Cover

ABOUT THE BOOK

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.

The Strength of the Few

For my son

The Strength of the Few

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.”

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

XXXI

DEATH, EIDHIN ONCE INSISTED WHILE EXPLAINING THEddram 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.

The Strength of the Few

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.

The Strength of the Few

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.