a series of jibes at how weak I must be to not even withstand a gentle hug.

“The siege?” I ask it first, though I think I know the answer from their presence, not to mention the light feeling in the air here.

“Broken, four days ago. Fiachra’s men fled. Terrified of you. The great draoi nasceann.” Tara’s eyes shine as she looks at me. “And the Grove has been forced to distance themselves from Fiachra as a result. Draoi Uallach, from King Nuadha’s lands, was here during the attack and has gone to speak with them on behalf of Caer Áras. He departed yesterday with your staff”—I open my mouth to indicate dismay—“but gave his oath it would be returned. He was a friend of Lir’s, and according to some of my father’s men, another critic of the Grove’s deal with Fiachra. He left your cloak as an assurance that your status is not to be challenged.”

“Except by Ruarc, I imagine,” I observe with a weary grin. Tara seems confident this Draoi Uallach is to be trusted. I am content to trust her.

“That will not matter anymore. Ruarc has surrendered.”

“What?”

“This morning.” It’s Conor jumping in, clapping me on the back far too firmly before realising what he’s doing and giving an apologetic wince. “Came to the gates and gave himself up.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t said, but we’re assuming the Grove has turned on him.” Miach, quiet as usual.

“But he did have one stipulation.” Tara again, some of her initial excitement fading to seriousness. “He said he had to talk to you before anything was done to him.”

I frown. “Did he know I was like this?” I gesture broadly to the swathes of bandage.

“He knew. He just believed you would survive.” Tara eyes me, her smile returning. “I was with him on that much.”

“We all were,” says Seanna quickly. The others immediately roar their dissent at her, and she holds up her hands, blushing even as she laughs. “I have never been more happy to be wrong, Deaglán. Truly.”

I laugh with them, painful though the motion is, their infectious enthusiasm impossible to not be swept up in. I am glad, too, I realise. Everyone else on the street is gathering, peering, straining for a glimpse of my silver hand. Of me. Some part of me was already worried my friends would see me differently too.

I am ushered back inside, made to sit.

“I assume you want to know about the arm?” I ask, once we’re all comfortable.

“No,” says Conor immediately, shaking his head.

Fearghus sighs. “Why would we want to know that?”

“Dull,” adds Tara.

I look around at them, not saying anything for a second, then, “Alright, well what about—”

Their shouts drown out my words, insisting I tell them all about the gods-cursed arm immediately or they would finish the job Gallchobhar was too incompetent to do.

So I tell them. Everything that happened since we parted, the whole truth, with the exception of my time in Fornax, which Tara carefully steers me away from. I wasn’t going to go into that part, anyway. I know Lir wouldn’t have wanted me to.

I fall silent after I explain about my father. He must have overheard that Gallchobhar intended to sacrifice me to the lake, and so hid himself underwater. Probably waited there for hours. Knowing what would happen to him. Knowing that if I was thrown in, it would be because I had ignored his warnings.

“We found his body, I think,” Tara interjects gently into the quiet. When I look at her, she nods. “He floated ashore downriver. White robes.”

I swallow. “Has he been given the rites?”

“Not yet.” She fidgets. “Most of the funeral arrangements have been centred around my father, these past few days.”

I nod. Sympathy and pain and understanding in the look I give her, though I know she will not want words to accompany them.

“Tonight, though. You should farewell him tonight.” She moves on brusquely, and I nod again. A lump suddenly in my throat, but she’s right. It has been four days. It cannot wait longer.

“I need to see him.” My heart suddenly cannot take it anymore and I stand, ignoring the dizziness that sweeps through me.

Conor grips my arm. Steadies me.

“We will take you,” he says.

As we walk at a staggeringly slow pace, me leaning on Tara and Conor in turn, they tell me how Gallchobhar had decimated so many of the surrounding villages that it had made King Rónán’s attempts to find support near impossible. About their own mad dash for the caer to arrive barely ahead of Fiachra’s siege, a desperate final fight just to reach the gate with a dozen other surviving warriors they had managed to collect along the way. Conor and Seanna do most of the describing of the latter, making it sound a grand, glorious epic full of near misses and impossible bravery. I believe every word of it.

As we walk through the caer, conversation fades as we pass. Twice, I move to conceal my silver arm beneath my cloak. Both times, Tara gently pushes it back into view. Whispers follow us, and I hear the name “Silverhand” more than once.

My father’s body is interred in a cool, dark cave. The torchlight enough for me to see his features and know it is him in the stillness of the tomb.

I press the medallion against his cheek. Five seconds. Ten.

He never stirs.

I swallow tears, and lean down and kiss him on his cold forehead.

When we return to the caer, a small crowd is waiting. At first I pay them no mind, knowing that most of them have come only to see the curiosity of my arm. But then there is motion, waving from their midst, and I catch sight of the blonde-haired form pushing her way forward.

“Gráinne?” My heart leaps as I run forward to greet the woman who saved me all those months ago. Her smile is wide as she reaches the front of the mob. An instant later, Róisín and Tadhg are there too. Bigger in size, older around their eyes. But still with a childlike joy as they rush at me with smiles that split their young faces, gazes inevitably and unabashedly fixed upon the oddity of my arm.

I smile back, even as it’s tinged with the sadness of realisation as I take them in.

“Deaglán Silverhand. The great hero.” Gráinne comes to a hesitant halt in front of me, brow furrowing as she sees my expression. “What is wrong?” Still speaking in that same careful way she did six months ago, though I no longer need it.

“Onchú,” I say gently.

She frowns at me, confused.

“What about Onchú?” comes a gruff voice from my side.

I turn. Onchú stands a few feet away. Hale and whole. Arms crossed as he assesses me.

“Onchú!” My smile broadens into pure delight, and I wrap the man in a fierce, jubilant hug, lifting him off the ground. He groans and struggles, taken aback, as the others laugh; a moment later I’m embracing them too, laughing as well. Dazed. Delighted.

“I was at Didean,” I explain. “I saw the cairn outside your hut, and I thought …”

Gráinne’s eyes widen, and Onchú, still recovering from the force of my embrace, stifles a chortle.

“What?”

They look at each other.

“It was a sheep,” Gráinne says.

I stare at her as she’s unable to restrain a smirk.

“It happened weeks before the attack. It got sick. Tadhg tended it for almost a month, by himself. He became very attached and when it died …”

“A sheep,” I repeat darkly.

“A sheep,” Onchú confirms.

I close my eyes, and after a long, disbelieving breath, laugh again. Relief and joy and released grief and a hundred other emotions I can’t even identify in it.

“It is not funny,” says Tadhg indignantly from the side.

I turn to him and embrace him around the head, struggle to get away though he does. “I am very sorry about the sheep, Tadhg. But I am also so very glad to see you.”

He continues to fight my grip for another second, then gives up and hugs me back.

“We wanted to see you, before we go. We are leaving in a few hours,” says Gráinne, a little apologetically. She shrugs at my look. “The farm has to be rebuilt. And now that Fiachra’s forces are broken, there is no danger.” She pauses. “You could come back with us, if you want.”

“You could do all of our work now that you have two hands,” adds Róisín.

I stick out my tongue at her grin. Hesitate as I glance across at Tara, who has seen I’m otherwise engaged and is chatting idly with a couple of older warriors nearby. There is merit, and some temptation, to the offer. The promise of a simpler life. A happier life.

And yet I can’t help but remember that last conversation with my father. Poor luck is being aware of these currents, but able only to drown in them.

“I need to be here,” I tell Gráinne. Sadness to it, but certainty as well.

She gives a small smile, and nods. She already knew the answer.

“But we are all here now, today,” I add. “And there is nothing stopping us from sharing a meal together before you go.”

Gráinne’s smile widens into something warm, and Onchú slaps me on the back. “I would like that,” he says gruffly. The children nod their eager agreement as well.

And we walk back into the caer together.

MY FATHER’S FUNERAL IS SOLEMN, AND LARGE, AND BEAUtiful.

The people of Caer Áras did not know him, but Tara told them that he was a king and so he is treated as such. We march at dusk. He is wrapped in white cloth. A single, intricate gold torc around his neck. I help carry him slowly down the street from the centre of the Caer, cradling him on my shoulder, steadying him with my real arm. Tara is opposite, Conor and Miach and Fearghus and Seanna behind us. I feel his body through the fabric, and though it is cold and stiff, I cradle it lovingly anyway. I know he is gone, that he cannot feel it. I still act as if he can.

As we walk, the people line the way and they sing. The dirge is low and mournful and achingly beautiful. There are no tears, no wailing, but those would have been false given that they did not know the man. This display is for the living. This display is for me. It means more than I can say. It brings tears to my eyes again and again as we make our steady way down the hill and out the gate.

The torches are lit, lining the way down toward the lake. The sky is sprayed gold and purple, wisps of cloud catching the colour and reflected in the still water. The pyre is by the shore. We place my father’s body on it. I am handed a torch. I stand there. Knowing everyone is watching but not wanting to do it. Not wanting to let go.

I reach out, lean over and grip his shoulder. Just as he did to me, at the end.

I touch the torch to the kindling, and step back to join Tara and the others.

The singing has continued and as the flames rise higher it crescendos, a sorrowful, strong melody that echoes away over the darkening water.

I weep. I did not want to. I wanted to be strong in front of everyone. I wanted to show these people their stoic draoi nasceann. But I cannot help it. My head bows, and I choke, and tears fall as the music swells.

A hand in mine. Tara’s. I squeeze it, hold it tight amidst the pain.

And then my friends are around me. Forming a protective circle. Heads bowed, close to mine. Arms around me. And I let go. I cry. I cry for the father I thought I lost years ago but now have in truth. I cry in a way I never did after Suus, because I was never afforded a chance to say goodbye. And saying goodbye like this hurts. It hurts.

My friends hold me up. Patient. Just being there.

When I am finally done, the singing has stopped and the fire has died down and most have departed. I wipe my eyes and laugh in mildly embarrassed fashion and smile around at my friends, trying to show how much they mean to me. Tara still holds my hand. I embrace her for a long moment, then reluctantly disentangle our fingers.

We clear away the ashes and gather my father’s bones, burned clean and white. Then the six of us walk in silence along the shore. Off the paths, through the trees, only our torches to show the way now.

We walk for twenty minutes. The grove is a surprise to me when we enter it. Large and tranquil and picturesque, completely detached from the outside world despite being so close to Caer Áras. Cairns rise at intervals. Beautifully decorated stonework over their entrances.

Tara leads me to one a short distance in. Above its archway is carved a symbol, done with care and artistry. Three whorls, joined in the centre.

I lay his bones with care into their final resting place. We close the cairn and seal it tight. The others retreat but Tara and I stand there, just looking at it.

“I have seen this before,” I say softly, touching the whorls with my silver hand. “What does it mean?”

“The triskeles? Many things, depending.” Tara stares at the symbol. “Here? That he was not of this world, but belonged in it. I chose it as a symbol of honour and respect. I may never have spoken to your father, but I know him through his actions and through you. That is more than enough.”

Another lump. I give her a small smile, though she does not see it, her own gaze fixed on a cairn not far away.

“Your father?” I ask.

She just nods.

We walk over. Tara puts her hand on the stone of the entrance, as if caressing it. “He sacrificed himself for me.”

“He was your father.”

She nods slowly. “He was my father,” she repeats softly. “He would have liked you. Gods. He would have loved you for what you did.”

I chuckle. “If he was anything like my father, he would have loved anyone willing to fight for his people.”

“Our people,” corrects Tara absently.

I glance across at her. Nod.

“Our people,” I agree quietly.

RUARC IS BEING HELD IN THE SAME HUT AS I WAS, THAT first visit to Caer Áras. Secure but clean, not terribly uncomfortable. I am not sure whether to be surprised. He has caused these people so much pain. His orders have killed hundreds of their family and friends, ravaged the countryside.

I know they have not forgiven him. Will pour scorn and contempt upon him when the time comes for his sentencing. But they are not petty. They are better than that, and I am unaccountably proud to be welcome among them.

I am admitted not long before dawn by two guards who give deep, respectful nods to me before they lock the door behind me. I am alone, as Ruarc requested, though Tara was displeased by my acquiescing. I will be cautious, but cannot imagine there is any danger to me.

“Silverhand.” The druid is in a corner, features shrouded in shadow. It is early, but my arrival clearly hasn’t woken him. His voice is calm. Almost amused, though not mocking in any way.

“How did you guess?”

A low chuckle. “You jest, but it’s hard not to recognise a fellow traveller.” He steps forward, into the light. Ruarc is older than me, but not by as much as I expected—ten years at most, and I only estimate that much from the miles in his eyes. Clean-shaven, dark and lean, muscles toned beneath his tattoos. A single iron torc at his neck, the terminals intricate triskeles, like on my father’s cairn and in Fornax. The symbols glow faintly to my sight. Imbued. His handsomeness is marred by scars stretching along the left side of his face, from cheek to where his ear should be. He touches the mass. “‘The passage to Luceum requires a toll to ensure validity.’ Did you know that’s why the Old Ways state that only the unblemished can rule? Even after all this time.” He shakes his head absently. Conversational rather than bitter.

I stare. Recognising the words before I even register the language. Ancient Vetusian, written above those symbols beyond the Labyrinth. The ones I placed my hands into to try and escape. The ones that cost me my arm.

“Who are you?” I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it.

“My name was Caeror.” He says it in Common, harsh to my ears after so long. “I arrived here almost eight years ago, the same way you did.”

It takes me a moment to process it. To translate the words into the language I think in, now.

Then, a chill. I can see the resemblance. “You are Ulciscor’s brother,” I breathe, in Common as well.

Ruarc freezes. Genuinely startled. “You knew him?” The first time he has appeared anything but in control.

“He is the one who …” I trail off, gesturing helplessly at the enormity of trying to explain all the events that led to my coming here. “He sent me to the Academy to investigate your murder.”

A flicker of sadness. Ruarc swallows. Nods as he composes himself. “Yes. Well. I assumed the other versions of me never made it. I was never able to do anything like that.” He gestures to my glinting arm. “I am fortunate, in many ways. If they had survived, I may never have learned the truth. I would have been hunted. As I had to do with you.”

He lets the last part hang.

“Why?” I don’t bother to hide my frustrated confusion at the confession. “And why just give yourself up, now, after all of this?”

“I surrendered because everything has changed. One of your counterparts has made a terrible mistake, Silverhand, and it became imperative that we speak. No matter the cost to me.” He puts his hands to his throat and removes his torc. Holds it out to me. “As for the rest? Answers, if you would have them. The truth behind the war we are fighting, and the reasons for what I had to do. For what must yet be done.”

I look at him. I have been calm thus far, but this man has wrought so much destruction, so much death, upon a world not even his own. I think of all the bodies that lay alongside my father’s, still awaiting their rites. The hundreds of men and women I now know were slaughtered in the surrounding villages. He has come into Luceum, this place I have come to love, and he has tried to tear it apart.

I reach down and take the torc from him. Hold it up to inspect it in my silver hand. Closer to my eyes, there’s no mistaking the gentle glow of imbuing.

With a single squeeze, I crush it.

“NO!” The shout rips from Ruarc’s throat and he leaps forward, prevented from reaching me by his bonds. The light of imbuing vanishes from the crumpled metal in my hand, the triskeles barely recognisable anymore. “Why?”

“I don’t know what this was, Ruarc. A trap, or something that genuinely would have informed me. Either way, I was never going to put it on.” My hands shake with anger, but my voice is cold and calm. “I may listen to your story, in time. From you. But not tonight. Not yet.”

Ruarc scowls. “Why not?”

I hold up the crumpled iron torc. Pause, let the sight of it sink in. “Because tonight, I cannot guarantee that I will not do this to you as well.”

I spin and head for the door.

“The draoi. Do not tell them what you are, Silverhand. Do not tell anyone who you truly are or you may find yourself responsible for far worse than a few hundred dead.” He calls it after me. Pleading. “Say nothing, do nothing, until I have explained everything to you. Promise me.”

I shiver at both the certainty of his words, and their import. Nod slowly. “Not until I have heard you, Ruarc.”

I shut the door behind me, and stride toward the breaking dawn.

LXXX

THE WAR FOR CATEN RAGES AROUND US BENEATH AN enveloping night sky, stars shrouded by smoke and drifting grit. The dust-choked streets are lit now only either by torches carried by mobs, or the sporadic fires illuminating the devastation of the Will shells that lit them. Everything is cast in shadows and silhouette against deep, angry reds. Screams and clashing shouts echo. Sometimes distant. Sometimes so close and unexpected that we are forced to take cover.

Eidhin and I stagger on, and fight, and stagger on some more. I keep my metal mask on and arm half formed, barely enough pieces to complete the illusion and still be able to walk. We hide from the larger companies of both sides, but step in wherever we find Octavii and Septimii being hunted by individual legionnaires. Show ourselves to anyone who isn’t a threat, too. Each time I pretend I don’t feel the grinding ache of what I’m doing to my body, or the cold rage that drives me, or any of the grief that I keep buried firmly beneath it all, and stand tall, and tell all who will listen to spread the word that Carnifex is fighting for them.

Some curse me fearfully for what I have brought upon the city. Far fewer than I expect, though.

In between, we rest, and I send my imbued shards high into the air as a signal to Ka, and as we apprehensively wait I explain the missing pieces of my life to my friend. I don’t know how long it’s been since we started. Hours? Diago, at least, is being treated back at Domus Telimus, a brief stop and a dismayed Kadmos behind us. And I sent multiple messages warning Tertius Ericius of my bad information, though I have no idea whether any of them reached him before the first Will shells started to fall in the Forum.

“What happens if this other man—Ostius—finds us first?” Eidhin pants at one point as we stumble to a seat in a darkened alley, snatching a few precious moments of rest after another skirmish. He’s doing the bulk of the fighting. My metal blades are effective at range, but my lack of true mobility means I have to hang back and simply assist him most of the time.

“He won’t.” I tear another strip of cloth and bind the new wound on his leg. Shallow, but bleeding too much to ignore. “I destroyed the amulet he was using to track me.”

“The one he gave you for protection?”

“That’s the one.”

Eidhin takes a breath to say something, then looks at me, then just lets it out again. “I suppose it would be inconvenient if he tried to kill Ka while you were trying to negotiate with him,” he concedes with an exasperated mutter.

We fight on. At one point we stray too close to the front lines and suddenly there is a shifting in the air, a sweeping away of smoke and then a Transvect is screaming above us, its base lit orange by Caten’s flames. Sextii leap, slamming into the ground around us, eyes dark, breaking cobblestone with their impacts. We fling ourselves for the shadows of the nearest alley, unseen by the detachment who are already sprinting along the rubble-strewn street toward their target.

And then seconds later, an explosion from the sky. The Transvect plummets; there is a thundering, shattering roar not more than a few streets away. Dust is shoved in a wave away from the crash. Glass shatters. Through hands shielding faces, we see a plume of fire unfolding toward the heavens as the rest of the Will shells on board go up.

We stumble away. I’ve lost my sense of where we are, but Eidhin estimates the impact was close to the Forum.

I think of my remaining friends, and hope they are far from here.

Finally, though, it is too much. Even with Kadmos’s tea and my Will and fear and desperation all pulsing through me, my body cannot take anymore. I am becoming sluggish and I can see that Eidhin, stoic though he is, is the same.

“We can rest here. Just for a while.” We’re back in Alta Semita, I think. Hard to know; streets and buildings all look the same once they’re in pieces. “That house doesn’t look like it’s going to fall down.”

Eidhin barely grunts his affirmation, and we limp to the structure. Much of the back half is gone and we clamber over stone rather than use the door, but enough of the façade remains that it should hide us from the view of any passersby. I collapse to the ground, back against the wall. Eidhin crouches in front of me. Somehow, still able to stand.

“You are getting slow. Even with those blades,” he says abruptly. “You should rest.”

I stare at his eyes, red-rimmed from exhaustion, and laugh softly. “Sure.”

He doesn’t smile. “You have two broken legs, Vis. And that ‘brace’ you are using to walk is making you bleed everywhere.” I glance down, surprised to find he’s right; there are trails of blood all the way down my legs, and the base of my torn and dirtied toga is soaked in red. “I know you are a Quintus, and angry, and whatever your Dispensator made you might be dulling the pain, but your body will not last like this. It cannot. So rest, just for a few minutes, and I will keep watch. Rest, or I will make you rest.”

I scowl at him, but now I’ve sat down it feels impossible to get back up again straight away. “Fine. But I’m not going to sleep. I’ll raise the signal again.”

I send my metal shards high into the air, well above the rooftops. Carefully form them into the only meaningful shape I can think to make. An inverted Hierarchy symbol, three lines descending into a single point.

Eidhin peers upward, looking a mixture of impressed and worried. “You’re sure he will be able to see them?”

“They’re imbued. If he’s like me, and anywhere close by, it’ll catch his attention.” Alone, the Will in each shard wouldn’t be enough. Arranged together as they are, though, they pulse in my mind, clear against the smoky night.

A massive arrow in the sky, pointed directly down at us.

“Are they going to fall on top of us if you lose concentration?” Eidhin gazes upward worriedly.

“Maybe. Probably not. Don’t think so,” I reply hazily. My pounding heart is easing. No immediate danger, and as the fear departs it leaves only exhaustion in its wake.

Unwillingly, I close my eyes.

“FOR A MAN NOT SLEEPING, YOU ARE NOT VERY ALERT.”

I start and twist awake at the gruff voice in my ear. “Rotting gods.” I sit up, repressing a groan at the action. “I was thinking.”

“Ah. Practicing. This is good.” He pats me on the shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

I consider. “Better.” Not a lie, insomuch as I don’t feel as close to dying as I did when I closed my eyes. I check the pulsing symbol high above us. Still hovering where I left it. “How long?”

“A half hour.”

Too long. Not long enough. I take in Eidhin’s spent visage. “Your turn.”

“I don’t need—”

“Your turn.” I gesture upward. “It’s a big city. If he’s looking for me, we need to give him time to get close enough to see it. I can manage.”

“Not if you can’t walk and don’t have a weapon,” Eidhin observes.

I sigh, hating the logic, but he’s right. Command the hovering pieces to return, to form the braces around my legs again. The fiction of my arm. My mask. None of it’s comfortable, but once set it will stay in place. Better to do it now than be forced to under pressure.

We sit mutely for a while, and though I can see Eidhin’s eyes droop more than once, he doesn’t drift off the way I did.

“What made you change your mind?” The question comes abruptly, out almost before I realise I’m asking it. I smile weakly. “It sure as all hells wasn’t this plan.”

“That, I promise you, is true.” Eidhin stirs. Massages his shoulder, which took a hit from a Sextus earlier. “No. The measure of a man is not whether he does the wrong thing. It is whether he accepts that he has. When you told me the truth—showed me that mask …” He sighs heavily. “I was angry. I still am. But you were right. About crossing lines because we feel forced to. Perhaps we will save my people from Redivius, perhaps we will not—but if I had pressed on, if I had stayed trapped, it would have eventually been the latter.” He frowns at the ground. Speaks slowly. “But Vis? It was also because you came. You came on two broken legs, and you asked. You would not have forced me to stop, but you were willing to strip yourself bare to save me. You reminded me that we are not friends. You are my brother. My kin. To abandon you to the right and narrow path …”

He trails off. Silence, and then he drags himself to his feet. Walks over slowly and offers his hand to pull me up. “If we are staying here longer, we should try and find a position with a better view.”

I let him haul me to my feet and then wrap him in a fierce embrace before he can resist. Impossible to describe what his words mean to me.

He grunts. Allows it, then pulls away. “It is still an awful plan,” he growls.

I cough a laugh, and we start to pick our way out again across the rubble.

I round the broken wall and immediately shrink back, motioning urgently to stay quiet. Someone is standing in the street. Visible as little more than a silhouette.

Watching the house.

“Carnifex.” The voice rings out into the black.

I glance back at Eidhin, who motions that he’s going to circle around the other way. I nod affirmation, steel myself and emerge at a safe distance. “Who are you?”

“The one for whom you have been calling.” The man speaks in crisp, formal Vetusian, and it takes me a moment to recognise and translate it.

I stare. Not saying anything, thinking furiously. It’s hard to make out features but the silhouette is unsettlingly still.

No doubting who he’s saying he is, though.

I finally hold up my hands, relieved to find they are not visibly shaking. “Then I wish to negotiate.” I say it in Vetusian too, though mine isn’t as smooth or elegant. The notion still ludicrous as it leaves my mouth, but we’re here now. “I believe we may be able to help each other.” I itch to move, to do anything to feel less vulnerable. But I have to trust Eidhin will find a good position to act, should things turn violent.

“An interesting proposition, from the man who has ruined so much.” The shadow shifts. “How do you believe we can do this, Carnifex?”

“You need a replacement for Princeps Exesius, and an end to this war.” I say it as if it is not a guess. I peer at him, then, reluctantly, let my metal mask and arm melt away. “My name is Quintus Vis Telimus Catenicus, and I can give you both. I have the legitimacy and the popularity to bind these pretenders beneath me. But to do that, I need something that will force them to the table, regardless of their legions.” I close my eyes. Gods help me. “Something that will make them fear me enough to temper their ambitions.”

Another long silence. A complete lack of motion from the shadowed figure.

“You decided upon this course only hours ago,” he says eventually.

I frown. “I have been thinking about it all week, but … I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because my options were limited.”

“Yet you evidently knew I was already looking for you. Intending to kill you, given the chance. Just as, I assume, whoever so clumsily dangled you intended to kill me.”

I swallow. Thrown by the strange and unsettling veer in conversation. “They were really limited options.”

“Undoubtedly.” Still an absence of emotion, but I imagine dry amusement in the response, this time. “Even so. When a man is Synchronous, sometimes things bleed through. Small things. Inexplicable impressions, instincts you may not normally have. A whisper of the memory of knowledge. And I think, perhaps—unless the coincidence is extraordinary—this is why we are speaking now.” Another pause. Face still shadowed. “Do you know my purpose, Catenicus?”

“To cause another Cataclysm.” No point in pretending.

“No. That is means, not purpose.” The dark shape shifts. “More than nine in every ten dead, in this world. It is a horror and heartbreak that cannot be explained in numbers or words. But that sacrifice is to save the one in ten. It is to prevent the obliteration of two worlds, and the enslavement of whichever remains.” A pause. “And as of a few hours ago, you are now the only man alive who can fulfil that purpose.”

He steps forward out of the shadows, and the flickering light of the distant fires reveals a man in his thirties, haggard and unkempt, with shoulder-length black hair. A crooked nose. Dirty and unremarkable. “I will help you. I will give you what you need. This iunctus will guide you—and your friend lurking in the shadows, if he wishes—to where you need to go, while I prepare. All I ask in return is that you truly hear what I have told you. A choice of many lives, or all of them, Catenicus. That will be your burden, now.”

There’s a scream from a few streets over. Echoing and hollow and haunting as it drifts through the hush and then cuts off abruptly. To my right, Eidhin slowly emerges from the darkness.

I feel light-headed. Nauseous. Another deception? I can’t see its purpose. It’s not something I am going to believe without proof, and a lot of it.

But I have not been asked for anything except my attention. Not yet.

And he has that, now.

“I’m listening,” I eventually say quietly.

THE FIRST BRIGHT RAYS OF DAWN KISS THE UPPERMOST tombs of Agerus as Eidhin and I trudge wearily behind the iunctus, the Necropolis and its thousands upon thousands of graves stretching away across fields divided by the flickering orange of the Eternal Flames. Beautiful, and utterly desolate. No sign of the Military personnel who would normally be here.

It took almost an hour for the iunctus to guide us to the docks through the burning and blood of Caten’s fracturing. Ka seemed to relinquish his control of the dead man before we could ask anything more; since Alta Semita our guide has been completely unresponsive to both conversation and command, calm and mechanical as he steered us unerringly around blockades and patrols and, finally, onto an empty bireme that immediately began gliding into the darkness of Caten’s harbour.

It was hours before our ship angled toward the shore again. Despite my weak protests, Eidhin spent much of the start of the journey checking my wounds and then applying fresh makeshift bandages, padding everything so that the discomfort of my crutches would not be so bad when I did have to walk again. He brushed off my gratitude with a familiar, dismissive grunt before finally tending to himself.

After that, I dozed fitfully, carefully prone, metal bracing rearranged to best ensure the shape of my legs. Too exhausted to fully stay awake. Too angry, and anxious, and heartbroken, and in pain, to sleep for long. I would slumber and then wake with a jolt to the gentle motion of the boat, and remember Aequa, and all of the helpless injustice would come thundering back, and I would lie there and stare at the night sky and let the rage that pounded my heart lend me more of its determination, second by second.

Eidhin, I think, did not even try to sleep. I often stirred to find him nearby at the bow, leaning against the railing and watching as the inky waves of the Sea of Quus broke silver against our passage. In my waking times, we talked occasionally. About what Ka said, whether it could possibly be true. About what might come next. But mostly we gazed in silence. Captives of our own thoughts and worries and grieving furies. The sharing of heavy burdens in each other’s company, even if neither of us said them aloud.

And now as we trail the dead man past graves and mausoleums, I know where we are headed. Only confirmed as we turn down the almost invisible path into the mountain and pass beneath the archway, its writing barely visible in the early dim.

Death is the door to life.

“This is where Emissa took me, when we came to see the prisoner,” I tell Eidhin grimly.

He glances at the iunctus uneasily. “Why would the Concurrence have brought us here?”

“The Concurrence have not brought you here.” We both flinch and curse at the statement of the dead man in front, abrupt in the hollowness of the thin chasm. He turns to us, and I can suddenly see an awareness in his gaze that hasn’t been there since Caten. “They are the enemy. Humanity’s enemy, which I have fought my entire life. Do not conflate us.” Delivered emotionlessly again, but he pauses, staring at each of us as if to ensure we understand, before moving on.

Eidhin and I exchange shaken looks, and follow. It does, I suppose, suggest an answer to the main question we debated on our way here. If the Cataclysms are really to stop something worse, what could be the cause of the latter?

It seems we have our answer.

My mind reels, and I can see Eidhin silently trying to make sense of it too. Was Veridius working with the Concurrence, then? No. Surely no advantage to him in deliberately obfuscating like that—and he even admitted that he had drawn his own conclusions about the ancient enemy described in the ruins, and their role in the Cataclysms.

Still. The revelation unbalances me more than it should, challenging a truth I was somehow certain of. I feel sick. Oddly horrified. As if it were important to me that my original understanding was true.

“Who are the Concurrence, then?” I say it into the hush as the iunctus lights a lantern, and we forge into the darkness of the tunnel.

The iunctus moves steadily ahead of us. “Not a ‘who.’ A ‘what.’ A self-contained latticework of iunctii. The remnants of a rogue system which once controlled the lives of hundreds of millions of people across the world. Across the world, before the Rending.”

I exchange a look with Eidhin, who shakes his head slightly. Equally baffled. “A system?”

“A great, independent machine made up of the dead. Interlinked, each one carefully purposed. More vast and complex and impossible to fight than you can imagine.” We’ve taken a different path to the one Emissa led me along, and a dead end suddenly looms in the form of a massive obsidian slab, divided into three distinct panels. The gilded symbol of the Hierarchy slices down the one in the centre.

The iunctus gestures me forward before I can probe the bizarre statement further. “There is Will imbued in the outer two sections. You need to move it to the centre. But once this door is opened, we have a matter of hours, if that, before your Military arrive to stop us. So we must move fast.”

I nod. Take a deep breath, and do as he instructs.

The polished black surface shudders, and slides into the ground.

Eidhin and I stand there as the iunctus strides through.

“Vek.” I breathe it.

“Vek,” agrees Eidhin softly.

We’re on the lowest level of a space hundreds of feet deep and at least as high, painted in eerie green light. Ahead and behind, the floor slopes upward into multiple levels, accessible via carved stairs. To our left and right, the space stretches away in both directions as far as I can see. An enormous, semi-cylindrical tunnel.

Filling it—not just along the pathways of our level but on the tiered ones above—are bodies.

I stare. Frozen. Even the numbed, ongoing agony of my legs temporarily forgotten. The entire mountain, the entire Agerus mountain range, must be hollowed out to accommodate this massive crypt. At first I think it’s a much larger version of the ruins near the Academy; certainly it feels the same, with its jade light and corpses splayed upright against white stone slabs. None of them have blades pinning them through the heart, though. They’re not naked, instead clothed in identical, simple black shifts.

And—as I peer at one of the closest ones—they stare glassily ahead. Dead, certainly, but the eyes of these corpses have not been removed.

It’s a small comfort, confronted with the scale of the thing. There are thousands of them. Tens of thousands. They stretch on forever.

“What is this place?” I whisper it, almost to myself.

“This is the Necropolis.” The iunctus beckons us to follow him, and we start along the path to our left beneath the crushing weight of a thousand blank stares. From the set of his shoulders, Eidhin is as startled and troubled as I feel, though at least there is no sign of movement, no flicker of unnatural life in any of the men or women—or children, in some cases—who we pass. “It was entirely empty when your era discovered it—more than a century ago now, I believe. It is a remnant of another time. One of our earliest attempts to build something to rival the Concurrence. Of course, your Military never figured that out; they merely use it to preserve access to knowledge. Particularly that of their foes.”

I gaze around in dazed horror. “How many?”

“Near eighty thousand.” No inflection to the statement. No judgement. “This chamber holds the most recent, but there are dozens more like it. Your people have filled this place with the slain of a century of conquests. Everyone from great leaders, to the lowest servants who may once have overheard something important. Anyone and everyone who may have something valuable still locked away somewhere in their minds.”

I can barely comprehend it as our path angles upward slightly, toward a raised platform in the centre of the enormous tunnel. A twenty-foot-wide obsidian triangle, elevated above the rows of corpses on either side. “You want me to wake some of them.” It’s the only logical conclusion.

The iunctus starts climbing. “I want you to wake all of them, Catenicus.”

His statement hangs as we ascend. I open my mouth. Shut it again and glance across at Eidhin, whose furrowed brow says he is as lost as I am as to how to respond.

“How?” I ask eventually as we reach the platform. Its surface is not one piece, as I assumed from below, but four—three triangular-cut stones for each point, and a single, upside-down one in the centre. A corpse lies within each of the outer triangles. They would look almost restful in their repose if not for the thin, two-foot-high spikes of obsidian that protrude up through their chests.

“You need only imbue these three men—they do not need more than the Will of a couple of people each. The machinery of this place will do the rest.” He sees my dissatisfaction at the explanation. “A iunctus can cede far more than it takes to wake them, which means one of the primary strengths of Synchronic Will is the ability to perform what is called a Cascade. These first three iunctii will cede to you, then utilise the remainder of their Will to wake more. Who will cede to them, and then wake more. And so on, and so on. Due to the scale at play, they have been instructed to maximise efficiency and begin creating external pyramids, once the seven levels below you have been filled. But by the end, you will have the strength of a Princeps, and an army who can be compelled to follow your commands.”

I stand there. Head spinning, heart thumping as I try to grasp what he’s telling me. This is madness. “Eighty thousand.” Still not enough to compete with a legion—it takes four times that number to create five thousand Sextii—but … gods.

“Eighty thousand who need neither food nor sleep. And who can make more of their number, if you are forced to fight.”

I pale as I take in his meaning. Feel a slow, creeping horror as I imagine the power of an army that could do what he’s suggesting. The dead of every foe adding to their number. Growing, and growing. Each battle making them stronger, and larger, and more impossible to defeat.

In a strange way, not unlike how the Hierarchy conquered the world.

“Do not do this, Vis.” There’s true dismay in Eidhin’s voice as he gazes around at the three bodies pinned to the platform. “This is … sick. Wrong. No different to what we spoke of after you were here with Emissa. For a man to die, and then his body—his mind—to be used like this. To be so trapped without even death as an end …” He turns to me, places a large hand on my shoulder. Serious blue eyes locked to mine. “Do. Not. Do. This.”

I say nothing for a long few moments. “And your kin in Redivius’s camp?”

“We will find another way.”

I nod slowly. Something oddly comforting in the strength of his hopeless conviction.

“Catenicus. I accept this may seem abhorrent, but understand—that is a sacrifice that men like you and I must inevitably make. Instead of the easy gift of our lives, we must suffer the hundred little deaths of self in order to protect this world. Not because what we do is good, but because good will no longer exist if we do not.” The iunctus steps forward. “You were right, in Caten. I need you to stop this war. And beyond that, I need what you can do, because you are now the only one who can do it. So think well. Make your decision and make it without regret, but know that if you wish to truly make a difference, you have others to come which will be much harder and mean much more.”

His voice echoes away down the green-lit tunnel, until finally we three stare at each other in silence.

I hesitate, then close my eyes. Sway from exhaustion, from the throb of my legs and the abrading pain of their braces. Kadmos’s tea has almost worn off.

The strength of the few is all that matters.

My father once told me that men become their choices, not their intentions. I wonder what he would say to me now.

Before I can change my mind I take two steps, and crouch by the first corpse, and place my hand on his forehead, and imbue him.

The thin obsidian spike jutting through his chest retracts, sliding slowly downward and vanishing into the man’s body. He sits up and his hand finds mine before I can move. Nothing spoken, but I immediately feel the small portion of Will flow into me. He releases his grasp again. Every motion stiff, deliberate. No interest or recognition in his eyes.

I shudder and don’t pause to watch what happens next. Step across and place my hand on the second cold body. Imbue. All my training makes it so easy, now.

“Vis?” Eidhin’s voice. Distant beneath my pounding heart.

“He has made his choice,” comes the iunctus’s soft reply.

As soon as the second iunctus has ceded to me, I’m moving across to the third impaled form. There’s motion in the corner of my vision. The first one is on his feet, descending from the platform with calm, mechanical intent.

I imbue the third man. Watch the black, glimmering sliver of stone retract. Allow him to give up half his Will to me.

Then take a weary seat as he stands and heads purposefully after the other two.

Minutes pass as I just watch in horrified, vaguely sick silence. First there is only the movement of the three iunctii. Then six. Then a dozen. On and on, a widening ripple of waking corpses. The Will being ceded to me builds in ever growing increments. My weariness begins to wash away, even if my misgivings do not.

“They will continue until each node is filled to its most efficient level,” says the iunctus behind me. “Once their pyramids are set, they will be unable to attack one another, or you, or leave—but will otherwise regain control of themselves. Their memories. Any further restrictions will be up to you.”

I can see more empty white slabs than occupied, now. Swathes of iunctii begin vanishing farther down the tunnel in both directions.

After a while, Eidhin finally joins me. His eyes are sad as we watch together.

“Fear is a lack of control, Eidhin,” I tell him eventually. “And I am tired of being afraid. I want to be able to see justice in the world again.”

He looks across at me sorrowfully. Nods.

“I am still with you,” he promises quietly.

I don’t know how long it has been before the first voices start to ring out. Questions echoing. Anxious, more than angry. I see iunctii slowing, shaking their heads and looking around in confusion, as if waking from a dream. Soon the tunnel is filled not with the slow shuffling of feet, but the mutter of bemused conversation.

I stand again. Gaze out over the throng. Some are starting to gather around the base of our platform, though none are climbing the stairs. But we’re the natural centre of attention up here. I am going to have to explain what is happening, soon enough. What I have woken them all to do.

“Diago?”

My heart stops at the female voice cutting through the low hubbub, from off to my left below. I turn slowly. Disbelievingly. Scan the milling crowd.

I spot them. Rows back but pushing their way forward and through. Dark, curly hair and sun-kissed skin. The younger’s long hair tousled, wild in a way it never is. The older’s is the same, just the way I remember it.

Their deep brown eyes, mirrors of each other’s and my own, on me. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I cannot speak.

And then I am scrambling down the stairs as fast as my broken legs will take me toward my mother and sister.

The confused crowd parts like water before my rushing and suddenly I’m there. Standing in front of them. It’s them.

There are tears on both their smiling cheeks.

I don’t ask about Father, or Cari, or how. I am holding them. Sobbing with them. Laughing with them. No explanations, no words at all except our names, repeated over and over again in incredulous joy. I forget about what I have just done, or what is surely to come. I forget about my legs. My pain. About the war. The last five years have dropped away and I am wrapped in the safety and unconditional love of their embrace, and it is enough.

It is enough.

When my tears clear enough to focus again, I see Eidhin has descended after me. He’s staring. At first I think it’s at Ysa, but then I realise his gaze is fixed behind, over my shoulder.

For the first time since the Iudicium, I see him smile.

And before I can turn, before I can process it, the familiar voice emerges from the murmurs behind. Wry, and quiet, and utterly perplexed.

“Hail, Vis.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IN MY RECENT BOOKS, WHENEVER I COME TO THIS SECtion, I always worry that it looks almost rote to simply retread old ground and thank the same people over and over again: in this case especially, I could copy and paste my acknowledgements from The Will of the Many, and they would be close to entirely accurate for this book as well. The more I write, though, the more I appreciate just how great a situation that is to be in—to have had a talented, reliable, and trusted group around me over the course of many years, who have so consistently and positively contributed to the experience, is an incredible advantage. So I hope that everyone below knows that even if their names appear “yet again,” repetition makes these acknowledgements more heartfelt, not less—because as always, through support both tangible and intangible, this book owes so much to them:

My agent, Paul Lucas, who always gives excellent advice and works tirelessly so that I can focus on the things I’m actually good at, rather than having to stumble through/fret over the business side of things.

My editor, Joe Monti, who continues to make sure these books arrive in their very best shape, and has been so supportive of and such a great advocate for this series.

My beta readers, including but not limited to—Sonja, Elisabeth, Chiara, Lowell, Nicki, and Jordan. After spending years writing a single book, it can be incredibly hard to step back and see what’s working and what’s not in a story. Those earliest impressions and feedback really, really make a difference.

The entire team at Saga, and Simon & Schuster, as well as the one at Text Publishing in Australia, who have shown such tremendous enthusiasm for, and faith in, this series.

Jaime Jones, for his incredible artwork on our new covers.

Euan Morton, for his amazing narration work, and the folks at Audible for producing such excellent audiobook versions of my stories.

My assistant, Elisabeth, for so effectively filling a whole raft of roles, which in turn allows me to spend my time writing rather than worrying about everything else.

My kids, whose imaginations easily outstrip my own, for bringing me both a perspective and a joy that my books would be so much the poorer without.

And finally my wonderful wife, Sonja, who not only puts up with me, but once again is the only person I trust to read the very worst versions of my work, and identify the earliest, roughest edges that need sanding away. She is, and always will be, such a vital part of this process.

MAJOR CHARACTERS

Advenius Claudius (ahd-VEN-ee-us CLAW-dee-us) – Father of Aequa. Governance senator.

Aemilius Volenis (ai-MEE-lee-oos voh-LEN-iss), Quintus – Father of Belli, and the proconsul in Sytrece.

Aequa Claudius (EE-kwah CLAW-dee-us) – Daughter of Advenius. Attended the Academy with Vis.

Amercus Decimus (ah-MEHR-koos DEK-ee-mus), Magnus Tertius – Father of Iro

Ascenia (ash-EN-ee-a) – Septimus in charge of the stables at the Academy.

Atrox (AH-troks), Matron – Woman in charge of the orphanage at Letens.

Atticus (AHT-ik-us) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Belli Volenis (BEH-lee voh-LEN-iss) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Caeror Telimus (SEE-roar TELL-ee-muss) – Brother to Ulciscor. Killed during the Iudicium at the Academy several years ago.

Callidus Ericius (CAHL-id-us er-EE-see-us) – Vis’s friend from the Academy.

Carinza (cah-RIN-zah) / Cari (CAH-ree) – Vis’s younger sister, princess of Suus.

Cristoval (KRIS-toh-vahl), King – Vis’s father, king of Suus.

Diago (dee-AH-go) – Vis’s birth name, and also the name he gives to the alupi he saved as a pup on Solivagus.

Dultatis (dool-TAH-tis), Praeceptor – Teacher in charge of Class Six at the Academy.

Eidhin Breac (EYE-din BRAK) – Vis’s friend from the Academy.

Ellanher (EL-an-her) – Woman in charge of the fights at the Letens Theatre.

Emissa Corenius (em-EE-sah kor-EN-ee-us) – Attended the Academy with Vis. Romantically involved with him during their time there.

Ericius (eh-REE-kee-oos), Magnus Tertius – Censor of the Republic, and father of Callidus and Livia.

Estevan (ESS-she-vahn) – Also known as Melior, leader of the Anguis. Former advisor to King Cristoval, and former tutor to Vis.

Exesius (eks-EE-see-us), Princeps – Princeps of Military.

Fadrique (fah-DREE-kay) – Former advisor to King Cristoval, and former tutor of Vis’s. Current steward of Suus under the Hierarchy.

Felix (FELL-ik) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Hrolf (ROLF) – The Septimus in charge of Letens Prison, under whom Vis was once employed.

Ianix (YAN-iks) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Indol Quiscil (IN-dole KEY-skil) – Attended the Academy with Vis. Son of Dimidius Quiscil of Military.

Iro Decimus (EYE-roe DEK-ee-mus) – Attended the Academy with Vis. Younger sister killed during the attack on the naumachia.

Kadmos (KAHD-moss) – Dispensator in charge of running Villa Telimus. Former head of the Azriat in Sytrece.

Lanistia Scipio (lah-nis-TEE-ah SKIP-ee-oh) – Tutor to Vis during his time at Villa Telimus. Assisting Ulciscor in his search to find the truth about Caeror’s death.

Laurentius (low-REN-tee-oos), Magnus Quartus – the Senate-ratified leader of Military’s forces in Caten.

Livia Ericius (LEE-vee-ah eh-REE-kee-oos) – Sister of Callidus and daughter of Magnus Tertius Ericius.

Manius (MAH-nee-us), Proconsul – Catenan in charge of the Tensian province.

Marcellus (mar-KEL-us) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Marcus Carcius (MAR-koos KAR-see-us) – Assistant to Veridius at the Academy.

Nequias (neh-KEY-us), Praeceptor – Teacher in charge of Class Three at the Academy.

Ostius (OSS-tee-oos) – mysterious ally of the Anguis, who can travel between Res and Luceum.

Prav (PRAHV) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Quiscil (KEY-skil), Magnus Dimidius – Indol’s father.

Quaestor (KWAI-stor) – elderly man who tests Vis’ blood, and conducts an unusual interview of him prior to his Governance Placement test.

Redivius (reh-DEE-vee-oos), Magnus Quartus – One of the Magnus Quartii vying for the position of Military’s Princeps.

Relucia Telimus (reh-loo-SEE-ah TELL-ee-muss) – Ulciscor’s wife. Anguis spy.

Scitus (SKEE-tus), Praeceptor – Teacher in charge of Class Four at the Academy.

Sianus (see-AHN-us) – Attended the Academy with Vis.

Taedia (TAH-dee-ah), Praeceptor – Teacher in charge of Class Five at the Academy.

Ulciscor Telimus (ull-KEY-scor TELL-ee-muss) – Vis’s adoptive father. Magnus Quintus in Military.

Ulnius Filo (ull-NIGH-us FEEL-oh) – Physician at the Academy.

Veridius Julii (ver-id-EE-us JOOL-ee-eye) – The Principalis, in charge of the Academy.

Vis Telimus Catenicus (VISS TELL-ee-muss cah-TEN-ee-cuss) – The name chosen by Diago after he fled Suus. Added to after his adoption by Ulciscor Telimus, and then again by the Senate after his heroics at the naumachia.

Ysabel (EE-sah-bel) – Vis’s older sister, princess of Suus.

Aodh (AY) – A warrior assisting the druid Cian on the journey to Caer Aras.

Artán (AHR-tawn) – The former Champion of King Rónán.

Cian (KEE-an) – A druid assigned to King Fiachra’s lands. Assists Deaglán after he comes through the Gate.

Conor (CON-ur) – A student at Loch Traenala.

Deaglán (DEG-lawn) – The name given to Vis by Gráinne and her family, and which he adopts.

Donnán (DOH-nawn) – Senior druid to King Rónán.

Fiachra (FEE-uh-kra), King – Rival to King Rónán. Has struck a deal with the Grove to give them unfettered access to Solivagus.

Fearghus (FAIR-uh-gus) – A student at Loch Traenala.

Gallchobhar (GAHL-kho-var) – King Rónán’s Champion.

Gráinne (GRAWN-ya) – The woman who takes in Deaglán. Mother to Róisín and Tadgh. Daughter to Onchú.

Kegan (KEE-gan) – A warrior assisting the druid Cian on the journey to Caer Aras.

Leathf hear (LAH-ar) – The derogatory nickname given to Deaglán by Gallchobhar.

Lir (LEER) – The druid who takes Vis to Caer Aras.

Miach (MEE-ukh) – A student at Loch Traenala.

Neasa (NASS-ah) – The captain of the ship to Loch Traenala.

Nuadha (NOO-uh-ya), King – The king of a region neighbouring King Rónán’s lands.

Onchú (UN-khoo) – Father of Gráinne, grandfather to Róisín and Tadgh.

Pádraig (PAW-rik) – The instructor at Loch Traenala.

Rian (REE-an) – A younger student at Loch Traenala.

Róisín (ROH-sheen) – Daughter of Gráinne.

Rónán (ROH-nawn), King – King of the lands to which Deaglán flees. Father to Tara.

Ruarc (ROO-ark) – A druid who some believe is exerting undue influence over the Grove, and appears to want Vis dead.

Seanna (SHAW-na) – A student at Loch Traenala.

Tadgh (TIGE) – Son of Gráinne.

Tara (TAH-ra) – Daughter of King Rónán. A student at Loch Traenala.

Uallach (OO-uh-lukh) – A druid from King Nuadha’s lands.

Úrthuile (OOR-huluh), High King – The dying High King who rules over Rónán, Fiachra, Nuadha, and others.

Ahmose (AH-mohs) – The iunctus who becomes friends with Vis in Duat.

Betrest (BET-rest) – One of the upper class of Duat.

Caeror (SEE-roar) – See Res character guide.

Djedef (JEH-def) – Iunctus who is questioned by Caeror.

Ka (KAH) – The man in control of Duat.

Kiya (KEE-yah) – Child iunctus who appears to obey Netiqret.

Netiqret (neh-TEE-kret) – A woman who assists Vis in Duat.

Nofret (NOH-fret) – Young girl in Qabr.

Siamun (SEE-ah-moon) – The native name chosen by Vis to help conceal his identity within Duat.

Tash (TASH) – The iunctus who Vis practices on with an Instruction Blade.

Zai (z-eye) – The assessor for dancers at the Festival of the Return.

GLOSSARY

Alupi (AH-loo-pie) – Massive, intelligent wolf-like creatures indigenous to Solivagus.

Anchoring point – Stone monoliths used as infrastructure for Transvects.

Anguis (AN-gwiss) – The group continuing to rebel against the Hierarchy.

Arventis (are-VEN-tiss) – God of childbirth, prophecy, and luck.

Aurora Columnae (ow-ROAR-ah COLE-um-nigh) – The pre-Cataclysm devices which enable people to cede Will.

Bibliotheca (bib-lee-oh-THEE-kah) – Library.

Bireme – A military ship with two decks of oars.

Birthright – The set of Catenan laws designed to “honour life.”

Cede – The act, in the Hierarchy, of giving half your Will to someone ranked directly above you.

Censor – The Governance senator in charge of determining who can be nominated for the Senate.

Curia Doctrina (COO-ree-ah DOC-treen-ah) – The main hall of the Academy.

Ddram cyfraith (thrahm KUH-vrythe) – The “Right to Death,” a Cymrian legal and philosophical code that honours death as a sacrifice.

Ferias (FAIR-ee-us) – God of keys, doors, livestock, and ports.

Foundation – A popular strategic game in the Hierarchy, played with red and white triangular stones.

Gate – The name used to refer to the device which copied Vis into Obiteum and Luceum.

Iudicium (you-DISS-ee-um) – The final test at the Academy for Class Three students, used to determine their rankings.

Jovan (YO-vahn) – God of sky and thunder, the king of the gods.

Mira (MEER-ah) – God of war and fighters, agricultural guardian.

Naumachia (now-MAH-key-ah) – Gladiatorial battle taking place on ships, on an artificial lake. Participants are called Naumchiarii.

Ocaria (oh-KAH-ree-ah) – Goddess of rivers.

Pletuna (pleh-TOON-ah) – Goddess of autumn and the harvest.

Praeceptor (PRAY-kep-tor) – Teacher status in the Academy.

Praetorium (pray-TOR-ee-um) – Building housing the teachers’ offices at the Academy.

Quadrum (KWAD-rum) – The large, central courtyard of the Academy.

Razor – The name for an obsidian blade forged by a Catenan officer.

Sere (SEH-ray) – Goddess of spring, flowers, and fertility.

Silencium (sigh-LEN-key-um) – Binding legal agreement in the Hierarchy to not speak of something.

Transvect (TRANS-vekt) – Massive Will-powered transport devices.

Vitaerium (vit-EYE-ree-um) – Devices that can force-feed Will into any body or substance capable of decay.

Vorcian (VOR-key-an) – God of volcanoes, deserts, the forge, and hard work.

Caer (KEER) – Stronghold.

Grove, The – The High Council of the druids.

Dia Domhain (DEE-uh DOH-win) – The god of deep places.

Dia Fómhar (DEE-uh FOH-var) – The god of the harvest.

Dia Oiche (DEE-uh EE-ha) – The god of the night.

Dia Saol (DEE-uh SAY-ol) – The god of life.

Draoi (DREE) – The title used by druids.

Loch (lokh) – Lake.

Nasceann (NASK-an) – The word used for a warrior able to use Will.

Channel – An ancient device that can transport people from one location to another at great speeds.

Concurrence – The mysterious, ancient enemy who waged a war against humanity many thousands of years ago.

Gleaner – A iunctus under the control of Ka. Able to fly. Its dual stone and obsidian blades enable it to bring people back to life and then interrogate them.

Instruction Blade – The obsidian blades affixed to the Gleaners’ arms. Enable the command of iunctii who are pierced through the heart with them.

Iunctus (YOONK-toos) – Someone who has been brought back from the dead.

Ka-shabti (KAH SHAHB-tee) – The “Chosen of Ka,” men and women who live in luxury in exchange for giving up their lives to become iunctii servants at a prime age.

Khepri (KEH-pree) – An amulet with a scarab on it, which acts as a powerful Vitaerium.

Mesektet (MEH-sek-tet) – An assassin who is paid to kill targets “naturally,” allowing them to be purchased by the wealthy when they become iunctii.

Nomarch (NOH-mark) – A collection of iunctii which act as a central guiding mind for controlling Duat.

Overseers – Black-clothed iunctii that enforce Ka’s orders throughout Duat.

Westerner – A slang term in Duat for iunctii.

LOCATIONS

Agerus (ah-GAIR-us) – The region near Caten where the Necropolis is located.

Alta Semita (AHL-tah sem-EE-tah) – A district of Caten.

Aquiria (ah-KEER-ee-ah) – Small country bordering Suus. The country in which Vis officially claims he was born.

Caten (cah-TEN) – The capital of Deditia and of the Catenan Republic, considered to be the centre of the known world.

Catenan (cah-TEN-an) Academy – The Academy which Vis attends, located on the island of Solivagus.

Catenan (cah-TEN-an) Arena – The great stadium in Caten which can house up to one hundred thousand people.

Catenan (cah-TEN-an) Republic – The name used to describe any region governed by Caten’s laws.

Cymr (KYE-meer) – Country to the south-west of Caten.

Deditia (deh-DEE-chee-ah) – The region immediately surrounding Caten.

Esquilae (ESS-kil-igh) – A district of Caten.

Jatiere (YAH-tee-air) – Country whose treaty restricts Catenan ambassadors there from using Will.

Letens (leh-TENS) – Capital of Tensia.

Letens (leh-TENS) Prison – The prison in which Vis once worked.

Lordan’s (lor-DAHN) Column – A famous landmark in Caten.

Luceum (loo-KEY-um) – A mysterious place, usually referenced alongside Res and Obiteum.

Lyceria (ligh-SEER-ee-ah) – A Catenan territory.

Masen (MAH-sen) – A Catenan territory.

Necropolis (neh-KROP-oh-lis) – A large area dedicated to the Catenan dead, located in the Agerus region.

Nyripk (NEER-ik) – Desert-locked country far to the north-east.

Obiteum (oh-bit-EE-um) – A mysterious place, usually referenced alongside Res and Luceum.

Praedium (PRIGH-dee-um) – District of Caten.

Quus (COOS), Sea of – The sea on which both Solivagus and Caten are located.

Res (REZ) – A mysterious place, usually referenced alongside Obiteum and Luceum.

Sarcinia (sar-KIN-ee-ah) – District of Caten.

Solivagus (soh-liv-AH-gus) – Island on which the Academy is located.

Suus (SOOS) – Vis’s island homeland.

Sytrece (sit-REES) – Country to the east of Deditia.

Tensia (TEN-see-ah) – Southernmost populated country in the known world.

Áras (AW-rus), Caer – King Rónán’s stronghold.

Didean (DEE-jan) – A village and its surrounding region, in which Onchu’s farm is located.

Fornax (FOR-naks) – The testing grounds for both draoi and nasceann.

Tempeall albios (TEM-pell AL-bee-oss) – A mysterious white temple in the mountains.

Traenala (TRAY-nuh-luh), Loch – The location of the training school for King Rónán’s elite warriors.

Duat (DOO-aht) – A massive, completely enclosed city in the northern deserts.

Infernis (in-FER-niss) – The poison-filled river that runs through the heart of Duat.

Ka (KAH), Pyramid of – The glowing pyramid at the centre of Duat, which provides light to the city and changes hue in order to indicate the approximate time of day outside.

Ka (KAH), Temple of – The acres of structures surrounding the Pyramid of Ka, largely reserved for priests and Ka-shabti.

Neter-khertet (NEH-ter KHER-tet) – Everything west of the Infernis in Duat. Where the iunctii are housed.

Qabr (KAHB-r) – The collection of ancient tombs in which a small community hides from Ka.

ALSO BY JAMES ISLINGTON

THE LICANIUS TRILOGY

The Shadow of What Was Lost

An Echo of Things to Come

The Light of All That Falls

THE HIERARCHY SERIES

The Will of the Many

JAMES ISLINGTON is the bestselling author of The Will of the Many (the first novel in the Hierarchy series), as well as the Licanius Trilogy (beginning with The Shadow of What Was Lost). He has sold more than two million books, and his work has been translated into seventeen languages. He lives on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria, Australia, with his wife and two children.

Praise for
THE WILL Of THE MANY

WINNER OF THE AUREALIS AWARD FOR BEST FANTASY NOVEL

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‘Islington hits the nail right on the head …The pages truly whiz by.’ Aurealis

‘A brilliant and gut-churning masterpiece… Powerful storytelling at its finest.’ Library Journal

‘Perfectly balancing character development and plot momentum, this will have fantasy fans clamoring for more.’ Publishers Weekly

‘The most high-octane, twisting and turning magical conspiracy I have ever read. I stayed up all night to finish it and had to pick my jaw up off the ground once I was done… The magic system and world building felt up there with some of the best in the genre.’ Readings

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Published in Australia, New Zealand and the UK by The Text Publishing Company, 2025

Published in the USA by Saga Press, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, 2025

Cover design by Math Monahan

Cover art by Jaime Jones

Inside cover art by Rachel Furlong

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Map by the author

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ISBN: 9781923058507 (paperback)

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