The Will of the Many | Hierarchy | James Islington

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The Will of the Many

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The Will of the Many

For friends, lost.

The Will of the Many

CATENAN RANKINGS

The Will of the Many

The Will of the Many

I

IAM DANGLING, AND IT is only my father’s blood-slicked grip around my wrist that stops me from falling.

He is on his stomach, stretched out over the rocky ledge. His muscles are corded. Sticky red covers his face, his arms, his clothes, everything I can see. Yet I know he can pull me up. I do everything I can not to struggle. I trust him to save me.

He looks over my shoulder. Into the inky black. Into the darkness that is to come.

“Courage,” he whispers. He pours heartbreak and hope into the word.

He lets go.

“I KNOW I’M ALWAYS TELLING you to think before you act,” says the craggy-faced man slouching across the board from me, “but for the game to progress, Vis, you do actually have to move a gods-damned stone.”

I rip my preoccupied gaze from the cold silver that’s streaming through the sole barred window in the guardroom. Give my opponent my best irritated glare to cover the sickly swell of memory, then force my focus again to the polished white and red triangles between us. The pieces glint dully in the light of the low-burning lantern that sits on the shelf, barely illuminating our contest better than the early evening’s glow from outside.

“You alright?”

“Fine.” I see Hrolf’s bushy grey eyebrows twitch in the corner of my vision. “I’m fine, old man. Just thinking. Sappers haven’t got me yet.” No heat to the words. I know the way his faded brown eyes crinkle with concern is genuine. And I know he has to ask.

I’ve been working here almost a year longer than him, so he’s wondering again whether my mind is losing its edge. Like his has been for a while, now.

I ignore his worry and assess the Foundation board, calculating what the new red formation on the far side means. A feint, I realise immediately. I ignore it. Shift three of my white pieces in quick succession and ensure the win. Hrolf likes to boast about how he once defeated a Magnus Quartus, but against me, it’s never a fair match. Even before the Hierarchy—or the Catenan Republic, as I still have to remind myself to call them out loud—ruled the world, Foundation was widely considered the perfect tool for teaching abstract strategic thinking. My father ensured I was exposed to it young, often, and against the very best players.

Hrolf glowers at the board, then me, then at the board again.

“Lost concentration. You took too long. Basically cheating,” he mutters, disgusted as he concedes the game. “You know I beat a Magnus Quartus once?”

My reply is interrupted by a hammering at the thick stone entrance. Hrolf and I stand, game forgotten. Our shift isn’t meant to change for hours yet.

“Identify yourself,” calls Hrolf sharply as I step across to the window. The man visible through the bars is well-dressed, tall and with broad shoulders. In his late twenties, I think. Moonlight shines off the dark skin of his close-shaven scalp.

“Sextus Hospius,” comes the muffled reply. “I have an access seal.” Hospius looks at the window, spotting my observation of him. His beard is black, trimmed short, and he has serious, dark brown eyes that lend him a handsome intensity. He leans over and presses what appear to be official Hierarchy documents against the glass.

“We weren’t told to expect you,” says Hrolf.

“I wouldn’t have known to expect me until about thirty minutes ago. It’s urgent.”

“Not how it works.”

“It is tonight, Septimus.” No change in expression, but the impatient emphasis on Hrolf’s lower status is unmistakeable.

Hrolf squints at the door, then walks over to the thin slot set in the wall beside it, tapping his stone Will key to it with an irritated, sharp click. The hole on our side seals shut. Outside, Hospius notes the corresponding new opening in front of him, depositing his documentation. I watch closely to ensure he adds nothing else.

Hrolf waits for my nod, then opens our end again to pull out Hospius’s pages, rifling through them. His mouth twists as he hands them to me. “Proconsul’s seal” is all he says.

I examine the writing carefully; Hrolf knows his work, but here among the Sappers it pays to check things twice. Sure enough, though, there’s full authorization for entry from Proconsul Manius himself, signed and stamped. Hospius is a man of some importance, apparently, even beyond his rank: he’s a specialised agent, assigned directly by the Senate to investigate an irregularity in last year’s census. Cooperation between the senatorial pyramids of Governance—Hospius’s employers, who oversee the Census—and Military, who are in charge of prisons across the Republic, is allowing Hospius access to one of the prisoners here for questioning.

“Looks valid,” I agree, understanding Hrolf’s displeasure. This paperwork allows our visitor access to the lowest level. It’s cruel to wake the men and women down there mid-sentence.

Hrolf takes the page with Manius’s seal on it back from me and slides it into the outer door’s thin release slot. The proconsul’s Will-imbued seal breaks the security circuit just as effectively as Hrolf’s key, and the stone door grinds smoothly into the wall, a gust of Letens’s bitter night air slithering through the opening to herald Hospius’s imposing form. Inside, the man sheds his fine blue cloak and tosses it casually over the back of a nearby chair, flashing what he probably imagines is a charming smile at the two of us. Hrolf sees a man taking liberties with his space, and curbs a scowl as he snaps Hospius’s seal with more vigour than is strictly necessary, releasing its Will and letting the door glide shut again.

I see a man trying too hard to look at ease, and do everything I can not to react.

Probably nothing. As much as I try to convince myself, after three years, I’m adept at recognising other actors.

Our visitor is nervous about something.

“Thank you, Septimus.” Hospius’s gaze sweeps over me, registering my youth and dismissing my presence, focusing instead on Hrolf. “I know this is irregular, but I need information from someone. A man named Nateo.”

Hrolf pulls the jail ledger from atop the shelf in the corner, flipping it open. There are a few seconds of him tracing down the paper with his finger. “Nateo, Nateo… here he is. Deep cells, east forty-one. Vis, you wait here.”

He grabs a key off the hook and takes three steps toward the jail’s inner door—just a regular lock on this one—but on his fourth, he stumbles. And when he rights himself, he peers around at me and Hospius with lost uncertainty. The expression’s gone in an instant, but I know what it means.

“My apologies, Septimus. I forgot about your bad knee,” I lie quickly, striding over and snatching the key from his hand before he can protest. “It will be faster if I escort the Sextus. Deep cells, east forty-one, you said?”

Hrolf glares at me, but I see his gratitude in the look. He knows what’s happened, but probably doesn’t even remember who Hospius is.

“My knee could use the rest,” he plays along. “If the Sextus has no objections.”

“None.” Hospius waves me on impatiently. I don’t think he’s seen anything amiss.

We enter the jail proper and I lock the door again behind us, hiding a vaguely dismayed-looking Hrolf from view. A lantern holding a candle, lit at the beginning of our shift and now closer to a stub, burns on the wall. I unhook it and hold it high, illuminating the narrow stairwell down. Clean-cut stone glistens wetly.

“Watch your step,” I warn Hospius. “It gets slippery down here.”

I walk ahead of the Sextus, too-dim light pooling around us as we descend. My back itches with it facing him. I can’t get his initial moment of affectation out of my mind. But his document—or at least, the seal affixed to it—was imbued by Proconsul Manius, impossible to fake. And I know better than to press. So I simply have to hope that his nerves, and his attempt to hide them, are not from anything untoward.

More importantly, I have to hope that whatever his purpose here, it will draw no attention to me.

“How long has your Septimus been like that?”

Vek. Still inclined to curse in my ancestral tongue, even if I can only risk it in my head. I paste on a puzzled expression and cast a glance back. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been working here too long.” Hospius’s intense brown eyes search mine until I turn forward again, focusing on the steps. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t say anything.”

I force a chuckle. “I’m not sure what you think you saw, but you’re wrong.” If Proconsul Manius finds out, Hrolf will lose his position here. He’s old enough that he’d be placed in a retirement pyramid, and with a suspect mind as well, he’d almost certainly be demoted to Octavus. Forced to live with constant exhaustion as he’s slowly used up, the Hierarchy stealing years and quality from his life just as surely as they do the men and women here in the deep cells.

And, of course, I would have to navigate another new Septimus. Of the three who have managed Letens Prison since I started, Hrolf has been by far the easiest to deal with.

Hospius just grunts in response. He doesn’t sound persuaded, but nor does he press.

We reach the end of the stairs, my lantern revealing smooth walls slick with damp stretching both left and right. A low hum touches my ears, almost imperceptible. Even after more than a year here, I find it unsettling.

There’s a half cough, half gag from behind me. “What is that smell?”

“The prisoners.” I barely notice the stink of sweat mingling with urine anymore. It’s really not that bad, on this level.

“Why don’t you keep them clean?” Hospius is incensed.

“We do. We wash them twice a day, as best we can. But they can’t control their bowels in the Sappers.” I smooth the anger from my own voice, but can’t help adding, “Catenan regulations are to wash them twice a week.”

Hospius says nothing to that.

We turn several corners and start down another flight of stairs, leaving the upper floor in darkness. These lead to the deepest level, where the long-term prisoners are kept. Sentences of more than two years: murderers and purported Anguis collaborators, for the most part. It feels like we’ve been sending more and more people down here, recently.

“You know your way around.” Hospius’s deep voice booms off the austere walls, despite his attempt to match his voice to the hushed surrounds.

I don’t want to make conversation, but it’s riskier by far to be rude. “I have to come down here every couple of nights.”

“So you and the Septimus alternate looking after these prisoners?”

“That’s right.”

“Despite his bad knee.”

Vek. I shrug to cover my concern at Hospius’s persistence. “It’s sore, not crippling. And he takes his responsibilities very seriously.”

“I’m sure he does.” Hospius is walking alongside me now, the stairs wider than before. He’s taller than me by a head. I see him glance down at me, his interest apparently piqued. The opposite of what I was trying to achieve. “What’s your name?”

“Vis.”

“And how long have you been helping the Septimus here, Vis?”

“A few months.” Not a lie, even if it’s not what Hospius is really asking. I’m not about to let on how long I’ve really been exposed to the Sappers.

“You’re young, for this work.”

“Vis Solum.” I expand on my name by way of explanation.

“Ah.” The pieces click into place in Hospius’s head. I’m an orphan. Clearly one who’s had difficulty finding a home, given my age. So Religion—the third senatorial pyramid, who run the orphanages in the Hierarchy—and Military have found a use for me here instead.

We’ve reached the end of the stairwell; two pitch-black passageways branch out at right angles away from us, and another goes straight ahead. I move left, into the eastern one. “We’re almost there,” I say, more to head off any more questions than to fill the silence.

The stench becomes worse, thicker, and Hospius holds a kerchief to his nose and mouth as we walk. I don’t blame him. I retched the first few times I came down here. Accustomed to it as I am now, my eyes still water as my lantern casts its light into the first of the numbered cells.

Hospius comes to a dead halt, hands falling to his sides, smell temporarily forgotten.

“Never seen a Sapper before?” It takes all I have not to show satisfaction at the towering man’s horror.

The cells in Letens Prison are demarcated by stone walls, but there are no doors, no front sections to them whatsoever, making their contents easily visible. Only six feet wide and not much deeper, each unlit alcove contains only two things.

A prisoner. And the Sapper to which they are strapped.

The man in east cell one is around Hospius’s age, but the similarities end there. Fair skin is deathly pale in his nakedness, almost grey. Body thin and frail, cheeks hollow, blond hair long and matted. A wheezing rasp to his breathing. Steel manacles encircle his wrists and ankles, joined by dangling chains to a winch fixed above him. His blue eyes are open but filmy, unfocused as he lies atop the mirror-polished white slab, which is near horizontal but angles just barely down toward us. Toward the thin gutter that runs along the front of all the cells, where the worst of the prisoners’ waste can be easily washed away.

The truth of the Hierarchy is laid bare down here, as far as I am concerned.

“No.” Hospius’s answer to my question is soft. “I… no. How long has he been in here?”

Eight months. “I’d have to look at the ledger.” I remember strapping him in.

“What did he do?”

Does it matter? “I’d have to look at the ledger.” I keep my tone bored. Neutral. Try to make him understand that this is every day down here. “We should keep moving, Sextus.”

Hospius nods, though his eyes don’t leave the prisoner’s spindly form until the departing of our lantern returns him to the darkness.

We walk, and to our left and right, our small circle of light reflects copies of the first cell as we pass. Men and women, manacled and feeble and naked, all lying against cold white. Their emaciation is a result of the devices to which they are bound, I think, rather than lack of sustenance. I feed them far more at mealtimes than I would ever eat, and they get no exercise.

Hospius is silent next to me, no indication whether he is affected by the wretchedness of our surrounds. I want to watch him more closely—something still feels not quite right about him, his presence here, this entire night—but my desire to avoid notice is stronger. Regardless of whether he is all he claims to be, if he spots my suspicion, it will only draw attention.

“East forty-one,” I say as our flickering light reveals the number engraved large into the back wall of the stone recess. The man here, Nateo, has been with us for less than a month: I remember him coming in because unlike most prisoners, he’d evidently been transferred from another Sapper facility. He’s as gaunt as everyone else, cheeks hollow, combining with a hooked nose to give him a distinctly hawk-like visage. His stringy black hair splays against the white, down past his shoulders. It’s hard to tell prisoners’ ages, but I don’t think this one is older than thirty.

There is no response to my announcement. I glance across at Hospius to find that he’s peering at Nateo, a small, inscrutable frown touching his lips. The man on the Sapper gazes back glassily. No recognition, no reaction to the light or our presence.

“I need to talk to him.” Hospius steps forward.

“Stop.” I snap out the word in panic, then hold up a contrite hand immediately as Hospius freezes. “My apologies, Sextus, no disrespect intended. It’s just dangerous to get too close. It takes days to prepare a prisoner for a Sapper. Touching it could kill you. And everyone ceding to you.”

“Ah.” Hospius heeds the warning, doesn’t venture closer. “But you can shut it off? Temporarily?”

“I can winch him up. Break the connection.” Nausea threatens as I consider what is about to happen. “It will not be pleasant, though. Especially for him.”

Hospius rubs the dark surface of his shaven pate. It’s a moment of doubt—I’m sure I see it in the motion—but when he looks across at me, his face is hard. “I came here for answers. Do what you have to.”

I start edging around the white slab, deeper into cell forty-one. I’ve been unaffected by the Sappers, so far—mere proximity affects most people within months, and I’ve been working here for almost fifteen—but still I move with care, fastidiously avoiding brushing against anything. Immune or not, these things are designed to instantly drain Will on contact. Not just the portion the Hierarchy usually takes from the millions of Octavii who form its foundation, either. All of your drive, your focus, your mental and physical energy, is funnelled away by these pale stone beds to be received by some distant, particularly favoured Septimus.

In my eyes, death would be a preferable fate.

And the worst part is that I know many of the men and women in here would agree.

I reach the farthest section of the cell and crouch, moving the lantern along until I find the spiked wheel. I begin turning it, muscles working. There’s a jangling and grinding above as chains shake and then pull taut. The man on the Sapper sags at the waist as he’s drawn in ungainly fashion upward, peeling from the white stone, swaying. A couple of more rotations until he’s a few inches clear, then I lock the wheel in place.

I straighten, eyes fixed on the flaccid, bony man suspended above the slab in front of me. I’ve only seen prisoners being released a few times; the managing Septimus is always in charge of end-of-sentence procedures, and other reasons for waking a captive are rare.

I rejoin Hospius at the mouth of the alcove as he fiddles uncomfortably with his tunic. Governance uniform, a dark blue pyramid sewn over the heart. It’s crisp, perfectly clean, folded in all the right places. Unfaded.

Immaculate, in fact. Like it’s never been worn before.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” Hospius hasn’t noticed my examination, his complete attention on the man in front of us.

“It takes a minute.” Even as I say it, something changes. A break in the steady, gasping rhythm of the prisoner’s breath. A less desperate sigh escapes his lips. His chains twitch, then his eyelids flutter and cognizance seeps back into his gaze as, for the first time, he is at least partly here with us.

Hospius glances at me, and I can see him debating whether to try sending me away. I won’t go, though; even at the risk of angering him, I would be breaking too many rules to leave him alone down here.

Evidently reaching a similar conclusion, he says nothing and moves closer to the Sapper, into the prisoner’s line of sight. He crouches alongside, so their faces are at the same level.

“Nateo. Can you hear me? My name is Sextus Hospius. Nonagere.”

He says it all carefully, enunciating, but it takes me a second to place the last word. It’s Vetusian.

Don’t react.

Hospius looks up at me again and I do everything I can to apply the warning he’s giving Nateo. I’m not supposed to know what the word means. Why would I? Vetusian is a dead language. An academic oddity. Aside from the odd word already integrated into Common, it was excised by the Hierarchy more than a hundred years ago. Its only real purpose is to allow for the reading of original texts from an era long past.

But my father was passionate in his belief in the importance of a history uncoloured by Hierarchy translators. My mother was a scholar, fluent in three languages herself. And I was groomed by both them and my tutors for fourteen years to be a diplomat, to support my sister in her eventual rule by travelling to other nations.

Nateo’s head lolls as he gazes blearily at Hospius. He runs his tongue over his lips. Then he slowly, painfully nods.

He understands. These two men know each other.

Blood pounds in my ears. Is Hospius here to break Nateo out? I can’t allow that; the kind of scrutiny it would bring would be the end of me. But I cannot act pre-emptively, either. He’s done nothing wrong so far. His documentation looked genuine. Was genuine.

I say nothing, do nothing. I have to wait.

“You talk?” Again in Vetusian. The way Hospius speaks is stilted, like he’s dragging the words from some long-past schooling of his own. Neither man is looking at me, but I feign perplexed indifference, just in case.

“I can. A little.” Nateo’s voice is like nails scraped weakly across stone. He uses the dead language too, though with far more comfort than the man here to see him. “How long?” His gaze roves, as if seeking the answer somewhere other than Hospius.

“Five years.”

A flicker in Nateo’s eyes, and he focuses again on Hospius. Sharper this time. “Here to release me?”

“I hope. Information first.” Hospius sees the rising panic in the imprisoned man and reaches out, grasping his shoulder, steadying him as the chains begin to rattle from his trembling. “I know… you innocent. Need to understand… why you in here. Veridius?” The name is a question, asked with quiet intensity.

“Could have been.” Nateo calms, but there’s doubt in the response.

I pretend to stifle a yawn as I leave the lantern on the ground and wander away, out of sight, as if I am inspecting the nearby cells while I wait. Hospius will know I’m not far, but it’s easier to focus on translating if they can’t see my reactions.

“Need you… think. About Caeror. Anything he said before…” He trails off, and though I can’t see his face, this time I don’t think it’s because he’s struggling with the language.

“Long time ago.” A bitter, choking laugh from Nateo.

“He sent a message, before it happened. Names I do not know. Obiteum. Luceum. Talked about a… gate. Strange power from before Cataclysm. Do you know what… mean?”

Silence. A faint clinking. Then, “I need to be out first. No more.”

I close my eyes, mouth a curse into the darkness before forcing boredom into my stance, scuffing my boots along the ground and strolling back into view as if nothing important were happening. Reminding Hospius that I’m there. I don’t think he was planning an escape, anymore. But I don’t want him to change his mind.

Hospius looks up at the motion of my arrival, meets my questioning gaze. His nod says he doesn’t expect to be much longer. I conceal my relief. Nateo notes the exchange, his breath quickening. The chains begin to shake again, Nateo’s fear chattering at the darkness.

“I will do all I can. Oath.” Hospius draws Nateo’s attention away from me. “But you… his friend. Please. If you know…”

Nateo stares back stonily. This is his only card.

Hospius wears his disappointment as he straightens and steps back.

“Please.” Nateo speaks in Common, this time, not Vetusian. Begging. “Please. No more. Don’t put me back. You don’t know what it’s like.” The words are pure misery. His head twitches around, enough to include me in his gaze. “You. You’re nicer than the others. Gentler. I know. I know, because being on this slab isn’t like sleeping. It’s worse. You’re almost asleep. All the time. But awake enough to recognise that things are happening. You know your mind should move faster. You know the world is passing you by.” There are tears, now. Desperation. He’s blubbering. “Five years. Five years. Look at me! I didn’t even—”

“Nateo.” Hospius, trying to calm the man. Concerned. No doubt worried his secrets are at risk. He takes a half step closer.

Then Nateo is twisting, far faster than a man in his state should be able. He bucks, roars, wrenches around, animalistic desperation lending strength to his spindly limbs. Metal clatters deafeningly. He uses the momentum of his swinging form to twist and lunge and grab Hospius’s too-new tunic.

“Rotting gods.” I’m cursing and moving before I have a chance to properly assess. Sliding around the white stone, slamming hard into Nateo’s arm, jamming myself between the two men before the Sextus can be dragged onto the device. Nateo’s grip breaks. His hand scrapes along my shoulder. I’m already off-balance.

I fall backward, tangled in chain, the slick surface of the Sapper ice against my hands.

A slinking, sick tingle creeps over my palms. Acidic, cold and burning, sharp and wet. Terror rolls through me. I launch myself away, flinging myself free of the mess of metal links and kicking desperately at the lever locking the winch. The rimless, spoked wheel spins madly as I scramble back, away from where Nateo might be able to grab me again.

The jangling sound of unspooling chain, and then just heavy breathing.

“Gods’ graves,” mutters a shaken-looking Hospius from where he’s slumped against the cell wall. He watches Nateo’s metal-draped figure as if he expects the man to leap up and attack again. But the tangle of limbs and links is sprawled flush against the Sapper. Nateo’s eyes are empty as they stare into mine. I still feel their accusation.

“Are you alright?” I stand, unsteady. Heart thumping. The old scars across my back are taut and aching with tension. I touched the Sapper. Skin to stone. I risk a glance at my hands. From what I can see, they’re fine. Still tingling, but fine.

“Yes.” Hospius fingers his tunic where Nateo clawed at it. His gaze lingers on the man, nakedly melancholic before he remembers himself. “Thanks to you.”

He straightens, focusing on me again. There’s a query in the look.

“No harm done.” I reply to the question I hope he’s asking. If he actually saw what happened, I’m in trouble. “Lucky, though. Almost fell on the gods-damned Sapper.” The tremor in my voice isn’t faked. I’m still waiting for something terrible to happen to me.

“But you didn’t?”

I push out a laugh. “You think we would be having this conversation, otherwise?”

Hospius steps forward and thumps me on the shoulder. “True enough. Fine work, Vis Solum. Fine work. I was fortunate you were here.” It’s high praise, from a Sextus. Another man would probably be flattered.

I set about resetting the winch, then somewhat tentatively adjust Nateo’s positioning on the Sapper using the almost-taut chains, ensuring he’s lying as comfortably as possible again. I don’t blame him for his actions.

That’s reserved, as always, for those who put him in here.

The candle in the lantern burns low as we make the return trip. At the base of the second flight of stairs, I light another from the nearby shelf and hand it to Hospius. “I should fetch some things from the storeroom while I’m down here.” It’s true, but more importantly I need some time alone, to properly inspect my hands, to let out the terrible tension that’s threatening to break free with every breath. “The guardroom is up ahead. Just knock. Septimus Hrolf will let you through.” Hardly protocol, but Hrolf won’t care.

Hospius pauses as he starts up the stairs, turning back. “Vis. It may be best not to mention what just happened.” His voice is abrupt against the quiet. “I wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with the Septimus, or the proconsul.”

“Of course, Sextus. Thank you.” A threat? I can’t tell. It’s true enough that I’d be blamed for the incident, no matter what was said. But it seems neither of us want the attention. That suits me.

Those penetrating eyes of his study me. Then he digs into a pocket and flips me something that glitters; I catch it neatly, surprised to find a silver, triangular coin in my hand. It’s worth more than I’m going to earn from my shift tonight.

“For your trouble. And your discretion.”

He resumes his climb. The light of his candle drifts away.

Only when the echo of his boots has completely faded do I drop the coin into a pocket and let my hands tremble.

Setting my lantern on the shelf, I splay my fingers out, palms up, peering through the dim light at every line, every pore. The skin’s a little red from where I’ve been rubbing my fingers nervously, but I don’t see any damage. I roll up my sleeves, just to be sure, but there’s nothing wrong with my arms, either. And the discomforting sensation in them is completely gone.

I’m alright.

I exhale shakily and slump to the floor, back against the wall, giving myself a minute to let the fear leave me. I’ve often wondered if I might be able to survive contact with a Sapper. I’ve never ceded before—never once allowed my Will to be taken at one of the Aurora Columnae scattered around the Republic. Almost all children are brought to one of the ancient pillars when they turn twelve, after which they’re able to cede to anyone, any time, without needing the presence of the massive pre-Cataclysm artefacts. My best theory is that my refusal to go through the ritual is why I’ve managed to stay unaffected all this time, working here.

But it was always just conjecture, a semi-educated guess. I never meant to put it to the test.

My candle is threatening to gutter out and Hospius took the only spare, so I hurry to the storeroom, sweep up the food and cleaning supplies needed for the next shift, and haul them back upstairs. To my surprise, voices seep under the guardroom door.

“… it up for me anyway. I’d like to know.” Hospius is still here. I curse myself as I remember why I took the man down to the cells in the first place, then mouth furiously at the door for Hrolf to keep his stupid mouth shut. I’ve no love for the old man—no one in the Hierarchy has earned that from me—but nor do I think he deserves the fate in store if Hospius decides he’s no longer capable of performing his duties.

There’s a rustling of paper. “Three years and seven months left,” says Hrolf. “Is there anything else, Sextus?” Not rude, but a clear indication that Hospius is welcome to leave.

There’s silence, and I wish I could see Hospius’s expression.

“Your young assistant seems to know his work.” Casual. Conversational. My heart still clenches.

“Should do. He’s been here longer than me.”

“How much longer?”

“Months,” says Hrolf vaguely. I can almost hear his shrug.

“You know him well?”

“He’s quiet. A bit aloof, really. Doesn’t like to talk about himself. Why?” There’s no suspicion, just curiosity.

“He impressed me. I’m wondering whether he’s being wasted down here.”

Hrolf chuckles. “Oh, no doubt about that. The boy plays Foundation like a demon. And he’s smarter than he lets on. Quoted gods-damned Fulguris at me the other day, even if he pretended he hadn’t read it afterward.”

I berate myself again for that lazy conceit, then debate interrupting before Hrolf makes more of a mess—he thinks he’s helping me by embellishing my merit to the Sextus, never imagining that the attention could get me killed—but if Hospius is after information, my presence isn’t going to change anything. Better to wait and find out what, if anything, he’s fishing for.

“Hm.” Hospius, fortunately, doesn’t sound as impressed as Hrolf seems to think he should be. “Well, if a more appropriate position for someone his age should come up in Letens, I’ll mention him.” There’s a vague, dispassionate note that signals it’s a conclusion to the conversation. I puff out my cheeks in silent relief.

A scuffing of boots, then the door in front of me rattles as the outer one admits a blast of air.

“Thank you, Septimus. Stronger together,” says Hospius, his voice more muffled now.

“Stronger together, Sextus,” replies Hrolf formally. The wind-induced quivering of the door in front of me stops.

I wait two minutes before knocking, using the time to decide what to tell Hrolf. He’ll be curious about what transpired.

“So what was that all about?” is his greeting as I admit myself back into the guardroom.

“Not sure. They were talking in some other language.” I deposit the fetched supplies onto their shelf, then flop into my seat.

Hrolf emits an intrigued grunt, but realises there are no further conclusions to be drawn from the information. “Any trouble?”

“Just what you’d expect. Prisoner wasn’t exactly happy when he realised his time wasn’t up. Bit of kicking and screaming.” There’s the burn of bile in the back of my throat as I think of Nateo’s terror, his begging. His fight. But I don’t let it show.

Hrolf claps me on the back in manly sympathy anyway, knowing I’m understating, if not by how much.

“Thanks,” he adds.

We spend the next quarter hour talking of nothing, whiling the time until I normally depart. Hrolf will stay all night—alone, from when I leave until dawn—though with the prisoners already fed and washed for the day, his responsibilities during that time are nominal. He’ll sleep for most of it.

Somewhere outside in Letens, the city’s common clock faintly shivers a single note. The end of evening, and the beginning of true night. It won’t sound again until dawn. I stand.

“Offer’s still there, Vis,” says Hrolf, watching me. His eyes are suddenly sad, though he tries to hide it. “I don’t mind changing our terms if you want to stay, help awhile longer.”

“You don’t need me here.” I collect my threadbare cloak, shrug it on.

“The proconsul doesn’t know that. Your matron doesn’t know that. And it’s not as if the coin isn’t already paid.”

“Thanks, but no. It’s yours.” Better his than the matron’s, anyway. I assess the Septimus, looking for any sign that he’s thinking of backing out of our deal. That’s not what this is about, though. The worried crinkle around Hrolf’s eyes gives him away.

“Less bruises if you stay here,” he observes, confirming it.

“Better conversation, too.” I hold out my hand, palm up.

Hrolf sighs, but there’s no surprise on his weathered face as he retrieves my pay from the Will-secured box on the far wall. Copper triangles, each one etched with eight parallel lines. I get six for my work today. The other nine that Hrolf tucks away were meant to pay for my time tonight, but instead go toward his tolerance of my absence.

The metal jingles, a comforting weight in my pocket, as I move to the heavy stone door. I don’t offer any words of thanks for his concern. Part of me wants to.

But then I remember that if he knew my real name, this seemingly humane grey-haired man would see me dead just as quickly as anyone else.

“See you tomorrow,” says Hrolf as he inserts his key into its slot. The door grinds open.

“See you tomorrow.” I walk out into the blustery cold of Letens, and head for the Theatre.

The Will of the Many

II

LETENS IS A STRANGE CITY.

Here at the southern edge of civilisation, more than fifteen years after joining the Hierarchy, Catenan influence still mixes uneasily with the old world. The lamplit streets are twisting, muddy, and narrow, ill-suited to the Will-powered carts and carriages that occasionally squeeze along them. Buildings veer sharply from barely functional wooden boxes to citizens’ towering, walled mansions of stone. The many-arched Temple of Jovan soars above it all in the distance, crowning the Tensian Forum. It’s surrounded by the last of the sacred druidic grove that once formed the heart of the city. There are no druids, anymore.

While Letens Prison is not exactly on the outskirts, the city is vast, and I’m still heading toward its centre after more than ten minutes. This late, there are more red-cloaked soldiers about than anyone else, though a few others do still brave the icy wind sweeping in from the south. Octavii, mostly. You can tell from the way they trudge, avoiding eye contact as they murmur wearily to one another in their native Tensian. A few of the women wear stolas with their children’s names sewn into the cloth above the left breast, proud proclamation of their contributions to the Hierarchy. Their clothes are threadbare and stained, otherwise.

Even so, there’s less of the Hierarchy this far south than almost anywhere else in the world. I sometimes tell myself that’s why I stopped running.

Of course, if I’m honest, the hunger and loneliness contributed.

At least the hunger’s no longer a problem.

The quiet streets finally lead me into the unlit deep of an alley that’s almost invisible beside the ugly curvature of the long, sloping building next to it. Mud squelches beneath my boots. Side streets like this would have been dangerous once; crime in Letens does still exist, but now it caters far more to the thrill of the forbidden than the violence of need. The Catenans are nothing if not serious about Birthright, their set of laws ostensibly meant to safeguard human life. Anyone desperate enough to challenge it inevitably finds themselves in a Sapper.

Just as the light from the main road behind threatens to become too dim, there’s a short set of stairs that descend to a door sunken below the street, all but hidden from view. I push it open without announcing myself. Inside, three men and a woman break from their conversation at the table in the corner of the small, stuffy room, the hint of tension dissipating as I’m recognised.

“Vis, my boy!” Septimus Ellanher rises as she utters the words in her rich, aristocratic voice, a hawkish smile splitting her angular face. She’s powerfully built, a head taller than me, with a mass of wavy raven-black tresses that fall freely to her waist. Her arms are bare, glistening in the candlelight from the sweat of some exertion or other, highlighting both muscle and scars. “Just who I was hoping to see!”

I carefully close the door behind me and stop dead, giving her a flat stare. The welcome’s too warm for Ellanher by far.

She rolls her amber-flecked brown eyes, joviality only slightly diminished by my response. “Come, now. Can’t a lady be enthusiastic about the arrival of her favourite fighter?”

“I’m sure a lady could.” I nod politely to the three men at the table. All are bigger than even Ellanher in height and brawn, if not in presence. Two, Caren and Othmar, I recognise from previous nights. Their eyes glitter resentfully as they nod back. “What do you want?”

Ellanher chuckles throatily, unfazed. She knows I’m partly joking, and the other part she takes as a compliment anyway. “You are a rascal. But I suppose I do have a special bout for you, tonight.”

I don’t like the way the three men are watching me as she speaks. Anticipating… something. Like most people they’re Octavii, normally ceding half their Will to a Septimus’s command. My skin crawls to think of it.

Tonight’s different, of course. Usually Will is ceded in perpetuity; the Hierarchy organises and tracks all such arrangements with fastidious care, and only whoever controls someone’s Will can return it. But these men’s Septimii have seen fit to do exactly that for the evening—presumably in exchange for a share of any earnings. Illegal, of course. But the sort of thing that would incur only a small fine if discovered.

Any of the three could break my back with an embrace. But ceding day in and day out has slowed their wits, their reaction times, whole again though they temporarily are. Something has been taken from them. They’re broken in ways they don’t understand, and it makes them fodder in a fight.

They’ve never liked that I, smaller and younger than they, am not.

“A special bout,” I repeat, my attention returning to Ellanher.

“Yes, dear boy! I was approached a few days ago by an older gentleman. I shan’t tell you his name, but he’s rather well-known up in northern Tensia. A knight, if you’d believe it. He had heard of our little shows here, from an acquaintance who has enjoyed our hospitality from time to time. This man had a very interesting proposition. His son has accrued some unfortunate debts, and—” She sees me yawning exaggeratedly and scowls. “He’s a Sextus,” she finishes somewhat tetchily, disappointed I’ve ruined her build up. “You’ll be fighting a Sextus tonight.”

I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly at first, but the smug expressions on the Octavii’s faces tell me otherwise. I’m to be meat for the grinder. It feels as though the air has been sucked from the room.

“What are the rules?” I’m relieved to find my voice is level, neither fury nor fear showing through. Ellanher’s had this arranged for days. She’s sprung it on me because she knows I’m not going to pull out, not when the fight’s set and the crowd is waiting. I’d never be allowed to see the inside of this place again.

“No weapons. No killing.”

“I’ll do my best,” I mutter, though the bravado rings false in my own ears. I stare at the ground, coming to grips with what’s about to happen, then straighten. Look her in the eye. “Triple pay.”

“Double.”

“Quadruple.”

“You’re supposed to meet in the middle when you haggle, darling.”

I say nothing, but I don’t break the gaze.

There’s silence, and then Ellanher gives a small, acceding laugh. Delicate and refined, still so strange to hear emerging from that powerful physique of hers. “Triple, then. But no extra for a healer, even if that handsome face of yours needs it.”

And it probably will, but this is the best deal I’m going to get. I gesture toward the narrow hallway leading farther inside, somewhat curtly, indicating both my acceptance and that she should lead the way. Ellanher smiles serenely, murmuring a farewell to her companions. The three men are glowering again as we depart. They’d hoped to get a better reaction from me.

Inwardly, I’m still reeling.

We make the short journey to Ellanher’s “office”—her dressing room, during the day and early evening—without talking. Once inside, I’m struck again by the incongruity of the space. A well-lit mirror, a dresser with vials of makeup. Feathered hats and soft fur cloaks and a rack full of wildly different dresses. It’s surreal to imagine Ellanher readying herself to sing and dance and boldly act out her lines on the same stage where she’s about to send me to get my head caved in.

The Septimus strides over to the safe on the wall, taking the Will key from around her neck and inserting it into its slot. The granite latch clicks aside, revealing rows of carefully stacked coins. Will-locked vaults, even small ones like this, are a hundred times more secure than anything mechanical. Priced accordingly, too. Ellanher’s late-night side business is paying handsomely.

She counts out my compensation—six silver triangles, worth sixty coppers—and presses them into my palm.

“I admit to being curious, Vis,” she says as she locks the vault again, some of her grandiose act faded away now we’re alone. She knows it doesn’t impress me the way it does the others. “What you earn here… it’s hardly riches, but it is a lot for an orphan. And you’re willing to go through so much pain to get more. So what is it all for? Debts? A woman? Some vice that you cannot bring yourself to give up?” Her tone’s light, as it always is with me, but she’s far from joking. It bothers her that she doesn’t know.

“This Sextus I’m to fight. I assume he’ll be ceding?”

“Of course.” If Ellanher’s fazed by my pointedly ignoring the question, she doesn’t show it. “I don’t want you dead, my boy.”

“Just badly beaten.”

She sizes me up, coming to a decision. “Yes.” There’s neither apology nor regret. “A little fight from the underdog can be fun, Vis, but too much becomes a statement. The sort of statement that gets Catenan attention.”

I close my fist around the coins in my hand, the sharp points digging into my skin until they threaten to do injury. I’ve been testing my Septimus opponents more and more during the months I’ve been fighting here. Won more than I’ve lost, over the past few. To think, I was actually feeling good about that. I should have realised it would be noticed. Commented on. Disapproved of, in certain quarters.

“I’ll see you onstage,” I growl, wheeling and leaving before I say something to make my situation worse.

The dimly lit passageways here seem tighter than ever. The bowels of Letens’s largest auditorium are a warren of private rooms and preparation areas, most of which have been shut off since the last of the actors left more than two hours ago. I don’t pause at any of the many branching paths, though, heading almost inattentively for the stairs leading up to the very top of the seating area. I’ve been here three times a week for more than six months. I know my way around.

I’m accompanied only by my apprehension at what’s to come until I’m almost at the very top of the stairs, when the murmur of voices bleeds into my consciousness. The first arrivals of the night have trickled in. In about thirty minutes, that murmur will become a rumbling, expectant buzz as seats fill. Then a primal roar as the first fight gets underway.

I emerge onto the top row of the semi-circular white stone amphitheatre, my entrance unremarked by the smattering of people already present. The stage below is distant; this place can hold several hundred spectators at capacity. Once open to the air, a vaguely foreboding, sound-deadening dome now sits overhead. Three layers thick, it’s a special design by Catenan architects, who were commissioned several years ago by some of the wealthier citizens migrating from Caten itself. Apparently, the disturbance rowdy Tensian plays caused to their evenings was becoming simply unbearable.

The curved mass of stone was not exactly popular with the Tensians—it’s hardly aesthetically pleasing, and the crass nickname the locals have given it very much reflects that—but it is effective. Even the most raucous of noise from in here won’t escape.

I scan the crowd nearby and spot the man I’m looking for quickly enough, familiar black notebook clutched in his hand as he talks animatedly to someone. Gaufrid’s energetic for an Octavii, even if the effects of more than a decade of ceding have him looking closer to fifty than his late thirties. What he likes to refer to as his receding hairline is well into the realm of balding, though at least he keeps the remaining sandy-coloured strands neat and close-cropped. He’s dressed entirely in an off-putting shade of green tonight, for some reason.

I loiter near the exit, mostly out of sight from the gathering crowd, waiting patiently until I catch his eye. When he notices me, he excuses himself and hurries over.

“Vis!”

“Gaufrid.” I eye his attire. “Lose a bet?”

“Ha. Ha. My wife’s choice, if you must know.”

“One way to make sure you’re faithful, I suppose.”

“You’re an ass.” Gaufrid’s grin shows he doesn’t think much of the outfit either. He grabs my arm, draws me conspiratorially into the shadows. “Your admirer’s back.”

I follow his nod to the sparse crowd, spotting the girl soon enough. A thick dark cloak still swathes her, despite the relative warmth indoors. My age, at a guess, maybe a few years older. Dark skin and long, curly brown hair. There’s something unsettling about the way she leans forward in her seat, ignoring those around her, gaze fixed on the empty stage below. Though as we watch, her concentration breaks and she frowns around before abruptly drawing her hood up, concealing her face. As if she can somehow sense our examination.

“Lucky me.” I’ve never spoken to her, but she’s been here for every fight over the past two weeks. Quietly asking around about me. Gaufrid thinks it’s romantic. I’m concerned she’s recognised something about me. “Still not interested.”

“And good friend that I am, I continue to tell her that you are as enigmatic as you are handsome.” As usual, though, Gaufrid looks vaguely disappointed. “So. Come to make an early wager?”

I feel the weight of the coins in my pocket. Calculate. Gaufrid is the unofficial bookkeeper for these evenings: if you want to make a wager that will actually pay out when you win, you go to him. “Last fight of the night.”

“Octavus or Septimus?”

I grimace. “Special circumstances. This one’s against a Sextus.”

A frown of confusion, then the blood drains from Gaufrid’s face. He grabs my arm and pulls me deeper into the passageway, completely out of sight of any spectators.

“Are you mad?”

“I didn’t find out until five minutes ago. Not much I can do.”

I see Gaufrid’s mind working, see the moment where he understands that this is a punishment being meted out.

“Go to Ellanher. Tell her that you’ll lose to every Septimus you’re put up against for the next month. She’ll accept the compromise.” Gaufrid looks genuinely troubled. “One wrong hit from a Sextus could cave your skull in, Vis. It probably wouldn’t even be deliberate. Even if he—he?” I nod. “Even if he is ceding, he’ll have the strength of ten people behind every punch! You understand that, right?”

“Nine and a quarter people, actually,” I correct him in irritation. “And he can’t be particularly skilled with Will if he has to earn his money here. With weak Septimii ceding to him as well, he might only be self-imbuing worth three or four.” Something similar to Gaufrid’s suggestion had already crossed my mind. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, but I’m not going to do it. I’ve worked too hard, suffered through too many injuries and too much mockery to return to constant defeat.

Besides, I’m not here for the coin alone. I gave up on dreams of exacting revenge on the Republic long ago, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never have to defy them.

This is practice.

Gaufrid growls something under his breath. I’m not sure whether it’s concern for me, or concern that he’s about to lose the benefits of this mutually beneficial deal we have. I can’t guarantee wins and I won’t guarantee losses, but most of the Septimii fighting here are regulars: those I haven’t already faced, I’ve studied. Which means I know my chances, more often than not. And, importantly, can usually drag out a match to any length of my choosing, even if the result doesn’t go my way.

So I bet largely on how long I think I’ll last, and Gaufrid uses that information to… adjust the odds he offers everyone else.

“What will you give me on three minutes?” It sounds ludicrous even as I ask it, but I’m here now. In this mess. I may as well try and use it to profit.

Gaufrid chokes a disbelieving laugh. “Vis, when this is announced, I won’t be able to sell odds on you lasting more than three seconds.” When I don’t back down, he sighs. “Twenty to one.”

“For three minutes?”

“Those are the best numbers I’m going to give you,” he assures me. “For all I know, you could have an agreement in place with this Sextus to split the winnings.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I say, offended.

“I believe you. Doesn’t change the risk.”

“What about for two minutes?”

“Same odds.” Gaufrid fixes me with a serious look. “Same again for one minute.”

I scowl, but I know Gaufrid well enough to know he’s not going to budge. He thinks he’s helping me, forcing me to shorten the fight rather than aim for a big windfall. I draw four silver triangles from my pocket, holding them out. “Longer than one minute, then. Less than one and a half.”

Gaufrid whistles between his teeth as he takes them. “Stupid and rich today. Alright.” He slips the coins into a pouch at his waist. There’s no entry into his small black notebook, no receipt listing the amount or the odds he’s given me, but that’s normal. The man has a remarkable memory, and I know he’s good for it. If for no other reason than Ellanher’s aware of our arrangement, and though she takes her cut, she’d tear him limb from limb—perhaps literally—if she ever thought he was cheating one of her fighters.

I turn to go, business complete, but Gaufrid grabs my shoulder.

“No shame in calling it at first blood.” He looks frustrated, almost angry, that he’s issuing this advice. Given how people are likely to bet, that’s unsurprising. “I know it’s not in your nature, but Vis—if you’re ever going to swallow your pride, tonight’s the night.”

He releases his grip and strides back into the amphitheatre, still looking faintly ridiculous clad in green.

Gaufrid’s warning echoes uncomfortably as I descend the stairs again, heading this time for the waiting area just offstage. He might be right. Once there’s blood, either fighter can concede the bout—and there will almost certainly be blood before the end of the first minute, no matter how fast I move.

But it’s one minute. One minute for eight gold. That’s almost double what I’ve managed to save since I started here.

It’s not just the amount of coin on offer, either. I’ve been feeling the inexorable press of time on my shoulders lately. I’m seventeen years old in truth, as of two months ago, even if the Hierarchy’s records for Vis Solum say that milestone isn’t for another ten weeks. Part of me regrets not stretching the lie further when I first came to the orphanage, but the risk of the claim drawing notice was too great.

Regardless of whether it was a mistake, it means I have little more than a year before the law demands my Will. Either ceded after a trip to the Aurora Columnae, or taken by a Sapper.

And all the ways I can think to try and avoid that involve significant expense.

I navigate the back hallways and arrive at the room the Octavii are given to prepare, still deep in thought as I enter. It’s to the right of the main stage, an austere stone box that’s large enough to comfortably accommodate the dozen men within. A small, temporary shrine to Mira is, as usual, erected by the door. I ignore it. The room already stinks of stale sweat and animal fat as men grease their arms and run on the spot, or jump repeatedly, or do whatever they can to expel the stiff cold from their muscles.

None stop their exercises, but eyes surreptitiously fix on me as I find an open space to warm up. They’ve heard, then.

Like Othmar and Caren earlier, none of the gazes are especially sympathetic. I’ve always been an oddity here, I suppose, even before I started winning. The youngest by at least two years, and easily the least physically imposing. Not that I’m weak—the Theatre, not to mention my time prior competing in the gladiatorial competition of Victorum, has made me leaner and stronger than I’d once thought possible—but these men were singled out for their physiques. They’re mountains of brawn, without exception.

And now I’m to fight a Sextus. It will be an insult to some; they’ll see it as an acknowledgment by Ellanher of my successes, rather than the castigation it is. Others will just be delighted that I likely won’t be around for a while.

Time passes at an interminable crawl as I suffer their constant sideways glances, each one only adding to my concern. The buzz of excited murmuring from the amphitheatre builds steadily, muffled though it is in here, until finally it’s cut short by Ellanher’s voice. Warming up the crowd. There’s laughter, cheers. She’s beloved out there.

Ten minutes go by, allowing enough time for bets on the first fight after its announcement. Then the stage door is opening and Idonia—Ellanher’s younger cousin, supposedly, though with her short-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes, they bear no physical similarities whatsoever—peers through. “Pabul.” A giant with long reddish-brown hair and a front tooth missing slips through the door after her.

It’s a parade of names called and men departing after that. They don’t come back the same way; we never know how any single bout has gone until the end of the night. Though you can usually guess. There’s a certain feel to the crowd noise when a match is close. Or when an injury is particularly nasty.

I block it all out tonight, formulating a strategy. I’ve thought about this plenty of times before, albeit in the most abstract terms. No weapons is a good start. Still, most Sextii can imbue things—a simple touch and he could make my shirt start to strangle me, or if he doesn’t want to look like he’s cheating, just pull me off-balance at the wrong moment. Unpleasant though it is, there’s only one way to avoid that.

He’ll be strong, of course. I briefly consider the tactic of letting him imbue something; Will is a finite resource, and however much he infused elsewhere would leave him with that much less to bolster himself. But I immediately dismiss the idea. An errant punch to the head might only maim rather than kill, in that scenario. Not much of an advantage.

Then there’s the question of his speed. That’s harder to predict, and the one area which gives me hope. The Will being ceded to him improves his reaction times, but it’s a marginal enhancement over a Septimus. Training and experience play more of a role, there. And if this Sextus is only fighting tonight because he thinks it’s an easy way to make coin, then it’s possible he may not have the discipline of others I’ve already faced.

As I assess and reassess my logic, around me, the room gradually empties. Quietens. The heavy stench lingers. The roars of the spectators out front ebb and flow.

Finally, suddenly, I’m the only one left.

I strip, carefully and methodically. Cloak, tunic, underclothes. Folded neatly and put in a pile. I have to believe that I’m going to need them again. Then I use the pot of animal fat to grease my entire body. It’s disgusting, but if the Sextus gets a good grip on me, he’ll be able to snap or crush bone. And the substance won’t keep its form, so it can’t be imbued.

The door opens just as I finish.

“Vis, you’re…” Idonia sputters as she sees me. Gapes, then glances away. She’s more shy than her cousin. “You’re up. I mean, you’re ready. It’s your turn. To fight.” She’s red. Almost flees back toward the stage.

I chuckle to myself as I pad after her, though mostly to avoid thinking about my own discomfort. Living on the run meant that propriety and advantage were rarely companions, that first year and a half, and any reservations I may have once had were beaten out of me long ago. Still, there’s something inherently unsettling about being naked. Some part of me that can’t help the embarrassment, feel exposed in more than just the physical, regardless of whether it’s the smart thing to do.

It’s a short walk down the corridor to the stage. Ellanher’s making the big announcement about the Sextus. There’s a renewed thrill in the air, gasps and excited chattering. Ahead I can see Idonia has dashed onstage, cheeks still flushed, whispering in Ellanher’s ear.

The burly woman’s dark hair swings as her gaze snaps to me. Those brown eyes of hers are fathomless as she watches me stride onto stage, expression not changing as the first of the crowd notices my lack of attire and starts to whistle and laugh. I walk past her toward the onlookers seated in the dim beyond the stage, a broad grin on my burning face, raising my arms as if they’re cheering me. The laughs increase, but they’re mostly approving, not mocking. Confidence, real or perceived, has a peculiar power over people.

I look back over my shoulder at Ellanher. Her eyes are fixed on me, but something’s changed. They’re puzzled. A hint of shock. I realise she’s seeing my back for the first time. The terrible mass of scars upon scars upon scars. It doesn’t matter. I doubt she knows what they mean, and I have no intention of sharing.

My breath shortens as I catch movement from the other side of the stage.

The Sextus is… imposing. Perhaps a decade older than me. Tall. Athletic—not built of muscle like the Octavii but with more of a graceful power to him, a litheness as he saunters out onto the stage, giving an easy smile and waving at a crowd who are now cheering in earnest. He’s handsome into the bargain, brown hair cut fashionably short, square jaw covered in dark stubble. An automatic favourite.

He removes his tinted spectacles—proof positive that he’s a Sextus; no one of lesser rank is allowed to wear those—and hands them to Ellanher. His self-assuredness falters when he spots me, only for a second. Then his smile returns. It’s harder this time, though. He’s not pleased.

I smile back.

Idonia’s already darted away. Ellanher glides to the front of the stage, raising her hands and gazing up into the back rows of the amphitheatre as if she can see every single person sitting in the shadows. She holds that pose. The whispers stop, the murmuring fades. It’s as if the entire building is holding its breath. Everyone is focused on her.

Blood thunders in my ears as I turn and face the Sextus, moving to the balls of my feet, readying myself. There will be no introductions, no names. Not here.

Finally, satisfied that the tension is at its peak, Ellanher drops her arms again. Steps lightly off the stage as her voice rings out, a dagger into the eager silence.

“Begin.”

The Will of the Many

III

THE RELEASED BELLOWING OF THE crowd is a wave hitting the stage, crashing down from the surrounding darkness.

Exhilaration courses through me at the sound. They’re unique, these eternal moments before a match truly begins. Blood pounding. Fighting to keep my breathing steady. Not sure whether it’s excitement or fear that’s heightening every sense, making my skin tingle and hands twitch in anticipation. Every second seems to draw out, every minor detail of the stage and my opponent seems to be brighter, clearer. There are the spindly cracks in the faded white stone underfoot, several spaces coated in fresh splashes of red. The warm heaviness of the air from a night of bodies packed together. The way the Sextus’s lip almost imperceptibly curls as he stalks forward, green eyes bleeding to black and glittering in the light of the torches arrayed around the stage.

Ellanher asked me what it’s all for. I tell myself that it’s for the coin, for the practice. For survival. And none of that’s a lie, but as the shackles on my mind fall away, I acknowledge that there’s another truth beneath it all.

This is the only place in the world where I don’t have to pretend to be friendly. Or dull. Or servile. Or weary.

This is the one place where I don’t have to hold back.

I start my mental clock. Five seconds.

The stage is large, a semi-circle perhaps fifty feet in radius. The bounds for the contest are set by the surrounding torches; if one of us steps past those, the fight ends. Of course, doing that too early doesn’t just destroy a career here. Ellanher made it clear before even my first bout that whatever injuries a fighter might avoid in doing so, would be revisited double upon them by the end of the night.

I head across to the centre of the stage, at an oblique angle to the Sextus’s path. He’s moving determinedly, but not hurrying. It occurs to me that he’s probably intensely conscious of making this look effortless; anything else would be embarrassing for him. That’s good. Means he’s more likely to act bored, rather than work to chase me down within this vital first minute.

I slide back as he nears and begin circling, staying out of range. He follows, still at the same deliberate pace. Fifteen seconds.

The first mocking call drifts from the crowd, quickly taken up by others. Baiting me. Baiting him. The Sextus’s pace subtly increases. I match it, drawing more scorn. I don’t care. I’ll throw punches and risk hits only when it’s smart, regardless of how I look.

Twenty-five seconds. Plenty of bawdy jokes about the Sextus enjoying the chase too much. Laughter. There’s something dark about the other man’s expression now, beyond the night in his eyes. They’re getting to him. Normally I’d enjoy that, but more anger means less mercy. I feint forward, as if to attack. It gives the athletic man pause. I resume my circling. Thirty seconds. I can barely believe my luck so far. No actual fighting.

The Sextus has remained at an exasperated stop at the centre of the stage. I slide to a halt as well, never taking my eyes from him.

“Octavus!” His voice booms, rich and louder than it should be, cutting easily through the jeers. I’m not technically an Octavus, having never ceded before, but neither he nor anyone else here knows that. “Are we really doing this? In front of everyone?” Trying to put the onus to engage back on my pride. Clever, and yet a complete misunderstanding of his opponent.

I don’t respond. Don’t move. Thirty-five seconds.

He steps forward, and I step back. He scowls openly this time. “I’d have thought twice about coming out here if I’d realised my opponent was such a coward!”

“Says the big brave Sextus fighting the Octavus,” I call back, to scattered approving laughs from the darkness.

I bite my tongue as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Stung to a reply. Perhaps not a complete misunderstanding by the Sextus, after all.

And he sees that.

“Ellanher told me about you.” His voice is still raised, but quieter than before, and I doubt his words carry beyond the stage. “She said that you’re an orphan.” There’s an ugliness to the way the words fall, and something deep in my chest shifts, tightens in response. Preparation for a different kind of assault.

He advances, I retreat. Forty-five seconds.

“But you’re old, for an orphan, aren’t you? So for some reason, no one wants you.” Advance, retreat. He shows me perfect teeth. His eyes are dead and cold. “Starting with your parents, I imagine. Did you even know them? Do you remember when they abandoned you, Solum, or have you always wondered about why they did it?” Advance, retreat. “Were they the ones who whipped you? Or did they just leave you to the ones who did?”

I try to block out his words but it’s hard to both focus on him and ignore them. He’s wrong, of course. Wildly off target in his guesses. But my breathing’s too shallow, for some reason. More of a growl. And I’ve lost track of the count. Is it a minute yet? There’s heat against my back. A torch. I’m too close to the edge. Hemmed in.

“I bet they were worthless anyway,” the Sextus crows as he closes in.

Everything goes cold. Sharp. Not here. Not out here, the one place I don’t have to think about them.

I advance.

Distant, the crowd roars.

The Sextus is smug as we meet. He throws the first punch, but it’s an obvious one and I let it sail over my left shoulder, closing in and delivering a swift strike to his ribs before darting away again. I’m not running anymore, but even through rage’s red veil, I know not to get close enough to be grappled.

It was a hard hit—I’m nowhere near as heavy as the Octavii who fight here, but I am fast—and the Sextus takes a step backward, smirk replaced by a grimace. It’s brief, though. Surprised rather than pained. I might have cracked a rib if I’d taken a blow like that. A Septimus would at least have a bruise. But the Sextus? His Will probably makes it feel more like I gave him a sharp push.

“A little sensitive, Solum?” he sneers, coming at me again.

I snarl and swing first this time, but he’s ready for it, dodges faster and more smoothly than I could possibly anticipate. Not as unskilled as I’d hoped. I overextend, try to twist away from the elbow I see coming in the corner of my vision.

It’s a glancing blow, in the end, more arm than elbow. Barely making contact with my left shoulder.

My face burns as it skids along cold stone. I’m blind. Winded, hacking. Cheers muffled and twisted in my ears. I gasp, vision and awareness returning enough to roll away from the Sextus, who towers over me. Not even looking at me, I realise. His back to me. Waving almost disinterestedly to the adulation of the darkness.

He grazed me. It feels like the building fell on my head.

My left shoulder’s in agony, so I put my right hand to my cheek. It comes away sticky, bright red. I steady and haul myself to my feet, bitterly grateful for the Sextus’s arrogance as my head clears. It has to have been more than a minute. My reward, not to mention survival, awaits. I just need to step off the stage before he turns.

But something still seethes, and it’s calculating my odds.

I know, both academically and from fighting Septimii, that even a hit that appears to do nothing is still a hit. For a Septimii, a blow needs to land in the same place at least twice before it starts to take full effect. For a Sextus, that’s likely to translate to at least seven or eight times.

So, terrible odds. But the idiot’s back is to me.

A voice from the corner of my mind is shrieking at me to be smart. It’s so distant, though.

I launch forward.

Perhaps the Sextus thinks I’m down. Done. Or he thinks I’ll fight honourably, wait for him to face me again before attacking. Or, perhaps, it’s just inexperience. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t respond quickly enough to the rising warning of the crowd.

I scream as I pour all my fury and momentum into the hooking, running punch at the side of his jaw, aiming for the point I know would knock out any regular person. He realises something’s wrong at the very last second, but I still make almost perfect contact.

There’s a shiver down my arm at the impact, and the Sextus groans as he staggers.

The enthusiastic shouts from the audience cut off, replaced by the sound of a hundred people gasping in unison. I don’t pay it any attention. Even at a fraction of its real strength, the positioning and power of that hit has made a difference. The Sextus is dazed. Stumbling.

I’m on him, right fist crashing again, missing the same spot on his jaw but connecting with his cheek. No time to think. I swing again, barely blocked this time. He’s reeling. Recovers enough to swat furiously at me; heat sears down my injured shoulder but it’s a panicked shot, no venom behind it, and I’m braced this time. I’m too far gone to care about the pain anyway.

It’s a cold, disconnected fury that drives me now, one that clears my head, slows time, and focuses. I feint and get in a hard strike to the Sextus’s collarbone, then another. I feel it give way on the third. He’s wheezing. Eyes black and wide. Struggling to comprehend. I surprise him by getting in close and delivering a savage knee to the groin—an effective strategy no matter how much Will is cushioning the blow, I’ve found—and then step back and follow with a thundering uppercut to his jaw as he doubles over.

He goes down.

I don’t stop, don’t give him a chance. I kick aside his warding arm and fall at him, bringing my fist down on his face. There’s blood, and it’s not mine. “You want to know about my parents, Sextus?” I’m snarling. I barely know what I’m saying. I straddle him and strike again, same place. “You want to know about my family?” Again. “You want to know why I have these gods-damned scars on my back?” The words come out ragged. A stranger’s voice.

He’s not answering. He’s not fighting back anymore.

There are strong hands looping under my armpits, pulling me off him. I thrash until I realise it’s useless to resist; then the rage is abruptly draining away, leaving me with nothing but ache and weariness. My vision’s blurred. The blow to my head? Tears? Blood? I don’t know. The Sextus is motionless on the ground. The stone near his head is splashed crimson.

Ellanher’s saying something, but the words are just a strange buzz. Now my wrath’s died, I think the Sextus’s hits are taking their toll. There’s a cloak being draped over my shoulders. Ellanher’s tone is worry overlaid with calm. She’s speaking slowly, as one would to a child. I still can’t understand her.

I let her half carry me off the stage. There’s no applause, no cheering. Just stunned muttering from the surrounding darkness.

As we shuffle away, I let out a bitter, tired laugh as I realise something. I won the fight. Which means I just lost my bet.

I’m barely going to earn anything from tonight at all.

The Will of the Many

IV

CHAIN YOUR ANGER IN THE dark, my mother used to tell me, and it will only thrive.

I never really understood what she meant, growing up. Why would I? I was a prince of Suus. I had comfort, safety, tutors and servants and family. I was loved. My ire was over being forced to attend dull lessons, over imagined slights and the unfairnesses of entirely fair parental restrictions. A petty wrath, gone almost as soon as it was expressed.

When the Hierarchy came, though. When they took all of that. When I had to learn to hide among them every day. When I had to smile and nod and engage in conversation with people whose weakness allowed the Catenans to be powerful. When I had to swallow rage in every reply and pretend to agree with their excuses for their slavery, my slavery, just to survive.

Then I understood.

Though until tonight, I did think that my chains were strong enough for it not to matter.

I hate it, but I can’t help but wonder what my mother would think of me right now.

The boos coalesce, rain down as I stand alone back in the centre of the blood-spattered stage. I keep my eyes on the ground, not letting anyone see my defiance. Ellanher has just finished telling them all that I cheated. That I’ve admitted to buying the Will of a Totius Septimus, a Septimus who doesn’t cede to someone else, for the evening. She played the hurriedly crafted lie to perfection, mortification heartfelt as she addressed her patrons. Even gave a traditional Threefold Apology, by Catenan custom preventing retribution if accepted. The crowd was sullen at her first appeal for forgiveness. By the third impassioned plea, she’d won them over.

Of course, the subsequent announcement of my banishment has helped. As has that any successful bets on my fight tonight will be honoured, and all others will be repaid in full.

Even through my boiling frustration, I cannot help but think of how much Gaufrid will hate that last part.

My fists clench against the ire of the crowd. Teeth grinding. Breath coming short. I’ve complied with this charade only because Ellanher has assured me that far worse than an aching shoulder and bruised ego awaits me, otherwise. This way we can part, as she puts it, “amicably.” If there’s been no upending of the natural order here, then there won’t be any extra scrutiny from the Hierarchy. And we both know I can’t exactly go to the authorities about any of this.

The heckling peters out soon enough. Grumbling turning to mollified chatter. Everyone here got to see a Sextus beaten, even if it was through cheating. A scandal to talk about for weeks to come, and no money lost from it. They’ve had a good night, all told.

“That will do, my boy.” Ellanher’s at the edge of the stage, waiting for me to start walking. We leave the already-gossiping rumblings of the departing crowd behind us.

The journey back to her office seems too long. Our footsteps echo.

“About your back—”

“No.” I growl the word. I’ve expected the question since the fight, saw Ellanher’s glances as she bandaged my shoulder before we went back out there.

Ellanher knows she doesn’t have much left to bargain with. “Of course, darling,” she says softly.

Another silence as we trudge through the empty corridors. She eventually sighs. More regret than anger in her. “There’s always a return to Victorum. I hear they miss you down there.”

I snort. Letens’s Victorum league is where Ellanher found me, first approached me to participate in these nights. It’s the less-consequential cousin of Caten’s great gladiatorial bouts: voluntary and, more importantly, without the shadow of being consigned to a Sapper if you reach three losses.

It’s still dangerous work, despite the blunted steel we used—and worse, comparatively pointless. It’s a Hierarchy-sponsored activity. The matron would have to officially approve my involvement again, meaning I wouldn’t even get to keep the coin I earned.

“You were good, my boy,” presses Ellanher as we reach her office. She does seem genuinely disappointed that I’m leaving. Sincerely trying to encourage me. Though she is also a fine actor. “And you may be less tempted to try and kill your opponents there.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him.” I haven’t seen the Sextus, whose injuries are undoubtedly being treated somewhere nearby, since the fight. A bloodied and broken nose. Bruises. A headache. Despite my rage, it won’t be anything worse than that. He’ll hear secondhand what was said out there and tell himself that it’s why he lost. That it’s the only way he could have lost.

She opens the door. “You can wait in here until the… less pleased of our customers are gone. If you wish.”

I’m tempted to refuse, but I’m in no condition to handle being confronted by disgruntled spectators. I step inside, ease myself into one of the chairs.

Ellanher stays in the hall, hand on the door. “And Vis? I was right there. I saw your face when you were hitting him, darling.”

She smiles sadly, and leaves me alone.

I sit for a while, wrestling my heavy-hearted frustrations under control. My shoulder throbs beneath its strapping. It’s been a mess of a night.

It’s perhaps forty minutes later when there’s a short knock. I hold my silence, assuming that whoever it is will be looking for Ellanher.

“Vis? I know you’re in there.”

It’s Gaufrid. I stare at the door, trying to decide whether the man would be angry enough at me to have brought muscle.

Probably not?

I unlock it, easing it open. Gaufrid hears and turns from where he had already started walking away, green suit even more garish surrounded by the drab hallway. He looks tired rather than irate. He’s alone.

“Come in.” I open the way a little wider. “But I’m leaving soon.”

“I know. This won’t take long.” Gaufrid joins me in Ellanher’s office but stands awkwardly by the door, not shutting it, shaking his head when I motion to a chair. Instead, he digs into a pocket and abruptly leans forward, grabbing my wrist with one hand and then pressing something cold and sharp into my palm with the other.

Four silver triangles.

“Just refunding your wager,” he says gruffly. As I inspect the metal in my hand, puzzled, he moves to depart.

“Why?” I’m confused. Grateful, but can’t help but be suspicious at the same time. Gaufrid has to know that he’s never going to see me again. And I’m responsible for him losing a lot of money tonight.

The balding man pauses. “Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

I look at him quizzically.

“That’s how long your fight lasted. And then you won. Seeing an Octavus beating a Sextus? That was a damned fine thing. A damned fine thing.” He keeps his voice low. Afraid of being overheard, but emphatic, determined to say the words anyway. “And I don’t care what Ellanher says. You didn’t cheat.”

He leaves, shuts the door again. No goodbye. Not even a nod.

But I’m standing a little straighter. Smiling, despite myself, as I let the four coins jingle in my hand and then join their siblings in my pocket.

Another half hour passes before I deem it safe to leave. No one accosts me as I slip out into the early morning darkness of Letens. The wind has died down, but the chill is more than enough to stir me from the threat of sleep.

I stand there for a long second, melancholic despite myself. These past six months have given me a strange kind of stability. The last of that is almost over, now.

There’s just one more thing I need to do tonight.

I RETURN TO THE ORPHANAGE a few hours later, just as the cloudless sky starts to reveal sharp blue.

I’m feeling better as I approach, albeit still sore. My detour to Letens’s Bibliotheca was a success, the travelogue I stole strapped to my back beneath repurposed bandages. It’s filled with maps and descriptions of the archipelago of uninhabited islands about three weeks’ voyage to the east. A bad option, a desperate option. But after tonight, I may not have the chance to find better.

I use my key to unlock the door, slipping inside. I’ve already re-tightened the concealing bandages and tucked the remainder of what I earned from the Theatre tonight into my boots, so when movement greets me before I can even start toward the stairs to my room, I’m ready.

“Vis.” Matron Atrox rises smoothly from her chair. The Septimus in charge of the orphanage is a slim woman, her blond hair shoulder-length and features petite. In her forties, from what I gather, though she could pass for younger. Probably quite attractive, if you don’t have the disadvantage of knowing her.

I make a show of reluctance as I dig the single silver and five copper triangles from my pocket, offering them to her. “For all your hard work, Matron.”

The matron’s smile withers to something cold and hard, and far more familiar to me. “Careful. Your work at the prison is at my discretion. There are always… other ways I could task a boy like you with earning his way.” From the lascivious way she says it, there’s no doubting her meaning.

I ignore the threat; it’s long since lost its sting from repeated use. The hateful woman frowns at my lack of response, then scrapes the metal from my hand. “I need your help as soon as mid-morning bell rings today,” she tells me as she checks the amount. She signed the contract for my work at Letens Prison. Knows down to the coin how much I’m supposed to be paid.

I try not to show how much pain her simple statement brings me. Mid-morning’s only a few hours away, and my throbbing shoulder exacerbates my need for rest tenfold. “Why?”

“A messenger came not long before you. There’s a potential adopter coming at noon today. The children will be excited, and I need your help getting them ready.”

“That’s short notice. And a strange time to be notified.” I’m getting an odd sense of enthusiasm from Matron Atrox. She usually considers adoptions as chores to suffer through.

“The recommendation came from Proconsul Manius himself. And the adopter is a Quintus.” She waits, nods as she sees my reaction. Important men in the Hierarchy, far more so than we would usually be entertaining. In fact, I’ve been here for a year and a half, and we once had a Sextus adopt someone. “It’s vital that everything go smoothly today, Vis.”

It’s a statement and a threat. A statement because if a Quintus adopts someone in her charge, that raises Matron Atrox’s stock considerably. It could lead to increased funding from Religion, maybe even a promotion to Sextus for her down the track.

And a threat, because my presence would reflect poorly on her. A near seventeen-year-old who still refuses to visit the Aurora Columnae?

The deep, layered scars on my back reflect exactly how much of an embarrassment that is to her.

“I’ll stay clear.” I haven’t been interviewed for months, anyway—not since the matron gave up on getting rid of me or farming me out for my Will, and decided to put me to work in other ways. Which involves doing the majority of her job, during the day.

Now she’s seen past the frustration of not being able to break me, I think she rather likes the new arrangement.

“Good boy.” The matron smooths her white skirt as she stands. I’m not sure what time she rises in the morning, but she’s always impeccably dressed and made up. Never a hair out of place. “I’ll send Vermes to wake you.”

She sweeps away toward the kitchen, not giving me another glance.

I wait until she’s gone before I move. As expected, the fresh abrasion on my face hasn’t elicited comment—she assumes, and I’ve often implied, that I’m treated poorly at the prison—but if she notices my shoulder, then she’ll want to make sure I’m fit for work. And at present, an examination would lead to the discovery of the travelogue.

Once I’m certain she’s disappeared, every muscle groans as I climb the stairs and follow the long hallway to my room. It’s at the far end. Tiny. Space for a single mattress on the floor, and not much else.

It’s all mine though. The twenty or so other children here have more space, but bunk two or three to a room. I was moved here when I started working outside the orphanage, so as not to disturb anyone with my unusual schedule.

It’s suited me. There’s a panel in the wall that I managed to pry loose early on without any visible damage, with a cavity behind it that’s large enough to secret away the extra coins I’ve been earning. I deposit the few leftover from tonight, then slowly, stiffly unwind my bandage and add the book. It’s a tight fit, given the nook isn’t especially large, but after some careful manoeuvring, I get it in and move the panel convincingly back in place.

Despite my exhaustion, I take the time to rebandage my shoulder as best I can. It’s a clumsy process. Painful. Certainly not as effective as Ellanher’s work. I won’t be able to hide the injury, come morning, so instead I’ll have to convince Matron Atrox to do a better job of it when I figure out how to excuse its existence.

For now, though, I just need to sleep.

The Will of the Many

V

“WAKE UP, REX, YOU LAZY ass.”

Pain ricochets through my shoulder as I’m prodded roughly. I growl as I open my eyes, glaring at the smug-looking fifteen-year-old looming over my mattress.

“Vermes.” I say his name like a wearily uttered curse, which is exactly how I mean it. “I’m up.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” The blond-haired boy nudges me again with his boot, dancing back with a smirk as my temper flares and I sit up. His thick bulk is mostly muscle, and he’s tall for his age. Still smaller than me, but he knows my position here is too tenuous for me to react with violence. “Matron says there’s an adoption happening today, and you need to get everyone ready.”

I close my eyes. Let my irritation settle as the early morning conversation with Matron Atrox comes back to me. The curtains in the north-facing window have already been drawn back, and the sun’s angling through enough to touch my feet. “Time?”

“Bell went ten minutes ago.”

I massage my shoulder. It’s stiffened overnight, but the ache’s less. “I’m up,” I repeat, more firmly this time. Far from a good amount of sleep, but enough to function. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”

“Tell her yourself. I want to get ready.” Vermes leaves before I can respond.

I drag myself up and to the washroom, splashing my face with water and using the mirror there to smooth my steadily lengthening brown hair. Until the orphanage, I was shaving it in the Aquirian style—doing everything I could to change my appearance in line with my story—but the only razor allowed here is Matron Atrox’s. And I’m not going to let that woman touch my hair.

It likely doesn’t matter. Even with the thick, wavy strands growing back, I barely recognise the hard and hollow face beneath them anymore.

I head downstairs, stopping first by the kitchen to sneak some leftovers. There’s exhilarated chatter from some of the girls in the next room as I tear away chunks of bread from a half-eaten loaf. A potential adoption always generates excitement—letters of recommendation are hard to come by for most people—but today, I can almost taste the anticipation in the air. A Quintus. If someone here is fortunate enough to be chosen, they’ll be departing to a lifetime of comfort.

I take a few moments to eat and then venture out to the main hall. It’s the largest room in the house, and most of the younger children will be playing in there already.

Some of the older ones spot my passage and trail behind, knowing why I’m there. I tell them to pass word that it’s time to get ready; they obey, even as they call me Rex in response. “King,” it means. A curse in the Republic and a mockery of my refusal to attend the Aurora Columnae, not to mention my flimsy façade of authority here.

I ignore the name. Uncomfortably close to the mark, but they’re children, and reacting only ever makes it worse. Neither friendliness nor reason travel far with them, either. So most days, I do my best to just view it as an honorific. A reminder that I’ve held out, when so few do.

It doesn’t always work.

Before long, everyone is assembled in the main hall. Its unadorned stone walls are sterile and characterless. Most of the children have taken seats at the long dining tables in its centre. As always, it’s easy to spot the ones whose turn it currently is to cede to Matron Atrox. They’re quiet, less obviously enthusiastic. Skin slightly wan. Distant stares and slow blinks as they wait, especially from the younger ones. At least they’ll get a brief reprieve today, when the matron temporarily returns their Will to them so that they can cede in their interview instead.

Of the room’s twenty-odd occupants, more than half are between seven and ten years old. Aside from myself, Vermes is oldest at fifteen, followed by Brixia and Jejun at fourteen, and a close-knit group of five who are all around twelve. The presence of the older ones typically means plenty of sneers, jokes, and back-chat aimed at me, but today that’s kept to a minimum. Everyone’s focused on getting ready.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering.” Vermes smirks as I line the children up and start neatening hair and straightening clothes. “A Quintus will want whoever can cede the most here, and that’s me.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t care about personality,” I mutter, not stopping.

There’s a tittering from some of the others, but Vermes’s glare around the room silences any mirth. “Not like you need to worry about what they want, Rex.” I’m fairly sure he bullies a lot of them when I’m not around. I wish they’d confirm it for me so that something could be done, but I’m too much a pariah to have their confidence.

Any response I might have made is quelled by the appearance of Matron Atrox, who sweeps into the room and favours the children with a beatific smile. Almost all of them reflect it back, even Vermes. They adore the matron. And why wouldn’t they? She treats them with patience and respect. She feeds them and clothes them, gives them hope for a family. And all they have to do is regularly cede to her, and then occasionally to strangers for a day or two.

I’ve thought about telling them the truth. That most of those strangers aren’t potential adopters but rather Octavii, so desperate to gain a temporary edge for one thing or another that they pay Matron Atrox handsomely for the extra Will. That if a child ever refused to cede, she would beat them within an inch of their lives. But I don’t. Even if I could convince them, I’m not sure what good it would achieve.

“My girls and boys! You all look wonderful.” Matron Atrox beams, her very slight acknowledgment to me indicating that I’ve done an adequate job. “Are you excited?”

There’s a chorus of loud, muddled responses, all variations of an enthusiastic yes.

“Well, you won’t have to wait too much longer. Our guest has just arrived!” Her eyes go to me again.

I take the cue, and leave.

My chores for today are mostly yard work, but interviews can take all afternoon, so I exit the hall via the kitchen. The massive walk-in pantry is always well stocked, and I spend a minute picking through what’s on offer.

The muffled sound of eager young voices raised in greeting soon filters through from the hall. Cradling an apple and a couple of pastries, I pause. I’m not awed like the others, but I’ve also never seen a Quintus up close.

I put my food on the bench and crack open the door to the hall again.

Everyone is facing away from me, circled around the newcomer so that I can’t get a good look at him. I shift, standing on my toes.

Freeze.

It’s only a glimpse—the impression of a face—but I’m certain.

It’s the man from the prison last night. Hospius.

I pull the door closed as gently as I can and flee for the yard, food forgotten. Why is he here? It cannot be coincidence. He did see me touch the Sapper. That has to be it.

I feel able to breathe again only once there’s sunlight on my face and I’m hidden by the greenery of the orphanage’s expansive gardens, my flight unseen. I’m anxious, but I know how to keep outright panic at bay. Too many years of lying, of close calls. This is no different. Stay calm. Think through the problem. Rashness could easily make a bad situation worse.

I run back our conversation from the previous night, the timeline of events. I told him that I was an orphan, but there are a dozen orphanages in Letens. Could he have sent messengers to them all, and this was simply his first, or maybe second, stop? That seems likely. He’s trying to be subtle about finding me, else he would have simply walked in and asked for me by name. And Matron Atrox knew he would be coming before I got back to the orphanage. He didn’t follow me here.

The Matron won’t mention my existence. I doubt any of the children will.

If I stay here, stay quiet, he’ll just move on.

I set to work trimming and weeding, twitching at every faint sound from the direction of the house. Meditative labour though it is, I don’t get much done. The more I consider, the stranger the situation becomes. He had papers indicating he was a Sextus last night. Is he here accompanying the Quintus, or is he impersonating one? Or was last night the impersonation? And if he did see me touch the Sapper, then why not apprehend me, then and there? Why leave, then search for me later?

Something’s not right, but I can’t see what. And it makes me nervous.

The crackling of twigs underfoot, only a half hour later, exacerbates the feeling.

“You’re needed, Rex.” It’s Brixia, glaring and out of breath from her search.

“For what?”

“Don’t know.” She looks at me with glinting eyes too small for her pudgy face. “But Matron didn’t look happy.”

I consider. If I run, right now—if I can subdue Brixia quickly and quietly, gather my hidden stash from my room, and flee before anyone else comes looking—then all the reasons I didn’t do so long ago come into play. I’m recorded under the Hierarchy’s census; it’s the price I paid for stumbling half-starved into the orphanage a year and a half ago. They have my age, name, description. Even if two of those things are made up, it’s the listing itself that is the issue.

Because as soon as I try to flee from what’s seen as my place in the system, I’ll be proscribed. Publicly made a prize for anyone who can capture and turn me in. The Hierarchy circulates those lists with terrifying efficiency. Within a day, there won’t be an inhabited place that isn’t dangerous for me.

And if Matron Atrox, her greed no longer a motivator, reveals my refusal to cede Will as well? Or worse, Hospius mentions what he saw? My bounty gets raised, and if I’m caught, there’s a good chance I’ll be confined until I turn eighteen. Destined for a Sapper unless I give up my resistance to the Aurora Columnae.

I clench my hand into a fist, then let my fingers loosen again. I’m not ready. I don’t have enough coin, a solid plan, a direction.

“Coming.”

We walk back to the house, Brixia looking sullen. There’s a low, bemused chatter that drops away as we enter the hall, replaced by angry stares in my direction. They all think I’m sabotaging them somehow.

Matron Atrox straightens from her consoling of one of the younger boys, Lacrimo, whose interview plainly didn’t go so well. Her eyes fix on me.

“Vis.” She walks over. Leans close, so only I can hear. “I don’t know how you managed to get his ear, but I swear to you—if you foul this up for the children, or for me, there will be consequences.”

I almost laugh. Just like the others, she thinks that this is what I want.

She leads me through a gauntlet of glares to the door to the library, clearing her throat and knocking. “I’ve found him, Quintus. He appears to have recovered.” She shoots me a meaningful glance. Illness, evidently, was offered as an excuse for my absence.

“Send him in.”

With a final glower, Matron Atrox opens the door and all but shoves me inside.

The orphanage’s library is not much bigger than a large room. Worn couches sit beneath two long windows, though the view through them is only of the grey stone of the building next door. Shelves filled with Hierarchy-supplied books are everywhere.

Hospius—or whatever his name actually is—reclines in a chair on the opposite side of the table that dominates the middle of the room. He indicates the seat across from him.

“Vis.”

“Sextus.” I sit. Resist the urge to say more, to risk filling the silence with things he may not yet know.

“Quintus, actually. Quintus Ulciscor Telimus. I… apologise for yesterday evening. It was a necessary deception, and one fully sanctioned by Military.” Ulciscor—for now, I’ll assume the name isn’t another fake—fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re not surprised to see me.”

“I saw you come in.” I consider what he’s just told me. If Military really did send him to the prison, it would explain the quality of his false credentials.

And mean that I have absolutely no hold over him.

“Hm.” Even seated, the man opposite is imposing as he scrutinises me, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. I get the impression this wasn’t how he expected his introduction to go. “And you didn’t think to mention to the matron that you’d already met me? That I used a different name?”

“There didn’t seem to be much point.”

“Because you wouldn’t be believed?”

“Because you wouldn’t have come here, if you didn’t think you could pass a closer inspection.”

Ulciscor, to my surprise, nods in an almost pleased manner. He waits for me to ask why he’s here. When I don’t, he lets his gaze rove to the books surrounding us. “How many of these have you read?”

I pause at the change in direction. “A few.” A large portion of this library has been irrelevant to me since the day I arrived—the material is aimed at younger children, or those with less tutelage-heavy backgrounds. The rest, I’d all but memorised from lack of alternatives within my first few months here.

“Not as good a range as the Bibliotheca, I imagine.”

The words cut through me. Delivered so casually, but those deep brown eyes across the table are stalking my every nervous twitch.

“Not even close. Matron Atrox used to send me there sometimes, when she realised I was too old for a lot of what’s here.” Not a perfect recovery, but it’s not bad.

“Used to?”

“When I got older, she decided my time was better spent elsewhere.” As soon as she realised there was no chance of my getting adopted, in fact. It’s why, after every fight, I’ve been using a portion of my winnings to bribe the Bibliotheca’s night guard for entry instead. Studying any and every subject I can in those last spare hours before returning here. At first, it was to find a way to avoid ceding—some distant Catenan province where it wasn’t a requirement, maybe. Or a little-known legal loophole. An historical precedent. Anything. And after I uncovered only bad options like the archipelago from the travelogue, I kept going there anyway because knowledge is always useful, and I was learning more about Will and how Catenan society works than I could ever have through mere observation. More knowledge meant more ways to hide. More avenues to survival.

But it was also simply because the time there, lost in those books… it reminded me of Suus. My lessons, once something I hated. Once something I shirked.

It felt like, just for a few hours, I got to live a sliver of my old life again.

Of course, without a way to earn any extra coin, that’s all over now.

I’m growing increasingly tense—which, I think, is the point. Ulciscor’s prodding, poking. Trying to unsettle me. He somehow knows, or at least suspects, where I was last night.

I let my shoulders slump, a quaver enter my voice.

“And… I’ve been sneaking back there, some nights. You obviously know. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t have any other way to see her anymore.”

Ulciscor, for the first time, is visibly thrown. “Who?”

“I’m not going to tell you her name.” I let some defiance seep into my voice. A boy in love, not wanting to get his lover into trouble. It’s a contingency meant for Matron Atrox, but it will do just fine here. “And if you need to punish me, I understand. But I’m not going to give her up.”

It’s a decent story. It fits the recklessness of what I’ve been doing, provides motivation for most of my actions. I could even work in my refusal to cede Will, if it came down to it.

Ulciscor adjusts his sleeves again; it seems to be a habit of his when he’s thinking. I stare down at the table, trying to look a mix of determined and vulnerable. I was a terrible actor when I left Suus. I’m much, much better now.

After an interminably long silence, there’s a disappointed sigh.

“You’re not in trouble, Vis.”

I plaster hope on my face and look up again. Ulciscor waves at me tiredly. “It seems I’ve made a mistake. You can go.”

I still want to know how he knew about the Bibliotheca, but I’m not about to ask. I thank him with the sort of nervous profuseness he’d probably expect for such a reprieve, and hurry for the door.

“Another step, I kill you.” He says it in clear, quiet Vetusian.

I like to believe that I’m quick on my feet, but when someone issues a death threat in a language you’re not supposed to know, your mind and body fight themselves.

I flinch. Stumble. Stop.

I know I’ve given myself away, but try to rescue it regardless. “Is that the language you were speaking last night?” I’m still facing the door.

“Sit back down, Vis.” It’s not a suggestion this time.

I’m frozen. There’s no running, not from a Quintus. No way to fight him, either.

I force air back into my lungs. “I have coin.”

“Not interested.”

Unsurprising. The panic subsides enough for my body to come back under my control, and I turn to see Ulciscor watching me. Not angry, not wary, not stern. Just thoughtful.

But there is a black tint that’s fading from his eyes.

I return to my seat, trying not to shake.

“That was a good try.” Ulciscor sounds reluctantly impressed. “Impossible to prove, but plausible. Relatable enough that anyone with a romantic bone in their body wouldn’t come down too hard on you. Take away your understanding my conversation last night, and I might have believed it.”

I’m not inclined to enjoy the praise. “How did you know?”

“A man’s face is different when he’s hearing and when he’s listening. Something about the eyes.” Ulciscor shrugs. “If it’s any comfort, I almost missed it.”

It’s not.

There’s silence as I struggle with the situation. Maybe all of this is just about what I overheard.

“I didn’t really catch much of what you said to the prisoner. And I barely understood what I did.”

“Any of it is too much.” There’s implied menace in Ulciscor’s gentle smile. “But I think there may be a way we can work this out, to both our benefits. So let’s start again. Without the lies, this time.”

“Alright,” I lie.

“Good. Now. Let’s start with the Sapper. I saw you touch it last night. Don’t deny it,” warns Ulciscor, stilling any protest I might have made. “Do you know why you weren’t affected?”

There’s too much confidence across the table for repudiations. “No.”

Ulciscor nods, approving my lack of dissembling. “I have a theory, but first I need you to cede some Will to me. Just a little.”

There’s a sudden, familiar heaviness in my chest. This is traditionally the first question that’s asked in an adoption interview, given it’s the easiest way to assess someone’s strength of Will. It’s also where the interview traditionally ends, for me. Usually accompanied by outrage. Shouting. Punishment.

“No.”

Ulciscor doesn’t even twitch. “It will only take a minute. But I need you to do this if we are to work out this little problem between us.”

“Still no.” I say it firmly. I used to prevaricate, apologise and make excuses, as if I was in the wrong for refusing. It only ever made things worse.

Ulciscor leans forward. “Vis, let me prove my theory and I will forget about last night. I will give you as much money as you need. I will get you out of this orphanage, ensure you are in line for whatever position you’d like. A word from me, and you’ll start life after here as a Sextus, no matter the career you choose. I’ll guarantee you all of this in writing if I need to. Sealed with my Will. All you have to do is cede for a minute.”

It’s the most I’ve been offered, ever, by a long way. Unfortunately for Ulciscor, I’m just as comfortable rejecting the carrot as taking the stick. “Thank you, Quintus—that’s very generous—but my answer hasn’t changed. It won’t change.”

I make sure not to even hint at the molten anger that sits, hard and heavy, somewhere in the pit of my stomach. This is the dividing line: me on one side, the people who killed my family on the other. The idea of crossing it revolts me. I’m not even tempted.

The corners of Ulciscor’s mouth quirk upward.

My grimly certain strength falters as I frown back at him, too confused to do anything else. Wondering if I’m somehow misinterpreting the expression. He looks pleased.

“You haven’t been through the Aurora Columnae rituals,” the man opposite concludes with satisfaction.

My blank look lingers, and then I exhale as I understand. Of course. I’m so used to being defensive, so thrown by this surreal conversation, that I missed it. “You think that’s why the Sapper didn’t work on me.” That’s my theory, too—there’s only one obvious distinction between me and everyone else in the Hierarchy—but it feels like Ulciscor’s conclusion is more than just a guess.

“It’s something I heard years ago. Just idle speculation from…” He trails off. A flash of melancholy. “I’d forgotten about it until last night.”

“So you’re here to make sure I keep quiet, then.” I don’t hide my bitterness. A potential immunity from, or even just resistance to, the Sappers is something that the Hierarchy wouldn’t want getting out.

“Partly.” Ulciscor looks at me like a puzzle he needs to solve. “Why don’t you want to cede?”

“So I can walk around exhausted all day like those children outside? Eventually become an Octavii and lose, what—ten, fifteen years off my life?”

He ignores that last part, even though the Hierarchy doesn’t officially admit it. “I’m not talking about refusing to cede to your matron out there, or refusing to be slotted into some dead-end pyramid. That, I understand. But not submitting to an Aurora Columnae at all? I assume you’ve at least been taken to one before.” I give a dour confirmation. “Surely that would be worth it, even if it’s just to have the ability in adoption interviews.”

“They can’t force me.”

“I imagine they tried.” His gaze flickers unconsciously to my shoulder. He knows about my scars, has guessed their origin. Which means he was at the fight, too, or has at least heard a report on it. I assumed as much—it would be strange if he knew about the Bibliotheca and not that—but it still makes me cornered prey.

“Not hard enough.” I let him know I saw the glance and understand what it means. “Why do you care?”

“Because it means that what I have to offer will be of particular interest to you. I can guarantee you won’t be asked to cede Will again for at least another year. And after that, you may even be able to earn the chance to go somewhere that won’t require you to cede at all.”

“No such place.”

Ulciscor pulls a book from somewhere under the table. It takes me a moment to recognise the travelogue. The one I took last night, that’s supposed to be safely hidden in my room.

“How…”

“I ducked upstairs after I used the facilities earlier. Don’t worry, nobody saw. The rest of your little stockpile is still there.”

I scowl. “How did you find it?”

“I’ll give you until the end of our conversation to figure that out.” He waves a finger. “But we’re getting distracted. I’m in a position to help you. You might be in a position to help me. That’s what matters.”

I stare at the book. Verbalised or not, Ulciscor’s uncovered enough that the warning is there among the promises. That’s how the Hierarchy operates, after all: the potential of reward ahead, the menace of punishment chasing behind. Even if only one of them is usually real.

“Alright. I’m listening.” I exhale the words a little fatalistically. The decision’s made. Whatever else may be happening here, we’re still talking, which means that I have something Ulciscor wants. I can work with that.

And gods know—if he’s telling even half the truth, I can’t afford to pass up this opportunity.

Ulciscor beams.

The questions start.

It’s slow, at the beginning. Boring, if the discussion were in another context. Ulciscor is prodding around the basics of my education, the sorts of things well covered in the books around us. My understanding of the Hierarchy, its structure, its laws and traditions. Geography, which areas are considered provinces, and which are simply “friends of Caten.” Caten’s own history, which I dutifully recite according to their accounts. Aside from the specifics of the latter, I knew the answers to all these questions before I left Suus.

But then the tone changes. We start to cover economic considerations of the spread of the Hierarchy into other systems of government. Philosophical takes on the morality of Will, its exponential growth and application. The mathematics of its distribution and how that’s carefully balanced against the need for oversight and control. Even the debate over whether it could have contributed to, or even caused, the Cataclysm three hundred years ago. I’m taken aback at first. Some questions require the dredging of my memory for obscure books I read years ago. Some I outright don’t know. A lot, I’m only able to answer thanks to my time at the Bibliotheca. And almost all require genuine extrapolation from me, actual thought rather than just recitation of facts.

Occasionally, Ulciscor will argue a point I’ve made or look disappointed in one of my answers. But I warm to the task, and more often than not, he appears satisfied when we move on. It starts to feel like the sparring conversations I used to have with Iniguez, my favourite tutor. The weathered old man with the straggly grey hair was the only one who never spoke down to me or deferred to me, never treated me as either child or prince. The only one who ever seemed interested in whether I was filling my own potential, rather than exceeding that of others.

Ulciscor and I talk for two hours, in the end. Matron Atrox checks on us five times in the guise of offering refreshments. Ulciscor accepts on her fourth interruption. When she opens the door the last time, she finds me wetting my throat with the drink she prepared for the Quintus. She doesn’t look pleased.

For my part, I try to remember the situation and not enjoy the conversation too much. Ulciscor is an intelligent, well-educated man—the kind I haven’t spoken with in years—but his motives, even his personality, remain inscrutable. There are flashes of passion when we talk about certain topics, or when he strongly objects to something I’ve said. And he’s certainly interested in what I have to say. But he lets nothing significant slip.

When the questions stop, my mug is empty and throat sore. This is the most I’ve talked in one sitting for a long time.

“I think that will do,” says Ulciscor. He sounds contemplative. “You’ve put your time at the Bibliotheca to good use. There are gaps, but nothing we can’t fix.”

I study his expression. “You have other concerns.” I make sure I sound analytical rather than anxious. Ulciscor may not have made up his mind, but I have.

I want to see where this opportunity leads.

“Yes.” He tugs absently at a sleeve as he locks his gaze with mine, searching. “Your temperament, for one.”

Of course. The fight last night. A topic as yet untouched. “I can keep my temper under control.”

“Easy to say, but it’s in the way you bear yourself, Vis. The way you talk. I think you’re so used to resisting, you don’t know how not to.”

I feel some irritation at the words, but now is fairly obviously not the time to display it. “I’m not sure there’s a way for me to convince you, when it comes to that.”

“Hm.” Dissatisfied. “Tell me. Why did you fight naked, last night?”

“I was worried the Sextus would imbue my clothes. Stop me from getting away.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to. Refined, flexible materials and limited time, at his level… impossible. But I suppose you wouldn’t have known that,” Ulciscor allows. “Was that the only reason?”

“Why else would I do it?”

“I thought it might have been to embarrass him.”

“I wanted to put him off, I suppose. But I didn’t go out there hoping to humiliate him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Alright.” Ulciscor believes me. “You did show composure under pressure, earlier. The ability to think on your feet like that is useful. Your disposition, the other rough edges… we can likely smooth them out.” He’s only half talking to me. As if he’s trying to picture me in a particular situation.

He’s still wavering, though.

“The coin you gave me. You imbued it with Will.”

Ulciscor blinks, focuses back on me. “Why do you say that?”

“You followed me to the fight and to the Bibliotheca, through all but empty streets, without me noticing—and you’re working alone, otherwise why come here yourself and risk the trouble that false identity could cause you?” The first half of the interview, when I barely had to think about the questions, let me chew over the problem. This is the only explanation I could come up with. “Plus, you must have sent messengers to all the orphanages last night, but you knew I was here this morning. And I doubt you asked the matron for directions to my room, let alone had the time to search it for that loose panel in the wall.”

A coin’s supposed to be all but impossible to imbue, given that it’s forged, but he is a Quintus.

Ulciscor reaches into his pocket. Displays a silver triangle. The tightness in my chest eases as he nods his decision.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s tell the matron the good news.”

The Will of the Many

VI

THE HALL STILLS AS WE emerge from the library.

Matron Atrox breaks from her conversation with Vermes and strides toward us, sparing me a glare as she does so. All the children are still here. Restless, understandably, after so long.

“Quintus! I hope Vis has not been making a nuisance of himself.” She gives me another dark look. She’s already implied several times to Ulciscor that I’m not to be trusted. Trying to mitigate the things she’s imagining I’m saying about her, no doubt.

“Not at all. We’ve had a delightful conversation.” Ulciscor talks so that everyone in the room can hear. “In fact—I’ve made my decision, Matron. If you could please fetch the paperwork, I would like to formalise the adoption.”

Matron Atrox looks at him blankly. The expression, I note with some amusement, is mirrored behind her.

“For Rex?” It’s Vermes, speaking into the shocked hush. He suddenly laughs, the concept so impossible to him that he thinks it’s a joke. It still manages to come out as mostly a sneer. “Quintus, who did you really pick?”

A few other titters echo from Vermes’s simpering coterie. They cut off quickly enough when Ulciscor’s expression hardens. Matron Atrox opens her mouth but, seeing Ulciscor’s face, instead pales and scurries off to collect the necessary documents.

“You’re really taking him. Above any of us.” Vermes has always been terrible at reading situations. Doesn’t have the self-control or sense to know when to back down, either. “You know he wouldn’t even cede when they dragged him to the Columnae, right? He’s useless to anyone. He’s a joke.” He spits the words. There’s a low mutter of agreement from some of the other older children, though they stay in the background. Smarter than Vermes by a hair, at least.

“Vermes, wasn’t it?” Ulciscor gazes at the large boy. “Do you want to know why you haven’t been adopted?”

Vermes blinks. Looks lost at the question.

“It’s because you’re a deeply unpleasant child,” continues Ulciscor calmly. “Immature. Spiteful. And honestly, not very bright. So it doesn’t matter how strong your Will is. Nobody wants to have someone like you living with them. You need to change, Vermes. Better yourself, or you’ll be a Solum for the rest of your life.”

His gaze sweeps the rest of the room. The other children cringe beneath it.

Vermes’s lip curls. He’s bright red.

He turns and stalks away.

I watch him go, oddly tempted to call after him. Offer him some measure of comfort to balance the acid in Ulciscor’s lecture. I’ve despised the boy for a long time, but I can’t help but pity him, too.

“A little harsh, don’t you think?” I murmur as the other children begin to drift from the hall, seeing that Ulciscor’s decision has been made. They’re bitterly disappointed. A few of the younger ones look on the verge of tears.

“Maybe if I had more time with him, I’d show him the compassion he needs. But kind words from me in passing aren’t going to have any effect. Sometimes bullies are better off with the truth, no matter how unpleasant.” He eyes me. “You disagree?”

“No.”

Matron Atrox reappears, papers in hand. She begins laying them out on the table.

“Quintus,” she says carefully, not looking at either of us as she fastidiously arranges the documents. “Before you finalise this decision, would we be able to have a word in private?”

“Certainly.” Ulciscor doesn’t blink at the request. “Vis, perhaps it’s time to collect your belongings from your room.”

“That’s not necessary. Vis doesn’t have—”

“Here.” Ulciscor cuts her off as he unslings a satchel from around his shoulder. “Will this be big enough?”

I take the bag, glancing inside. There’s only the travelogue in there. More than enough room for the coins I have hidden away.

“Thanks.” I glance past him at Matron Atrox, who is giving me a look that promises violence, and then at Ulciscor. His back still to the matron, he gives me a near-imperceptible nod.

It only takes a few minutes for me to hurry upstairs, shift my stash from the hole in the wall to the satchel, and then return. I pass a few of the children in the passageways. They glare at me jealously. None say anything.

When I step back into the hall, Matron Atrox is seated at the table as Ulciscor signs documents. She’s white. Trembling.

Ulciscor pauses his writing to glance up at her. She leaps to her feet.

“Vis.” Her voice is tight, but it’s not with anger anymore. She’s meek, as she holds out a small leather bag. “These are your wages from Victorum and the prison. That I’ve been… keeping, for you.” She stumbles over the words. Her hand shakes as she proffers the purse.

I take it with a frown, surprised at the weight. When I glance inside, gold glitters back at me. No way to tell if it’s the amount I’ve earned, but it looks about right.

Before I can respond, Ulciscor signs the last page with a flourish and straightens, clapping me on the back. “Ready?”

“I suppose so.” It’s all happened so fast. No one here I particularly want to bid farewell to, and no one who will care if I don’t. As surreal as it is, there’s nothing stopping me from leaving.

We start toward the door, but something makes me stop. I walk back to the matron. She looks old, smaller and more tired than I can ever remember seeing her. It doesn’t matter, when I think about the scars on my back.

I lean forward so that my whisper carries to her ear. “I’m going to come back one day.” There’s no trace of anger in my voice.

Just promise.

Any façade she was maintaining falls away, and I see cringing terror in her green eyes. I stare at her a moment longer, locking her gaze to mine. Making sure she understands.

Then I’m walking away, out the door.

Ulciscor takes the lead once we’re outside, and I’m content to follow, still acclimating to my life’s seismic shift. It’s colder than I expected. The sun from this morning has vanished, and heavy clouds to the west threaten rain.

“What did you say to her?” I ask eventually.

“Nothing that didn’t need to be said.” Nonchalant, but there’s an edge somewhere underneath the words. “You?”

“Same.”

It’s mid-afternoon, and the streets of Letens are busy, though not as crowded as I know they will be in the market district. Ulciscor observes all the activity—Will-powered carts, clumps of pallid Octavii labouring for their Septimii, a group of younger Tensian children playing Victorum with wooden swords—with mild, albeit unimpressed curiosity. He clearly hasn’t been here for long.

“So. I believe you owe me some more information.” It’s finally dawned on me that Ulciscor’s taking me somewhere, but I know nothing beyond that. We’re heading toward the city outskirts. Probably leaving Letens altogether.

“I’ll explain everything on the way.”

“To where?”

“Deditia.”

Somewhere behind us, there’s a scream of triumph from one of the children as she knocks her larger opponent to the ground, straddling him. I flinch. Not entirely at the sound. Before Caten was the capital of the world, it was the capital of Deditia.

But it’s been three years, and the official story is that I’m dead. No one is looking for me anymore, if they ever were. Whether I’m here or in the country cocooning the beating heart of the Republic, it probably doesn’t matter.

Besides. There’s no going back, now.

TWENTY MINUTES OF WALKING—LARGELY IN silence, as it appears Ulciscor does not wish to discuss anything further while we’re among crowds—brings us to the edge of Letens.

I haven’t been this way since I first arrived in the city eighteen months ago. It’s changed. The squat, ramshackle wooden buildings that housed Octavii and their families have vanished, replaced by either towering façades of stone or the half-fleshed skeletons of them. Streets have been widened. Straightened. Paved. Octavii still roam them, but they’re hard at work, using what remains of their strength to haul masonry or lumber. It’s a hive of construction, Septimii barking orders and even what must be a Sextus, eyes clouded as she raises a massive slab up three full stories, allowing several struggling Octavii to secure the levitating stone.

Ulciscor has noticed the Sextus too. “Inefficient,” he mutters disapprovingly.

It’s enough of a conversational opening for me to take it. “They’re building warehouses?” It’s the only thing I can come up with. This is a strange part of Letens to be improving, otherwise. And I don’t think most of these buildings are meant to be residences. The doors are too tall and wide, and there aren’t enough windows.

“Part of Tensia’s treaty with us was a split of any resources we harvested from their land. Grain and stone, mostly. They were never able to extract it efficiently themselves. Things only properly got underway six months ago, though.”

“So this is all for storing it?”

“This is for storing the Tensian share. Though eventually, they’ll realise they can’t put it to good use and ask for our help in deploying it. Or this will all fill up, and they’ll start selling it to us at cost.” He talks absently, neither boasting nor sad at the prospect. Just assessing how events will play out.

“Then what happens to the Catenan cut?”

“It gets sent to Caten.”

I scoff. “It can’t have been much of a split, then.” We’re almost three thousand miles from the capital, and that’s with the Sea of Quus in between. The logistics would be a nightmare.

Ulciscor just smiles.

Soon enough we’re leaving the rising buildings and worn workers behind, moving past the line where a great stone wall once guarded the city—dismantled under the Hierarchy’s treaty with Tensia, ensuring their reliance on Will alone for protection—and out onto a long, grassy plain. It’s not hard to guess what we’re angling toward. The white monolith, three-sided and impossibly tall, has marred the skyline since not long after we left the orphanage. I’ve wondered at its purpose since spotting it, but thought it best to follow Ulciscor’s example and remain mute.

We’re close enough to see it properly now. It’s granite, I think, the white speckled with streaks of black. Perhaps thirty feet wide on each side. At least two hundred high. Taller? A single building also blights the plain, directly behind the column. It’s huge as well, even comparatively, an unusually elongated mass of wood and steel and stone and even glass that dominates the landscape. Workers march, ant-like, along a paved road that skirts the monolith and scythes through the grass, connecting the structure to the city. Will-driven carts clatter along it.

And underneath the building, at points.

I stumble, not quite processing that last part. There are no supports visible, and yet it’s suddenly clear, even from here, that the whole thing is just … hovering.

“What in the gods’ names?” It comes out in a whisper, involuntary. I squint, but we’re still too far away for me to make sense of it. If it’s distance that’s the problem, of course.

“It’s a Transvect.” The corners of Ulciscor’s lips quirk upward as he takes in my reaction. “Never seen one?”

I shake my head, unable to rip my gaze from the sight.

“The anchoring point was completed six months ago.” It’s subtle, but there’s a note of pride. “It’s loaded and ready to depart. Just waiting on us, actually. We’ll be in Deditia by morning.”

“By morning,” I repeat faintly. I’ve heard of Transvects before, of course—briefly studied the concept, in fact, all those years ago in Suus. Will-powered behemoths that move at several times the speed of the fastest horse, carrying massive loads of troops or supplies to the farthest corners of the world. Or in this case, I suppose, to its centre. It’s not that I ever doubted their existence, exactly, but they always seemed too much like propaganda. An exaggeration of the Hierarchy’s making, a story they circulated to vaunt their power. So I never really tried to envisage what a Transvect might actually look like. Certainly never imagined the sheer size of the thing.

Even staring at its reality, I can’t bring myself to imagine this colossal, hovering creation moving fast. Or at all.

A gust of chill wind carries the first flecks of rain, and I draw my cloak tighter, shivering.

The walk to the Transvect is interminable; just when I think I’ve come to grips with the enormity of it, we get closer. It’s mostly wood, but with what looks like enormous granite strips forming a core running along its belly. There are windows here and there. Massive doors for loading. The edge nearest the city tapers sharply for a few feet, a stone nose in the shape of a squat, sideways pyramid.

I can’t remember the last time I felt so small.

We’re hailed as we pass into the Transvect’s shadow and near the stairs rising to a hundred-foot-long platform ahead, our path blocked by an officious-looking woman.

“Workers only,” she calls out as soon as we’re in earshot. It’s a warning.

“And passengers,” Ulciscor corrects her. He produces signed documents—he seems to excel at obtaining those—and proffers them with a cheerful flourish.

The woman—a Septimus; her movements are too energetic by far for an Octavus—snatches the papers disbelievingly. Scans them. Stops. Starts reading again, her face paling.

Her hand quivers as she returns them.

“Magnus Quintus Telimus. Welcome. Welcome. I was not told…” She’s flustered.

I wait for Ulciscor to correct her on her misuse of his title, but he doesn’t. More false credentials? “It’s fine. May we proceed?”

“Of course. Of course you may.” She looks at me. Reddens. “There was nothing about—”

“This is Vis Telimus. I trust that a family member accompanying me won’t be a problem?” He starts digging under his cloak in exasperation. “I can provide those papers too, if I—”

“No. No. Not necessary. Of course, please proceed, Magnus. Master Telimus.” I swear she almost bows.

Vis Telimus. Of course. I try not to let the new name bother me. It barely occurred to me, among everything else, that I was no longer a Solum. It shouldn’t make a difference; Vis isn’t my real name, and the nomenclature of an orphan was never a badge of honour.

And yet, Solum always felt more apart. Fitted with my relationship to the Hierarchy. This step is closer in symbol only, and yet part of me can’t help but be uncomfortable with how personal it feels.

There’s no time to linger on the thought. We climb past the woman, up onto the elevated stone platform. The Transvect fills my vision. We’re about fifty feet from the very end, and I can see another stubby pyramid-shaped nose jutting from its front.

I’ve unconsciously paused at the top of the stairs, but Ulciscor nudges me forward. “We’re in that one.”

I head reluctantly toward where a sole door conspicuously gapes. There’s a richly carpeted room within. Several comfortable chairs fixed to the walls. A cupboard at the back, and small tables with food on them. There’s no one inside.

The Transvect is motionless as it hangs mid-air, not even a tremor to indicate that Will alone holds it aloft. I still hesitate.

Ulciscor moves past me and inside. He turns around, arms outstretched, then jumps up and down a couple of times to prove his point.

I glower at him, and step on.

Nothing gives as my weight leaves the safety of the platform. It’s as solid as if I were walking on the ground.

Ulciscor watches my trepidatious first step with amusement, then shuts the door behind me and throws himself into a chair, looking entirely at home.

“It’s just us?” This section isn’t especially large, but I’m still surprised. None of the other ones I could see looked suitable for carrying people.

“No other passengers and completely unmanned. We have the whole thing to ourselves for the next fifteen hours.” Ulciscor relaxes into his seat. “Hopefully enough time to answer your questions.”

“Hopefully.” Fifteen hours. Fifteen hours to travel near three thousand miles. I stand there, gazing around, a little awed. Daunted, in fact. Hate the Hierarchy though I do, some of the things they’ve achieved are truly incredible. It’s been easy to forget, here on the edge of the continent, where only the most modest of their advancements are ever in evidence. “How much Will does this thing use?” Hardly my most pressing concern, but I’m still off-balance, need some time to gather myself.

Ulciscor waves me into the seat opposite him. “How much do you think?”

I can see in his eyes that it’s another test, albeit an impromptu one. I take my time settling into a chair that’s plush, more comfortable than anything I’ve sat on in years, and let my wonderment fade to assessment.

The basics of Will usage—peliphagy, the Catenans call it, though the term rarely enters common parlance—are relatively well-known. Any of the children back at the orphanage could have explained that a Septimus has eight Octavii ceding half their Will to them, a Sextus has seven Septimii ceding half of their collected Will, and so on up the pyramid through Quintus, Quartus, Tertius, Dimidius, and finally, Princeps. Each level higher becoming increasingly powerful. And the older children could do the resulting mathematics, too. A Septimus wields the equivalent of five people’s Will: four from their combined Octavii, plus their own. That halves when they’re ceding to a Sextus. A Sextus, therefore, starts with the Will of more than eighteen people. And so on.

But the nice, theoretical simplicity of the calculations end there: they’re useful for understanding someone’s physical strength, but that’s only the most basic use of Will. Imbuing objects—controlling them through mental effort—is where the true power of the Hierarchy lies, exponentially increasing the efficacy of that strength for anyone who can do it. I can still only guess at how much, though. My studies at Suus only ever referenced estimates based on rumour and observation. And the Hierarchy doesn’t exactly shout the secrets of high-level Will usage to the masses. I’ve eked out an understanding of some of the methods they use, over the years, but the exact costs and efficiencies surrounding it all remain murky to me at best.

Ulciscor knows this better than I do, of course; his questions have already exposed my lack in this area today. Which means he doesn’t expect me to come up with an exact answer. Still, after hours of doing everything I can to impress him, I’m finding it difficult to resist the urge to show off a little.

“I think a single Quintus could probably power it,” I say, repressing a shiver as I come to the realisation. The strength of fifty-five men, but worth so much more if properly applied.

“Really?” There’s humour in Ulciscor’s eyes, but also a spark of surprise. “You think I could run it by myself?”

“If you’re not ceding.” So he really is a Quintus. Probably. “Those separated stone strips underneath must be imbued, so I assume they’re locked together with Will. Which means you wouldn’t have to lift the entire thing, just the heaviest section.” A method I read about in the Bibliotheca. I stare at the floor as I speak, brow furrowed. There were a half dozen of the weight-bearing stone slabs, at least. “You’d still need power to provide lift. But once that was done, you could use more imbuing to push or pull the whole thing fairly easily. I imagine that’s what that giant stone column out there is for. The anchoring point, you called it?” I gesture back the way we came, my voice warming as I engage with the puzzle. “So, yes. You couldn’t be on board yourself—I know self-propulsion isn’t possible with Will—and you’d need the infrastructure, but otherwise I think you could move the entire thing.”

I look up, concealing an onset of queasiness as I remember who I’m talking to. Ulciscor’s watching me. The rain is starting to pick up outside, rattling the glass.

“Harmonic and Reactive,” he murmurs eventually. “When objects are locked together, it’s a Harmonic relationship. When they push or pull, it’s a Reactive one.” He leans back and smiles abruptly, waving his hand to indicate the information isn’t important right now. “Most people assume it would take at least a Quartus to move one of these.”

“Most people are stupid.” It’s an absent response, out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Thankfully it only prompts a guffaw from Ulciscor. “You’re not wrong.” Despite his amusement, he looks impressed by my analysis. “And it’s not a bad guess, either. A strong Totius Quintus could, theoretically, power all the mechanisms that drive a Transvect. Of course, if something happened to them, the whole thing would come crashing down, so…”

“So you need to distribute the imbuing between multiple people for safety, if nothing else.”

“Exactly.”

There’s movement outside the window, a worker checking something or other farther down the platform, half shielding herself from the inclement weather with a raised cloak. She steps back, waving a signal toward the ground.

There’s the tiniest of jolts, and we start to rise.

I find myself gripping the sides of my chair as the platform recedes, though the motion itself is smooth, quite gentle. I’m not sure I’d even have noticed it if not for the windows. “Why are we going higher?” I peer down at the platform through streaks of water, an anxious strain to my voice. We’re thirty feet above it, still climbing. Fifty off the ground.

“Easiest way to avoid obstructions. Rockfalls, landslides. Ships. People. That sort of thing.”

“Ah.” Our steady rise finally stops, and I clutch tighter to my seat. Seventy feet off the ground.

“Afraid of heights?”

I’m not—the cliffs of Suus were taller than this, and I climbed those all the time—but I’m not going to tell him that. My eyes are still glued to the increasingly distant illusion of safety. I can all but hear Ulciscor’s grin.

The Transvect starts to move again. Forward, this time.

I’m mesmerised as the platform far below begins to slide from view. We move slowly at first but steadily build momentum; I press my face against the glass to try and see farther, marvelling at the vista both outward across the rolling plains and vast forests of Tensia, and back over the increasingly distant, sullen structures of her capital.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it.” There’s no teasing to Ulciscor’s voice this time.

I don’t respond. Already our speed’s increased enough that I can barely see the platform anymore. There’s only one person still visible on it, absurdly tiny from this vantage. The woman who stopped us, I think.

“She called you Magnus Quintus.” My queasiness has returned. I’d been hoping Ulciscor would bring this up on his own, but I have to mention it. I have to know, before anything else.

“It’s my full title.”

I continue to gaze out the window. Afraid that he’ll see my dismay if I look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or the matron?” There’s no way she knew.

“Her, because I didn’t need her thinking she could use your adoption to some political advantage. It’s why the proconsul agreed to leave it off the paperwork. Fairly standard stuff, when we have dealings in the provinces.” I can hear the shrug in his voice. “And you, because it hadn’t come up yet. Is it relevant?”

I almost laugh.

“Quintus”—fifth—is an enormously powerful position within the Hierarchy; there are twenty-four million people in the Republic, but most pyramids still peak at Sextus. The mayor of Letens, an important and well-respected man, is a Sextus—albeit a Totius Sextus, the very top of his pyramid. Proconsul Manius, the current governor of all Tensia and thus in charge of an entire Catenan province, is a Totius Quintus.

There are only three pyramids that stretch higher than Quartus, though: the three senatorial pyramids, which everyone refers to simply as Military, Governance, and Religion. Only the strongest, the most skilled, are recruited for those. Quintii from standard pyramids vie to become a Septimus in a senatorial one.

And only those in the senatorial pyramids are allowed to use the title “Magnus.”

Which makes Ulciscor one of the most powerful men in all the Hierarchy.

“Well, it’s certainly a surprise.” The Transvect is still picking up speed. Hurtling along, judging by how fast Letens is disappearing behind us. “You’re a senator?”

“I am. The Senate will need to ratify your adoption, actually—it won’t be official until that happens,” Ulciscor adds absently. “You’ll need to present yourself to them in Caten, at some point.”

“Is that necessary?”

“It’s just a formality.” The distracted reproach in his tone means yes, it is necessary. “The name Telimus may not be universally beloved like a Valerius or a Tulius, but its history is still proud. The Senate will want to make sure I’m not opening a door for someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

I nod, not knowing how else to react, focusing on the streaks of water sliding sideways across the glass outside. There’s the sudden, sinking dismay of being trapped. Wondering if I’ve acted rashly.

Nothing to be done about it now, though. I steel myself, tear my gaze from the window. We’re high enough that I can’t really see the ground anyway, unless I lean. “So. Why am I here, Father?”

Ulciscor allows a smirk at that. “Good question, Son. Have you heard of the Catenan Academy?”

“Of course.” Everyone in the Hierarchy knows about the Academy. The children of senators and knights are usually privately tutored, but some very few get to spend the last eighteen months of their childhood at Caten’s most prestigious institute. Being groomed for leadership, politics, the Senate. Catenan dignity and glory.

Ulciscor stares at me steadily, waiting.

“Oh. Oh. Me?” I snort a laugh. The concept is so absurd, I’m sure he’s joking. “You need me to become a Magnus, too?”

“Not exactly.” Ulciscor is smiling back, but none of my humour is reflected in his eyes.

My own smile withers into something more sickly. “You said I wouldn’t have to cede.”

“You won’t. The Academy is the one place in all the Republic where ceding Will, or receiving it, is forbidden. They want it to be a level field for every student. ‘A ladder should not be climbed from the shoulders of others,’ and all that.” The last is clearly a quote, though I don’t recognise it. “We’re on our way there now, in fact—I arranged for the Transvect to be realigned. We’ll need to present you in person to make your application official.”

I’m silent, trying vainly to grasp the enormity of it. I do remember hearing somewhere that Will usage was banned in the Academy. That doesn’t mean I’m convinced. “There will always be something, though. Some emergency. Some test you don’t know about that ends with them asking me to cede.”

“I was a student there myself. They expel anyone who’s found breaking that rule, even if it’s during trimester breaks away from the school. There are no exceptions. Never have been.” Ulciscor’s dark brown eyes are earnest. Excited. He thinks he has a winning argument.

“You said this was an opportunity.” There’s plainly a reason Ulciscor wants me at the Academy, but before we address that, I want to fathom why he thinks I want to be there. I feel like I’m missing something. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but… all that would really do is make my life easier for a while. Once I leave, I’m no better off.”

“No one graduating from the Academy has ever been assigned a position lower than Sextus. And the better you do there, the more choice you’ll have. Finish high enough, and you could be a Totius. Never have to cede Will at all.”

I curse inwardly at his misplaced enthusiasm as I understand. Ulciscor’s made the assumption—a reasonable one, given what I’ve said thus far—that I’m only intent on avoiding ceding any Will. He hasn’t even considered the possibility that my distaste extends to being part of the system at all.

“What if I don’t want to receive Will, either?” I could let it slide, but Ulciscor’s about to tell me why I’m really here—which he doesn’t want widely known, given his secretive visit to Nateo. I’m past the point of backing out, but my options will be even more limited once he’s entrusted me with that information.

Ulciscor blinks. Thrown.

“There are some positions like that,” he says slowly. “The Keepers of the Eternal Flame in Caten. Special auditors under the Censor, who need to operate without even a hint of undue influence. Of course, you’d need to be a virgin woman for the first, and a retired senator for the second. Those might be out of your reach.” He thinks. Reluctant. “You could ask to be assigned to the ambassador in Jatiere, I suppose. Our treaty with them says that no one from the embassy is allowed to use Will. But it’s far from prestigious. And very unusual. You would have to finish in Class Three—that’s the top-ranked class—for the Senate to even consider letting you choose a post like that. And the only way you could be certain of it is if you finished Domitor of the entire Academy.” There’s doubt in his voice. As impressed as he’s been with me, he doesn’t think I’m on that level.

He pauses. Studies me. “Very few people’s Will comes from the Sappers. And there are ways of making sure that none of yours would,” he adds, sympathetic.

I show him a quietly grateful expression. Let him think my reluctance stems only from what I saw in Letens Prison.

Secretly, though, there’s a thrill at what he’s just revealed. I’ve no desire to remain in any official position within the Hierarchy, long-term, but this sounds like an option I can live with for a while. A chance to survive, to keep searching for a real way out, without having to utterly betray myself in the process.

I could buy years, if I needed to.

“Alright.” I’m pleased with how composed I sound. No need to let Ulciscor know how badly I want this. “So why am I going to the Academy?”

“Because we—Military—need eyes and ears in there.”

“You need a spy.” I smirk, despite myself. “In a school.”

“A school that hosts children from the most prestigious families in the Republic, where student rankings can determine the future leadership of Caten.” Ulciscor doesn’t share my mirth. “Religion’s security is as good as any fortress. Better, in fact. They provide the Praeceptors, the guards, even the Octavii who cook and clean. It’s a stronghold, Vis. A little nation unto itself.”

“Even to the rest of the Senate?”

“Especially to the rest of the Senate.” The certainty in Ulciscor’s tone wipes away any doubts. “Religion’s mandate clearly encompasses education, and the Academy is their crown jewel. Military demanding access would be like Religion demanding control of the Seventh Legion. It’s simply not done.”

I nod understanding. “Not without proof of some sort of wrongdoing.” Of course. Military, Religion, and Governance each have their own areas of authority in the Republic; while I’ve heard those are a source of constant tension and bickering between the three senatorial pyramids, responsibility for the Academy seems clear-cut. Challenging that boundary—making any move on another pyramid’s authority within the Senate—would be an ugly precedent.

I say no more, turning my last statement into a question.

“Yes. Well. That’s the interesting part, I suppose.” Ulciscor is wry, almost embarrassed. “We’re not exactly sure what they’re hiding in there. We’re confident it’s something important, but we don’t have enough information to speculate as to what it might be yet.”

“Oh. Good. So… you want me looking for proof of… something.” I motion expansively, emphasizing all which that encompasses as I deadpan the vagueness of the task. “Easy.”

“If it was easy, we wouldn’t need you.”

I grunt an accession to that. “Any suggestions as to what I should be looking for at least?”

Ulciscor tugs at a sleeve. “Our best guess, so far, is that it’s to do with Solivagus itself—the island where the Academy is located. Religion has exclusive use of the entire place.” He hesitates. “There are a lot of old ruins there.”

“How old?” From the way he said it, and his conversation with Nateo earlier, I already know the answer.

“Pre-Cataclysm.”

“So you think they’re searching for some piece of lost technology?” Those are rare finds, these days.

“Or a weapon.”

I shift uneasily. No one knows what caused the Cataclysm, the world-spanning disaster three centuries ago that left less than five people in every hundred alive. Most of the survivors were mere children, too; records to emerge out of the chaotic decades that followed were few, and the ones that did recalled towns filled with the dead. Cities burning. Whole nations erased in a moment.

But almost nothing of any of the times before that.

It seems clear, from what has since been uncovered, that pre-Cataclysm civilisation used Will in ways the Hierarchy is still struggling to understand. The purpose of the Aurora Columnae, which are the only reason Will can be ceded at all, was only realised by the Catenan Republic a century and a half ago. The Sappers, too, were discoveries rather than inventions. And many of the Hierarchy’s other advancements have come from deconstructing devices excavated from old ruins, rather than any particular Catenan ingenuity.

Which means that an actual weapon from back then has the potential to be very, very dangerous.

“Why would Religion be looking for something like that?” I let puzzlement inflect the words, though there’s an obvious conclusion. “And keeping it secret from Military?”

There’s more than a suggestion of irritation in the look Ulciscor gives me. He’s not buying the nonplussed act. “We can discuss that later. Maybe. For the moment, all you need to know is that it’s a possibility.”

Interesting. Matias, one of my tutors at Suus, used to theorise that the dynamics of power between the senatorial pyramids would change drastically once there was no one left to conquer. Perhaps even become antagonistic. I always dismissed it as wishful thinking.

“Alright.” I tuck the information away without further comment, for now. “I assume there are particular people you think might be doing the looking, at least?”

“The Principalis of the Academy. Quintus Veridius Julii.” It’s subtle, but there’s something about the way that Ulciscor shifts when he says the name. An almost imperceptible hardening around the eyes. He doesn’t like the man.

“Veridius. I heard you use that name at the prison.”

“I think he put Nateo in there. Organised for him to be Sapped. I was hoping to figure out why.” Ulciscor’s admission is grim. “Nateo graduated from the same class as Veridius six years ago. Veridius was Domitor of that year, and every tie he had—everything he’d said, every action he’d taken up until the moment he won the Iudicium—indicated that he was going to join us. Join Military, like the rest of the Julii. But instead, he asked for a position at the Academy. Under Religion.”

“And that was… strange,” I infer.

“Very. Controversial, too. Not the switching of loyalties, so much, but asking for a role that commanded so little prestige. We all thought he’d been blackmailed, pressured into the decision somehow. And the way he won the Academy’s final test, the Iudicium… well. Two other students were killed. Accidents, supposedly.” There’s an edge to Ulciscor’s voice at that, and he pauses before pressing on.

“The outrage around it all eventually faded, but we’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since, trying to figure out what really happened. He was Principalis of the Academy within a year, when his predecessor died. Natural causes, as far as we could tell.” Thick doubt in the statement. “But as soon as Veridius was in charge, he started changing things. The Academy’s main campus used to be in Caten, but Veridius’s class was moved to Solivagus due to the grain riots of 297, and Veridius insisted that it be housed there permanently once he took over. He said it was because there was rampant cheating, that the island was the only way to properly isolate the students. Religion backed him. And ever since then, others from his year—like Nateo—have been quietly disappearing. More “accidents,” or imprisonments, or sudden assignments to the far corners of the Republic. Nothing categorical. Nothing actionable. But there’s a pattern.” He leans forward. Intense. “So. You see why we’re suspicious?”

I contemplatively acknowledge that I do; Ulciscor lapses into silence, and I don’t say anything for a while, thinking. It’s still mid-afternoon outside, but clouds have turned the sky a threatening black, rain assailing the Transvect loudly and constantly. There’s forest below us, the nearer treetops blurring along the bottom of my view out the water-streaked window. Given how fast we must be moving, the interior of the carriage feels little different to when we started. I’m surprised at how rapidly I’ve become, if not exactly comfortable, then at least accustomed to this mode of travel.

“Why not just get another Military student to spy for you? Someone who’s already meant to be attending?” I have a lot more questions, but I’ll start with the obvious.

“Veridius won’t have evidence just lying around, which means you’re going to have go looking in places that could get you expelled if you’re caught. Maybe worse, depending on what you find. Not many parents or students are willing to risk that. Not when just attending means so much to them.” He sounds vaguely bitter. “Besides, we can’t trust them. Half of them would go straight to Veridius, try to leverage what they know into a better ranking as soon as they got there. The other half just wouldn’t bother making the effort.”

I grunt, following the logic. “But you can trust me, because if I don’t find something before I graduate, you’ll… what? Force me to use the Aurora Columnae, then sell my Will? Give me to Military so they can experiment with the Sappers?” Both legally feasible options for Ulciscor, now he’s adopted me.

“Something like that.” There’s not a whisper of either humour or apology from the man. It’s just the way it is.

“What if I can’t find anything? Or I get caught?”

“Look harder, and don’t.” His matter-of-factness eases into something approaching empathy. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Let’s.” I hadn’t expected better, but it’s discomforting to hear so plainly. He’s not worried about me turning on him—the scars on my back have told him how much his threat means to me. And even if I was willing to risk it, who would give me a better deal? I have the knowledge of Military’s suspicions, of which Religion will doubtless already be aware. Some limited utility as a double agent, perhaps. Nothing that would make me particularly valuable to Religion. Nothing that would protect me from the fate I’m trying to avoid. “Isn’t it going to be obvious why you’re sending me there?”

“Not if you distinguish yourself. It’s not uncommon for senators to adopt someone they’re confident will do well. Someone they can see themselves guiding into a position of influence one day.” He taps a finger against his chair. “On the other hand, Veridius himself will absolutely know why you’re there. He’s too smart and too mistrustful not to. He won’t expel you without cause—that would only risk triggering an investigation—but you’re going to have to be careful around him.”

“So we’ll each know the other’s up to something, but be pretending not to. Wonderful.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension there. “You’re placing a lot of faith in the abilities of someone you’ve just met.”

“Well. From all appearances you’re bright enough, given how you’ve managed to educate yourself.” A tinge of wryness to that. Like everyone else since Suus, I’ve told Ulciscor that I’m from a middle-class Aquirian family, that my parents were killed in an accident not long before that country signed the Hierarchy’s treaty, and that all our property was claimed by the nobility upon their death. The timeline matches closely with the invasion of Suus, and our language and culture were somewhat similar. It’s also a common enough story from a region that was infamous for its lack of documentation. Which makes it completely unverifiable.

Ulciscor is suspicious—I’ve spent half of today showing him the fruits of a royal education that spanned the first fourteen years of my life, after all—but for the moment, he seems content enough to leave the matter alone.

“That can’t be the only reason you chose me,” I press, my words punctuated by a distant peal of thunder. It’s starting to storm properly outside. “You’re a Magnus Quintus; it would be nothing for you to find some prodigy from among the Octavii to use, or even the Septimii. Any of them would leap at the chance to become a Telimus and attend the Academy. And they would all be willing to cede.” I make a point of that last part. It has to have been a factor in all this, though I can’t see why.

“Which would mean I had no hold over them.” Ulciscor gives me a vexed look, but eventually nods. “And fine. Yes. A few of the other students won’t have been to the Aurora Columnae yet, either. Since Veridius took over, he seems to have preferred applicants who have never ceded before. Not openly, of course, but the pattern is there to see for anyone who’s looking. That’s a very rare quality in someone your age.” He pauses, deep brown eyes never wavering as they meet mine. “I have a question of my own, actually.”

“Alright.”

“You say you haven’t ceded at the Aurora Columnae because you don’t want to be an Octavii. Which I understand, but… I saw your scars. I saw how many there were.” He’s quiet, but there’s an intensity to the statement. As if he’s furious on my behalf.

“That’s not really a question.” When he keeps looking at me, I sigh. “I held out because I’m convinced the alternative would be worse. It’s that simple.”

“No, it’s not. Conviction is admirable, but it can only take a man so far.” He leans forward. “So what I want to know, Vis, is what are you punishing yourself for?”

I stare at him, a jolt of sick, uncomfortable emotion low in my chest, lost for how to respond.

The Transvect shudders.

I grasp the arms of my chair, almost relieved at the distraction, then tighten my grip as I see Ulciscor doing the same. “Is it supposed to—”

“No.” Ulciscor’s peering out the window, his question forgotten. We’re still moving fast but there’s a real judder to the Transvect now, a thick, unsteady vibration that rattles my teeth.

And it looks as if the forest below is creeping closer.

“Emergency stop, I think. There must be some damage. We might be delayed a while.” Ulciscor stands, steadying himself against the top of his chair before staggering over to the window on the other side and squinting out toward the front of the slowing behemoth. Unlike me, he’s not overly concerned.

That changes when the section in front of ours explodes.

The Will of the Many

VII

ULCISCOR UTTERS A CURSE AND stumbles back as the rain-streaked glass in front of him shatters. Blazing, orange heat roars inside. I’m flinching to my feet, unsteady against our shuddering descent, though I’m not sure what I can do. The Transvect is still moving fast enough that the flames look like they’re pouring off the timber, flattened by the momentum. Flowing toward us.

“Maybe more than a while!” shouts Ulciscor over the thundering hiss of rain and shrieking of wind as it pounds through the carriage. His eyes have gone completely black as he moves, much more smoothly this time, away from the flames and over to a large window farther along. He peers through, down at the storm-shrouded forest rushing past.

“Are we under attack?” I raise my voice as well, an arm up to shield against the heat and light as I reel my way over to him. That was an explosion. No suggestion of a simple fault now.

The Transvect has slowed enough that the trees below are passing at a less dizzying rate, though still considerably faster than I’d like. The tallest ones are edging closer. Shadows from the blaze in front of us create deranged, flickering orange-and-black motion in the nearest foliage as we hurtle past.

I’m on the edge of panic, but I’ve been there a lot over the past few years. I know how to control myself through it.

“Does it matter?” Ulciscor is disconcertingly unaffected by either the cacophony or the roasting heat creeping toward us. He strides—impossibly balanced, compared to my desperate clinging to the seat next to me—to the very back of our section, then crouches, peeling back one of the thick rugs.

“What are you doing?”

“A friend of mine used to imbue Transvects. Every section should have… ah!” He’s triumphant as he grips something beneath the rug and twists. The grinding’s audible even above the assault of the shrieking wind, and suddenly there’s a square about three feet in diameter missing in the floor.

“Access hatch,” explains Ulciscor calmly as he straightens.

“To where?”

Ulciscor replies by taking two long steps across and grabbing me by my bad shoulder, spinning me roughly. I don’t have time to react to the pain before the window to my left shatters and glittering, orange-flecked splinters arrow past as Ulciscor shields me with his body. Fresh, icy wind whips us, a counterpoint to the encroaching inferno.

Ulciscor doesn’t seem to be injured, holding me in place as effortlessly as he would an infant. “There’s a platform underneath. Stone above and below. We can shelter there without you being burned alive.” His midnight eyes reflect my terrified visage back at me.

I feel my teeth bare in resistance to the concept, but the heat pressing at my back is too compelling an argument. Ulciscor goes first, dropping through the opening as easily and lightly as if he did it all the time, landing so that his head is still visible above the floor. He motions for me to follow, then ducks down and out of sight.

I lurch to the edge of the hatch, the icy air shrieking through it threatening my balance almost as much as the quivering of the Transvect itself.

I’m not enthused by what I see when I look downward. Ulciscor, it turns out, exaggerated when he described the section below. It’s a stone pillar about two feet wide, and from my position, I can see flame-lit treetops on either side of it. It’s not a platform.

“This is not a platform!” I yell, unable to contain a slightly hysterical note.

There’s no response, and the crash of more glass behind me gives me little choice. I perch on the edge before awkwardly sliding through, injured shoulder creaking, stone scraping against skin through my tunic. There’s a surge of panic when my feet dangle what feels like too far down, but then Ulciscor’s steadying me with that impossibly iron grip, lifting me the rest of the way as if I weighed nothing. I’m shorter than he is, barely able to see back into the cabin. What I can make out is already bathed in fire.

“Duck.”

I obey the command; a moment later the stone hatch is sliding back into place, sealing away the inferno. Ulciscor’s still holding me with one hand, but I clutch a rain-slicked beam with manic determination anyway. The treetops are less than twenty feet below us now, flickering past, still disappearing into the darkness far too fast. The wind howls, rips at me, trying to tear me from my perch. Stray droplets of rain sneak their way underneath the Transvect somehow, stinging at exposed skin. Above us, the conflagration continues to thunder around the cracking of wood.

It hasn’t been thirty seconds since the explosion.

Ulciscor tightens his grip on my arm, dragging my attention to him. “When the Transvect is about to hit the trees,” he yells calmly, “we jump.”

“What?” I try unsuccessfully to shy back, stopped by his vise-like hand.

Ulciscor’s attention has returned to the blurred treetops below, which whip in the storm. This is an old forest; those trees are a hundred and fifty feet tall, maybe more. “Get ready.”

“No. I don’t think so. Not a chance.” It comes out as a mutter. I still can’t extricate myself from the Quintus’s grasp.

If Ulciscor hears, he doesn’t bother to respond. Instead, he turns and wraps me in an embrace that I’m powerless to resist. Lifts me off my feet.

“Here we go,” he yells in my ear.

He leaps and twists, facing his back in the direction we’re hurtling.

My stomach lurches. I think I shout, or try to, but there’s a screeching from behind us, a rending that fills the night and covers any sound I might make. I have the impression of the flaming Transvect plunging on without us, a pyre against the thunderclouds. Then branches rushing up, snapping and tearing. There’s a sickening lurch as we glance to the side off a tree trunk. Ulciscor’s grasp never wavers.

We hit the ground.

Air explodes from my lungs as we bounce and roll and skid to a stop in the damp; I gasp, cough, flail weakly against Ulciscor’s grip. It’s instinct, panic. I know he’s taken the brunt of the impact. Saved my life. Somewhere ahead of us there’s a blast of sound, a thundering reverberation that crashes over us and through the trees beyond. Ulciscor’s embrace finally slackens and I roll away, just in time to see a hellish glow vanishing behind thick foliage and sleet.

“Ulciscor.” I’m still on the ground as I turn back to him. Fear the worst when I realise he hasn’t made a sound yet.

Sudden movement and a pained growl make me start. I crawl over, putting a hand on the prone man’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“What do you think?” Ulciscor groans and rolls over, glaring up at me. His eyes are still flooded with darkness. Despite his grumbling, he doesn’t seem to be favouring any particular injuries.

I stagger to my feet. Badly bruised, shaken, still winded. But able to move everything. The wind and rain are not as bad down here, the leafy canopy providing some protection. I offer Ulciscor my right hand, and he pulls himself up with another groan, which I echo at the strain. “What was that?”

“Will shell, I think. Easy to make. Must have been hidden in the section ahead of us.” He massages a leg, wincing.

I recall the term. The Catenan legions used them decades ago, before Birthright was extended to foreign combatants. “What do we do now?”

The big man tests each limb gingerly. “We get back to the Transvect.”

“Is there any point?”

“If the core lift and propulsion mechanisms are undamaged, then there are some simple override levers in the front cabin. I can use those to get us moving again.”

“And if they’re damaged?”

“Then we’re walking a little farther.”

I grunt. Easy for the Quintus to say. We have no food or water. And we’ve been travelling into Tensia’s vast northern wildlands for at least a half hour, moving incredibly fast. It won’t be a short hike back to civilisation.

Ulciscor ignores my lack of enthusiasm, gripping my shoulder. Half to steady me, half for himself. He’s hurting more than he lets on, I think. “Come on. And keep quiet. That explosion only did enough to bring the Transvect down, not destroy it.”

“You think someone wanted it intact?” I’m dubious.

“Well. Not intact, I suppose. But we’ve been close to starving out the Anguis down here, and there was certainly plenty of grain on board. On the other hand, it could have been sabotage from Tensian dissidents, who didn’t know how to use the Will shell effectively. Hope for the latter but plan for the former, I suppose.” He bends down, rooting around in the grass and pocketing something, then gestures cheerfully in the direction the Transvect disappeared.

I watch the ease with which he’s moving again, then glance back in the direction we fell, squinting and shielding my eyes from the heavy droplets that are making it through the canopy above. The brooding clouds aren’t enough to hide the devastation our path down carved, describing an almost perfect tunnel of destruction through the foliage. Several heavy branches are hanging like broken limbs; one tree in particular has snapped at the trunk, its upper half almost at right angles as it rests awkwardly against its neighbour.

It’s not a small tree, either.

I shiver, then hurry to catch up.

We push our way through dense walls of damp, raking bracken for a time. Ulciscor’s clearing of the way ahead, and the sullen chittering of the forest, are the only sounds competing with wind and rain. I’m sodden within minutes, tunic clinging, my torn cloak doing little to fend off the chill. We eventually spot smoke billowing above the treetops ahead, and alter our trajectory.

I’m not sure for how long we trudge on after that. Ten minutes? Twenty? Neither of us speak, all our energy spent on pressing forward. We move slowly. Everything aches. Despite initial appearances, I can tell Ulciscor is tired too. His eyes are still bathed in black. He’s using Will just to keep going.

We eventually stumble upon the Transvect’s path, recognisable both by the massive, obliterated corridor of forest, and the flaming debris that still burns in its wake. The hiss and crackle of the smouldering Transvect fills the air for more than a minute before we reach it.

The wood and stone behemoth is a dying animal in the mud. Some sections still burn fiercely, some are no more than glowing embers. Others still are missing entire pieces, chunks torn away on impact. The rain seems to have prevented most of the surrounding forest from catching. Only a few nearby trees roar their violent, brilliant death throes.

Ulciscor stops a good hundred feet away, his cautioning hand on my arm urging me to do the same. “We’ll circle around,” he murmurs, peering through the rain at the seething wreckage.

There’s no one in sight and I’m exhausted, bruised and thoroughly drenched, but I follow his lead. We cut around the Transvect and begin creeping through the still-standing brush along its sides, toward the front.

“There.” I mutter the word urgently, stooping lower and gesturing. Figures are picking their way along a section near the very front. Four of them, little more than silhouettes against hungry flames.

Ulciscor doesn’t follow suit, watching for a moment, then digging into his pocket and tossing something a distance off to the side. Small, whatever it is. “Stay here.” Taut. Tense. Angry. He grimaces as if he’s trying to shake off the physical shock of everything he’s done tonight, but it’s not working. He sways before managing to steady himself against the thick, gnarled trunk of an old tree, then steps out into cleared space.

I do as he suggests, and stay low.

“What are you doing here?” As weary as I know he is, Ulciscor shows none of it as he calls the question imperiously.

The people ahead flinch and stumble to a halt.

“Ah. We were on board when the Transvect crashed. My name is Sacro.” I can see them more clearly now. All men. Startled by Ulciscor’s appearance. The one who’s talking has dirt and blood smeared across his thin nose and lips. His dirty-blond hair is dishevelled.

“Doing what?”

“Maintenance work. A couple of the Will pylons were coming out of alignment. We figured we’d fix it during the—”

There’s a wet, thudding sound.

Sacro’s head explodes.

It takes a second for anyone to react. Everyone’s frozen. Uncomprehending. Sacro’s body has slumped to the ground by the time the other three men shout and stagger back, half ducking, looking around wildly for whatever has dispatched their friend. There’s violent red viscera painting the Transvect’s façade. I flatten myself hard against the wet ground, every muscle screaming at me to run.

Ulciscor just watches. I understand his calmness only just before the others.

“You killed him.” Dismay, from the pudgy, olive-skinned man on the right. Shock. Not dissimilar to how I’m feeling. I’ve been through some terrible things these past few years, but Birthright means I haven’t seen a dead body for a long time. Not since…

I push the thought away.

“He lied to me. And I’m not in a good mood.” Ulciscor takes a step forward. The other men respond with a scrambling step back. “Let’s start again. Who are…”

There’s a faint zipping, buzzing sound, barely audible above the crackling Transvect and whipping wind. Ulciscor trails off. Lurches. An arrow’s sprouted from the back of his left leg. He half turns, looking down at it, puzzled.

Then he crumples, face-forward, into the churned-up mud.

I wait for him to move, to rise and retaliate despite the shaft sticking out of him. Ulciscor’s a Magnus Quintus. Weakened though he is, an injury like that, no matter how painful, shouldn’t be the only one necessary to fell him.

The remaining three men have scrambled away and taken cover behind various pieces of debris from the crash, gazes flicking from Ulciscor’s prone form to the surrounding forest, seemingly as startled as I.

Finally, the one with the black braided hair breaks the frozen tableau. “Who’s there?”

Only pelting rain and the constant rustling of leaves greets his yell. I peer intently in the direction from which the arrow came, but no one’s visible.

There’s a tense hush, the men hunkering down behind their cover, unmoving. I stare at Ulciscor’s motionless form, willing him to get up. If I try to help him, I’ll be exposing myself not only to these strangers, but to whoever shot him.

“We should get out of here.” It’s the portly man finally breaking the silence, calling out to his companions from where he’s cowering behind a fallen tree trunk. He’s wide-eyed, still twitching at every sound from the surrounding brush.

His wiry, red-bearded companion, who’s hunkering about ten feet away, issues a fervent agreement, but the final one’s hard gaze doesn’t leave Ulciscor. “Not yet. He killed Sacro.” His hand strays to his side, and I spot a sheathe on his belt.

“Don’t, Helmfrid. He’s at least a Sextus. They’ll hunt us to the ends of the earth.”

Helmfrid ignores the warning. He stands, releases a held breath as no arrows fly. There’s a pause, then the other two reluctantly scramble to their feet as well. Still nothing.

Helmfrid takes a step toward Ulciscor, steel glinting in his hand now.

Ah, vek.

The Will of the Many

VIII

I’M MOVING, SPRINTING HARD THROUGH mud and bursting from the brush in an explosion of leaves and snapping twigs, waiting for an arrow to bury itself in my back. I only have to cover about fifty feet but all three men are alert, their attention on me immediately, the short sword in Helmfrid’s hand snapping in my direction. He doesn’t hold it with confidence, though, nor adopt any particular stance as he takes in my charge. He doesn’t know how to use the weapon.

I still have to deal with him first.

It probably takes less than five seconds to cover the distance to Helmfrid. It feels an eternity. It should be an eternity, as far as the black-braided man preparing himself is concerned. And yet he’s strangely passive, sluggish; I expect to have to dodge, but he’s still on his backswing when I’m barrelling into him, fist aimed at his jaw.

I miss.

It’s the mud, more than anything else, heavily agitated from the Transvect’s rough landing and too slick for proper footing. Instead of connecting cleanly, my good shoulder catches Helmfrid in the chest and we go down in a tangle of limbs, both of us thrashing wildly. There’s pain in my right side, sharp and hot and terrifying, but I jerk away from it, snarling and twisting. I have a second to see Helmfrid’s panic up close before my forehead finds his nose with an audible crunch. His eyes flutter into the back of his head.

I put one hand to the blazing, sticky wet of my side but don’t stop to check the injury, staggering to my feet and rushing grimly at the stocky man next, who’s flailing backward and slipping in the churned-up muck as he realises his armed comrade is down. This time my punch lands; teeth buckle, and he gives a gargling scream before I follow up with a second strike to the jaw. He drops.

The red-bearded man hasn’t moved yet. Shocked. Then his expression turns resolute and he charges, I think from desperation more than confidence. His fist sails well wide of anything he could possibly be aiming for; I’m almost bemused as I watch it pass. Then I close, clumsily thanks to my throbbing side, but still far too fast for him. I deliver a glancing blow to his shoulder, then use my momentum to grapple him around and slam him down against a thick, fallen log. The branches still attached rustle and quiver.

“Who are you?” I snarl, my face inches from his as I pin him, forearm against throat.

The man’s face is mostly in shadow. Stringy red hair falls over his eyes. “Anguis.” He chokes it out, struggling to breathe. “We just want food.”

I must ease up at the claim, or perhaps he senses hesitation. He twists, trying to deliver a hard punch to my wound.

I don’t give him the chance, elbowing him in the temple.

“What a surprise,” I mutter as I let his limp form slide against the sodden tree, though it’s more from frustration than any real disgust. Anguis. The only ones, as far as I’m aware, who are still fighting the Republic. Years ago, in those terrible months after Suus, I would have given a limb to have made contact with these people.

That was before I saw the results of their resistance firsthand, of course. I once heard my father describe the Anguis as children throwing a tantrum, but I never believed it until I witnessed the aftermath of one of their attacks on a small northern Tensian village. Octavii crippled and unable to work, a dead Septimus with a weeping family. Homes burned, valuables looted, and stores for the winter stolen.

No one there had any love of their conquerors, and yet the lips of every villager I passed cursed the Anguis, not the Hierarchy. And rightly so.

I shudder as the thrill of the fight leaves me, pulling into focus the pain just above my hip. Still on my knees, I carefully bring my left hand across to the wound. It comes away red. My tunic and cloak are both slashed, and blood is seeping from the gap. I press my hand back firmly. Not a scratch, but not fatal either. I think.

“Well. At least we know you can beat up untrained Octavii if you need to.”

I whirl at the woman’s voice. My eyes take a second to adjust as I turn from the flaming wreckage; the first thing I see is the nocked arrow pointing right at my heart, not twenty feet away. As I raise my free hand, the face behind the drawn bow resolves. Blank confusion overpowers everything else as I try to place her. Brown eyes, dark skin. Curly brown hair plastered to her cheeks. Maybe a few years older than me.

“You.” I find the match, finally. She’s from the Theatre. The one who kept asking Gaufrid for an introduction.

“Me.” The bow doesn’t move an inch. “Nice to finally meet you, Diago.”

There’s a mental dissonance when the name I haven’t heard for three years registers. A full eternity-like second where I move inexorably from convinced I’ve misheard, to terrified numbness. The danger from the crash, the shock of Ulciscor’s actions, my injury—they’re all distant compared to how naked I feel. How utterly exposed.

I’m too unbalanced to hide my reaction, at least fully, and I silently curse when I see a glint of satisfaction in her eyes at the confirmation.

My gaze flicks toward the naked steel that’s lying next to Helmfrid, only a few feet away.

“Uh-uh.” She ushers me in the other direction with her bow. A relaxed motion, but one I can tell she means. I obey, standing and moving a few stiff steps to the right. “Better.”

“Who are you?” I monitor Ulciscor’s prone form from the corner of my eye, arrow shaft jutting from his leg. He’s breathing, at least, but there’s no sign he’s going to wake up and help.

“My name is… Sedotia.” The deliberate way she says it is to let me know it’s not her real one. “And I just want to talk.”

“I can see that.” I try not to let pain seep into my voice as I indicate the arrow still pointed at me. I’m starting to feel light-headed.

“You dealt with these three rather quickly. I thought it might be best to prevent any misunderstandings, on your behalf.” Sedotia watches my face, then unhurriedly lowers her bow. The arrow remains nocked, though. “And we don’t have much time before more of them arrive.”

“Them?”

“Us,” she corrects herself, somewhat tetchily. “Anguis. There are about twenty men on their way, expecting to be liberating sacks upon sacks of grain soon. We need to be gone before they arrive.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I try to make sense of what’s happening, glancing at the three unconscious men, then at Sacro. He’s lying on his face. There’s a pulpy red hole the size of my fist in the back of his head. “If you’re all Anguis, why aren’t you working together?”

“Rotting fools weren’t supposed to be here yet. I suspect they were trying to take a little extra for themselves.” She follows my gaze. “Choices and consequences, Diago. As for why I’m not with the others who are coming, there are currently only three people in the Anguis who know who you really are. I’d like to keep it that way, and I imagine you would too.”

I grit my teeth. “So this raid just happened to take place today?”

“This raid was meant to happen in another month, on a Transvect carrying a far more valuable cargo. I spent most of last night bringing the plan forward.” The last statement is prickly with impatience.

“How did you know I’d be on board?”

“As soon as I realised he was at the Theatre last night”—she jerks her head at Ulciscor—“I knew you’d be on board for Solivagus today.”

“Which is when you decided to make us crash?”

“Not my first choice.” Sedotia gives me a reproving look. “There would have been a lot less fire and violence and death and so on if you’d just spoken to me on any of the…” She ticks off fingers. “Four? Four different times I tried to contact you, at the Theatre. And I thought I still had weeks, but someone”—she casts a glance at Ulciscor that seems mostly peeved—“got to Letens Prison much faster than I expected.”

She pauses, looking at me expectantly, and my breath catches as I understand.

“You planned for the Quintus to meet me.”

“We planned for him to hear about a particular prisoner’s transfer in about a month, and then for you to get his attention when he arrived. Deliberately, following instructions we gave you.” She shakes her head. “He’s been wanting someone in the Academy for years, but still. We were lucky he noticed you.”

She leaves the last part as something of a question. I ignore it. I’m having trouble concentrating. I can’t let this go on much longer. “The Anguis want me in the Academy, then. Fine. Surely that means I should be saving Ulciscor and getting this thing back in the air, not leaving with you.”

“You’re not ready.” The unflinching certainty in her voice is chilling. “You’re not ready for the Academy and you’re not ready to deal with the Magnus Quintus. He is… formidable. He will already have realised that something’s off about your background, your education. He’ll have agents looking into every aspect of your past within hours of your arriving in Deditia. Every conversation you have with him, with his friends, with his servants—they will all be tests, traps. Every. Single. One.” She softens, a touch of desperation as she glances at the still-silent forest. “Look, you’re clearly wounded. You need help. Give us three weeks to prepare you—a month at most. He won’t be sending you to the Academy before second trimester begins anyway.”

The rain’s easing, I note absently. Behind me, the popping and snapping of burning wood is dying down. There’s an eery hush.

“And how would I get back to Ulciscor?” I feel like my words are starting to slur, but Sedotia doesn’t appear to notice.

“Easy. We ransom you. Or we try to ransom you, but you heroically free yourself before the Quintus makes payment. The Senate does love a good story.” She looks around again. Nervous.

“Assuming your other men don’t kill him today, of course.”

“They’re not that stupid. He’ll be fine.”

I pretend to consider as I give myself a few seconds to steady. “The answer is no.”

“No?” Sedotia’s tone is dangerous. Her bow twitches upward a touch.

“I don’t know what the Anguis want of me, but I can guess.” Do well at the Academy. Graduate to a powerful position of their choosing somewhere in the Hierarchy, where they can make best use of me. Somewhere I’d have to cede. “I’m not interested. And Ulciscor is already intending to train me before I leave for Solivagus.”

“Ulciscor wants you to fit in enough to find out what he wants to know. We want you to be Domitor. Believe me, there’s a difference.” There’s frustration in Sedotia’s every line. “Gods’ graves. They killed your family. Stole your home. Don’t you want to do something about it?”

Even through my physical pain the reminder’s a dagger, made keener by accusation.

“Of course I do,” I say softly. Witheringly. “But it’s not possible. I made my choice three years ago. I ran.” I say it with neither pride nor shame. It’s not entirely an act, but nor do I add that I have my own plans, or that I consider the Anguis to be little more than ineffectual thugs. “This is my best chance at finding something approaching a normal life.”

I can hear Sedotia’s teeth grinding. “If you knew the risks I’ve…” She trails off and her bow comes back up, drawn and pointing squarely at me again. “It doesn’t matter. You only have this chance because of me, and you seem to be under the mistaken impression that this is some kind of offer. So let’s go, before I have to carry you.”

My heart thuds. I can still feel blood leaking between my fingers. “You don’t gain anything from shooting me.”

Sedotia sights down the arrow. “I’ll feel better.”

I keep my hand raised and breathe out, then take a sidling step toward Ulciscor. “I’m going to pick him up. Then we’re getting back on board and leaving.”

There’s a distant shout, barely audible through the trees, back toward the rear of the Transvect. Sedotia hears it too and curses. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe.” I take another step.

Sedotia closes her eyes, shoulders slumping as she lowers her bow. “Brat. Fool. Ungrateful little…” she mutters, loud enough that I’m plainly meant to hear it. Then, louder, as I hurry over to Ulciscor, “I’ll give you a month to reconsider. There’s a naumachia being held in Caten during the Festival of Jovan. Be there.”

I sling Ulciscor’s arm around my neck, straining to lift him. Fire blazes across my side, and my injured shoulder screams at me to stop. “Or what?”

“Or everyone finds out who you are. The Senate executes you. Maybe you’re a martyr. Maybe having an enemy infiltrate so deep causes political chaos, new suspicions that we can take advantage of.” Sedotia’s voice is laced with promise. “We’ve made an investment in getting you here. We’ll take our due, one way or another.”

The shouts are louder. I’m already stumbling toward the front of the Transvect, half dragging Ulciscor along with me. I believe her. “How am I supposed to get there?” I gasp.

“That’s not my problem.” She glances along the length of the Transvect, then strides toward me. My hesitation at her approach is just long enough for her to reach down and rip the arrow from Ulciscor’s thigh.

I recoil, expecting blood to bubble from the wound, but there’s oddly little. Maybe something to do with his self-imbuing? Sedotia flicks crimson from what appears to be a stone arrowhead, then spins and stalks into the forest.

“One month, Diago,” she calls as she disappears.

I redouble my efforts, cursing at the pain in my side, growling insults at the unconscious man about his eating habits, and coercing my body to keep plodding through the thick mud. Only mounting apprehension overcomes my aching, woozy exhaustion; the shouts have drawn close enough to pick out individual voices, almost to hear the words themselves.

I finally reach the front cabin, throwing open the door in the Transvect’s pointed nose and dragging Ulciscor inside. It’s small, barely more than six feet high, and less than twice that in length. There’s a single, narrow window in the door. A bench sits opposite a stone panel that’s clearly the focus of the space.

I abandon Ulciscor to the seat and inspect the panel, but it’s an effort just to move now, and the dizziness that’s been tugging at me for the past few minutes is getting worse. There are four levers, colour-coded. No writing.

Wonderful.

Urgent calls come from outside as someone spots the bodies on the ground. I shut the door as quietly as I can and then frown at the controls, doing my best to peer through the fog of my fatigue to any logic behind their arrangement. Three are up, and one—the red lever, right-most in the group—is down. That could be the emergency stop, I suppose.

I shrug to myself. Throw the red lever.

There’s an alarming shudder and I stumble, sagging back against the cold stone wall. The shouting outside has turned furious and panicked.

The Transvect begins to rise.

I sway to my feet again. Go from feeling inordinately pleased with myself to anxious as the ground falls away, realising that I truly have no idea what I’m doing. But the Transvect would have been built with limitations on how much damage a single person could do from in here. Wouldn’t it?

I run my hands over the other three levers. Blue, yellow, white.

I throw the blue lever, mainly because it’s next to the red one.

There’s nothing but a strange clunk, and I wonder if anything’s happened at all. Then a horrendous crashing sound draws me to the sole window; I stare downward in bewilderment before realising I’m watching most of the Transvect rolling, crashing, and crumpling its way through the forest far below.

“Not the right one,” I mutter hazily, shaking my head admonishingly to myself. Then I brighten as I remember it was the Hierarchy’s. “Not the wrong one, either.” My words are coming out slurred. Hopefully I didn’t kill anyone down there. I snicker to myself as I realise how strange I’d look to anyone watching. Some part of my mind is wittering at me, warning me that I’m losing to the wound and the shock of everything’s that happened. That I need to get us moving forward.

Two levers left. Yellow’s next.

We stop rising and start moving forward.

I crumple to the stone floor; there’s nowhere else to sit. Ulciscor is splayed on the only seat. Still unconscious, still breathing. I glare at him.

“You had better appreciate this,” I mutter drowsily.

The Transvect’s picking up speed. I’m not sure whether the final lever should be used to limit it, or whether throwing it will drop us from the sky. I’m too tired to figure it out. Blood, I note absently, is still pulsing from underneath my tunic. Dragging Ulciscor in here did nothing to improve my injury.

Perhaps, I tell myself fuzzily, sleep will help.

The Will of the Many

IX

THE RISE AND FALL OF waves crashing, muted by walls but distinct and so, so familiar. For the haziest, most wonderful moment, it’s years ago and I’m back in Suus. In my own room. Safe.

Reality reasserts itself, ugly and sharp.

I’m lying on a bed. There’s a dull, throbbing pain in my side. People are talking in hushed tones. It takes me a few breaths to process it all, to remember that last I knew, I was on the floor of the Transvect’s control cabin as we ploughed through the murk of the receding storm.

With an effort I stay still, eyes closed. Focus on the voices. There’s an annoying tickle in my throat, but I suppress it.

“We’re going to get in trouble.” Male. Whispered. More annoyed than worried.

“Better than being bored.” A feminine voice, this time. Soft as well, but cheerfully wheedling. “Aren’t you curious? That Transvect turned up from Tensia looking like it was more ash than stone. Most of it was missing! And the only people who know what happened are the Quintus, and him.” From the way she says it, she’s pointing at me. “Come on. We can be subtle about it.”

“Of course I’m curious. I just don’t—”

The feather in my throat becomes too much and I cough, as lightly as I can, but the way the conversation cuts off indicates they know I’m conscious now. I feign waking—not that they’ve revealed anything particularly illuminating—and then crack an eyelid.

“Hail?” I rasp the word at the ceiling.

“He’s awake.” A scuffling of movement, a mutter of protest from the male. Then there’s a cup being pressed into my hand and the face of a girl about my age comes into view, peering down at me. She has smooth, light olive skin and bright green eyes. Straight brown hair cascades forward over her face as she grins sunnily at me through the strands. “Welcome.”

I grasp the cup and then prop myself up on one elbow, my body immediately regretting the motion. I’ve been tended to, bandaged and bathed, but I still ache everywhere, my side especially. With the driving terror of the crash and ensuing fight no longer pulsing through me, I’m beginning to realise just how badly bruised I truly am.

“Who are you?” I gulp the water gratefully after asking the question, using the time to take stock. A boy—again, my age—stands a little back from my bed, looking disgruntled. He’s the very image of handsome Catenan stock, with thick, fashionably tousled black hair and a jutting jawline. Intelligent brown eyes examine me curiously, but he doesn’t respond.

Beyond him, the room we’re in is a long one. I’m in one of five separate single beds. The others are empty. Thick, seamless stone makes up the walls, upon which hang a variety of tasteful paintings, mostly peaceful landscapes interspersed with an occasional portrait. I don’t recognise any of the people depicted.

Along the shorter wall, though, opposite the sole entrance, a massive symbol is etched into the stone: three separate lines stretching upward to a common goal, forming a pyramid. The words STRONGER TOGETHER are written underneath.

Just in case anyone forgot who was in charge, I suppose.

“My name’s Emissa. The scowl-y one is Indol. Don’t drown yourself,” Emissa adds, eyeing a dribble from my steadily emptying cup.

Behind her, Indol scowls. “I’m not…” He seems to realise he’s proving Emissa’s point and shakes his head, breaking out into what appears to be a genuine, if rueful, smile.

“Where am I?” Their ages, and the Transvect’s original destination, means I’m already fairly confident of the answer. Better to know, though.

“The Catenan Academy. The Catenan Academy’s infirmary, to be specific. You arrived last night on a Transvect. Well. A part-Transvect. A well-cooked part-Transvect.” Emissa leaves no doubt that this is something that requires explanation.

Behind her back, Indol rolls his eyes apologetically at me. “Maybe let’s ask him his name first?”

I test each of my limbs, relieved to find them all working adequately. “Vis.” My torn and bloodied tunic has been replaced by a simple, well-fitting white one, but I have no shoes or cloak. “What happened to the Quintus who was with me?” There’s nothing to suggest I’m in trouble here—no hint of a guard, and I’m not bound—but I feel trapped all the same. The sooner I find Ulciscor, the better.

“Talking with some of the Praeceptors.” Emissa makes a dismissive motion. “He’s a Quintus. He’s fine.”

“And I’m sure he’ll be by soon,” adds Indol, addressing me but clearly meaning it for Emissa.

“How long have I been here?”

“Half the night. It’s just past dawn.” Emissa studies me. Intense and curious. “What happened to you?”

“Subtlety incarnate,” mutters Indol, not quite under his breath, behind her.

“Our Transvect was attacked.” I’m thinking as furiously as my fresh-from-unconsciousness mind will allow. How much did Ulciscor see before he was knocked out? What should I tell him?

“By who?”

“I didn’t get names. On account of all the fire and the crashing and the running,” I clarify.

“Excuses.” The corners of Emissa’s mouth are turned upward. “So the Quintus saved you?”

“Something like that.”

“Strange. Because Belli—she’s in our class—overheard him and Praeceptor Nequias talking not long after you turned up, and she swears that it sounded like you’re the one who…”

She trails off at the sound of the door opening. All three of us turn to see a girl leaning anxiously through, breathing hard. Her skin’s pale beneath a mass of curly auburn hair that hangs almost to her waist.

“Someone’s coming,” she hisses, beckoning urgently, acknowledging my presence with her eyes but directing the gesture at the other two.

“Rotting gods. Told you.” Indol scampers toward the door.

Emissa makes a face at me that’s somehow amused and panicked and apologetic all at once. “Feel better. And, if you don’t mind, if anyone asks…”

“You were never here.”

She flashes another smile, then flees after Indol.

I lie back on the bed once they’re gone. So Ulciscor’s already discussed the attack with others here. He’d remember confronting the Anguis—but not necessarily know that they were Anguis—and then nothing, presumably, until whenever he woke up. Probably on the Transvect sometime between the Tensian wildlands and here.

I should avoid mentioning that he killed a man. I’m not sure the consequences for a Magnus Quintus would necessarily be severe, Birthright or no—but he’d surely see it as disloyal.

I’m interrupted after not more than a minute of thought by the door opening again. The sole man who slips through brightens as he sees me.

“You’re awake.” He’s in his mid-twenties. Handsome, with short, ruffled dirty-blond hair and thoughtful blue eyes. The white cloak of a physician is draped across his shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

Despite the situation, my tension eases a little at his genuinely concerned tone. “Fine.” I’m betrayed by a wince as I shift, sharp pain tugging at my side. “Where am I?” He’s likely only here to check on my health, but no need to let him know I’ve spoken to anyone else.

“The Academy. You’re safe. As is Magnus Quintus Telimus, I’m told,” he adds with brisk efficiency as he checks my dressing. “And you’re not ‘fine,’ I’m afraid. The Quintus bandaged you up as best he could, but even with salves and rest, that wound is going to take a week or two to heal.”

“Could have been worse.” My teeth clench as he begins grasping each limb in turn and pressing, pulling, rotating, and generally probing them systematically. Every touch seems to find a fresh bruise. “Is that necessary?”

“Have to check nothing’s broken.” He shakes his head in vague dismay as he gets to my bad shoulder, noting its resistance and the pain on my face. “What happened here?”

“It took a hit when we jumped out of the Transvect.” He looks at me, puzzled. “While it was still in the air,” I elaborate.

The physician pauses, just enough to show nonplussed amusement. “Ah. Well. That would do it,” he allows with exaggerated mildness. “I think the medical advice would be to not disembark that way next time.”

We share a grin.

“There was an explosion not long after we left Letens, and our section was burning. Plus it looked like the whole thing was going to crash. Which it did.” I twitch beneath his ministrations, relatively gentle though they are. “Magnus Telimus took the brunt of the fall.” I’m not sure if I should refer to him as my father yet, given the need for senatorial ratification, so I don’t.

“That cut in your side wasn’t from a fall, though.”

“No. We were attacked. I caught a sword.” No way to deny it.

The physician moves on from my shoulder. “Even with the Quintus there?”

“He got knocked out. I’m not sure how.” I’m still a little groggy, finding it hard to focus. This is probably ground I should be steering the conversation away from.

There’s respect in the man’s appraising glance this time. “So you fought them by yourself? How many were there?”

Definitely dangerous territory, but it will look strange if I become reticent. “Three left, when Magnus Telimus got hit. I was still hiding at that point. I managed to take them by surprise, and only one of them was armed. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I was lucky.” I think that covers everything Ulciscor might have seen.

“Sounds like a nasty business.”

“It was.”

The physician makes a sympathetic sound, moving on to carefully unwrap the bandage around my wound. It’s smeared with some sort of thick green unguent, and dark red fluid still seeps from the stitched-up slash, but it’s not as bad as I expected.

“You said only one of them was armed,” the blond-haired man says absently as he works, dabbing the gash clean with a damp cloth and then applying more salve. “How did the Quintus end up with an arrow wound?”

Vek.

“It came from somewhere else in the forest. I never saw who shot him.” I’m proud of how smoothly I recover, no hesitation to the answer. “I expected to be shot too, but…” I shrug, immediately regretting the motion as pain washes through my torso.

“Strange.” It’s not delivered with even a trace of suspicion, thankfully. More of a distracted observation. “Was there anything unusual about the arrow?”

“I don’t know. It hurt Magnus Telimus more than I expected. Nothing specific, though,” I hedge. Feeling my unease build, even through the patina of haze coating my mind. Too many questions.

“Not even when you took it out of his leg?”

I’m saved from another scrambling lie by a commotion outside, voices raised. The argument’s muffled, but I recognise Ulciscor’s commanding tone even so.

The door opens and another man sticks his head in. He’s swarthy and slim, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles with clear glass in them. I can’t help but notice the dark bags around his eyes as he gives the man tending my injuries an enquiring look.

The physician sighs, more resigned than irritated. “Let him in, Marcus. He’s Vis’s father now, after all.”

The head at the door vanishes, and a moment later Ulciscor is striding through. His black cloak is gone, replaced by a pristine white tunic and toga with a single purple stripe, indicating his senatorial status. He has clearly bathed, but otherwise looks just as he did yesterday. No obvious bandaging on his leg. He doesn’t even look like he’s favouring it.

His eyes—a shade darker than usual—don’t leave me as he walks over. There’s a bleak quiet to him. He stops just short of my bed, then turns to the physician.

“Hail, Veridius.”

The Will of the Many

X

“ULCISCOR.” THE MAN IN THE white cloak strides over and wraps Ulciscor in a fierce embrace. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long.” Ulciscor’s pensive demeanour melts away as he pounds Veridius on the back a couple of times before breaking away again. He jerks his head toward the door. “The guard was a bit much.”

“Sorry. My assistant. He’s been rather security-oriented, recently. Nothing to do with Vis here, or you.” His cheer slips to something more apologetic. “A long story.”

I watch the exchange. Genuinely confused. Veridius. The man I’m supposed to be spying on. The man in charge here.

“You two know each other?” I ask a question with an obvious answer, mostly to cover my surprise. Trying to look curious rather than terrified as I replay what I’ve just revealed. I was being careful. Not nearly as careful as I might have been, though.

“We do. Veridius here is actually head of the Academy,” Ulciscor tells me, a small smile on his lips. Acting as if he’s revealing a remarkable truth.

“What?” I play the part, looking at Veridius in shock. “I’m so sorry, Principalis. I thought you were…” I indicate his cloak, giving a nervous and contrite half laugh.

Veridius chuckles genially. “No apology necessary, Vis. I should have introduced myself, but I know my presence for prospective students can cause more stress than comfort sometimes. Given the circumstances, I thought it might be better that we simply focus on your injury. Which I am trained to tend,” he assures me. “Ulnius usually heads up the infirmary here, but I step in when needs be. He asked me to look in on you while he attended someone else.”

“That makes sense. I appreciate it.” My mind’s still racing. Veridius says it all so smoothly, amiable and warm and effortless. He radiates affable charm. And yet as I replay our conversation, there’s no doubt he was poking for information.

Doing it well, too. Another minute, and I may well have dug myself too deep a hole.

Ulciscor vacillates, then glances at me. “You mentioned that you were applying, then?”

I’m blank, then inwardly curse as I realise. “No.” Another mistake. I’m off-balance.

“We had the manifest transcribed over from Letens. I just assumed, when I saw you’d adopted him,” supplies Veridius to Ulciscor. He claps me gently on the back. “I know Ulciscor wouldn’t choose just anyone—not with all the history his family has here. The application was always just a formality, and I’m glad to accept it. If your mettle after that attack is anything to go by, I’m looking forward to seeing how you fare.”

“Thank you, Principalis.” I don’t know what else to say.

“There will be some paperwork for Ulciscor to fill out, so if you’re well enough, perhaps you would like a tour of the facilities while he—”

“I wish we could stay, Veridius, but we need to get to Caten,” Ulciscor interrupts. “Quartus Redivius and the others will have already heard about what happened, and… well. You can imagine. Thank you for admitting him. I’ll send the forms along as soon as I can.” He’s brisk, acting as if it’s important we get moving. “Can he travel?”

Veridius hesitates, so briefly that I’m not sure it isn’t my imagination. “He’ll be fine.” He turns to me. “Just make sure you rest as much as you can, and see a physician regularly over the next week or so to get the bandages changed.” That same gentle, genuinely concerned demeanour. If it’s an act, it’s near perfect.

“I will.”

Ulciscor steps forward before Veridius can say more. “Then we should go.”

“You’ll need this at the gate.” Veridius hands Ulciscor a thin, triangular stone tile, not much larger than a Foundation piece.

Ulciscor accepts it and then the two men embrace again, for all the world looking as though they’re old friends. “It was good to see you, even if it’s been brief.”

“If Vis is coming here, I have no doubt our paths will cross again soon.”

“I hope so.” Ulciscor says it cordially, then heads for the exit. I bid my farewell to Veridius and trail after the Magnus Quintus.

“Ulciscor.”

We stop just short of the door, and Ulciscor turns. Completely casual, but I swear his eyes go a shade darker.

“Is this the first time you’ve been back?”

“Yes.” Quiet. That darkness in his eyes isn’t my imagination. We’re away from the window, though, so I don’t think Veridius will be able to see it in the dim.

“His memorial is over past the quadrum, just to the west. Facing the sunset.” Veridius’s smile has vanished, replaced by unaffected sadness. “If you were interested.”

Ulciscor stares, and for just a second it looks like the mask is going to slip. His throat tightens. Breath shortens. He responds with a stiff nod, then whirls and walks away.

Not before I see the darkness completely flooding his eyes, though.

OUR FOOTSTEPS ECHO AGAINST THE hewn granite walls of the empty hallway. Morning light spills through tall archways onto the stone. The corridor we’re walking is set into the side of a cliff; the view is of a vast, forested island to the north, and swelling water everywhere else.

I stumble at the sight of the latter, heart wrenching. The peaks of waves glitter. Sparkle. I can smell the salt. A series of massive white stone monoliths jutting from the blue, perhaps a mile from the shore, mars the view. But otherwise, it’s all light and clean colours and open horizons down there.

I haven’t seen the sea in almost two years.

“We’ll talk once we’re away.” Ulciscor’s eyes have cleared again, returned to their thoughtful deep brown. As if that repressed, low-burning fury was never there.

It takes only a couple of turns before we’re climbing spiralling stairs and emerging into a massive hall, grand marble columns supporting a curving roof above. Floor-to-ceiling arches on one side reveal that we’re at the very top of the cliff. Several doorways opposite branch out into separate rooms, and a smattering of students mill and chatter just outside them, congregating in small groups.

Ulciscor doesn’t pause, angling for the main entrance. We catch several stares as we pass, particularly me with my stiff gait. A trail of hushed, curious murmurs forms our wake.

“So this is the Academy?” I ask the question mostly to distract myself from the pressure of everyone’s eyes.

“This is the Curia Doctrina. The main assembly hall.” We exit the building and Ulciscor motions back behind us, up at the yawning archway we’ve just walked through.

I turn to see friezes carved with lavish intricacy across it. Etrius with his famed wingblade; the capture of the fortress Orun Tel; the forming of the first Triumvirate. Other instantly recognisable glories from Catenan history.

It takes me a moment, but I realise that the pictures all flow into one another, combining with remarkable artistry to spell out words. STRONGER TOGETHER.

“Mawraur, bacpidyn,” I murmur to myself, without really thinking.

Ulciscor gives me an appraising look. “Cymrian?”

I nod, surprised by his recognition of the language: it’s not just rare, but officially considered dead by the Hierarchy. The only reason I know it is that my mother’s father was from the icy Cymrian wastelands, and despite the nation’s fall more than twenty years before Suus’s, she insisted I be tutored in it. The man she chose for the job, Cullen, used to delight in teaching a young prince the most foul phrases his native tongue had to offer. Not that I was ever an unwilling student.

“What does it mean?”

I cough. “It’s, ah… something about using extravagance as… compensation for other deficiencies.”

“Ah.” Ulciscor eyes the frieze. “Yes. Mawraur, bacpidyn,” he concedes with a smirk.

There are more students out the front of the Curia Doctrina, though fewer of them take note of us as we descend the sweeping white stairs. We’re entering an enormous open square, easily more than three hundred feet in both length and width. Buildings rise on each edge—temples, a gymnasium for training, a Bibliotheca, even what looks like a set of baths—and people come and go from almost all of them. Despite the sun being barely above the horizon, the space is brimming with activity.

“Hm.” Ulciscor cocks his head to the side. “I’ve heard you use vek. An Aquirian curse?”

“That’s right.” Suus and Aquiria mostly shared a tongue; the dialects were different, but only native speakers would know the difference.

“What about guiro thanat?”

My brow furrows. I must have said that in front of him at some point. “Sytrecian. It’s more of an insult. The rough translation is someone who could ‘brighten a room with their absence, or dazzle it with their corpse.’ ” I smile slightly. I’ve always liked that one.

“All that in two words?”

“Apparently so.”

“I’ve studied a little Sytrecian and Cymrian, and never heard either of those phrases.”

“I guess you didn’t study hard enough.” I wave off his penetrating look. “I had a Cymrian tutor, back in Aquiria. He was the one who taught me a little Vetusian, too—he always said I had a knack for languages. And I picked up Sytrecian from the crew of the ship that got me to Tensia, after…”

I trail off. Deliberately, carefully let memories of my real family flood my mind. Let the grief in, just briefly.

Ulciscor watches me, then nods and lets the matter drop. He steers us off to the left, away from the bright white of the square and down a narrow, garden-lined path. A chill breeze whips in off the ocean. I breathe in salty air and aching nostalgia.

“Alright.” Ulciscor glances behind us. “I came as soon as I heard you were awake. How much did Veridius get out of you?” An uneasy edge still to his tone, even if he thinks we’re safe to talk.

I relate what’s happened since I regained consciousness, recounting what I said as accurately as possible. Ulciscor listens intently as we emerge from the ring of buildings and strike out along a path that traces the line of the clifftop, a short stone wall providing safety without obscuring the view. The entire Academy’s built atop this high plateau, apparently.

My eyes stray to the vista beyond as I talk. The island is vast, from what I can see of it from here. It’s blanketed by verdant forest; much is also mountainous, steep cliffs vanishing into puffs of low-hanging clouds in the distance. Deep ravines form in between. I think I can see the winding glint of a river through the foliage in one of them.

To the west the sea roils, white-tipped waves smashing against bluffs that appear to form the entirety of the island’s beachless shoreline. Past my initial emotional reaction, I can see now that this place has none of the golden beauty of Suus. It’s austere. Bleak. The waves crash rather than lap; the sky is grey; the air bites where it touches skin in a way that it almost never does in the lands farther north.

“He was focusing on the attack, then. Not you specifically.” Ulciscor’s relieved as I conclude my explanation. “Probably wanted to figure out how I managed to get myself injured. Not to mention lose most of a Transvect along a route that very few people should have known we were taking.”

We’re approaching a much taller section of the stone wall, this part made of twenty-foot-long slabs of granite and spiked at the top, a clear warning against entry. Or exit, I suppose. It curves away from the cliff’s edge, dividing the Academy from the wilderness of the island. “He was certainly interested in how you got knocked out.”

“He’s not alone there.” Ulciscor half stoops to rub the back of his leg. “What did happen? I remember the men who were pretending they crashed with the Transvect. And then… nothing.”

I lick my lips, the Anguis fighter’s exploding head an indelible image.

“There was a woman hiding in the forest with a bow—she shot you, and you went down like it hit you in the head. She came out once you were unconscious, pulled her arrow out of your leg, said something to the men, and left. After that, it was pretty much what I told Veridius. They looked like they were going to kill you, so I took a chance.” I shrug uncomfortably. “Caught them by surprise, and I think they were only Octavii. Compared to the Theatre, it wasn’t hard.”

Ahead in the wall I spot an arched, covered passageway about thirty feet long and half as wide jutting from the stone. There are tall double doors set into its end, manned and closed. The Academy’s entrance, I assume.

Ulciscor eyes me. “Why not tell all that to Veridius?”

“I’m assuming there was something special about that arrow. I’ve never heard of a Quintus going down like that—maybe you have, but either way, it didn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d want me telling just anyone.”

Hardly a work of art, but given how little time I’ve had to come up with the answer, it’s not bad. Sure enough, Ulciscor nods his approval. “I’m going to have to ask around. Quietly. Hearing about a weapon like that is going to make a lot of people nervous. You’re sure they didn’t give any clue as to who they were?”

“None.”

Ulciscor looks like he wants to say more, but stays silent as we reach the gate.

There are guards standing to either side of the vaulted passageway, women wearing ankle-length tunics and stolas in sharp Catenan red. The older one with short-cropped black hair moves to block our path, albeit affably enough.

“Names?”

“Magnus Quintus Ulciscor Telimus. And Vis Telimus.” Ulciscor hands her the tile he got from Veridius.

The sun-browned woman slots the triangular stone into a thin slot in the wall. The granite doors grind aside, the sound echoing down the passageway and crashing against a matching rumble from the other end, where I can see a slit of daylight growing as an identical set opens to the forest beyond.

She signals to the other guard, who makes a note on a wax tablet. “Very good, Magnus Quintus. We’ve had word that a Transvect is on the way. It should be here soon.” She doesn’t return the stone tile.

We walk into the brief tunnel. I roll my shoulders as we enter; there’s something different about this space. An inscrutable oppressiveness. I quicken my step.

“Will cage,” Ulciscor explains, noting my discomfort. His words reverberate against the stone.

“Which is?”

“A way of ensuring nothing imbued gets into the Academy. When the doors are closed, the passage is completely encompassed by Will—a perfect seal. It cuts off any external Will connections to an object. What you’re feeling is someone else’s Will, all around you.” He looks resentfully at the surrounding granite, lowering his voice so that the guards can’t overhear. “It’s excessive. Gods-damned expensive to make and maintain.”

I try to keep the way my skin crawls from my expression. We’re soon exiting again, and I exhale, relishing the emergence. Behind us, the doors to the Academy rasp shut, a permanence in the boom of their sealing.

We’re greeted immediately by thick forest, the sole path through sloping violently downward directly ahead. Otherwise, the encroaching woodland forms walls to both sides and a thick roof above, creating the sense that we’re descending into another tunnel.

“The Transvect’s this way,” Ulciscor says, somewhat unnecessarily.

Before I can respond, I’m hit by another wave of light-headedness—something I’ve felt a couple of times since I woke—and stagger. Ulciscor notices. Steadies me with a hand on my arm and then stops, stooping to peer into my eyes.

“Did Veridius give you anything? Medicine?”

“Just the salve on my wound.”

“Too risky; he knows our own physician will be looking at it soon. Anything else? Something to eat or drink?”

“No.” I gather his meaning. “Surely he wouldn’t.”

“Nothing strong. Nothing provable. But a pinch of blackroot, maybe some ground-up wolfshem, would be enough to keep you off-balance. Would encourage mistakes in a conversation, without you necessarily noticing the effect.”

I think back uneasily. “I did have a glass of water. I think it was left by my bed. That was when the students were there, though, not Veridius.”

“You didn’t mention any students.”

I’d forgotten about them, to be honest. “There were three of them. They snuck in to find out what happened to the Transvect, but I didn’t tell them anything. I think they were just bored. We barely got a chance to speak, anyway.”

Ulciscor tugs at his sleeve. “Do you remember names?”

I wrack my brain. “Emissa, Indol, and Belli.”

“Hm. Indol would be Quiscil’s boy. Magnus Dimidius Quiscil. He’s Military,” Ulciscor extrapolates for my benefit. “I can’t imagine he did anything to you. And the other two names are familiar; I think they’re from Military families as well. Who gave you the water?”

“Emissa.”

“I’ll look into her.” He sees my expression. “Veridius is the Principalis, Vis. He’ll have a lot of sway with the students.” He makes sure I’m steady on my feet again, then releases his grip. “I’m not saying the ones you met did anything; this is probably just your body trying to catch up. The point is, you can’t discount it. You have to think of them in that light. Everyone you meet.”

“There’s something to look forward to.” Just the fact that the possibility occurred to Ulciscor is unsettling.

The big man frowns at the steep incline ahead. “Are you going to be able to manage?”

“Easier if you carried me.”

Ulciscor hesitates, then snorts. “Come on. If we miss this Transvect, it will be hours before we can schedule another.”

Despite my gentle mocking of Ulciscor’s concern, my side aches as we traverse the downward path. The surrounding brush remains green and thick, brambles and out-of-season wildberry cut back. A couple of other trails branch off into the darkness along the way. I’m too focused on my footing to wonder where they lead.

Soon enough the ground levels out, and we’re emerging onto an entirely empty platform that juts from the side of a cliff. There’s no way off it except the way we’ve just come, with a fifty-foot drop revealing itself on the three sides that aren’t hemmed by trees.

I perch beside the Magnus Quintus on one of the benches that line the two-hundred-foot-long stretch of stone. Even having spent the last minute descending, we can see almost the entire breadth of the island from here; it has to be at least twenty miles wide, maybe double that in length. Parts are still obscured, but I can’t spot anywhere that looks like a point of ingress. It reminds me of Suus’s south-eastern shore: no beaches, no gentle slopes leading onto the island itself. Nothing but cliffs and bluffs.

“Religion made it this way.” Ulciscor’s following my gaze and reading my thoughts. “It was mostly inaccessible to begin with, but three years ago they removed the remaining beaches. Activated the Seawall, too.”

“The Seawall?”

“Did you see that group of anchoring points from the Curia Doctrina? They’re part of a security measure that surrounds the island. It only allows Transvects through, and only at one specific access point.” He shakes his head. “It’s pre-Cataclysm, we think. Adapted by Veridius, somehow. But Religion isn’t exactly interested in letting us know the details.”

“Rotting gods.” I can’t even imagine how much Will that would take to work. Or how it would work. “Just for the Academy?”

“So they say.” Ulciscor gazes out at the horizon.

Neither of us speak for a while. Birdsong warbles at us. Distant, there’s the crashing of waves against cliffs.

“My little brother died out there.”

Ulciscor says the words so softly, I’m not sure I hear them correctly. I keep my eyes on the vista, then look at him questioningly.

He doesn’t turn from the deep forests of Solivagus. “His name was Caeror. He was in the same class as Veridius. We think he was killed to cover up whatever they’re hiding.” He draws in a precarious breath, then finally meets my gaze. Sad and grave. His expression brooks no follow-up. “This is a bad place, Vis. Dangerous. You can still back out, but this is your last chance to do it. Is this opportunity worth it? Is it worth your life?”

I study him as he hunches forward and looks over the jagged island again. A light sheen of sweat covers his dark pate, glinting in the sun. A few more things about the man click into place.

“I need to hear you say it,” he adds quietly.

This, or running forever at best. “Yes. It’s worth it.”

He gives a vaguely sorrowful smile, still gazing out into the distance. “They say that young men know they will die, but only old men believe it. For some reason, I don’t think that’s true of you, Vis. I hope it’s not.” He sighs. “Alright. There are two sites you’re going to need to look into when you’re here, locations we believe are important from years of investigation. The first is about a mile east of the Academy. Ruins that Religion are actively working on, but we don’t know any more than that.”

“Why can’t we just go and look at it now?”

“Don’t for a second think that because we’re alone out here, they’re not watching us. Besides, there will be alarms if it’s not actively guarded. And I don’t know its exact location.”

I feel a prickle along the nape of my neck at the suggestion of eyes on us, and nod.

Ulciscor subtly motions north and slightly westward. “See the large natural arch over there? Coming off the side of the cliff.”

I spot what he’s talking about, at least halfway across the island.

“There are significant ruins, about a mile farther, around the other side of the mountain. That’s the second site. For the past three Iudicia, that entire section of Solivagus has been kept off-limits. Religion’s hiding something out there.”

The rocky outcropping is miles away, across terrain that looks all but impossible to traverse. I’m perfectly capable of surviving in the wilderness—I’ve had the requisite training and plenty of experience in the forests of Suus—but a trip there and back would take a couple of days, minimum. “You want me to actually go to these places.”

“Unless you think you can investigate some other way.”

I consider what I’ve already seen of the Academy. The security Ulciscor’s already described. “How, though?”

Ulciscor shrugs. “You’re here for your ability to solve problems, Vis.”

The sea of treetops stretching out below ripples in gusts that streak across the island, an undulating green ocean between us and the arch.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say eventually.

Ulciscor accepts the statement as if it’s exactly the response he was expecting. Perhaps it was.

Silence falls between us again, comfortable at first, but then weighed with a sense of anticipation from Ulciscor. He’s waiting for me to speak. To broach something else with him.

I stare out across the carpet of forests. I don’t think he wants to talk about his brother; there was too much pain in the revelation, a distinct effort to move the conversation on. I have concerns about it—Ulciscor’s stake is far more personal than it first seemed—but this isn’t the time to raise them.

There’s really only one other thing that’s looming over us.

“You killed him.” I say it quietly, but there’s only the sounds of nature around us. No doubt that Ulciscor can hear.

Ulciscor’s thoughtful gaze out over the vista doesn’t waver for a few seconds. Then he sighs. Regret in the act, though no remorse that I can see. “I did.”

“What about Birthright?”

He finally looks at me. Curious. “Do you think I did the wrong thing?”

I resist the urge to be honest. To tell him that Birthright has always existed not for any moral reason, but as a means of maximising the Hierarchy’s power. To be applied only at their convenience. There’s a heartbeat where I see my father’s bloodied form as I fall, my sister’s ghostly hair in the water. The old rage stirs.

“I suppose you didn’t necessarily break the law.” It’s what he wants to hear, if not exactly an answer. “You could argue that killing a man intent on destruction is a net gain for life. That letting him live could easily have resulted in more deaths.” The loophole. My lungs are tight just thinking about it.

“I could. I would.” It’s that simple to him. “Is that a problem?”

“If it was, I would have mentioned it to Veridius.”

Ulciscor pauses, then grunts an acknowledgment. My point’s been made. I won’t press the issue, but I don’t for a second believe it would be ignored if others knew.

And I’m not alright with him just killing people.

There’s silence again, and I stew, though I’m careful not to show it. Birthright. The protection of every human life. Not the Hierarchy’s only hypocrisy, but one of their greatest. And Ulciscor treats it as blithely as any of his countrymen.

I wonder again whether I should have listened to Sedotia. Whether I’m in over my head here.

Too late now.

I examine the rocky curvature of that distant arch, and wait for the Transvect to take me into the heart of Deditia.

The Will of the Many

XI

AS A BOY, I HEARD a thousand different tales of caten. The great harbour capital of Deditia. The shining bastion of innovation and art and beauty. The beating heart of the world.

I’m still unprepared for my first sight of it.

We’ve been travelling for almost two hours across the Sea of Quus, the Transvect speeding hundreds of feet above even the tallest swells. The sun emerged an hour ago and water has been glittering as far as the eye can see, but now a thin, hazy line of land darkens the horizon. I lean up against the window as a jutting peninsula begins to take shape ahead.

Within minutes the Transvect is slicing across the mouth of a bay that has to be at least ten miles wide. Ships dot the sparkling surface below: fishing vessels, schooners, even what looks like a trireme in the distance. Farther still, there’s a mass of stone wharfs, bustling with activity.

And beyond, Caten.

The sunlight shimmers off an ocean of polished stone that screams the supremacy of Will. Sprawling mansions, triumphal arches, temples replete with towers that stretch impossibly high, each one distinct, twisting and curving and angled in ways that no standard construction method could ever achieve. Some of those have walkways between them, passageways with long arches that gaze imperiously down onto the streets beneath.

Between and surrounding all of that is… more. Smaller wooden structures, ten times the number of the stone ones. There are paved roads. Bustling squares. Expansive baths. Statues. Even from here, I can see that everything’s in constant motion throughout it all—not just people but larger objects, stalking or rolling along the streets. The great Will-driven machines I’ve heard so much about, presumably. Too distant to properly make out.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Ulciscor is watching me expectantly.

It’s terrifying. Terrifying. This is my enemy. These are the people who want me dead. The Hierarchy’s shadow lies over all, and I’ve never considered myself blind to their power, but this is something else. I can’t calculate the city’s size; I can’t see its end. Buildings both lavish and shabby coat the shores of the bay and then sprawl back up the gently rising ground beyond, until they fill the horizon in every direction. There’s no way to grasp its enormity, no mental comparison by which I can diminish the horrified awe it inspires.

Sometimes I believe my resistance means something. Sometimes my anger keeps me warm as I tell myself that somehow, one day, I might figure out a way to repay the pain and loss I owe to Caten.

It’s hard, when the lies that let you sleep are so cruelly laid bare.

“Not bad.” I keep my tone light. Grin in Ulciscor’s direction to show that, yes, I’m impressed. Tamp down the melancholy, burying it deep.

Ulciscor doesn’t follow up the observation, seeing I’m distracted. There’s been a lot of that, over the past two hours. He wants to talk—to start impressing upon me the countless things I no doubt need to learn before attending the Academy—but he’s giving me time to settle. To finally process the events of the past two days.

I’ve needed that, if not for the reasons he thinks. I spent the first half of the trip combing through every moment of the attack on the Transvect, everything I said to Veridius and then Ulciscor. Trying to decide if I gave anything away, and then making sure I have reasonable explanations for inconsistencies, strange behaviour, anything at all that could be questioned later.

For the second half, my worry has been focused squarely on Sedotia.

In the whistling hush of the Transvect’s cabin, I’ve been forced to acknowledge that she’s a problem I can’t ignore: the woman knows who I am and the more I replay her parting threat, the more I’m convinced she wasn’t bluffing. I have no intention of becoming an Anguis spy, but nor can I simply walk away.

Which means that I’m going to have to find a reason to be at this naumachia, somehow. I’ve heard of such events before: gladiatorial combat, but exchanging chariots and sand for ships and water. A massive, staged naval battle, put on at extraordinary expense and effort for the pleasure of the Catenan populace.

Not the sort of thing that Ulciscor is going to just let me wander off to see.

“How many people live here?” I tinge my voice with awe, knowing it’s what any Catenan expects from this experience.

“A little over a million, as of last census. More, if you count the outer districts.”

“Gods’ graves.” I make it a murmur, almost speaking to myself. “The old gladiators who were overseeing Victorum used to talk about the great arenas here, how many people would come, but I never really believed them.” I finally glance at Ulciscor. “Is it true that the Catenan Arena can hold more than fifty thousand people?” Understating the number, guessing how he’ll react.

“More than a hundred thousand.” Unmistakeable pride this time.

I scoff and shake my head, as if still not quite willing to accept it. Somewhere between impressed and disbelieving. “I can’t imagine it.”

“And yet,” Ulciscor insists, the smallest hint of annoyance in his voice.

“You’ve seen it? Been there, when it’s full?”

“Once or twice. The games are more entertainment for the mob than for senators, but it’s necessary from time to time. And they are spectacular,” he concedes, almost an afterthought. He smiles as he sees my fascination, how engaged I am at the thought. “Perhaps you’ll get the chance to see them for yourself, one day.”

I resume my observation of the city, content to leave it at that: Ulciscor will only find it suspicious if I press further, but the seed’s been planted. When I do express a desire to see the games being held during the Festival of Jovan, he’ll remember this conversation and think it’s because he’s piqued my interest.

“We won’t see much of the city itself today,” Ulciscor eventually says, apologetic. “The Transvect is stopping in the Praedium District. Warehouses, mostly. We’ll be taking a carriage from there to Sarcinia.”

That makes sense. This Transvect was redirected from the eastern provinces to pick us up; from what I saw, its cargo is largely grain. Even for a Magnus Quintus, I can’t imagine anyone would have been willing to divert a whole supply shipment farther than necessary.

“That’s where your estate is?”

He nods. “It’s about an hour’s ride.”

We’re bound for Ulciscor’s family estate, where I’m to spend the next two months. The Academy’s current year-and-a-half course started four months ago; the month-long break over the Festival of Jovan is only a few weeks away, so the Quintus has decided I’m to be tutored until the holiday has finished. That it’s better to “smooth out my rough edges,” as he puts it, rather than throw me to the wolves straight away.

He’s also warned me that he’ll be departing for his residence in Caten in a couple of days, leaving me in the care of others for my tutelage. I’m still not sure what to make of that. On one hand, it makes sense: he has senatorial duties, and he’s already made it clear that he wants to keep me far from the politicking of the capital while I train. On the other, though, it feels odd that he’s so willing to leave me without personal oversight.

“Will…”—I try to remember the name—“Lanistia meet us there?” The Sextus who will be in charge of my lessons, apparently.

“She should already be there.”

I squint at the insinuation of doubt into his voice. “Does she know we’re coming?”

“She knows I’m coming.” Ulciscor is vaguely sheepish. “I didn’t want to say too much about you in a public communication. So you’ll be a… surprise.” The way he says it, I’m not sure I’m going to be the kind of surprise that Lanistia necessarily likes.

“Ah. She knows about Veridius, though? About what we’re doing?” My gaze has drifted back to the city; we’re travelling obliquely to it, about to move from harbour to land. A schooner crosses my vision, and I barely pay it any attention before I realise that its bow is rising and falling sharply as it skims across the swells, despite having no sails raised. It zips beneath us, out of sight.

“She does, and she’s alone in that. Which means that when she speaks, she speaks with my voice—I expect you to show her the respect that demands, and do all that she asks, no matter how hard she drives you. And if there’s something you need to tell me, you can tell her, too. I trust her completely.”

The increasingly familiar shape of an anchoring point looms as the Transvect begins to slow. The wharves are below us now, a hive of industry in the midday sun, hundreds of ant-like figures loading and unloading enormous ships and what appear to be long, horseless carts. I spot some of the latter rolling smoothly away from the docks, ushered by sets of Octavii but clearly powered by Will. They’re laden with sacks, heading in the same direction we are.

I tear my gaze from the window. Caten is vast and foreign; I knew that already. I can’t get distracted.

It’s five minutes until we’re at a stop, coming to rest amid a sea of large, bland, similar-looking wooden warehouses. Across from me, Ulciscor dips into his pocket and slides on a pair of tinted glasses—the type reserved for Sextii and above, supposedly made using some special process in the faraway deserts of Nyripk—before standing. “Come on.”

I’m not sure whether it’s the Magnus Quintus’s glasses, the purple stripe on his toga, or both, but the swarm of workers hurrying to unload the Transvect parts like a wave before him. I trail in his wake, feeling the press of a hundred curious eyes.

The air at street level is thick, rancid, dust mixed with sweat and fish and human excrement from where Octavii have relieved themselves in nearby alleys. I gag at my first unsuspecting lungful. There’s a clamour, an assault of shouting across paved roads as workers compete to communicate with one another. It’s chaotic. Unpleasant.

“Over here.” Ulciscor beckons me to a carriage waiting on the other side of the street.

The driver alights from his seat as he spots us. “Sextus Tohrius sends his best regards, Magnus Quintus.” The sandy-haired man with a pockmarked face offers a small bow as he opens the door.

“Good to see you again, Marius. Please tell him I’m grateful for his help, and that I will be in Caten again in two days.”

“I shall.” The driver waits for me to climb in stiffly behind Ulciscor, sparing me a respectful acknowledgment before closing the carriage and resuming his seat. We’re rolling within moments, and I can hear Marius’s gravelly voice competing with all the others to clear the way.

“Tohrius is a client of mine,” Ulciscor explains as he pulls the curtain next to him, hiding us from view, “and Marius can be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Sarcinia’s far enough from Caten that as long as no one is sure you’re there, nobody will bother making the trip.” He signals for me to draw the curtain on my side, too.

I do so. “You really think anyone’s going to be that interested?”

“In an orphan who’s suddenly become a Telimus, adopted into one of the oldest patrician families in Caten? Yes, Vis. They’ll be interested.” A dry understatement. He turns his attention to a pile of documents that are waiting on the seat next to him. “I have a few things to catch up on here. You should sleep, if you can. Try and recover a little more from that wound. It might be your last chance for a while.” He licks a finger and begins flicking through the pages, focus fully on their contents.

I acknowledge him reluctantly, then settle back into my seat and close my eyes as the carriage begins to rattle across the cobblestones and out of Caten.

“WE’RE HERE.”

Ulciscor’s words stir me from a sun-induced torpor. I blink blearily, stretch muscles stiff from bracing against the constant juddering of the carriage. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but at some point Ulciscor opened the curtains again. It’s mid-afternoon.

I crane my neck to look ahead. We’ve just crested a rise, and I can see for miles. Everything is a lush green. The occasionally cloud-diffused sun beats down on fields of olives, carefully planted orchards, and the distant gold of wheat. Octavii—I assume—dot the landscape, working the soil with Will-powered machines, or picking, or in some cases tending livestock. There are hundreds of them.

“Our Sarcinian estates.” Ulciscor says it without any prideful inflection, despite the beauty on display. He indicates the mansion just up ahead, which the tree-lined gravel road is curling around toward. “Your home for the next two months.”

“Looks like it’ll do.”

He glances at me, then chuckles. “Don’t let Kadmos hear you say anything like that.” He starts gathering up the papers next to him.

Before I can ask who that is, the carriage is pulling to a stop and Marius is leaping down from his position at the front, opening the door for Ulciscor with practiced smoothness. “I apologise for the rough ride, Magnus.”

“Not your fault, Marius. The roads out here need maintenance, but we’ve had problems with brigands lately.” Ulciscor alights, and I follow. “You should be careful on the return journey.”

“I will, Magnus.”

“You’re welcome to rest and eat before you go.”

“I’m grateful, but Sextus Tohrius needs me back in Caten before nightfall.” The pockmarked man gives a deferential bow and then, seeing Ulciscor’s recognition, swings himself back up onto the driver’s bench. I watch as he deftly adjusts a stone dial, then uses the spoked wooden wheel to steer the carriage as it rolls forward.

“Ulciscor.”

The flat female voice turns both the Quintus and I. A young woman stands, arms crossed, on the portico to the villa. Wavy black hair falls around her face, and she’s wearing the reflective dark glasses of a Will user.

None of it covers her scowl. It’s clearly not directed at me, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a step back.

“Lanistia!” Ulciscor runs a hand over his shaven pate, face splitting into something that’s half genuine pleasure, half sheepishness. He shuffles in front of me, as if to block Lanistia’s view. “I thought you’d be—”

“Who’s this?”

“This is Vis. Vis… Telimus,” he adds with a cough.

Lanistia’s eyes are hidden beneath those glasses, and the rest of her face doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. Her disapproval still radiates like a physical heat.

I decide to stay silent.

“Sorry I’m late. The Transvect from Tensia was attacked,” Ulciscor continues after an awkward pause.

“I heard. Are you alright?” Reluctant care to the last part. She wants to be angry with him, I think, but she’s too concerned not to ask.

“Thanks to Vis here.” Ulciscor gives her the slightest of nods. A reassurance that he’s genuinely well.

Something in Lanistia’s face softens. “Good.” She strides forward. There’s a natural athleticism to her movements, reminiscent of the more talented Octavii I fought in the Theatre. Now she’s closer, I decide she can’t be more than five or six years older than me. “I’m Lanistia,” she says to me.

“Vis.”

Introductions apparently done, she turns back to Ulciscor. “The house isn’t set up.”

“Kadmos will manage.” He grins at her. The first time I’ve seen him smile with his eyes.

She growls, but the corners of her mouth quirk upward back at him. Not as austere as she first appeared, then. “Fine. Come on.” She heads back toward the mansion.

Ulciscor gives me a wry look, then motions for me to follow.

“Welcome to Villa Telimus,” he murmurs.

The Will of the Many

XII

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THE BODY language of two people who are desperate to discuss something privately. A latent tension, an unconscious stiffness in their interactions. I remember seeing it often between my parents over those last few months, but being too young and too naïve to wonder why.

And I can see it now in the way Ulciscor and Lanistia talk, no matter how well they try to hide it.

I trail after the pair. Gravel crunches beneath our feet, loud in the hush of the country. The house is three stories high and made of mottled sandstone, looking like it belongs to an era from before Will was used in construction.

“So you brought back a son.” Lanistia glances over her shoulder at me; I smile but she doesn’t return it. “That’s sudden.”

“I know how bored you’ve been. Now you have something to do for the next two months.”

Lanistia’s unamused.

We pass through three tall archways, Lanistia leading us inside. The villa is richly appointed, large rooms divided into subsections by thick curtains and decorative latticework, everything very much in the style I know is popular with the Catenan elite. The rooms are airy, natural light filtering through windows set high above. Mosaics cover several dividing walls. Off to one side, I spot what appears to be the entrance to a large set of private baths.

“What did Relucia say?”

“Nothing, yet.”

Lanistia stops dead. “You didn’t tell her?”

Ulciscor just winces.

I cough. “Who’s Relucia?”

“Rotting gods. You didn’t tell him?” Lanistia’s disapproval bristles from behind her dark glasses.

Ulciscor sighs, turning to me. “Relucia is Sextus Relucia Telimus. My wife. Who likely won’t return from Sytrece until the Academy’s second trimester has already begun,” he adds emphatically, clearly for Lanistia’s benefit.

I feel my eyebrows rise. The woman is legally my mother, then. That does seem like something he should have mentioned. “Will she be alright, with all this?”

“She knows I’ve been hoping to find someone to put through the Academy.” Not the reasons why, though, from the careful way he words it. A flick of his eyes to the surrounding walls indicates that I shouldn’t say anything about it here. “She even suggested we adopt, not long ago. It will be fine. She’s been chosen to help the Censor for the next year—she’s often abroad—she’ll understand. You may not even have a chance to meet her until after graduating.”

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Ulciscor is well past twenty-three, when taxation for the unmarried becomes burdensomely high. And there are plenty of monetary and social bonuses for having children in the Republic; if nothing else, Relucia will probably consider my adoption a prudent financial move. Assuming they don’t already have any children of their own, of course.

“You’ll still send word before tonight.” Lanistia’s firm. The way she speaks to him, the way they naturally fell into step as soon as we arrived, shouts familiarity. A comfort that only comes with friendship, regardless of her brusque attitude.

“So I don’t have any brothers or sisters that you haven’t mentioned?” It feels strange to ask, but it seems I have to.

“No.” Ulciscor takes a breath as if to say more, then changes his mind. “No.”

“Dominus!”

All three of us halt as a man in his fifties, clean-shaven and jowly, detaches himself energetically from a passageway to the left. He’s sporting a severely receding hairline, and it looks like he’s grown out the rest of his still-black hair to compensate. The stringy mass dangling limply to his shoulders does nothing to improve his looks. Still, his smile is excited, wide, and welcoming. Seems genuine.

“Kadmos.” Ulciscor grips him by the shoulder in greeting, smiling as well. “Good to see you. Everything’s well?”

“The reaper in the eastern fields needs replacing. Some more of the olive crops got hit by that strange rot. And Incusi has been muttering to her friends about how much work they have to do, even though they’re properly paid for it. So, as well as it usually is, Dominus.” The news is delivered in a jovial way. They’re not pressing concerns.

His smile fades a little at the end as he finally registers my presence. He’s not displeased, exactly. More confused.

Ulciscor chuckles. “We’ll get to all of it soon. I promise.” He’s seen Kadmos’s glance, turns to include me in the conversation. “But in the meantime, meet Vis. I’ve adopted him, and he will be attending the Academy at the beginning of the second trimester. Vis, this is Dispensator Kadmos. Anything you need around the villa, he can help you with.”

I nod politely. The introduction suggests that the house steward isn’t trusted to the same extent as Lanistia, and that assumption’s backed up by Kadmos’s bemused, vaguely dismayed expression as he looks between me and Ulciscor. This is definitely a surprise to him.

“Kadmos, if you could please take Vis by the kitchen to get something to eat, and then show him to his rooms? The guest quarters, I think. We can arrange for something more permanent tomorrow.”

“Of course, Dominus. Master Vis, if you’ll please follow me?”

“Get settled in,” Ulciscor adds reassuringly to me. “Rest some more. Lanistia will come and find you soon enough.”

I acquiesce, but take careful note of the direction in which Lanistia and Ulciscor start walking as I follow Kadmos. I don’t think the Magnus Quintus has been lying to me, necessarily, but there’s more going on than he’s admitted.

“Welcome to Villa Telimus, Master Vis.” Kadmos has a light Sytrecian accent, reinforcing my impression of his origins. His voice has lost all threads of joviality. In no way rude, but certainly nothing beyond polite as he guides me deeper into the mansion. “Do you have any belongings I should arrange to have taken up to your rooms?”

“No.”

He eyes my clothes. They’re the ones from the Academy. Clean, but ragged where Ulciscor carefully cut them with a blade after we left Solivagus—just enough to destroy any imbuing that Veridius might have used to trace me. I can already see Kadmos mentally compiling a list of things he needs to buy, even as he tries to puzzle out my origin. “You’ll be needing a wardrobe, then.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He signals for me to stop, and slips over to a young Octavii sweeping the floor, murmuring an instruction. The rotund, freckled girl bobs deferentially to Kadmos, giving me a wide-eyed assessment as she hurries off.

We arrive at the kitchen, which is even larger and better-stocked than the one at the orphanage. There are no cooks in sight, so I scoop up what I want from the laden benches onto two separate plates. I’ve barely eaten since the previous day, and the food on array—cured meats, olives, and freshly baked wheat bread with honey—is better than anything I’ve had in a long time.

Kadmos gives my larger-than-strictly-necessary haul a disapproving look, but says nothing as he guides me and my precariously balanced load up to the second-floor guest wing of the mansion. He stops at the entrance, handing me a folded tunic that was waiting on a nearby seat before gesturing me inside. “This should fit well enough for today.” The Octavii did her work quickly. “If you need anything else, Master Vis, just ring the bell by the door and someone will come.”

The room’s spacious, ten times the size of the one I had at the orphanage. The bed in the centre is enormous as well, with what looks to be a feather mattress below the bronze-decorated headboard. My body aches longingly at the sight.

“Thank you, Kadmos.” I turn back to the steward in time to see him touching a stone tile to a matching one set into the door. “What are you doing?”

“Disabling the security. The Magnus Quintus doesn’t always trust those we accommodate here.” He tucks the tile back in his pocket.

I hide my vexation behind feigned disinterest. The steward wanted me to see him. He knows there’s no way for me to tell if he’s lying, and that the door could easily be attached to an indicator somewhere else in the house—meaning that as soon as I open it, someone will know. I can’t risk sneaking out through it now.

I set down my two plates of food on a sideboard, not having to fake the yawn that accompanies the motion. “I suspect it will be a few hours before I want to go anywhere, anyway.”

“I’ll let you rest, then. Enjoy your meal, Master Vis.” He gives a small, politely deferential bow, and is gone with the door shut behind him before I can reply.

I snatch a slice of bread from one of the plates and wolf it down, vaguely irritated, though I suppose I can’t blame the man for being cautious. I’m an evidently not-well-to-do stranger who is suddenly heir to the patrician family he’s probably served his whole life. Utterly insane though I would have to be to try anything nefarious against a Magnus Quintus, it’s hard to begrudge the man some reservations.

I deliberate as I discard my shredded clothes—shoulder protesting and bandaged side pulling uncomfortably—and change into my new ones, which I’m pleased to find are much finer than I’m accustomed to and, as promised, fit almost perfectly. Once my tunic is properly cinched, I scoff some more food and then cross to the large, east-facing window, pushing the shutters wide. The view is all green rolling hills, the tallest ones tipped by the last of the setting sun. I can see for miles.

I don’t tarry to take it in; it’s pretty enough, but I’ve always preferred the sparkle and clear horizons of the ocean. The important thing is that the dimming fields are motionless. The Octavii have either returned to their homes, or are busy inside the villa.

There are no stone tiles set into the sill, I’m relieved to see. The sandstone bricks beyond have distinct clefts between, where the mortar has worn away. Not ideal handholds, but enough for my fingers to find purchase.

I hesitate, then perch on the ledge. This is going to look bad if I’m caught, but I need to know if something is being kept from me. And I’ve managed more difficult climbs at much higher heights along the cliffs of Suus. Even with my aching shoulder and side, I’m confident I can safely descend a single storey and get back inside without being noticed.

I’m barely out the window when I fall.

I’m not sure whether it’s the unexpectedly severe twinge in my shoulder or just the rust of years that causes me to twitch at the wrong moment. Either way, I’m suddenly flailing backward, heart in throat, unable to resecure a handhold. It’s not more than fifteen feet to the ground, and I manage to twist in the air so that I’m landing on my uninjured side. It still hurts.

I lie there on the grass, gasping to reclaim the air that’s been knocked from my lungs while trying desperately to be quiet about it. It’s probably ten seconds before I get my breathing under control, and as long again before I’ve recovered enough to test my limbs. Nothing broken, I think. There’s the muted chatter of voices from inside the villa, but no shouts, no indication that anyone saw or heard anything.

“Idiot,” I whisper to myself as I struggle to my feet, brushing myself off and checking I haven’t immediately stained my new white clothing. I’m not sure whether I’m more annoyed at the mistake, or my confidence that I wouldn’t make one.

It’s dusk now, the shape of the world still visible, but the colour all but gone. Sheathed torches crackle over the villa entrance; I can’t see anyone around, but I skirt them anyway, heading for the section of the building into which Ulciscor and Lanistia disappeared. Most of the windows are dark, but a couple have outlines of light around closed shutters.

It’s not long before I recognise the deep tones drifting from one. Muted by the wood, but definitely Ulciscor. I sidle closer to the window. It’s in the open, unfortunately, no nearby cover to duck behind should someone happen along the path. I check my surrounds for any sign of movement, then position my head carefully next to the opening.

Ulciscor’s in the midst of relating the attack on the Transvect—muffled, but the hush from outside allows me to hear the words. He’s eschewing drama for dry fact, done within a couple of minutes, interrupted only a couple of times by soft questions from Lanistia. He doesn’t shy away from his killing of Sacro, nor how he was knocked out.

He finishes with his waking up on the moving Transvect, halfway to the Academy and with me bleeding on the floor next to him. There’s a brief silence once he’s done.

“Anguis, then. You think Melior was involved?” Lanistia’s higher voice is easier to make out through the dampening wood. It doesn’t take me long to place the name. Melior is the leader of the Anguis. A well-known name thanks to his proscription, and the size of the reward for his capture.

“They were too well-informed for some local faction. I only asked for the Transvect to be realigned a few hours before we left.” Ulciscor’s bothered by the fact. “And it can’t be a coincidence they were able to take me down so easily. You don’t bring a weapon like that on a whim.”

“Any idea what it could have been?”

“None. Wasn’t pleasant, though. I was vomiting for hours after I woke up.”

“At least you woke up.” There’s the creaking of furniture as one of them shifts. “They found more bodies in Masen. Heads smashed in, just like the others.”

“Gods’ graves. Who? When?”

“A couple of Sextii. Regional leaders, but neither of them with names you’d recognise. Two days ago.”

“How did Quiscil and the others react?”

“In the Senate? They condemned the murders as nothing more than cowardly desecrations. But word is, it’s upset them. There’s something about these attacks that has them worried, beyond just the Anguis becoming bolder.”

“Perhaps it’s who they’re targeting.”

“There’s no connection between these two and the others, as far as I’ve been able to tell. But I’ll keep looking.”

“Do. I believe them when they say they’re close to catching Melior. I’d like to know what’s going on before that happens.”

I grimace. There’s a good chance the head of the Anguis will be one of those who knows who I am.

A faint clink—a glass being set down on a table, I think—and then a sigh. “What about the Correctors? Have they been administering more of their tests?”

“They drew blood from Magnus Quintus Cerrus last week. He’s the only new one I heard about. But they said he wasn’t infected.”

A grunt from Ulciscor. “Shame.” There’s a low chuckle from Lanistia.

There’s silence, and I begin to wonder whether one or both of them has left the room. There’s still no movement outside the villa.

“So your son seems nice.” There’s an acerbic edge to Lanistia’s abrupt observation.

“Look, Lanistia—”

“What were you thinking?” Low but intense. “How could you be so rash?”

“You weren’t there. If I believed in the gods, I would say they led me to him. He was made for this.”

“You do know what that implies, right?”

“I’ve gone over every aspect of how we crossed paths, and there was too much chance involved. He’s nobody’s spy.” He says it with absolute confidence, and I feel something loosen in my chest at the words.

“Despite your being the target of an Anguis ambush within a day of meeting him.”

“From which he saved me. If he was with them, the only point of the whole attack would have been to gain him a little more trust. Not even the Anguis are that wasteful with their resources.”

“But you don’t know him. I know you haven’t had time to look into his background.” Lanistia’s caught between frustration and pleading. “What if he slips up? Or breaks? Or turns?”

“That’s why you’re getting the next two months with him. If you say he’s not ready at the end, or that he can’t be trusted, then I’ll call off the whole thing.” Ulciscor sighs. “There is something off about him. He’s better educated than a war orphan has any right to be. Boy took multiple floggings rather than submit at the Aurora Columnae, too. He’s burdened, and stubborn, and angry, and definitely hiding things. But whatever’s driving him, it’s something we can use.”

“And if Veridius just decides to kill him?”

“Then we gain our legal foothold. Another Telimus dying on Solivagus would force the Senate’s hand, this time.”

“Ulciscor.” Lanistia’s soft, heavy disapproval does nothing to alleviate the chill that runs through me.

The pause is a touch too long before Ulciscor adds, “Veridius knows that as well as I do, anyway. So he won’t.”

“You’re guessing.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re running out of time, Lanistia.”

“There’s no proof of that.”

“You know it’s true.” He’s chiding. “I wouldn’t have involved him otherwise.”

If there’s a response, I don’t hear it; the sound of a nearby door creaking makes me straighten, leap back onto the path. There’s nowhere to hide, so I aim myself away from the doorway, hands clasped behind my back. Force the rigidity from my shoulders and amble. As if I’m just out enjoying the night air.

“Master Vis.”

I flinch at the words, turning to find Kadmos standing behind me, arms crossed. I smile genially at him. “Caught me.” When his frown twists into something more questioning, I gesture in mild embarrassment toward the starlit hills. “I changed my mind. I haven’t been in the country in years. I’d forgotten how peaceful it is.”

“Oh.” He sweeps a limp strand of hair from his face as his gaze flicks to the shuttered window, not five paces from where I am. He’s off guard, but not an idiot. “How did you get out here?”

“What do you mean?” I feign mild confusion.

“I…” He trails off. Annoyed, though he’s trying to hide it. “I didn’t see you leave your room.” He doesn’t want to confirm that he expected an alert from my opening the door. He probably isn’t sure whether I deliberately avoided it, or it simply didn’t work for some reason.

I indicate my own bafflement. “Is it a problem? I won’t be long. You said you were disabling the security, so I assumed I didn’t have to confine myself.” I add the hint of a question to my tone.

“No, it’s fine,” says Kadmos, though it plainly isn’t. The portly man glances again at the shuttered window. “But I should have specified: the Magnus Quintus is a very private man, and I suspect there will be some areas which he would prefer remained off-limits. So I’d feel much more comfortable if you stayed indoors this evening. Just until I can speak further with him, and then give you a formal tour tomorrow.”

“Of course.” I’m not realistically going to get another chance to listen in tonight anyway.

Kadmos indicates I should follow him. Evidently not willing to let me find my own way back.

I frown at the Dispensator’s back as we enter the villa again. It’s odd, that he would be the one to stumble upon me, rather than one of the several Octavii still bustling about the house. And so soon, too. Not more than ten minutes after I left my room.

Kadmos is talking, but it’s idle chatter now, not something I need to pay attention to. Could moving the shutters on my window have triggered something, too? Unlikely; it would be a waste to monitor actions as innocuous as letting in some air. Besides, as I so ably proved, descending the outside wall isn’t the easiest of tasks.

That leaves some sort of tracking on my person. It fits—would allow Kadmos to locate me, but would also require him to actively check on my whereabouts, explaining why there was a minutes-long gap before he came to find me.

I flick at my new tunic irritably.

We reach my rooms and Kadmos lets me in again, frowning at the open window, though there’s no indication I used it to leave. I keep my cheerful expression until the door’s closed and then collapse onto the bed. I’ve been pushing myself all day to focus, to pay attention to everything that’s been said and everything that’s been happening. The things I overheard have only served to swell my concerns. My side hurts. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts.

I’m ready to get some rest.

The Will of the Many

XIII

THE SUN’S NOT YET EVEN lightening the horizon when there’s a crisp knock. Before I can properly wake and without my invitation, lamplight from the hall is spilling through the doorway, interrupted only by Lanistia’s silhouette.

“I hope you got some sleep.” She’s still wearing those reflective dark glasses of hers, despite the pre-dawn dim outside. “Time to get started.”

“Now?” I prop myself up on an elbow and give my pillow a bleary, longing glance.

“Now.” She leaves, clearly expecting me to follow.

I groan, but—remembering how Ulciscor emphasised her authority over me here, and then that he left assessing my suitability for the Academy entirely in her hands—enjoin my aching body to roll out of bed, drag some clothes on, and trudge after her.

All’s quiet in the villa. I’m not sure how early it is, but everyone appears to still, sensibly, be fast asleep. We head downstairs and across an open courtyard to the eastern wing of the house, the short walk in the cool morning air enough to clear my head. Soon enough, we’re settling into a private office, shelves of books lining the wall. Lanistia sits in a chair facing me. Her hands are clasped and she leans forward, features thrown into sharp relief by the lamp burning between us.

“Ulciscor says you’re quite well-educated, given your background.” She manages to make the first part doubtful and the second mistrustful. “He also says you’re lacking in some areas. We need to determine which ones.”

I resist a mild surge of annoyance. Remind myself again that based on what I overheard last night, I need to impress this woman. “Alright.”

Lanistia pushes back some stray strands of long dark hair that are brushing her cheeks. Takes a breath.

Starts.

The next three hours are a blur. Where Ulciscor probed, Lanistia bludgeons. I’m guessing at the mechanics of a Will-powered vehicle, then explaining my understanding of the historical legal areas of control between the three senatorial pyramids, then interpreting the philosophical musings of Arinus against current Catenan provincial policies—all within the space of minutes. Answers she likes earn a grunt and a quick change of topic. Those she doesn’t—which are uncomfortably many—get assaulted, abused, dissected. If I present a flawed argument it’s not just refuted, it’s bloodied meat thrown to rabid wolves. Any trace of sleepiness has vanished after the first ten minutes. I’m dizzy after an hour. Barely able to think at all, by the end.

But end it does, eventually, just as the sun’s crept far enough above the horizon to pour clean light through the east-facing window. I finish answering a question, and Lanistia stands.

“Are we… done?” I ask cautiously.

She inspects me from behind those glasses. I’m beginning to suspect she never takes them off. “Yes.”

“So.” I shift in my chair. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Lanistia extinguishes the low-burning lamp. “I think Ulciscor has been hasty in adopting you. I think he has severely overestimated your abilities. Perhaps he’s seen something in you that I do not, but you are not ready for the Academy. Not even close. And I am not sure that I can make you so within the next two months.”

My jaw clenches as I fight the instinct to react. The words cut. My tutors at Suus tended to be effusive about my ability to learn, but I’ve always wondered how much of that enthusiasm came from my status, rather than my results.

“But what do you really think? Be honest, now.”

Lanistia’s expression doesn’t even twitch. “Quips aren’t going to help you.” She’s stepping over to the bookshelf as she says it, running a finger along spines until she finds the title she’s looking for. She repeats the process twice, then dumps the collected tomes in my lap. “These will. They cover your weakest areas. Read them. Thoroughly. We’ll revisit these topics tomorrow and see whether you’re actually capable of learning.”

“You want me to get through these today?” I try not to sound aghast. I’m already exhausted, and none of the books look like light work.

“Problem?”

“No.” A defiant lie. “But I was hoping to talk to Ulciscor today.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“At the moment? Attending to some concerns of the clients he received this morning. But after that, he will be returning to Caten.” She shrugs in response to my consternation. “He is a member of the Senate. He still has to submit his report about the attack on the Transvect, and officially announce his adoption of you, among other things.”

It’s a deflection. Ulciscor wasn’t expecting to leave so soon.

“When will he be back?” I growl the words. He told me that I could trust Lanistia, but I don’t know her. And perhaps more tellingly, if I’m being honest, I don’t like her much.

“When he’s done.” Matter of fact rather than dismissive, though it’s hard not to take it that way.

I say nothing. Lanistia doesn’t seem the type to give ground if I dispute her claim.

She takes my silence as submission. “Kadmos will come to check your bandages later. And there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

She leaves without anything further.

I glower after her, but the reminder that I haven’t yet eaten drags me into action. The kitchen is bustling this time, but no one stops me from piling a plate with wheat pancakes topped with dates and honey. I cart food and books back to my room. There’s no point trying to poke around the villa anymore while it’s light.

Outside my window, the sun is a warm, sleepy gold as it presses higher over the rolling green hills. Octavii are already toiling, though they seem happy enough; the sound of laughter echoes up to me as a group nearby chats amiably while they work.

I glare out over it all, chewing grimly. Ulciscor’s absence is a problem. I was counting on at least one more conversation with the Quintus before he left, hoping to negotiate some freedoms for the month ahead. Nothing major—a small stipend, the ability to stretch my legs as far as the nearest village on occasion—but things that would establish me as a real Telimus, not a prisoner in all but name. The sort of manifest trust I could commute into a trip to Caten for the Festival of Jovan, and thus the naumachia.

Lanistia, I can already tell, is not going to agree to anything like that. But it seems that I’m stuck with her now.

I sigh, and start reading.

The books are well-chosen, I admit begrudgingly after a while, covering a breadth of knowledge that I’ve not previously had access to. My weariness fades. The Letens Bibliotheca was a wealth of information, but my time there was still self-directed—still by necessity building on existing competencies, not creating new ones. These tomes are revealing entirely different areas of education. Things I could never have even known to investigate.

Kadmos announces himself around mid-morning, checking my wound and applying a cream. A brownish one, this time, which tingles where it touches the gash.

“This salve will itch, but it will speed the healing process faster than anything else,” he explains as he works. “Even so—you’re going to feel some discomfort for at least a week or two, and Sextus Lanistia says that you need full mobility straight away. So starting tomorrow morning, I’ll have a tea brewed for you to drink twice a day. You’ll have to be careful while you train, but it will numb the pain, keep you focused. Just be aware that it will take a toll once it wears off at night.”

“What’s in the tea?”

“Some lionweed. Sana extract. A very small amount of voluptasia. Other things.” Kadmos starts rebandaging me, then pauses as I shift uneasily. Softens, just slightly. “I do know what I’m about, Master Vis—I’ve been the Telimus physician for near thirty years. It won’t do any harm, as long it’s not for an extended period.”

I reluctantly accept the statement. I have a vague recollection of voluptasia being dangerous in high dosages, but if I know the name, then it must have medicinal properties too. I don’t recognise the other ingredients. Still, the pain in my side and shoulder has already been distracting me today, and that’s just while I’ve been sitting. If there’s something that can help me push through, I’ll take it.

Kadmos soon leaves, and I resume my reading. Outside the window, the sun crests and then begins its descent; by the time I register its progress, the lengthening shadows suggest it’s well into the afternoon. I consider, and then discard, the idea of taking a break. I’m making good progress through the texts, but not quickly enough to relax.

And besides—as strange as it is to admit, I’m enjoying myself.

It’s not that the subject matter is easy—far from it—but a whole day of just this? Fed and warm and engaged, rather than working my fingers to the bone for Matron Atrox? It’s like my stolen hours at the Bibliotheca, but better. The closest I’ve come to reliving my old life in a long, long time.

Kadmos briefly intrudes to deliver a dinner tray just as I’m lighting the lamps, dusk fading to a clear, starry night outside. The evening’s tranquil, breeze still holding hints of warmth as it rustles the curtains before whispering through the empty vineyards and fields below. A sliver of moon has made its way into the sky by the time I close the last of the three books. My vision’s started to blur—from extended concentration, as much as physical weariness—but I think I understand the basics of what I’ve read, now. At least enough to pass whatever test Lanistia has planned for me in the morning.

I blow out the lamps and collapse onto the bed. Unconsciousness greets me eagerly.

It can’t be more than minutes later when I wake. Alert.

Something changes, I think, when another person enters the room. There’s a new pressure in the air, a weight that’s subtly different from when you’re alone. I never noticed it at Suus, never thought anything of it as a child. But years of running have honed my perception of it. Heightened it into something instantly recognisable.

I fling myself desperately to the side as something heavy and violent thumps against the mattress. The room is dim, lit only by silver seeping past the still-open curtains, but I can see the outline of my attacker. I lash out with my leg as I lurch off the bed, weight and momentum behind the strike. There’s a soft grunt and the looming form staggers back a step, but my bare foot feels as though it’s hit brick.

A Will user, then. Not good.

I scramble backward, trying to regain my feet. My injured side burns at the unwelcome movement. The dark shape recovers and launches at me. I roll away again, snatching up a sandal from the floor as I tumble and flinging it behind me, hoping to cause the intruder at least a moment’s distraction. I can’t win this fight. I need to get out.

The figure’s in between me and the door. I sprint for the window. Too slow. Air explodes from my lungs as an iron grip takes me, slams me back to the floor. Then my assailant is straddling me. Hand around my throat. I can’t move. Can barely breathe.

“What are the three types of refined Conditional relationships of Will?”

I’m frozen. Uncomprehending. “Lanistia?” It comes out as a disbelieving croak.

The grip on my throat tightens. “Answer.” It’s her voice. A growl, but her voice.

“Sub-harmonic, managed, and… causal,” I wheeze, not knowing what else to do. I should be relieved, but I’m not feeling that way. Ulciscor’s confidante isn’t going to kill me.

Right?

There’s no reaction to my response, at least none that I can see. Lanistia’s face is shrouded by darkness.

“What is Caten’s most important area of innovation in the past hundred years?”

“Agriculture.”

“Why?”

“Can you just—”

“Answer.” The grip on my throat tightens enough that I’m not sure I’ll be able to.

“Because it’s key to population.” I give a rasping cough. “The agricultural advancements of the two-twenties allowed for a massive increase in food production, which in turn allowed for the population explosion created by government incentives.”

The questions continue. Rapid-fire, no indication of whether I’m answering correctly. Like this morning’s exhausting session with the woman, but infinitely more stressful. My injuries ache with no respite. Every time I struggle, or refuse to respond, or try to question what’s happening, I’m pressed down. Slapped, once, hard enough that everything spins afterward. It’s humiliating. Infuriating. Terrifying.

After a minute, though, it’s easy enough to see the pattern. A few unrelated questions sprinkled in, but concentrated around the books I read today. Once I can focus in on that detail, things become more manageable. This is a test, albeit one that’s making me by turns rattled and furious.

I answer a final question. There’s a heartbeat, that hold on my throat unrelenting. Then it loosens. The weight on my chest vanishes.

I roll onto my side, rasping and hacking my relief. There’s motion off in the darkness, and then the gentle light of a lamp.

I slowly sit up straight, feeling at my side to check the wound there hasn’t torn open and glaring balefully. Lanistia is standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Expressionless. Still wearing those gods-damned dark glasses.

“What in all hells?” I snarl the words, though their effectiveness is dampened by the hoarseness of my voice. “Why?” My hands ball into fists. I haven’t felt this helpless in years.

I hate her for reminding me of what it’s like.

“I needed to test your recall under pressure.”

“You needed to attack me to do that? While I’m rotting injured?”

“Your physical state is irrelevant.” She’s gallingly composed about it. “Ulciscor had doubts about your temperament; I can help prepare you intellectually for the Academy, but not emotionally. And if you’re not ready for the latter, then I’m wasting my time on the former. So I had to see.”

“It’s a gods-damned school,” I spit. “Check my back. There’s nothing more they can do to me.”

Lanistia reaches a hand to her face. Removes her glasses.

I falter.

Where her eyes should be are two white-scarred and empty sockets. I look away on polite instinct, then force my gaze back. She doesn’t have any trouble making her way around, doesn’t seem crippled by her lack. How?

“This is a small part of what the Academy took from me.” She replaces her glasses, and I notice her hand trembles almost imperceptibly as she does so. “There is always something more to lose, Vis.”

I bite my lip. I have so many more questions now, but I’m tired, and sore, and still disoriented, and partly just grateful that Lanistia’s assault on me appears to be over. I give a single, sharp nod of acquiescence.

Lanistia seems able to see it. “Good. Sleep. We’ll begin your lessons at dawn.” She turns for the door.

“Did I get the questions right?” I want to know that much, at least.

“If you hadn’t, I would have kept squeezing.”

She leaves.

The Will of the Many

XIV

“YOU HAVE GOOD REACTIONS. GOOD instincts in a fight.”

Today’s hot, sun baking down from directly above. Lanistia and I are taking lunch, our table shaded by the painstakingly manicured hedge that forms an airy, light-speckled green tunnel almost the entire length of the courtyard. There’s a fountain tinkling pleasantly in the background.

It takes me a second to realise Lanistia’s talking to me, alone though we are. I think it’s the first time she’s paid me anything close to a compliment.

“Thanks,” I say cautiously around my mouthful of bread, wondering what the follow-up punch will be. And whether it will be only metaphorical. While Kadmos has been true to his word and my body feels fine—almost good, in fact—after dosing myself with his tea, I’m still emotionally sore from her assault last night.

“Ulciscor mentioned that you fought. Against Septimii. Even a Sextus.”

“I did.” The switch in conversation has thrown me. Lanistia’s every breath since I woke has been directed toward either figuring out if I know something, or making certain that I learn it.

“Why?”

“It was good money.”

She scoffs. “Why?”

“How are you able to see?” It’s a blunt quid pro quo, but the question’s been eating at me. If her interrogation is going to turn personal, there’s no point letting it be one-sided.

“How do you think?” No hesitation. No trace of offense. She’s probably been expecting the enquiry for a while.

I compose my thoughts. “You’re using Will, somehow.” That much has become obvious. The woman moves as if she has full use of her eyes. Better than full, a lot of the time. I wouldn’t want to try and sneak up on her. “If I had to guess, I’d say you were imbuing the air around you, somehow. Getting feedback from it. But to do that, you’d have to be constantly re-imbuing to account for the changing receptacle…” I chuckle, shaking my head. My best guess, but it’s ridiculous.

“Two hundred times per second.”

I feel the smirk slide from my face. “What?”

“That’s our estimate of my imbuing speed.” Lanistia doesn’t smile. “Now. Why did you fight?”

I take a heartbeat to recover. Tempted to believe it a lie, though I can tell it’s not. The sheer concentration, the intensity and focus needed to keep that up? Just to be able to see? I can’t imagine.

Lanistia’s waiting. I meet her reflective-tint gaze.

“Because I liked it.”

I expect a follow-up. There isn’t one. Lanistia studies me, then stands.

“Then I expect this afternoon will be to your liking, too.”

A CLOUD OF DUST ERUPTS from beneath me as my body skids backward along the paved stone. I slide to a groaning, ungainly standstill, holding up a hand for clemency as I struggle back to my feet, holding my side.

“Just… a moment,” I gasp, feeling at the bandaged area nervously, despite the pain there being no worse than anywhere else.

My opponent—Totius Octavus Conlis, a frankly huge man and most definitely larger than anyone I ever faced in Letens—either doesn’t hear me or, more likely, doesn’t care to grant the request. He lumbers forward, teeth bared in a grin that splits his broad face, sharp grey eyes fixed on me. Like some kind of giant bear about to crack open a beehive.

“Try and actually hit him this time!” calls Lanistia sternly from the stone bench where she’s watching. I fire a scowl in her direction before staggering back another few paces, giving myself room to manoeuvre. Like the Octavii from the Theatre, Conlis’s size makes him ponderous compared to me, but I was overconfident. Too eager to show off after Lanistia’s apathy at my academic prowess. I deserved the barrelling hit, but I won’t let him get in another.

Conlis comes at me again, still smiling, buoyed by his initial success. I wipe the expression from his face after I slide around his wild second swing and drive my fist hard into his side, eliciting a surprised grunt. I’m used to punching men who are imbuing. Conlis may be all muscle, but I know exactly where to make him feel it.

I don’t let up, don’t let him retreat, and within ten seconds I know I will win. There’s a flow to this. A dream-like joy when you realise your opponent cannot hope to match you. You start to see their punches coming from so far off that it’s tempting to let them get closer than they should. You choose where to hit, when to hit. You think about the fight in an almost abstracted way. Strike there. Disable that. You can see the realisation creeping over their face. You can see when they’ve recognised the loss, long before they actually go down. You become the tide. Inexorable.

“Enough!”

I falter as Conlis staggers back, the effort to stop almost as physical as the act of fighting. He’s relieved at Lanistia’s call. I’m annoyed, though I quickly stuff down the emotion. This isn’t Letens, isn’t a bout for money. I’ve proven my point.

The big man watches me warily, perhaps seeing the fire still in my stance, and then rubs his side gingerly.

“Good fight,” he mutters begrudgingly. He sticks out his hand.

I stare at it in surprise, then grasp it. “Thanks.”

“Well done, Conlis.” Lanistia spares a rare smile for the hulking man, though it clearly also serves as a dismissal. He bows before taking his leave. The athletic woman watches until he’s disappeared, leaving the two of us alone again.

“How are your injuries?”

“I can feel them, but they’re not affecting me.”

“Then you’ll need to improve.”

I glower at her before I can help myself. “I won.”

“You won with a minimum of strategy and technique. Efficient enough for a fistfight against an untrained Octavus, but if you’re tested at the Academy, that’s not a measure they’ll be impressed by.”

“Why would they put me in a fight?” I can’t help but feel insulted, and—secretly—a little deflated.

“Did you read those books yesterday or not?”

I stop short, then grumble in recognition. “The need for physical control over Will.” I try not to sound sullen. “Manipulating it at higher ranks requires more than just focus, and more than just brute strength. It takes precision. Speed. Endurance.”

Lanistia jerks her head in acknowledgment. As positive a gesture as she’s likely to make. “Which is why physical skills are prized in the Academy too. A student who’s simply academic can rise, certainly. But only so far.”

“I’d like to think I’m already more than just academic.”

“Well. Let’s get you into one category before we try for a second.” Lanistia delivers the words with her customary dryness.

I’ve been trying not to let her dismissive manner get under my skin, but it’s hard to ignore. “You’re exaggerating,” I say flatly. “I know I need to improve, to learn more, but there’s no way I’m as deficient as you’re pretending.”

Lanistia’s mouth twists. “Ulciscor said your pride might be a problem.” She stands, shrugging her cloak from her shoulders. The tunic beneath is relatively short, more in a fighting man’s style. Her arms are bare. Not muscular like Ellanher’s, but definitely toned. “If you’re so sure, let’s see how you do against someone who’s actually been to the Academy.”

“You’re a Sextus.” I’m uneasy, and not just because of that fact. Her self-assurance holds menace.

She leans over. Places her hand against the stone bench she was just sitting on. “There. I’m holding no more Will than Conlis, now. Everything else is going to my vision.”

“How do I—”

The bench hovers briefly before settling back to the ground. I snap my mouth shut. It’s granite, thick, nearly six foot long. If she’s rapidly imbued enough Will to lift something like that, then I’m going to have to take her word for it.

Lanistia wanders over to a nearby hedge, rooting around before snapping off a long twig and denuding it. It’s perhaps twenty inches. Willowy. She swishes it back and forth in front of her, letting it whistle.

“If you can touch me, I’ll stop. And I’ll never imply that you’re deficient again.”

“So I just have to touch you?”

“A hit. A brush. A finger. You make contact, you win.” Lanistia whispers her newly formed switch through the air again. “Of course, you’re injured. And I do have a weapon.”

I don’t need further clarification. I charge.

It should be simple. I’m athletic, muscular but without the burden of a truly bulky physique. I have quick reactions, a long reach, and a high tolerance for pain. My injuries aren’t bothering me, either. All I have to do is crash through whatever defence Lanistia thinks that twig gives her, and the rest won’t matter. By her rules, it will be over.

It’s not that easy, of course.

Her wrist flicks out and somehow, just before I reach her, there’s a shocking, slashing fire below my left eye, sharp even through the numbing effects of Kadmos’s tea. I growl and flinch away; when I turn back, Lanistia has moved back and to the side. Far enough to be out of reach. Not so far that it could be taken as a retreat.

The sting on my cheek isn’t close to enough to deter me; I press more quickly this time, arms up to protect against another lash. It doesn’t work. She leans and reaches and then there’s more searing pain, almost in the same spot. It’s impossible not to baulk. She slips away again.

I stop this time, studying her, breathing a little more heavily than I’d like. Lanistia is motionless. Not smiling. Not amused or enjoying herself. If anything, she looks bored.

“Are you sure your injuries aren’t slowing you down, Vis?”

I’m sizing her up, planning my next attack, when she takes two dance-like steps forward. A whistling, biting slash for a third time on my left cheek, then again on my right as I twist away, snarling in frustration. The pain blinds me for an instant, makes me panic. I stumble.

When my vision clears, Lanistia’s back where she started. In exactly the same stance. As if she’d never moved.

“That’s not fair.” I touch the burning welts on my cheek.

“I have no eyes and a twig for a weapon. All you have to do is touch me.” Somehow as she’s finishing the flatly delivered sentence she’s coming forward again. I try to react, go on the offensive. She slips past anyway. Another smarting strike to my right cheek, delivered with infuriating indifference. My face must look a mess.

I’m angry now. Angry at the taunts—no matter how stoically they’re delivered, I know that’s what they are. Angry that one of the things I’ve prided myself on over the past six months is being so comprehensively proven inadequate.

Angry at the idea of her being right about me.

I snatch up a stone from the ground and hurl it at her, trying to come in behind the attack while she’s off-balance. It doesn’t come close to working. Lanistia’s pivoting smoothly, sliding effortlessly to let the rock smash against the cobblestone behind her. There’s yet another sting on my right cheek, and then a punch delivered to my gut. Not hard, but with pinpoint accuracy. My breath detonates. I double over.

She’s circled behind me, grabbed my arms, and shoved me to the ground before I can recover. My face scrapes against gravel. I buck, but her grip is a vise.

“Concede?”

I jerk backward in an attempt to headbutt her, but she’s too savvy to get that close. It just hurts my neck, and then my bad shoulder as Lanistia wrenches warningly on my arm in response.

I grit my teeth, and let my body go limp.

“Good.” The pressure on my back vanishes, and I see Lanistia’s shadow step away.

I lie there, trying to let go of my embarrassment. It doesn’t work. Eventually I roll into a seated position, unwilling to meet her gaze, brushing dust from my tunic and then rubbing my burning cheeks.

“So you’re faster than me.” My voice grates on the words.

“I’m better trained than you. More disciplined.” Lanistia says it with her usual dispassionate bluntness. “Go and clean yourself up, and then we can talk about how to try and change that.”

I give her a black look, but lever myself to my feet and shuffle across to the nearby fountain. The pool is hexagonal in shape, a sculpted column in its centre gushing a steady, sparkling flow of clear liquid.

I look into the gently rippling water, pausing as I catch my reflection. Frown. Peer closer.

My cheeks display near-matching raised welts. Six thin lines, striped almost evenly.

“Gods damn it.” I erase the image in the water as I splash my face, then turn back to Lanistia.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

The Will of the Many

XV

THE TRAINING AREA IN FRONT of me—if that’s actually what it is—is like nothing I have ever seen.

We’ve descended through several Will-locked doors into some sort of basement beneath the eastern wing of the villa. Lanistia is lighting torches on the near wall; every time she does, dozens more immediately sputter to life farther away, revealing more of the cavernous room. It’s at least two hundred feet wide, maybe five times as long. Most of it, though, is comprised of an enormous pit. Only a fifteen-foot-wide stone platform—on which we’re standing—hugs the wall at our height, encircling the deep sub-level.

It’s the area below that commands my attention, though. The flickering orange light reveals hundreds of rough-cut stone walls criss-crossing the vast space. My eyes try to trace a path through the twisting passageways formed. They can’t.

“What is this?” My voice echoes.

“Something that will help.” Lanistia keeps lighting torches.

There’s a shelf cut into the wall, on which sits a laden leather bag and what looks like a long, heavily studded bracer. Strange. I wander closer to examine it.

“Don’t touch anything.”

I scowl. Almost all the torches are burning, but her back’s turned. Can she see me, despite that? I reach for the bracer.

“I mean it.”

I pull my hand back, satisfied at the tiny victory. Good to know.

Lanistia finishes her task. The torches around the edges of the room are bright and evenly spaced, their smoke filtering out through some sort of ventilation in the ceiling. A bewildering sea of shadowed stone now glowers below.

“It’s called the Labyrinth. It’s a replica of a training device at the Academy.” Lanistia comes to stand at my shoulder.

“Why do you have one here?”

“For training.”

I draw a breath, then just exhale again, turning to stare at her balefully.

“Your arrival was a surprise, Vis, but not the fact that we were going to have to prepare someone.” Her gaze is focused out over the torch-lit pit, hands clasped behind her back. “And this is considered the most effective test for deciding how well someone will be able to handle Will. You can be the smartest and strongest student in that school, but if you can’t show a high level of competence at the Labyrinth, you won’t progress far enough to be useful.”

I frown down at the ocean of walls. “How does it work?”

Lanistia beckons me over to the shelf, picking up the bracer and displaying it to me.

If it is a bracer, it’s unlike any I’ve seen before. A leather base is surrounded by three pieces of thin grey stone; arrayed across those are perfectly cut circles of what appear to be onyx, each one smaller than a fingernail. There have to be close to twenty of the strange studs on each strip. It’s unwieldly looking, to say the least.

Lanistia straps it to her arm, then points to a section of the Labyrinth below, about fifty feet away. “Watch.”

She touches one of the onyx studs, and slides it a mere fraction to the left.

It happens so fast that it takes me a second to understand. There’s a grinding sound; a section of wall in the direction Lanistia indicated abruptly moves, slamming to the side and instantly opening a new pathway, even as it blocks another.

I survey the section of Labyrinth that just changed, then glance back at the dark-haired woman’s left arm.

“So these stones are Will-locked to sections down there, somehow. To pieces of the wall,” I posit, trying to puzzle it out. “You can rearrange the layout as you want?”

“There are limitations, but yes. Each control stone is locked to a specific panel. The symbol here shows which one.” She lifts the bracer toward me, and I lean closer to see three horizontal slashes on the stone she just used. Sure enough, the same symbol is etched large on the section that just moved down below. “You can also reorient panels, like this.” She carefully twists the black circle, and the six-foot-wide slab below snaps violently into a perpendicular position, neatly cutting off the corridor it had previously helped form.

I frown down at the maze. There are at least fifty onyx stones on Lanistia’s bracer, and presumably a matching number of the myriad different symbols that I can see carved into sections of wall. “How does it work?” I know my understanding of Will is still limited, but most of the Hierarchy’s inventions are at least somewhat comprehensible. Like the Transvect—the implementation’s far from simple, but I can see how it could function.

This… this seems like something far more complex.

“The mechanics are too difficult to explain, at your level of education. All you need to know is that it does.”

I bite back a snide retort. There’s nothing personal in her tone. And given that I genuinely can’t guess at the systems in play here, she may well be right.

“So what’s its purpose?”

“In the Academy, it’s a contest. Whoever wears this has to make it from one end of the Labyrinth to the other, while other students team up to try and stop them—some run the maze, others act as spotters around the sides.” Lanistia unbuckles the bracer and offers it to me. “But even if we had the bodies, you’re not ready for that yet. Here and now, we’re just going to concentrate on you learning how to manipulate the walls properly—and even that is probably going to take a while. So put this on and wait for me to talk you through it.”

I fumble it even with the expected weight, and then cinch it onto my left arm, grimacing at the faint pull on my shoulder. It feels like… well. It feels like my forearm’s encased in stone, I suppose. With an effort, I bring the bracer up for a better look at the onyx pieces on it. Every circle has a symbol scored into its surface, abstract but easily identifiable. I find the stone with the three horizontal lines that Lanistia used. “Doesn’t seem too complicated.”

“Don’t—”

I nudge the stone to the left.

There’s a screeching sound as the panel below shivers, trembles. The stone I’m pressing against suddenly burns; there’s a scorching flash against my skin and then the onyx shatters, my forefinger sliding across a newly jagged edge. I yell in surprised pain, snatching back my hand and shaking it furiously. Bright red droplets arc through the air as the broken stone detaches from the bracer, clattering to the ground.

“Idiot.” Lanistia grabs my hand, holding it steady as she examines the cut. “Idiot.”

I grimace, but take both the examination and reproof in silence. I’m already inwardly muttering far worse curses at myself.

“It’s deep.” Lanistia takes a wad of cloth from her pocket—I’m not sure what its original purpose was—and jams it, none too gently, against my finger. “You need to listen to me.”

“Maybe I would, if you weren’t so gods-damned condescending all the time.” I snap the words. Angry again. I was too hasty, but it doesn’t mean I have to take her constant disdain.

“Because I’m realistic about your abilities? I’m not going to coddle you.”

I take over the application of the cloth from her, trying not to make it a petulant act. “I don’t want to be coddled, and I don’t want you to lie. I’ll listen, I’ll work hard. I’ll take Kadmos’s rotting tea to push through these injuries. I accept that I need to improve.” The words are ash in my mouth, but I’ve seen my father win arguments too many times to give in to touchiness. “When you remind me of it every few sentences, though, it just makes me want to prove you wrong. So maybe judge me when I do something that needs to be judged?”

“Like just now?”

I hold her gaze, then can’t help but give a soft snort and look away as I shake my head, my anger dissipating beneath the beginnings of an unwilling smile. “Like just now.” I wrap the cloth tighter around my seeping finger, ignoring the burn that follows. “Sorry.”

“Happens to everyone, eventually.” Lanistia’s gruff, but in a mollified sort of way. “Come on. We need to stitch that up.”

We head back to the stairwell. She doesn’t say anything else, but it feels like some of the tension, the unconscious aggression that I thought was just part of her character, has eased from her posture.

I squeeze my wounded finger. Could be my imagination, too.

Time will tell.

I’VE HAD STITCHES PLENTY OF times over the years. Lanistia doesn’t have the touch of a royal surgeon, but she’s deft and surprisingly gentle as she slides the needle in and out of my flesh.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Younger brothers.” It’s said absently, her focus on my wound.

I brighten, seizing on the scrap of personal information. “How many do you have?”

There’s a sting and I flinch away as the needle stabs too deep, Lanistia faltering. Or maybe jabbing me. “Enough.” Something in her tone tells me not to pursue it.

I glance down at my injury. It’s a bad gash, deep, running from the tip of my forefinger down to the second knuckle. There’s copious amounts of blood. I’m lucky Kadmos’s tea is still at work. I reluctantly offer my hand back to her, then focus on her face rather than the wound. Her black glasses mirror the light streaming through the window.

“You must be able to see fairly well, to do this,” I observe cautiously.

Lanistia doesn’t respond for a second, and I think she’s going to ignore me again.

“When I focus, I can.” It’s partly an irritated rebuke to the question, but she takes a breath and continues. “If I use Will to concentrate on something in particular, I can see it perfectly. Every detail, and from every angle. Far better than someone with regular eyesight could.”

“But?” There’s clearly a “but.”

“But when I do that, I can’t see anything else. Or I can, but it all moves in flashes.” She hesitates, needle hovering above my forefinger as she searches for the words. “Imagine that you have to keep your eyes closed, but you can open them for a moment every second or so. Like a very slow, constant blink. That’s how everything looks to me right now, except for the area around your hand.” She’s matter of fact about it, but there’s discomfort beneath the statement. She’s not used to talking about this.

“Sounds like it would be distracting.”

“You get used to it.” Closing off the topic. She resumes her needlework, neatly adding the last couple of stitches and tying the thread. “There. You’ll have to be careful of it for the next week or so, but it will heal.”

“Thanks.”

She nods curtly. “Listen to me next time.”

I accept the reprimand, and at a silent agreement we start back toward the east wing of the villa. It’s mid-afternoon, the hallways shady and cool and quiet. I glimpse a couple of Octavii hurrying about some task or other in the distance, but no one else.

“So the control stones can shatter if you try to move a wall into a position it’s not meant to go,” Lanistia says abruptly, breaking the hush between us.

“Sounds like something I should be careful of.”

“Mm-hm.” There’s a pause, and then, “Using the bracer requires absolute precision. Even if you’d moved that stone in the right direction, they’re easy to push too far. Or not far enough. Or at a slightly wrong angle. Any of those things can cause a transference into the control stone. That won’t usually break it—you really need to push it in the wrong place for that to happen—but it will make it fall off, stop it from operating until a reset. Which is as good as an automatic loss at the Academy,” she adds.

I think about the difficulty of sprinting through the Labyrinth, trying to accurately manipulate the bracer as I try to both make my own path and evade pursuers. “So these contests. They’re really that important?”

“You need memory, logic, speed, precision, and physical strength to win one. Not to mention the ability to split your focus between multiple problems at once. For higher-ranked Will use, those qualities are all key. And the Academy puts a lot of stock in the results.” We start crossing the courtyard. “So, yes. They’re that important.”

“But surely there are better ways to test those things.”

“Individually? Maybe. But together…” She splays her hands. “I was sceptical too, at first, but competing in the Labyrinth does feel exactly like using Will. I tell Ulciscor the same thing all the time. It’s just hard to explain.”

“Ulciscor doesn’t know from experience?”

“The Labyrinth wasn’t around when he was at the Academy. He’s old.” There’s the ghost of affection in her tone, though it vanishes immediately. “It only came in when…”

She trails off as a figure appears in the doorway ahead of us.

“Injured yourself again, young master?” Kadmos puffs the words as he approaches, the stout man carrying a crate of something evidently heavy. He stops just ahead of us, giving a groan of effort as he sets the unwieldy box on the ground, then wiping a rivulet of sweat from his nose.

“Sparring accident. Cut himself on a rock. Nothing serious,” says Lanistia, chiming in before I can speak.

“Not the best start.”

“No,” Lanistia agrees. “I’m glad we ran into you, Kadmos. Did the Magnus Quintus speak to you about Vis’s education?”

“He did, Sextus.”

“I’d like you to start tomorrow morning.”

Kadmos gives an acknowledging bow to the two of us. “Where might I be able to find you, Master Vis, in the meantime? I was hoping to take a measure for your new clothing earlier, but no one knew your whereabouts.”

Lanistia replies again before I can open my mouth. “We were at the Magnus Quintus’s training ground. We’ll come and find you when we’re done.” Distinctly a dismissal.

“Ah.” Kadmos bows again, a few stringy strands of hair falling over his eyes. His gaze flicks between us, then he bends and lifts his cargo again with a grunt. “I look forward to it. Until then, young master. Sextus.” He trundles off, breathing heavily at his renewed exertion.

We continue on into the eastern wing. I glance across at Lanistia once we’re out of earshot. “Training ground?”

“I should have said earlier. The Labyrinth isn’t exactly something we’re supposed to have, here. Ulciscor had several people break a writ of Silencium to get the plans. Kadmos, the rest of the staff—they don’t know about it. No one does except you, me, and Ulciscor.”

I process the statement. “So it’s meant to be exclusive to the Academy,” I conclude. “We’re cheating?”

“The other students already have several months’ head start on you. This is giving you a chance to catch up.” She sees my look, shrugs. “Yes. We’re cheating. You need the advantage.”

I acknowledge the assertion, barely feeling more than a flicker of irritation at it this time. “How in the gods’ names did you build it without anyone knowing?”

“Slowly. We had to source the stone without raising questions, so we bought it from different suppliers, different regions. Had it shipped on roundabout routes. Took months.” She unlocks the outer door to the Labyrinth, and we start down the stairs.

I almost laugh. I was talking about the manpower to construct this massive cellar—but of course, the Magnus Quintus would be more than capable of doing that by himself. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

“It was. Don’t waste it.”

We emerge onto the platform overlooking the enormous maze. The torches are all still lit, the bracer sitting on the ground where I left it. I take care not to bump any of the stones as I pick it up, inspecting the gap where the one I pushed broke. “How do we fix this?”

Lanistia moves over to the shelf it was originally on, dipping into the leather bag there and pulling out a circular piece of onyx. Then she joins me again. Holds the stone between thumb and forefinger, and positions it over the empty space on the bracer.

She doesn’t move, but the onyx is suddenly sucked from her grip, snapping into place. I flinch. There’s a scratching, grinding sound, and the smell of burning drifts to my nostrils as the surface of the stone begins to change, three horizontal slashes gradually etching themselves into its surface.

“Gods’ graves. How…”

“I told you. Beyond your level of education.”

I tear my gaze from the newly engraved stone. “How much Will does all of this take to run?”

“A lot.” Lanistia stares implacably at me and when I stare back, she grunts. “I’ll make you a deal. As soon as you’ve mastered the Labyrinth, I’ll fill your head with all the irrelevant details of how it works. Sound good?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” She smiles tightly. “Let’s get to work.”

AFTER TWO HOURS OF PRACTICING, I’m beginning to understand why Lanistia was so comfortable offering me her compromise.

Hazy torchlight shifts and flickers against the stone panels, many of which now show ugly scores along their faces. It’s cool down here, isolated as we are from the baking sun, but my palms are damp. Tension cramps my hands. My cut finger, and side, and shoulder, all pulse with a dull ache. I think Kadmos’s tea is wearing off.

“Try using the double triangle to shut off the left passage.” Lanistia has her arms crossed, focusing expectantly down over the Labyrinth. Doesn’t even look toward me.

My eyes and hand rove uncertainly over the bracer for a full three seconds before finding the stone with the corresponding symbol. Every muscle is taut. I slow my breathing. Assess where the corresponding panel is below, where it needs to go. Check my orientation. Allow myself a hopeful heartbeat.

Then I shift the onyx about a quarter-inch to the left. A quick, decisive movement. The only way it will work.

Juddering resistance. An awful, shivering shriek. Sparks fly below as stone scrapes madly along stone. The sound echoes away almost as immediately as it began, the panel motionless again the moment I jerk my hand away. A fine cloud of dust rises from that section of the Labyrinth, reddish in the torchlight. Only the skittering sound of the stone falling from my bracer breaks the abrupt hush.

“Rotting damned gods.” I step back. I’ve contained my frustration to this point, but the dam is breaking. “This is impossible.”

It’s too exacting. That tiny movement needs to be angled perfectly—no tremor, not a breath to one side or the other throughout the entire motion. Otherwise, the mistake is magnified a hundredfold down below. The panel being manipulated smashes into one wall or another. Things break.

And this is while I’m standing still. Concentrating with everything I have.

“It’s your first day.” Lanistia hasn’t moved, though she is frowning at the dissipating cloud below. It’s reflected in her glasses.

“So most students are this bad to start with?” I’m somewhere between bitter and hopeful with the question.

“No.” Lanistia finally glances my way. “But precision is key to manipulating Will, so most students have already trained for years to hone these sorts of skills. You’re no prodigy, but your progress so far isn’t cause for despair, either.”

I study her. There’s no warmth to her tone or sympathy in her posture. No attempt to pacify me that I can see.

I exhale. Bring my arm up again.

“Good. Diamond and square to open the fourth row.” Lanistia’s already gazing back out over the maze. “Don’t overthink it.”

I quickly assess the relative position of the panel to its destination, then locate the stone. Push.

The panel with the diamond and square engraved on it slides along its corridor. There’s a squealing grind until it stops in place. As intended.

The onyx still falls from the bracer, but I suppress a smile this time.

“Better.” Lanistia is watching the puff of dust rising from the right-hand side of the passageway. She sounds more alert than before. Surprised. “Still not good enough, obviously, but… better. Now, open up a route to the centre.”

I take a breath longer to enjoy my small victory, then comply. The attempt ends like almost all the ones previous. The screeching and crashing from below doesn’t set my teeth on edge quite as badly, though.

I just need to keep practicing.

The Will of the Many

XVI

IALWAYS THOUGHT MY EDUCATION on suus was Intensive. Two weeks into my stay at Ulciscor’s villa, and I’m more than beginning to reassess my younger self’s impression.

Here I rise in darkness each day—or more accurately, am risen by a dangerously-close-to-happy Lanistia bearing my first dose of Kadmos’s foul-smelling tea. It’s the only time she seems cheerful, as if the pain of my waking is some sort of salve.

We start with an hour of physical training in the dim pre-dawn, on the immaculately kempt lawn a little away from the main house, so as to not disturb anyone. There’s always dew on the grass, and the chill never quite leaves the air. The focus is on my speed. I’ve always considered my reactions to be fast, but Lanistia continues to prove me wrong, and isn’t shy about reinforcing the lesson. She never hits my injured side or shoulder, yet I still usually have bruises on top of bruises by the time the sun peers over the horizon.

If I’m being honest, back at Suus, I would have had her replaced as a tutor within the first week. Her attitude’s never softened, never warmed: she doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her.

But as painful as it is—both literally and emotionally—she’s smart. Effective. Probably what I need, right now.

I’m allowed a half hour to use the villa’s heated baths to recover, and then breakfast, full and delicious though it always is, is taken as I begin my studies. Lanistia disappears at this point, and Kadmos takes her place. Each day there’s a different topic, different texts to read between bites of fresh-baked bread dipped in honey. The information I’m presented with is always supplemented by Kadmos himself, and despite my initial scepticism, it’s soon apparent that the Dispensator is a more than adequate tutor. He imparts wisdom on everything from geopolitical treatises to mechanical dispersion rates to the Echelon Philosophies with confident, brusque authority.

Kadmos’s lessons, while instructive, are no more enjoyable than the ones prior. His is a different kind of cold. Where Lanistia is disdainful, he’s suspicious. Where she’s harsh, he’s aloof. He corrects without bile when I need correction, acknowledges when I succeed. Is unfailingly polite. But there’s always the sense that he’s there more to watch me than to see me learn. He still considers me an intruder.

It’s not until the fourth day that Lanistia mentions that he was the youngest-ever head of the Azriat—the most respected learning institution in Sytrece—before he was proscribed, his possessions and property confiscated, and then taken to Caten as an Octavus several decades ago. I try to bring it up with him, but he dismisses the conversation as quickly as I can raise it. While I cannot imagine having your name on one of the Hierarchy’s proscription lists could be something you ever truly surmount, I don’t think it’s a sore point for him anymore. He simply doesn’t want to discuss personal matters with me.

Once breakfast’s over, we move into the shade and privacy of the inner courtyard, where Lanistia joins us again as an observer while Kadmos shifts to questions about a previous day’s topic. He’s not interested in my memory, for the most part. Never asks me to recite facts and figures. Instead, he pushes for explanations. Wants me to infer, to reason out conclusions. To prove that I’ve been absorbing the information rather than learning by rote.

I’m mostly successful, here. Lanistia never compliments, but there’s also rarely criticism as she watches. I’ve come to recognise that as an equivalent, from her.

After that—with me already exhausted from the day’s efforts—Kadmos resumes his duties elsewhere and Lanistia and I have lunch, a light meal taken with a heavy side of lecturing on the political landscape of Caten. There’s a lot to digest; the Senate is comprised of four hundred and fifty-nine senators, and at least half of those are considered important in one way or another. So we go over their responsibilities. Areas of governance. Ancestry. Alliances. Grudges, old and new. Some I need to know because their children will be attending the Academy, and—as Lanistia keeps insisting—I’ll need to choose my friends there wisely. Others, she says, are simply too significant for me to remain ignorant of them and not look a complete boor.

Though I hate to admit it, and am tempted to blame weariness, I’m less adept at these lessons. There are dozens upon dozens of faceless names, and the details of too many slip away before the next time Lanistia mentions them. It’s partly instinctive disinterest, I think: I’ve always hated the gossipy, ugly web of relationships that invariably form around power. But I believe Lanistia when she says it’s important, too. So I try, and she persists.

After my second dose of tea, the routine continues in the afternoon, which we spend almost exclusively down in the relative cool of the Labyrinth. I’m getting better at manipulating the maze, sliding and twisting the control stones with quick, precise movements. It’s satisfying, even fun to respond at speed to Lanistia’s instructions, snapping the panels below into position with steadily increasing confidence. Only one out of every four or five attempts results in a piece of onyx detaching from the bracer. Even if I am, as Lanistia takes great pains to remind me, doing it all from a vantage point while standing perfectly still.

Those hours in the Labyrinth are draining, far more so than the academic learning and physical training of the rest of the day. I have to focus so intently and so consistently that I’m ready to sleep by the time we emerge. Not that I get the chance. Dinner and the hours after involve more lessons with Lanistia, more study, more probing quizzes.

And then finally, blessedly—if all too briefly—I’m released to my rooms.

As I lie my head on the feather-stuffed pillow each day, I can’t help but fuzzily catalogue my worries. My progress, which feels significant but is hard to gauge against Lanistia’s and Kadmos’s lacklustre feedback. My impending presentation to the Senate, which Ulciscor has scheduled for straight after the Festival of Jovan.

And before that, of course, there’s the looming puzzle of how to get to the naumachia.

Ulciscor’s continued absence has made negotiating my way there a task I’m not sure is even possible. The Magnus Quintus might have been swayed enough to let me go, I think, over time. Lanistia’s a different story. She sees the Festival of Jovan as frivolous at best; the one time I’ve mentioned it, she was so scathingly dismissive that I haven’t risked raising it again, fearing I’ll only call attention to my interest.

Which leaves sneaking away my only option. Getting there in the first place isn’t an easy prospect: all my clothing has been supplied by Kadmos, and if I’m being tracked, there’s no way I’ll be able to make it all the way to Caten without being caught. And even if I do, the journey’s too long for my absence to not be noticed. The very best outcome would be that I return with a good enough excuse to continue to the Academy, but destroy any slim trust I’ve managed to build here in the process.

Still. I’ve reached the heavy acceptance that I can’t risk not going; the threat the Anguis are holding over me is simply too great to ignore. There has to be a way to get there without ruining everything. There has to be a solution I’m missing. I just need time to think.

But no matter my determination, just as he said it would, Kadmos’s concoction takes a toll as soon as it starts to wear off. My eyes never stay open long enough to figure it out.

IT’S SIXTEEN DAYS AFTER MY arrival at villa telimus when my body wakes in anticipation of Lanistia’s firm, insistent prodding, rather than as a result of it.

I lie there in the dark, wondering whether I’ve somehow, horrifyingly, woken early. There’s no sound from outside or deeper in the house that could have disturbed me, as far as I can tell. And outside the window, the first tinges of pre-dawn light are turning the inky black a deep purple in the east. Lanistia’s usually in here by now.

I rise. Splash my face in a basin of lukewarm water. Watch the closed door, expecting it to open. Still nothing.

I glance back toward the bed. If she’s not coming, or even just delayed…

But I need to train. Lanistia’s not forceful in her lessons from some kind of pent-up spite: there’s a genuine urgency to what she’s doing, a resolve that comes from more than her temperament alone. When she says I’m not ready for the Academy, it’s not just because she’s trying to motivate me.

With a sigh, I tear my longing gaze away, trudge to the door, and open it.

“Master Vis.”

I flinch, sleep-dulled senses not having registered the figure in the hallway. There’s a low-burning lamp at the end of the corridor, but it’s barely enough to see by.

“Kadmos?” I squint. Drowsy, but mildly unsettled by the idea of the steward lurking in the dark outside my room.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man steps forward, allowing the lantern to better illuminate his face. His jowly features are emphasised by dark bags beneath his eyes. He looks about as pleased to be up at this hour as I am. “Sextus Scipio requested that I direct you to the baths, once you were awake.”

“Lanistia wants me at the baths?” I repeat obtusely.

“The baths.” He twitches his shoulders into a weary shrug, indicating he’s as mystified as I. Then he hesitates. “No headaches this morning?”

I consider whether my fuzziness is anything out of the ordinary for the hour. He’s been weaning me off the tea for the past few days, ever since my side stopped needing bandages. Yesterday was the first day I had none at all. “No.”

“And your injuries?”

I roll my left shoulder. “This is fully healed, I think. Side’s not much more than itchy.”

“Good.”

I don’t have the energy for polite acknowledgment yet. I rub my eyes, then shuffle away down the hall without a word.

We didn’t have baths back in Suus: they were always a distinctly Catenan thing, part of their culture and not ours. I remember my father’s advisors suggesting that we build one, once—a way to make visiting dignitaries feel more “at ease,” as they put it. Everyone knew why we really needed one, though. Baths have been a symbol of civilisation to the Catenans for over a century. They’re where the true business of the realm is conducted, where power flows and deals are made in the Hierarchy. Our lack of even a single one was a source of poorly concealed derision from abroad.

My father was a stubborn man, though, and I honestly think he liked the idea of making our Catenan visitors uncomfortable. Or hated the idea of adopting anything that was so distinctly Hierarchy. Or both. Either way, his response to his advisors was… strongly dismissive. Enough so that the matter, to the best of my knowledge, was never raised again.

His disdain for the practice has stuck with me; I’ve reluctantly used the heated pool as a means of recovery after training, but haven’t been near that section of the villa otherwise. It feels especially strange to be going there at this hour, but I’m too asleep to reason out what’s going on. The only sound is my feet slapping against cobbled stone as I cross the dim courtyard, the bite of the night air doing its best to clear my head. A few stars still glimmer above. The entrance to the baths, between two ornate columns guarding the expansive northern wing of the villa, is lit by a single flickering torch.

Lanistia is waiting beneath it, slouching against the wall. Her hand taps a steady rhythm against stone. Across from her and a little distance away stand two men.

“What’s going on?” I eye the strangers.

“You have a visitor.”

“What?” My brow furrows as sleepy bemusement wrestles with the statement. “Who?”

“Magnus Quartus Advenius Claudius. He’s inside, waiting.” She says it through gritted teeth.

“I see.” Making it clear that I don’t. Claudius is an important man; I recognise the name from my daily lessons, though the specifics of who he is are hazy. He’s from Governance. The senator in charge of… something economic. To do with the knights, I think?

“He has estates nearby, which he is visiting, and thought he might stop by and welcome the newest member of the Telimus family.” The official reason, not the one she believes. “I imagine he would also like to meet a prospective Academy student, given that his daughter Aequa is there currently.”

“But why come so early? Why…?” I gesture behind her at the baths. Still confused.

“Why do you think?”

I suck in a lungful of the chilly air and close my eyes. Lanistia’s question is pointed. Definitely not rhetorical.

The hour suggests that Advenius doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here—if he had arrived later, when all the Octavii are working, word would have spread. And the baths indicate he wants privacy: he must know Ulciscor’s in Caten, and it would beyond stretch propriety for Lanistia to try and bathe with us.

Of course, the man could just as easily have demanded a private audience with me—he’s a Quartus, after all—but that’s not the Catenan way. They’d see such a direct approach as clumsy. Oafish. A wasteful use of power.

Lanistia sees my realisations, but is evidently mindful of not saying too much in front of Advenius’s men. “And I am sure he is curious to find out why you’re worthy of the Telimus name.”

Of course. If I show weakness here, Advenius will undoubtedly present that information to the Senate. Undermine the ratification of my adoption before I ever get a chance to defend myself. “I look forward to showing him.” I say it so that the two men across the way can hear.

“Good. Particularly given the disagreements he and your father have had over the years.” Her back is to the men as she issues me a meaningful look. So there’s some personal squabble between Ulciscor and Advenius, then. Even better.

I scrub my forehead with the palm of my hand, and head between the sandstone pillars.

The baths are a modest affair compared to some of the others I’ve seen over the years, but that’s not to say they’re unimpressive. There’s a differently heated room and pool for each stage of the bathing ritual, and even a courtyard to the side for exercise. Striking mosaics decorate the walls.

I find Magnus Claudius submerged in the most pleasantly warm of the four pools, reclining with half-lidded eyes. He’s a large, olive-skinned man with an almost entirely bald pate, though a few damp hairs still cling desperately to its sides. He stirs as he registers my presence, and fat jiggles around his chest and stomach. There’s heavy muscle lurking beneath that outer layer, though, something about the way he stretches indicating a strength that belies his initial appearance. Not a soft man, by any means.

He watches me. Warmth radiates from the floor as I pad over. The only sounds are the gentle gushing of water flowing from a slit in the wall down into the bath, and the echoing slap of my bare feet.

“Vis Telimus.” Advenius’s voice almost elicits a snigger; it’s squeaky, far too high-pitched for his heavyset form. “A pleasure to meet you, young man.”

The Quartus’s tone is lazy, dismissive, despite the friendly words. I try not to bristle. “And you, Magnus Quartus. It’s an honour.” I try to hit somewhere between polite-but-false sincerity and sarcasm. I’ll be civil, but I’m not going to pretend to fawn over the man. “What can I do for you?”

“You can sit. Sit,” he insists with that incongruous voice, gesturing to the sunken concrete seat opposite. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, ever since I heard Ulciscor had adopted.”

“Losing sleep over it, I take it.” I yawn to emphasise the point as I step into the warm water.

Advenius chuckles. More of a titter, really. “I do apologise for the hour. I thought I had another three weeks out here in the country to drop by, but the Senate informed me otherwise just last night. My carriage to Caten leaves not long after dawn.” He spreads his hands. “A slave to the vagaries of their schedule, I’m afraid. This remained my only chance to introduce myself before the Academy’s next trimester.”

He talks indolently, as if not really paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. In another man, I might have believed he was bored or distracted, or even that what he was saying might be true. I slide onto the step opposite Advenius, submersing myself up to my chest, careful not to show him my back as I do so. Too many questions if he sees the scars.

“I didn’t think anyone knew I was here.”

“Yet here I am.” The most explanation I’m going to get.

“And I’m flattered.” Still carefully neither sarcastic nor sincere. Polite, but by no means impressed. “Not sure I’m worth the notice, though.”

“No?” Advenius arches an eyebrow as I settle into the pool. “Plucked from obscurity by one of the most private men in the Senate. Being sent to the Academy, despite it meaning you’ll start a full trimester behind everyone else. Then not just surviving an Anguis attack, but single-handedly saving a Magnus Quintus from it.” He watches me with languid curiosity. “You may not be hearing it here in Ulciscor’s walled garden, my boy, but expectations are high. People are talking.”

“Sounds like they’re getting ahead of themselves.” I can’t help but try and brush it aside, play down the Quartus’s statement. I know this is probably what Ulciscor wants; it will be hard to advance in the Academy if I don’t stand out. It doesn’t make me any less queasy. I can handle whatever extra pressure the attention may bring—I grew up with far worse, after all. But the scrutiny itself, after working so hard and so long to be invisible, is a difficult thing to embrace.

“Modest as well?” The large man shifts, slow ripples gliding away from his torso. Despite his relaxed posture, there’s something sharp in his brown eyes. “How refreshing. A hard quality to find among your contemporaries. Though I imagine their upbringing must have differed from yours.”

“You’d like to hear the specifics, I take it.” A bit too blunt and tired to be considered well-mannered, this time. It’s early, and I’m not going to feign interest in being subtle.

There’s a flash of irritation from Advenius. Catenans—cultured Catenans—always make an effort to participate in these careful conversational dances. Still, he recovers with barely a pause. “I suppose I am curious.”

So I tell him, calmly and succinctly. The more recent parts which he might be able to verify, I’m entirely honest about. Everything else is a practiced lie. Words so comfortable and familiar that it would feel far stranger to be talking about things that actually happened, the life I’ve actually led. I smile absently as I relate my privileged childhood in Aquiria. Gather myself as I speak of the fluke riverboat accident that took both my loving parents from me. Grit my teeth in quiet rage, almost choke up as I explain how our local lord gave me the terrible news on the same day he came to evict me.

Finally I grow sober, contemplative, as I talk about what followed. The aftermath of Aquiria’s signing of their treaty with Caten, and how it affected a boy drifting alone and penniless through the country. Then my time at the orphanage in Letens and, in the story Ulciscor and I agreed upon, the Quintus’s entirely fortuitous discovery of me there. I brighten as I explain how I managed to impress him in my interview. Hint at pleasure as I relay the moment he informed Matron Atrox that he would be adopting me.

That last is mostly unfeigned, actually. I do enjoy recalling that part.

When I’m done, Advenius exhales as if it’s the first breath he’s released since I started. He’s been watching me with an unblinking gaze. Drinking in every word, from all appearances. I’m sure it’s at least partly an act. People tend to be more pliable, more forthcoming, when they feel like you’re fascinated by them.

“Remarkable.” The pudgy man shakes his head, that high-pitched squeak of his still discordant. “And now here you are. Training in the home of one of the most powerful men in the Republic.” A languid examination of me. “That’s going well?”

“Well enough.” As noncommittal as I can make it.

“It must be hard with so little prior education, preparing for something like the Academy.”

“My parents saw to it that I had some of the best tutors in Cartiz.” I try to relay facts rather than be defensive. It’s by far the weakest point in my story; adoption’s not uncommon among senators, but it usually happens years in advance of a child attending the Academy. The idea that someone my age, without a deep formal education, would be expected to compete there is… far-fetched. Even to me.

“What were their names?”

“My parents?”

“Your tutors.” Still talking as if he’s about to fall asleep, but there’s no dodging the question. “I try to keep abreast of all the best educators in the Hierarchy. Perhaps I’ve heard of them.”

I nod as if I believe him. “Falcona De Guez and Servanda Arales.”

“Both women?” Surprised.

“Yes.” They’re Aquirian names—the same as I gave to Ulciscor, the same as I’ve given to everyone who’s heard this story—but not real people. It won’t matter. Aquiria’s infamous record-keeping, combined with their complicated and disorganised union with the Hierarchy, means that there will never be a way for anyone to determine that those two women didn’t exist. Which is all that matters. “No Birthright in Aquiria, back then.” There’s no law against women holding positions of power and education in the Hierarchy, but Birthright’s complex system of taxation and legal obligation around marriage and children makes them more rare.

Advenius accedes the point with a musing sigh. He finally looks down, away from me, gazing into the gentle swells of the glassy pool.

“Tell me, Vis,” he says eventually. “Have you studied Magelicus?” Nothing in his tone has changed but there’s nonetheless a subtle shift, the sense of an uptick in importance to the conversation. We’re finally getting to the point.

“Of course. Will strengthens Will. No man can truly learn, grow, or become wise within himself.” Magelicus’s philosophies are more than a hundred years old, from a time when Will users were little more than a small, suspiciously viewed sect in Catenan society. I don’t think much of the man’s teachings, but he’s revered in the Hierarchy, seen as a founder of the nation. I’m not about to scorn him to the senator.

“I’ve always thought it to be true for peers, particularly. None of us can reach our potential without them.” Advenius’s eyes flick up from his introspection, meeting mine again. “My daughter, Aequa, is also attending the Academy this cycle. She’s in Class Five, and she has an exceptional mind, if I may be so boastful. But she’ll be out this way without much to do once the end of the first trimester comes, now I’m heading to Caten.”

He leaves it there. Waiting.

“A shame. If Lanistia wasn’t focusing on helping me in such specific areas, I would have liked a training partner.”

“I’m sure Aequa could help. If you’re covering ground she’s already familiar with, she’d undoubtedly be an asset. And either way, she would still benefit more from listening to Lanistia than if she simply sequesters herself away for weeks on end.” He issues an affable smile. “She would be able to give you some valuable insight into the Academy, too. It’s been years since Lanistia and Ulciscor attended, after all.” Despite the casual delivery, it’s no idle request, not something he’s simply decided to ask on a whim while he’s here. I’m not sure why, yet, but Advenius wants this.

“Still. I’m not sure how either of them would feel about it.”

Advenius gives another odd, soft, tittering laugh to that. His way of suggesting that we both know exactly how they would feel about it. “I am asking you; if you agree, the rest is simply detail. And while I have nothing but the utmost respect for Ulciscor and Lanistia, I worry that their opposition may stem less from concern for your success, and more from their past with the Academy.”

Advenius’s gaze never wavers as he finishes. The silence hangs.

He’s right about the first part, at least: as a Telimus, if I give my word, it won’t be a small thing to go back on. Lanistia will be unable to gainsay the decision, and by the time he hears of it, I doubt Ulciscor would invite an argument with a Quartus over it.

It’s the latter statement that’s caught my attention, though. It’s subtle, but the way he says it, the way he’s looking at me, suggests that he knows I’m in the dark about whatever he’s referring to. Or at least, he strongly suspects so.

“You’re talking about Ulciscor’s brother?” He might be referring to Lanistia’s past, too—her history with the Academy is evidently a bleak one—but this is my best guess.

“Young Caeror. His tragic suicide. Yes, yes, that’s part of it, but…” He looks appropriately, demurely uncomfortable as he registers my surprise, hard though I try to hide it. “Oh. Perhaps I’ve already said too much. I thought you would have been told. I apologise for bringing it up.”

I recover, shaking my head. So the official story is that he committed suicide. That doesn’t necessarily clash with what Ulciscor told me, but it’s strange that Advenius has made a point of it. I haven’t pressed Lanistia or Kadmos on the subject of Caeror’s death: I assumed there was no more to glean, and if nothing else, there simply hasn’t been time. It sounds like I need to rectify that. “Not at all. In fact, if I understood more, it might make my decision about Aequa easier.”

“Even so. It’s not my place.” An apologetic finality to it. “And I’m sure it goes without saying, but if you do agree to spend time with Aequa, please don’t pester her about it. She’s a wonderful girl, but can be less than circumspect about these sorts of things.”

So it’s something he thinks I should find important. Or, equally likely, he’s attempting to sow discord.

Advenius leans forward suddenly, wrinkles in the water slithering away from his corpulent chest. “Tell me, Vis. When the Anguis attacked your Transvect. How did the Magnus Quintus react?”

I frown at the abrupt change of topic. “What do you mean?”

“Was he panicked, or calm?”

“Calm. At least compared to me.”

“Would you say he was surprised?”

“Of course. But he recovered quickly.”

“Hm.” Advenius looks thoughtful. “What about when he confronted the attackers, after the crash? Do you remember him showing any signs of… recognition?”

“No.” The implication’s clear, now, and I let hard anger insinuate my voice. As would be expected from me.

“Ah.” Advenius makes a placating gesture. “I only ask, as there have been… rumours, which I have been asked to look into. And this was such a strange attack, after all. So coincidental. It would be a terrible thing if you were caught in the middle of something you had no part in. Truly terrible. Good to have an unbiased observer to confirm you weren’t involved, if it comes to that.”

So he’s here to investigate the Transvect attack, and he thinks Ulciscor might be in league with the Anguis somehow? The idea’s ludicrous—but, I suppose, only because I know the truth.

I don’t for a second believe that Advenius wants his daughter here as an “unbiased observer,” of course. This is a manoeuvre for position, an attempt to further his own agenda somehow. Probably something to do with whatever bad blood there is between him and Ulciscor.

But, I realise with a jolt, I can use that.

There’s just the gentle lap of water against the square-cut stone edges of the pool as I think.

“If Aequa and I were to train together,” I say, making it sound reluctant, “I would prefer to get to know her first, away from all this. The schedule here has been hard. It’s not the best setting for introductions.”

“I’m sure something could be arranged. A dinner, perhaps, or—”

“I was thinking I would like to visit Caten for the Festival of Jovan. See the sights. Take in some of the games.” I look hopefully at him. Letting him see an orphan now, an unsophisticated member of the mob who’s been dragged up to his level of society. “I’ve never been.”

“Of course. Of course! If you’ve never been, you simply must go. A tragedy that you have been deprived for so long. I will insist to your father that he allow you the day to accompany Aequa.” The only clue to Advenius’s satisfaction is the smooth alacrity with which he responds. His high-pitched proclamation bounces around the room.

“Then I would be delighted to have a training partner.” I try not to sound like I’m forcing the words through my rictus smile. Lanistia’s going to be… displeased, with the inconvenience of having to hide the Labyrinth from Aequa. Ulciscor, too, when he hears about it. They’re going to wonder about this conversation, wonder what exactly Advenius offered me, no matter how truthfully I relate it to them afterward.

“Wonderful. Yes. Wonderful.” The Quartus beams and stands, water pouring off him. I keep my gaze fixed determinedly on his face. “I would very much like to talk further with you, my boy, but unfortunately time has gotten away from us. Not even a chance to sweat a little in the next bath, I’m afraid. I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Aequa, and send word. I trust I can leave you to sort out the details with young Lanistia?” Inferring, of course, that I’ll make sure any opposition she has comes to nothing. He doesn’t really wait for an acknowledgment, climbing out of the water and shrugging on the robe draped across a nearby bench.

“I can do that.”

“Good. Good. A pleasure to meet you, my boy.” Advenius dabs the black strands of hair clinging to the side of his scalp with his sleeve. His squeaky voice echoes off the stone walls. “I have no doubt that we will be seeing much more of each other in the coming years.”

“I’m sure we will.”

If Advenius is annoyed that I didn’t reciprocate the pleasantries, he doesn’t show it. “Stronger together, Vis.” His movements as he heads to the exit are as languorous as his speech, but there’s a visible power to them. A coiled energy in each motion, impossible not to notice as he departs.

It’s a sense of physicality that’s hard to marry to the overweight, middle-aged man, but I know it has to be because he’s a Quartus. A pyramid of more than fifteen hundred people ceding to him. It’s a frightening thought. Ulciscor gives off a faintly similar sense of undefinable strength, to be fair, but a Quintus only has a few hundred beneath him by comparison. This is something very different.

If Advenius is aware of my observation, he doesn’t show it. He disappears without a backward glance.

I sit in the warmth of the pool for a while longer, contemplating its placid undulating. Then I sigh. Hoist myself from the water.

Time to face Lanistia.

The Will of the Many

XVII

STRONGER TOGETHER.

It’s the great lie of the Hierarchy, proclaimed generation after generation by an ever-growing mob in thrall to the concept. Part of me understands why. There’s a power to the phrase, an allure. It promises inclusion. Protection. Comradery. Common purpose. Belonging.

But you never have to look far to see its hypocrisy laid bare.

“She’s a spy.” Lanistia pivots away from my strike, the motion effortless. Her unique vision allows her to see my muscles tensing before I even begin my attack. I’m faster and smarter than I used to be, but still rarely manage to make contact.

“Obviously.” The air is cool against my still damp skin as we spar beside the lush, empty, barely lit fields of Ulciscor’s estate. Gravel crunches underfoot in the pre-dawn hush. Wind whispers through fields of grain, producing shadowy ripples at every touch. Stars still shine bright overhead in the west, even as those in the east fade from sight.

Lanistia’s glasses reflect the slash of the horizon behind me as she circles to my left. “So what did he offer you?”

“Protection against prosecution. He’s investigating the Transvect attack. He thinks that Ulciscor is in league with the Anguis, somehow. Or wants him to be.”

“Advenius has been trying to prove that link forever.”

“Why?”

Lanistia feints forward, but drawing no reaction from me, continues to sidestep. “Advenius and Ulciscor have always had something of a rivalry. A few years ago, someone in the Anguis uncovered an affair involving Advenius’s sister. Advenius was on track to become Censor, but as soon as the details were made public, Governance dropped him from consideration. It was all rather ugly.” She feints again. “If Advenius had been Censor, he would never have approved Military’s nomination of Ulciscor for the Senate. So naturally, Advenius thinks Ulciscor had a hand in it somehow.”

“Did he?”

“No. If he had, he would never have used the Anguis.”

“Good.” I have to let her think Advenius placed at least a shadow of doubt in my mind.

“I hope that wasn’t the only reason you agreed to have the Claudius girl here. It’s going to be a nightmare, keeping her away from the Labyrinth.”

I tense the muscles in my right arm, just a fraction. When Lanistia hesitates, I launch in with my left. The attack comes close. She still dodges.

“I know, but the Quartus wasn’t wrong about one thing: his daughter’s been at the Academy far more recently than you or Ulciscor. She could tell me things that you two can’t.” I’m feeling the exertion now, breath misting in front of my face. “And I think it will help, training with another student. At the moment I have no gauge for my progress. No comparison.”

Lanistia’s suddenly flashing forward and I’m ducking to the side. She sweeps my leg from under me as I move. My back hits the ground hard.

She stands over me, silhouetted against the dawn. “I’m the gauge, Vis. You made a mistake, inviting her here.”

“We’ll see.” The statement’s undercut somewhat by my wheezing gasp.

“Surely you see the benefits don’t outweigh the risks, though.”

I think back to Suus. A pang as Ysabel bowed over a book, the image faded so terribly by the years, drifts across my mind. “They do for me.”

Lanistia seems to hear something in my voice. She leans down. Offers her hand.

I grasp it and let her pull me to my feet.

“Anything else you need to tell me?”

“The Quartus made a point of saying that Caeror’s death was a suicide.”

She hasn’t let go yet and there’s a tightening of her grip. “It wasn’t.”

“I assumed, given what Ulciscor’s already said. But what happened, exactly?” It’s intimidating, being this close to her, but I keep my gaze steady. She doesn’t move to release me.

Her lips thin. “Veridius killed him and lied about it. The details don’t matter.”

“Advenius seems to think they do.”

“Advenius is a snake.”

“That doesn’t make him wrong. How do you actually know Veridius killed him?” When there’s no response, I start to feel uneasy. “Look—Ulciscor has made it clear that I’m headed for a Sapper unless I find out what’s going on at the Academy. But I know some of his suspicions are because of what happened to his brother. If Caeror really did—”

“He. Didn’t.”

The words are low and sudden. More emotion, more conviction and sadness and rage, than I’ve ever heard from her.

I choke off, whatever I was going to say next forgotten.

She seems to come to herself, releases my hand and steps away. My fingers are white where she’s squeezed the blood from them.

“He didn’t,” she repeats, firmly and in her normal, brusque tone. “And we’re certain.”

I massage the feeling back into my hand. “You knew him.” I don’t make it a question. I’ve wondered if that were the case, given my guess at Lanistia’s age puts her and Caeror in the Academy at the same time. But she’s never brought it up. Never been willing to talk about her past there at all, in fact, pointedly deflecting the few enquiries I’ve made.

She looks angry, but I think it’s at herself more than me. “If you want to know about Ulciscor’s brother, then you need to talk to him.” No doubting the finality of her tone. This isn’t open to negotiation.

“Easy to say,” I grate, “when he’s not actually here to do the talking.”

“Patience. I got word last night: your presentation to the Senate is confirmed for directly after the Festival of Jovan. So you can go and meet the Claudius girl for the festival, then stay with Ulciscor until the Senate convenes. You’ll have plenty of time to speak with him then.” She’s more gruff than furious now as she watches me dust my clothes. “And as far as your decision-making goes… what’s done is done. We’ll just have to schedule your transport to Caten soon. That can be hard to arrange once the festival gets closer.”

She doesn’t give me time to react or press further, dropping into her stance. I copy her from habit. We resume our bout as the first rays of dawn pierce the sky.

And that, it appears, is the end of the matter.

THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING CAEROR’S DEATH continue to scratch at the back of my mind over the next three weeks. Advenius mentioned suicide deliberately, of that I have no doubt. It could have been to sow discord, I suppose, an attempt to unsettle things here as I train.

It could also have had a more dire meaning. If it’s widely known that Ulciscor thinks Caeror was killed—but no one believes him—then his motivations for adopting me, for sending me to the Academy, may be even more transparent than he or Lanistia have admitted. And that could be a problem.

I’ll have to wait until my introduction to Aequa to find out.

I reveal none of these concerns to Lanistia, and following Advenius’s visit, things quickly fall back into the same exhausting rhythm. Train. Learn. Test. Eat. Sleep. My wound fully heals. I begin to see the effects of good food and daily, strenuous activity in the mirror, filling out my physique, hardening it far beyond what my circumstances in Letens would ever have allowed. I had a rough, pugilistic strength from the Theatre, but this is turning it into sleek athleticism, the variety of exercise providing a far more complete mastery over my body.

That’s beginning to show in my control of the Labyrinth, too. My reactions are becoming honed, instant, precise; I rarely lose stones from the bracer now, even through gruelling afternoons of Lanistia snapping out section after section for me to manipulate. The dark-haired woman never loses her severity, but even she acknowledges my improvement. On the day before the Festival of Jovan begins, she tells me I’ll be ready to try the challenge of running the Labyrinth, changing sections as I move, after I return from Caten.

The weight of that impending trip—first trying to meet Sedotia, and then being presented to the entire Catenan Senate—has seemed distant. Most days, I don’t have time to feel it.

But weeks spent in routine disappear, and then one morning I’m dressing for my journey to the naumachia.

The Will of the Many

XVIII

LATE AFTERNOON IS PAINTING THE treetops as my carriage rattles its way along the road, the clattering of hooves accompanying it echoing off the surrounding hills. I gaze out the window, fiddling with my toga. It’s pristine white, no stripe to indicate status, as appropriate for the festival.

I’m alone in the carriage, and have been since we left Villa Telimus almost a half hour ago. It’s a horse-drawn one today, and I’m also flanked by a half dozen riders. All Septimii. All here to ensure that brigands don’t cause me any trouble as I travel first to Villa Claudius, and then to Caten itself.

I’ve never felt so uncomfortably like a true citizen.

“We’re here, Master Vis.” Torvus, the rough-looking head of my protective entourage, sees me peering ahead. I’ve already spotted the mansion towering amid the surrounding fields. Newer and more ostentatious than Villa Telimus, it sprawls around a long pool at the front. Columns upon columns of Will-cut white stone line the portico, while the flowering gardens are ringed by hedges and poplar, immaculately kept and perfectly symmetrical. Candles adorn the balconies, ready to light at dusk in keeping with the holiday.

The only person in view is a young woman, seated on a low wall as she watches our approach. She’s wearing a fashionable blue silk tunic with a many-layered white mantle draped across her shoulders; raven-black hair cascades over it, wisps catching rays of the dipping sun behind her. The driver swings down as the carriage stops, opening the door for her. She appraises him, then stands smoothly and allows him to assist her in.

“You must be Vis.” Demure, though there’s no hesitation in the introduction. “I’m Aequa Claudius.” She offers her hand, palm down, and I clasp it briefly to complete the formal greeting as she seats herself opposite.

“A pleasure.” The door’s already shut and we’re pulling away again. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me this evening.”

There’s more than a hint of wry humour to her expression. “Of course.”

“Are you looking forward to the fighting?”

“The naumachia?” She looks as if she’s just tasted something bitter. “No. Not… not particularly.” Just enough of an apology in the words to not be impolite. It’s as expected. Like most patricians, she feels that attending this sort of event is beneath her.

“Ah.” I pretend to be disappointed, then lean forward, letting eagerness creep into my tone. The common-birth orphan, talking about an event I could never have dreamed of seeing a few months ago. “I’ve just… never been to the Catenan Arena. I’m interested in the chariots and gladiators too, of course, but when I heard this was on, I knew I had to get there somehow. But if you would prefer to find your own entertainment once we reach Caten, I’ll understand.”

She examines me, and though she makes some attempt to conceal it, she’s bored by what she sees. That’s good. I need her to underestimate me today, to not care about my whereabouts when the time comes.

“No,” she says eventually, reluctantly. “My father would be displeased, if he heard.”

We’re already leaving Villa Claudius behind, our pace increasing as the Will-built road south straightens and widens. There are traces of Advenius’s features in Aequa, though surprisingly few that mar her looks. I accept her response affably. It was worth trying.

The rhythmic clopping of hooves against stone and the creaking of the carriage are the only sounds for a few seconds.

“So. Tell me about the Academy,” I say before the silence grows awkward. “Your father said you were in Class Five?”

“Four,” Aequa corrects me. “I broke my arm riding about a week before the entrance exam, so they started me in Six. But I’ve worked my way up.”

“Was that hard to do?”

She almost chokes. “Two promotions in six months? Nobody else has done it.”

I can’t help myself. “But is it hard?”

She frowns this time. Sees that I’m wheedling, but not charmed by it in the slightest. “Yes.”

I grin cheerfully at her, determined to maintain the genial, relaxed demeanour for the duration of the trip. Partly because I can tell it bothers her, and I’m under no illusion as to why she’s really here. And partly because she seems the type to underestimate anyone who’s outwardly friendly. “Very impressive, then.”

Her exasperated look almost makes me laugh.

“I imagine they’ll start you in Seven, so you’ll get to experience it for yourself soon enough.” The thought seems to make her feel a little better. She relaxes as she considers me. “How long has Magnus Telimus been preparing you for the Academy?”

“About a month?”

She smiles dubiously. “How long, really?” An eye roll as I look at her blankly. “It’s a nice story—a gifted war orphan, discovered by chance, taken in by a Magnus and elevated straight to the Catenan Academy. But my father said he could tell that Magnus Telimus has been preparing you for a while.”

I cough a surprised chuckle. “I’m flattered. But I met Ulciscor for the first time a month ago.”

She sighs, not surprised and not believing me. “Well. In any case, this trip is a good opportunity for us to learn each other’s capabilities, given that we’ll be training together for the next few weeks.” Aequa makes no attempt to hide her hesitancy at the prospect. Her unblinking eyes are a startling shade of blue as they meet mine. Almost violet. “Any objections?”

“Not at all.” She’s not one for pleasantries, that much is evident.

“Then I’ll start.”

The next hour consists largely of Aequa throwing problems at me, and my occasional and half-hearted returning of the favour, as the countryside rolls swiftly by. I don’t object. None of her questions are particularly taxing; in fact, they’re almost laughable after having endured Lanistia’s near-abusive interrogations. I make sure to answer correctly—I’m not trying to drive Aequa away—but I don’t try to impress her with any sense of ease or alacrity, either. No benefit to her seeing me as a potential rival.

It’s an easy enough ruse, with my mind largely on what’s ahead now. How will Sedotia even find me, once we arrive? I have no way of contacting her, no way to signal to her where I am. And there will be a hundred thousand people in the Catenan Arena watching the naumachia. A hundred thousand.

I’ve already been chewing over the problem for weeks, and the extra hour doesn’t help. At least, despite my distracted state, I notice the superciliousness of Aequa’s interrogation is starting to abate. I’m better educated than she anticipated.

The road has become crowded over the past twenty minutes, one long caravan of pilgrims. The late afternoon light outside is just giving way to a true gold when we crest a rise, and the immense, imposing breadth of Caten appears up ahead.

I trail off mid-answer as I catch the sight. My first impression of the city, brief though it was, has lingered, and I’ve since wondered whether my memory had been exaggerating its ugly, intimidating grandeur. Hoped, really. We’re approaching from the north-east. The horizon has resolved into an ocean of buildings and roads and towers and people scurrying everywhere, all silhouetted against the fading orange burn of sunset.

My recollection of Caten is entirely accurate.

“You haven’t been here before?” Aequa’s following my gaze. There are coloured lights flickering to life around the outside of some of the taller structures, special lanterns that stain the façades in dramatic, festive hues. As the carriage starts its descent along the road, I catch a glimpse of the bay beyond, reflecting the gentle glow of dusk. It’s dotted with ships, some larger ones lit up as gaudily as the buildings.

“Only briefly.”

“It’s the greatest city ever built.” There’s no irony to Aequa’s voice, no sense that she’s anything but genuine in her assessment.

“What about Tolverium? Or Sena Corlisis?” I should let it go, but a part of me is on the defensive at the mere sight of this place.

“You mean their ruins?”

“But in their day,” I press. Stubborn. “Tolverium was twice Caten’s size. And even fifty years on, we’re still finding new innovations in Sena Corlisis.”

“You can’t compare cities from before the Cataclysm to now. We don’t know anywhere near enough about them.” Aequa’s put out that I’m not just agreeing with her, as most everyone else here would. Describing Caten as “the greatest city” is supposed to be small talk. Not even rhetoric. Like describing the clear sky as blue.

“I agree.”

Aequa glowers, but gestures to show she can’t be bothered pursuing the matter.

The carriage rolls on, and I return my inspection to the world outside. We’ve left the open fields, moving downhill and looking out over wooden buildings that are built low enough to the ground that we can see over their flat-topped roofs. This outer district of Caten is brightly lit, candles in every doorway, but away from the main road we’re travelling, I can see ramshackle structures as high as three stories that look dangerously close to toppling. Everything’s jammed together here, dirty, and the smell that wafts in the window is an assault.

It doesn’t seem to bother the revellers, though. The streets are packed; I can hear Septimus Torvus yelling at the people ahead to clear the way.

“This is Esquilae District. Octavii, mostly.” Aequa’s over her pique, drawing my attention to an enormous statue ahead. “There’s not much here, apart from Sere.”

I recognise the Catenan goddess of spring and fertility easily enough. A naked woman with a wistful expression, hand outstretched as she gazes into the distance. The statue’s twenty feet tall, marble and beautifully crafted, incongruous to its surroundings. Created using Will, no doubt. Religious symbols are required to be by law.

We’re past in a few minutes, leaving the dilapidated residences behind us and nearing the sprawling central section of Caten. Roads widen. Houses becomes grander, interspersed with temples and statues and friezes. Coloured lanterns are everywhere, some carefully coordinated to give buildings their own distinct hues. A tapering, artistically twisting tower lit up in cool blue. An angled, polished stone monstrosity coated red. Another green, another yellow, another some deep shade of purple.

And below it all—crowding every brilliantly lit street—are people.

So many people.

Our carriage presses into the multitudes. All of Caten slopes toward the harbour, and we have an excellent vantage through the buildings. There’s motion for as far as the eye can see. Individuals, couples, families. I see stalls lining the streets, merchants red-faced in the heat as they shout their wares at anyone foolish enough to make eye contact. I see people crowding around makeshift rings that contain men circling each other, occasional fists raised in excitement as one or the other lands a blow. I see children and adults trying their hand at games of skill or chance. Food being given out. Contests of strength. Of speed. Of Will. It’s dizzying to watch, a throbbing mass of faces and bodies and movement.

There has to be ten thousand people here. More.

It’s minutes later when I tear my eyes from the window. I’ve still been answering Aequa’s questions, but absently, and it’s only now I catch a glimpse of her smug expression as she watches me be overwhelmed. I pretend not to notice.

I shouldn’t be surprised by the tumult, I suppose. The Festival of Jovan is one of the biggest celebrations in the Hierarchy; every major city holds parties in the streets, games, and produces countless lavish Will-powered displays to celebrate. I even attended once in Letens, prior to joining the orphanage. Some places give away food and drink to the crowds, all paid for by the Triumvirate—the three Princeps atop the senatorial pyramids. An expression of their generosity, of the wealth and security and greatness of Caten.

I liked taking their alms almost as little as I liked the idea of ceding, but hunger can have a tendency to trump principles, sometimes.

“Master Vis.” It’s Torvus, riding closer and leaning toward the window. “I think this is about as close as we can get.”

The carriage, which has been inching along, comes to a complete stop as it’s hemmed in by packed bodies.

“I know the way from here.” Aequa’s opening the door and disembarking before I realise what’s happening.

“Oh…” Torvus looks at me questioningly.

I give him a nonplussed look as I follow her. “Thank you, Septimus. I’ll be sure to let my father know you discharged your duties properly.”

Torvus is relieved. “If you need us, we’ve rooms reserved at the inn in Alta Semita.” He glances across at Aequa, who nods her recognition of the location. “We’ll be there until morning.”

Aequa slides away from the carriage, and I follow her into the heart of Caten. It’s claustrophobic as the structures around us loom, criss-crossing stone walkways high above covering sections of the still-fading sky. Everyone around us seems to be talking, laughing, calling out to someone in the distance. Music plays at every corner, notes discordant as they clash. It combines into a low, unsettling thunder.

I hate it. I’ve been in cities before, even during festivals, but I’ve never had to navigate a crush of bodies like this. The jostling, the heat, the smell, the noise: it’s all unpleasant, all an experience I immediately wish to be over. How can people come here, knowing it will be like this? How can they enjoy this?

I scan each face we pass, not expecting to see Sedotia or anyone else I recognise, but alert nonetheless. They all belong to strangers.

“I understand you want to know about Caeror Telimus’s suicide.”

Aequa’s words are all but shouted over the hubbub, as abrupt as the topic is unexpected. I almost choke. “I… ah.” I lean in close to make my voice as low as possible, given the circumstances. “Yes.”

“He died during the Academy Iudicium six years ago. Threw himself off a cliff. Apparently he had been acting erratically for weeks before the Iudicium started. Nearly got kicked out of Class Three because of it.” Aequa calls it as she concentrates on our path forward. Simply a recollection of well-known facts, not something she considers private. “Quintus Veridius, who’s the Principalis at the Academy now, saw it happen. They were friends. There was a terrible accident, and Caeror thought he’d killed another student who was competing. He didn’t want to face the Sappers, so…” She takes an exaggerated, hopping step forward, miming the act.

This is news. “So he killed someone?”

“Thought he’d killed them,” corrects Aequa, brushing a long strand of black hair back from her face and turning sideways so she can avoid touching a large, sweaty-looking man carrying a sack. “The Principalis thought they were dead too, but when it turned out they’d survived, he carried them back on his own. It took him almost a day. The Principalis doesn’t like to talk about it, but the story’s something of a legend at the Academy.”

The public nature of this conversation is frustrating, but no one is giving us a second glance. I suppose in many ways, Aequa’s not relating anything that’s not already widely known. “And what did the injured student say?”

“No idea. I assume they didn’t accuse the Principalis of murder, though, because he was given a Crown of the Preserver by Princeps Exesius himself. I’ve seen it. It’s on display in his office.”

I chew my lip. She’s right: an honour like that means the rescue was never under any real cloud. “Why did your father think it was worth mentioning?” Aequa doesn’t seem inclined to play the games that Advenius did. It’s worth asking directly.

“Because your father”—there’s a half breath of hesitation on the word—“spent months after trying to convince anyone who would listen that the Principalis was lying. In the end, the rest of your family had to step in and insist that he stop.” She’s still speaking loudly to be heard above the surrounding racket. “From what my father says, he just couldn’t accept what had happened. But it was very public, very bitter. Nobody’s forgotten.”

I sigh. Exactly what I’d feared, in essence. “So everyone’s going to think I’m at the Academy to get revenge on the Principalis, somehow.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Obviously not. I didn’t know about any of this.” Ulciscor must have been planning to tell me at least some of it before I left—he’d have to realise that I’d find out, once I was at the Academy. Perhaps there’s more to the story, and he just hasn’t had time to explain everything yet.

Or, perhaps, he was holding off for as long as possible, knowing what I’d deduce from the information. If I’m going to be under this much suspicion from the moment I walk into the school, then Ulciscor being the senator to adopt me seems a very poor choice indeed.

Which means he probably doesn’t have the backing of Military at all.

I feel sick, but it makes sense. This whole thing is personal for him. A crusade sparked by his brother’s death. For all I know, Military might be actively against my attending the Academy, not wanting to risk sparking an incident with Religion.

And worse—much worse, for me—is the possibility that Ulciscor is reaching for excuses. That there’s nothing going on behind the scenes there at all, that Caeror really did commit suicide. If that’s the case, then there will be nothing for me to find. Ulciscor will blame me no matter how hard I try. I’ll end up in a Sapper.

My gloomy rumination is interrupted by a blast of air that thunders down the street, and I flinch to a dead stop as a massive dark shape flits overhead. I’m the only one who reacts.

“It’s not going to kill you.”

I tear my gaze away from the disappearing Transvect to see Aequa watching me with amusement, then grunt, vaguely embarrassed. “That hasn’t been my experience with them, thus far.”

“What? Oh.” She shakes her head, admonishing herself as we start forward again. “Of course. Some kind of attack, wasn’t it? I heard about it at the Academy.” Unsurprising; I doubt the Praeceptors would have been able to keep gossip like that from spreading. “Do they know who did it?”

“No.”

“Word was, you saved your father from them.”

I snort at that. “You do know he’s a Quintus, right?”

“It’s what everyone was saying.” I don’t have time to react to the statement as Aequa points ahead. “We’re here.”

I falter, raising my eyes beyond the immediate press of bodies for the first time in a while. I’ve been so busy scanning the crowds for any sign of Sedotia that I hadn’t registered the horizon gradually disappearing. Hadn’t noticed the crush of people around us becoming a stream, all flowing inexorably in the same direction, the towering structure ahead an irresistible vortex. Arches and frescoes and grand pillars fill my vision against the dying light, stretching three hundred feet up and continuing along for at least ten times that, curving gently along its entire length. The throng splits into distinct rivulets as it approaches, each one pouring eagerly into the Catenan Arena’s belly through a dozen manned entrances.

We’ve arrived at the naumachia.

The Will of the Many

XIX

IHATE THIS. THIS SENSE of overwhelming helplessness. The feeling of being awed and dismayed, all at once.

If the outside of the Catenan Arena was impressive, the inside is nothing short of magisterial. We emerge from the great, arched, echoing tunnel into stands that stretch and stretch and stretch, stone benches curving around in a great oval that heaves with white motion and noise. In the middle of it all is an enormous lake, murky water sloshing and slurping at its containing barriers, the smell of salt mingling with a thousand other, less-pleasant aromas.

Ships moored to temporary docks tower nearby, blocking some of the view. Biremes surround a massive trireme, bobbing as they’re swarmed by men and women making preparations. I can see a similar fleet on the far side of the Arena; at first glance I think it’s smaller, but a more intent inspection suggests it’s simply the distance. They’re a mile away across the water, at least. I have to squint to make out the individuals on their decks.

Though the sun has sunk low enough that the walls now hide it from view, everything is brilliantly lit. There are lanterns on long poles at regular intervals in the stands, and countless candles are already held by eager spectators ready to celebrate the God of Light. High above the water, thousands of dark points hang suspended in mid-air, littering the fading sky. More lanterns, I realise. Suspended by Will, as yet unlit.

I’m buffeted by the crowd as Aequa grabs my arm and pulls, clearly not as shocked by the enormity of it all. I stumble on behind her, trying to calculate. How much Will was used to create all this? How much time and effort and engineering would it have taken to funnel this much water from the harbour? To build these ships? Even just to hold those lanterns aloft?

All for a spectacle. A frivolity meant purely to entertain.

Or, as my father would have insisted, to distract.

Aequa and I let ourselves be pushed along for a while; only the eastern entrances are open today—the others all sealed off to help contain the water, presumably—and our seats are on the opposite side. It’s long minutes before we’re descending toward the very front benches. Red-uniformed Praetorians patrol this area, eyeing newcomers from behind their reflective dark glasses. There’s no mistaking the vicious slivers of glimmering, jagged obsidian hanging at their sides. The Razors are carved by their own hands and imbued with Will. There are more efficient weapons in the Hierarchy, but none as terrifying.

We receive a long glance from the guard nearest us, but Aequa’s attire seems enough to convince him of our right to be here. He passes without stopping, and the clenching of my stomach eases a little.

We settle on a cushioned bench next to a middle-aged couple, who ignore us and continue arguing about whether holding the naumachia is worth shutting down the local baths in order to redirect water here. We’re later than many, and a lot of the seats in the stadium are already filled. The ages of the crowd range from at least ten years my junior, to men and women too elderly to find their seats unassisted. It’s as if the entire city has come.

“Will there be anyone else from the Academy here?”

“I can’t imagine so. Most of us got tired of these things when we were children.”

“Including you, I take it?” It’s a fairly plain jab from Aequa, but I continue the amiable façade.

“Yes.”

“Did your parents bring you?”

“Tisiphone did, a few times.” She shifts at my questioning look. “One of our Octavii. My mother’s a Sextus, and she was away a lot, so…”

I feel a flicker of sympathy. Not an uncommon practice, as I understand it, for high-ranking Catenans to leave raising their children to an educated Octavii.

“Siblings?”

“None we officially recognise.” Her tone’s too careless to be unaffected.

“Ah.” A lonely life, then. One probably plagued by worry about the illegitimate children her father has produced, especially if they’re male.

Silence falls between us, and I take the opportunity to scan the crowd. No one appears to be paying me any particular attention. I clench a frustrated fist by my side. We’re too exposed, here at the front. Far too prominent for Sedotia to make an approach, even if she knows where I am.

The eager chatter is steadily swelling to a dull, smothering roar; everyone’s animated, enthusiastic, anticipating. I hear words like glory and victory and hero. Bets being taken on who will win, who will fall, and who will take the prize for most “kills.”

“So how does this work?” I already know, for the most part, from my lessons at Suus, but an orphan from Letens wouldn’t have as clear an idea. I indicate the lines of armoured men boarding the ships nearby. “Those weapons look like proper steel. How do they uphold Birthright out there?”

“Their armour’s Conditionally imbued. Too much damage in the wrong areas, and it drags them out of the fight.”

“But there are thousands of them.” It’s not an exaggeration, if the same number of fighters are embarking on the opposite side of the Arena. “What if one gets stabbed in the face? Or falls overboard, or—”

“Obviously some will see a shameful end,” Aequa interjects impatiently, making it sound like she’s describing the weather. “That’s what makes it so tense to watch, after all. And there will be a lot of injuries. But most who fall will survive for the Sappers.” She must see something in my expression, because she makes a conciliatory motion. “They are mostly convicted criminals, Vis. Birthright doesn’t technically even apply to them.”

I repress a surge of revulsion and nod, as if her explanation’s perfectly acceptable. Aequa likely has no idea what the Sappers are really like, given my impression that few in the Hierarchy do, but it’s a cold assessment. For a time, Ulciscor’s villa isolated me from this world. These people. With only Lanistia and Kadmos for company, and those two focused only on my training, it’s been easy to forget their ugly realities.

“How will they find the Sappers for so many at once?” I know she won’t know the answer—the source of the Hierarchy’s supply has always been a mystery, its limits known only to a few in the Senate—but I’m curious to see what she thinks.

“No idea.”

When it’s clear she’s not interested in expounding, I stand. “I’d like to walk around a little, before it all begins. Stretch my legs. Take it all in.” I have to at least give the Anguis an opportunity to reach out to me.

Aequa moves as if to rise as well. “Alright.”

I cough. “And… I need to locate a toilet.”

She rolls her eyes and sinks back into her seat, the need to relieve oneself apparently beneath her. “You have about twenty minutes.”

I leave, making careful note of where our seats are, then move out of sight and start to wander. Every face is a stranger’s, and there are so many.

A minute passes. Two. This was a mistake. I could have bartered for anything. Forced Advenius to guarantee my safety after the Academy, somehow. Or refused to train with Aequa at all. But here I am. Roaming the Will-cast paths of the Hierarchy’s greatest monument, just another member of the Catenan mob.

I’m so lost in my frustrations, I don’t notice the pressure on my shoulder at first.

It takes me a moment to recognise Sedotia. In the light of the burning Transvect she was fierce and cold. Here she’s well-dressed, prim and half-hidden behind a veil. Married, then, or pretending to be for anonymity. She looks smaller. Wan, even, beneath the rosy glow of the lantern-light.

“Come with me.”

“How did you find me?”

“Come with me.” She sees my hesitation, and though she doesn’t raise her voice, there’s no doubting the seriousness of what she’s saying. “Now.”

I don’t argue. We move through the crowd without talking. I can’t help but cast an anxious glance over my shoulder, back toward where I know Aequa is sitting, but I needn’t have worried. Our seats are well out of sight.

“I can’t be long.”

“I know.” Her stare is withering. “It would have been better if you’d come alone.”

“Oh. I should have thought of that.” I slap myself lightly in the forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sedotia’s not amused. “You’ll be back in your seat before everything starts.”

We’re heading through a passageway into the covered outer ring of the Arena and then down a set of stairs, travelling against the flow of the majority. At first I think Sedotia plans to leave entirely, but before I can voice my concern, we’re turning aside and descending another staircase, this one cleverly hidden from the public concourse and barely wide enough to allow a single person. Nobody else is coming or going, but we aren’t spared a passing glance by anyone hurrying by. They’re all rushing to be in their seats in time.

“Where are we going?” My voice echoes off stone. Ahead, I can hear trickling. My nostrils flare and I cough at the fetid smell.

“To meet someone.” We’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, which end abruptly in a four-foot-high hole that opens into a long, low, arched tunnel. Water—or some kind of liquid—sloshes along inside it.

Sedotia leans down and reaches into an inconspicuous cavity in the wall, emerging with a hand full of cloth. She tosses the threadbare tunic to me. “Before we go any farther, you need to change clothes.”

“What? Why would I… oh.”

She nods. “Anything Ulciscor’s given you, you need to leave here. It’s for the best anyway. Whatever you wear isn’t going to come out smelling particularly pleasant.”

I don’t bother to argue; I wouldn’t put it past Lanistia to track me. I pull my tunic over my head.

“Your side’s healed well.”

I concur absently. “The staples came out a couple of weeks ago.”

“Lucky.” When I glance askance at her, she adds, “We would have had to remove them, too.”

I stiffen as the implication settles, then continue dressing. I hadn’t considered that. Veridius was the one who applied them.

“Leave your sandals here as well—they’ll just get the smell in them.”

I do as I’m told, grimacing as I follow the young woman into the sewer. It’s cold and slimy beneath my bare feet, sludge seeping between my toes. I try not to think about what it consists of. The stench that worried my nostrils earlier attacks now, an assault that threatens to leave me hacking and heaving at every unwilling breath. The walls glisten, sweating in the dim and dank. I do my best not to brush against them. I’m not entirely convinced that’s just water, either.

“Stay quiet. These ways will be flooded in a few hours, but there might still be workers around.” Sedotia wades ahead of me. Careful amid the muck. Most of the women I’ve known would be gagging and forcing every step, if they’d even made it down this far.

“Flooded?”

“When the naumachia finishes.”

There’s an itch of unease as I understand. Once the spectacle above is done, the Hierarchy will waste no time in draining the artificial lake. And these are the sewers they’ll use to flush all that water back into the harbour.

We press on through calf-deep streams, each step cautious on the sludge-slick stone. It’s hard to see more than a few paces ahead, most of the time, the illumination of the streets above—we’re out past the walls of the Arena, by this point—barely reflecting down through small grates at the end of long, narrow pipes. Talking and singing and laughter echoes, bouncing around the low-arching tunnel system, surrounding us. The only sounds we make are small, lapping splashes.

It’s a maze down here, but we’re only walking for a minute when Sedotia pulls up short, gesturing to a side opening. Past her, I can see there’s orange light shimmering against the greasy stone wall, brighter than anything cast by the festivities above.

I bend almost double to slide under the low archway. A torch dribbles dying embers from where it’s affixed to the wall, revealing another stairwell that disappears upward about thirty feet away. This area’s slightly raised and the sewage is only ankle-deep here, though the smell is no better.

Sitting casually one step above the sludge is a man, features half-hidden in shadow. Plainly dressed and apparently comfortable, despite our surroundings. The way he’s lounging indicates a kind of bored confidence.

He uncoils as Sedotia ducks under the opening to join me. He’s probably my height, but the extra step means he’s peering down at us. I still can’t see his face properly.

“Diago.” His voice is smooth and deep. It resonates in the cramped space.

I won’t risk admitting it, not out loud. Not even down here in the dark among Caten’s putrescence. “My name is Vis.”

“Of course.” There’s humour in the words. A clear indication that we both know I’m lying, but he’s happy to let me pretend. “And I am Melior.”

He steps forward. Down off his perch, into the muck with us, revealing his features. He’s perhaps forty, a dusting of grey in both his close-cropped hair and light beard. Lantern-jawed, sun-browned skin a dark gold in the light.

And I recognise him. Not who he is, straight away, but there’s an immediate sense of familiarity, confusion as my mind tries to separate face from surroundings. I say nothing for several seconds, the man waiting patiently.

Then, finally, it hits.

“Estevan?” He’s older, more grizzled and worse-dressed, and the beard is new. But it’s Estevan. A man I never had a lot to do with, but he’s from Suus—one of my father’s most trusted advisors, and as fiercely against the Hierarchy as any of them. Someone I assumed would be either dead or in a Sapper, after the invasion.

“May I call you Diago now?”

“Vek. Rotting gods. I… vek.” I’m grinning. Laughing. I step forward to embrace him, but he wards me off.

“Sorry. Hard to explain, but don’t come any closer.” He smiles at me. “It is good to see you, though, my prince.”

There’s a hard lump in my throat at the title. “You too, Estevan. Vek. You too.” There are a thousand questions spinning in my head, my absence from the naumachia suddenly a secondary concern. “How did you get out? Are there any others with you? How did you find me?” I squint at him. “Are you really Melior?” Sedotia knowing my identity suddenly makes a lot more sense.

“I am. I needed safe harbour, after Suus, and the Anguis needed the information and connections I could provide. It’s been a good match.” He glances at Sedotia, who has been watching the exchange with interest. The young woman shakes her head. Estevan sighs. “As for the rest, Highness, it will need to wait until we have more time. There are more urgent things to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“Your helping us.”

We watch each other, some of my giddy joy fading as I remember why I’m here. Ripples slosh up against the stone.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Now he’s willing to listen,” mutters Sedotia from behind me.

“We need you to be Domitor at the Academy, or as close as you can get. Then when you graduate, pick any position you like that places you in Caten, but with either Religion or Governance. Not Military.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s obviously not all. But for now, it’s what we need you to do.”

I consider, and the silence stretches. I know my answer almost immediately, though.

“I’m sorry, Estevan.” I truly am.

My father’s old friend frowns. “Don’t you want to fight?”

“Not the way I know you want me to.” Half explanation, half weary remonstrance. I don’t want to anger the Anguis, but Estevan’s presence has disarmed me, compels me to be candid. In fact, this might be the most honest thing I’ve said in months.

“I told you. A broken blade,” murmurs Sedotia.

Estevan ignores her, keeps his eyes on me. Curious rather than indignant. “Why not?”

I consider my answer. I desperately want him to understand.

“About six months after Suus, I was travelling through Tensia. There was this little village on a hillside. Aiobhinn. A hundred people, maybe—mostly farmers, only four Septimii. I had no money, no food. No identification. They had to know what Catenan law demanded, but instead they fed me, let me sleep under a roof, and turned a blind eye when I pocketed some coin they’d left lying around. It wasn’t much, but it kept me going when I was ready to give up. I managed to stay out of Catenan orphanages for more than another year because of that one experience.”

I hesitate. Not sure if this level of honesty is a good idea, but I plough on anyway. “I came back, about half a year later. It was almost harvest, and I thought that they might have some work. When I got there, the Anguis had just raided them. Half of the village was burned to the ground. The children and wife of the man who had taken me in were busy burying him. And everyone was lining up to talk to the proconsul. To give him the descriptions of the men who had attacked them, and beg him for Caten’s protection.” I’ve been staring at the water around my ankles as I talk, but now I look up, meeting Estevan’s gaze. “So I left, because I knew what would happen this time. The Anguis aren’t winning hearts, Estevan—you’re hardening them. I’m not sure what the answer is, what the alternative is, but… your way doesn’t work. And I want no part of it.”

I fall silent. Done. He wanted to know, and now he knows.

“They were Hierarchy. They were our enemies long before they were attacked,” says Sedotia quietly.

“They were innocent.”

“Innocent?” Estevan has just been listening thoughtfully but he stirs at that, offended. “Were they not Octavii and Septimii, ceding their Will to Caten, for Caten’s purposes?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then they were participants and by definition, shared guilt.”

“They didn’t have a choice.”

“Did you? Did she, or I?” There’s an unmoveable force behind Estevan’s words, his voice stone grinding against stone. “Or should we not hold others to the standards to which we hold ourselves? Anyone who does not resist them, Diago, is lending them their strength. Is complicit in all that they do. The Octavii are not just guilty—they hoist the entire Hierarchy on their shoulders. I would think that you, above all others, would have reason to hate them for that.”

“And I do.” The admission snaps out rawer than I intend, almost a snarl. I bring myself back. Calm. “But I can hate without it coming to violence.”

“Hate is its own violence, my prince. Your only choice is whether to let it hurt them, or you.” The older man considers. Sighs. “Very well. I’m not going to threaten you. But I’m not going to give up on you, either.” He turns and steps back up onto the ledge, out of the water. “Have you ever wondered why the Republic attacked, that day?”

“Of course. All the time.” I frown. “But we were the last ones to hold out. I assume someone in Military got impatient, and—”

“No.” Estevan’s face is covered in shadow again, but I can hear the conviction. “For an extra ten thousand pieces to prop up their pyramids, when they already had twenty million? No. All Caten had to do was sit back and let their propaganda take effect. You were there—you know it’s true. Sooner or later, your father would have had to sign something, or face revolution. Maybe not right away. Maybe not for another five, ten years. But eventually.” He crosses his arms. “So why do it? Why risk resistance, potentially having to kill the very people they wanted as Octavii? And then why kill your family?”

Because they fear what we know. One of the last things my father said to me as we fled that night through the palace’s secret tunnels, after I asked him much the same thing. Something I’ve tried not to dwell on these past three years. He could have meant anything. And he never got to explain further.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” Estevan takes a breath. “It won’t be long before you do as well, Diago. And I hope that will change your mind enough to join us.” He glances at Sedotia, who signals to him. “Our time is up. Keep in mind what I’ve said. Victims can still be enemies.” He moves to depart through the way behind him.

“Estevan? Be careful. I overheard Magnus Telimus talking about you. About Melior. It sounds like the Senate are confident they’re going to catch you soon.”

He lingers at the base of the stairs. Doesn’t turn, but a soft chuckle echoes off the walls ahead of him. “Thank you, Highness.”

He leaves.

The meeting over, I turn to Sedotia, who jerks her head toward the low archway. “Let’s get you back. It will be starting soon.” Her voice is taut. She’s displeased with the outcome of my conversation.

I follow her, wading once more into the flowing murk. We just walk for a minute, tense. My eyes have adjusted enough to see the deliberateness with which she places her feet, this time. The occasional slip that she’s almost a half-step too slow to recover from. The way she has to pause afterward, her eyes struggling to track, wobbling as she balances.

“How did you knock out Ulciscor, back at the Transvect?”

“You heard Melior. If you want answers, you know what you have to do.”

“Worth a try.”

We reach the base of the way up. Sedotia rummages inside the hidden cavity and this time emerges with a full waterskin and rough chunk of soap. I strip my half-sodden tunic and sit on a stair, hurriedly scrubbing my legs and feet, then using the dry upper part of the tunic to start towelling the moisture from my legs and feet. “You’re ceding.” I’m certain now, her wan skin obvious in the light. “To Estevan?”

She doesn’t respond, but I can see the answer in the set of her shoulders.

“I thought the Anguis were better than that.” I don’t bother to hide my bitterness. No wonder the Senate’s been intent on finding Melior.

“That’s not…” She shakes her head. “Fine. Think what you will. But you were right—this is a war we cannot win, not the way we’ve been fighting it. And if it’s the choice between using the enemy’s weapon against them, or giving up, I know which I’ll choose every time.” She holds up a hand as I move to put my good, dry tunic back on. “Wait.”

Every passing second feels heavier, my absence above surely growing more and more suspicious. “What?”

“I need to draw blood with this.” She pulls a stone stylus from the same cavity where the soap had been stored. It’s about ten inches long, similar to the steel and bronze ones I’ve seen some men wearing at their hips. Weapons aren’t allowed within the city limits, and so long stylii—which are in theory for writing on wax tablets, but make perfectly good substitutes for blades, in a fight—are quite fashionable.

“From… me?” I’m confused.

“Yes.”

I shift. “No thank you.”

She rolls her eyes and moves before I can react, whipping the slender grey spike at my bare chest. The tip’s sharp and scores along it, blood welling immediately along the line. I snarl at the sting and step back, ready to defend myself, but Sedotia isn’t threatening. She holds up the stylus so I can see it.

Right at the point, where crimson glistens and beads, it’s starting to steam.

“We need a little more on it, to be safe.” She’s stepping forward; I retreat, bemused as much as angry, but suddenly my bare back is against cold stone. This time, she simply presses the edge of the stylus against my bleeding wound. There’s an audible hiss.

“What are you doing?” I shove her away, incensed. “What is that?”

“Protection.” She issues an infuriating smile at my blank expression. “Now put on your clothes. You’re out of time.” I glare at her, but the knowledge of how long I’ve been gone is too great a pressure. She waits until I’ve furiously tugged my attire back into place, then holds out the stylus to me. “Don’t lose it. Under any circumstances.”

I waver, then take the weapon. My skin tingles where it touches the stone. I can’t see a drop of my blood remaining on its surface.

“I don’t understand.” I reluctantly thread the stylus into a fold in my toga. The hole will be apparent once I take it off, but no one will see it in the meantime.

“You will. Now go.”

I’m torn between confusion, anger, and stubbornness. But it’s been twenty minutes since I left Aequa. Probably more.

I bite my tongue, and storm up the stairs.

“WELL. YOU FOUND THE TOILET, then,” aequa observes as i sit down, wrinkling her nose.

I wince. Clearly not thorough enough with my scrubbing. “Eventually. This place is…” I gesture, indicating I can’t put into words the enormity of it.

“I suppose it would be, to you.” She’s put out by my extended absence, I think, but not suspicious. “It doesn’t matter. You’re just in time.”

The crowd is beginning to quiet, the crashing of conversation around us dulling to a low hum as an announcer—one of hundreds around the stadium, from what I can tell—bellows the details of the battle that is about to be re-created. The line along my chest burns, and I can feel the hard resistance of the hidden stylus along my body whenever I move. To the west, the last of the sunlight seeps from the sky, leaving only the brilliant illumination of the thousands of lanterns ringing the arena. Men and women stand tautly at the ready on decks, fully armoured, blades out as they peer toward the opposite side of the artificial lake.

The announcer finishes, and across the Arena, his colleagues fall silent one by one. Then, from all around us, horns ring out. Clear. Challenging.

Below, the naumachia begins.

The Will of the Many

XX

I’VE SEEN THE GREAT WHALING ships of Suus train offshore, manned and navigated by some of the most talented sailors in the world. I’ve seen men perform acts of daring and courage on small fishing boats in storms, riding waves twice the height of their vessels, that would defy the imagination. I can’t count how many times I’ve watched from my clifftop window and seen wild manoeuvres succeed that should have been impossible in the most ideal circumstances, let alone in the gales in which they were attempted.

The naumachia has none of that.

There’s no seamanship on show here. No waves, no wind. Vessels burst smoothly from their docks, led by the two giant triremes, water rippling soullessly away from prows, powered and steered by Will rather than oar and rudder. Every hull is fitted with a wicked ram in order to create spectacles of splintering wood and chaotic platforms of mock-death when they meet. It’s all choreographed, gaudy decoration for the screams and blood and desperation that will follow.

That’s never more evident than in the burst of hellish light that abruptly illuminates the lake, eliciting gasps of appreciation amid the thunder of voices that accompanies the starting signal. I flinch, squinting up at the thousands of mid-air lanterns. They’ve all sprung to life simultaneously, some Will-triggered mechanism lighting them. Unlike the warm gold of the lanterns in the stands, though, these all burn a deep, ugly crimson, staining ships and water alike.

There’s no need to guess at what the light symbolises.

As I watch, the hovering lanterns start to move. Sluggishly at first, barely noticeable, but as the ships begin to pick up speed so do the lights, each one tracing its own circuit around the centre of the arena. The vessels draw closer and closer and the lights move faster and faster. They’re quick, then urgent, then a swirling, wild maelstrom of red as the ships come within shouting distance of one another. Armoured naumachiarii stand in file on the decks, glittering darkly as they brace themselves. The crowd around me is screaming, cheering, voices already hoarse.

Their hunger can’t drown out the splintering crack of wood against wood, rams rending and tearing at hulls, men and women on the decks thrown into the air, losing their grips on whatever they thought would secure them. Many of them smash into masts or rigging, limbs suddenly protruding at awkward angles, or tumble over the side, splashing once or twice before being dragged down by their armour, vanishing quickly beneath the frothing chop.

The crowd roars louder.

Then the first bodies are flying up into the air, some of them flailing, others limp as their armour carries them up to vanish into the blinding crimson dervish. Signifying their shameful withdrawal from life, their erasure from history. Saved from drowning so that they can be fed to the Sappers. I don’t think I’m imagining the futility in every line of those helpless, struggling forms, even if I’m too far away to hear their screams.

The mob behind us are mostly standing, though at least these front seats—those filled with patricians and knights—have the decorum to remain seated as they cheer. The shouting is less deafening now, more sporadic as clumps of spectators spot one particularly impressive fight or another and renew their enthusiasm.

I glance across at Aequa. She’s watching the proceedings with interest, but there’s none of the savage joy others around us are displaying. If anything, she looks as though she finds the entire thing almost as distasteful as I do.

“How many people are out there, do you think?” I asked the question through the cheers, even as I try to make the estimate myself. Thirty or so ships all up. Biremes and the two triremes that have already smashed into one another.

Aequa continues to gaze at the carnage. “Two thousand, maybe?”

It’s close to what I would have guessed. Two thousand men and women. Some will be volunteers, I know: Totius Octavii, even Septimii looking to make a name for themselves. But the vast majority in the fight will be imprisoned Octavii.

The naumachiarii on the triremes have almost recovered from the impact, but more ships are streaming toward their position. They’re going to get hit again, and again, and again. It’s easy to make out which sides are which; one has the traditional red uniform of the Republic, while the other wears the brown and gold of… Butaria? I think that’s what the announcer said. A re-enactment of the Battle of Callage, from around fifty years ago.

I can see smears appearing on faces, glistening, too thick and dark to be water. They start to paint armour and blades, too. I see a monster of a man swinging feverishly, screaming as he scythes his way onto an enemy deck, crushing skulls in the process. Each strike jettisons another crippled fighter into the raging red vortex above. People in the crowd are pointing at him, cheering him on. They’re chanting his name. Vulferam?

Everywhere, the crowd bays for blood. I try not to show how sick I feel. The combatants are mostly fodder down there, prisoners gasping and terrified and swinging weapons for which they have only the most rudimentary training. Afraid of the Sappers, and desperate for a pardon. Some few, maybe one or two in every thousand, will even impress enough to achieve the latter. But like everything else, the Hierarchy dangles it. Always a way up, even for the condemned. Always a way out from under the misery they’ve heaped on you, if you work hard enough. Fight hard enough. Take your chances.

People start settling back into their seats as the last of the smaller vessels begin their journey into the chaos. Somehow that makes what we’re watching even worse. Men are still screaming and dying, still fighting valiantly or manically, still breathless and blood-slicked and doing all they can to survive. Yet they don’t do it to rapturous applause anymore. People shout encouragement, or gasp when something horrific happens, but it all combines to a low, muted rumble now. Something more mundane. The initial rush has worn off, and everyone is just enjoying themselves.

They’re not that way for long. It might be because I’m looking for it, but I think I’m among the first to notice that something’s wrong.

It’s a frothing in the water, initially. Ugly, red, bubbling lines from the edge of the arena to the very centre, where the triremes are. Five or six of them around the lake, evenly spaced, like spokes on a wheel. No one reacts, no one seems to think anything of it.

Then stone bursts from the water, sending a haze of fine dark liquid high into the air, huge swells rolling away from its emergence. Newly formed, jagged paths glisten in the lurid light as spray settles on them. People everywhere stand and exclaim and point as one of the triremes is tilted sideways, its keel lifted within view, naumachiarii screaming as they tumble from its sharply slanted deck. Other, smaller ships crash hard into the rocky peninsulas, the shrieking of tearing wood audible from here as wounds are ripped in their hulls.

Conversation buzzes at the development. Everyone’s assuming this is part of the entertainment, some unexpected wrinkle. A new, dramatic feature of the Arena on which the combatants can do battle.

After my conversation with Estevan, I’m not so sure.

Then something thunders. Faintly, as if distant, but deep and somehow encompassing, too. The air quivers.

“What was that?” Aequa echoes the question being asked all around us.

Another shuddering peal. This one closer. Louder. Rolling over the increasingly agitated mutterings of the crowd. I see fighters on the remaining trireme falter as the sound penetrates the haze of battle. Some of their opponents ignore it and take merciless advantage.

The lanterns floating above the water fall.

It’s a surreal, almost beautiful sight as the crowd hushes again, crimson lights raining silently down, reflections off the lake becoming brighter and brighter until most are abruptly extinguished. The remainder smash; some shatter and spread puddles of flaming oil across the long paths to the centre of the Arena, while others break apart on masts and decks, causing panic. The biremes are slowing, I realise. Still moving forward, but drifting through the water rather than ploughing.

“PEOPLE OF CATEN.”

The words roar around the Arena, spin and crash and echo as if one of the gods has taken it upon himself to speak. A shocked sigh escapes thousands of mouths. The combatants on the trireme freeze and then warily, at some unspoken agreement, disengage and back away from one another.

I spot him, my eyes drawn to him as others around me point excitedly. Striding toward the centre of the lake along one of the newly formed paths of stone, flame-tinted water still unsettled on either side of him.

He’s a good distance away—perhaps five hundred feet—but there’s no mistaking Estevan.

“MY NAME IS ARTURUS MELIOR LEOS. I AM THE LEADER OF THE GROUP YOU KNOW AS THE ANGUIS, WHO FIGHT FOR A BETTER WORLD THAN THE ONE YOU HAVE CREATED.” He pauses about halfway to the centre of the lake as he turns, taking in the crowd. “AND LET THERE BE NO MISTAKE: IT IS YOU—ALL OF YOU—WHO ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATING IT. NOT THOSE IN POWER. NOT THE ONES WHO WIELD WHAT YOU GIVE THEM, BECAUSE YOU GIVE IT TO THEM. YOU LET THEM STAND ON YOUR SHOULDERS, ALL FOR THE DREAM OF ONE DAY BEING ABLE TO STAND ATOP OTHERS’. EVEN WHEN YOU KNOW, DEEP DOWN, THAT IT IS AN ILLUSION. AS UNATTAINABLE FOR MOST OF YOU AS IT IS SELFISH.”

Estevan’s voice splits the air like nothing I have ever heard, overpowering. I’m not alone in pressing my hands against my ears, fearful the painful noise is doing permanent injury.

“A PYRAMID’S STRENGTH IS IN ITS FOUNDATION, NOT ITS PEAK. SO I HAVE COME HERE TODAY TO JUDGE. I HAVE COME TO BRING A RECKONING FOR YOUR DECISIONS. YOUR WEAKNESS. YOUR BLINDNESS AND COWARDICE AND COMPLICITY.”

The crowd is rapidly swinging from thrilled to fearful to enraged. There’s shouting, more and more as Estevan’s lecture rumbles on. Obscenities rain down upon my father’s former adviser, curses rolling off thousands of tongues as onlookers scream and point and surge forward, as if to collectively leap the barrier and rush at him.

I don’t know what to do other than watch in horror. Is he mad? Most of these people are Octavii or Septimii, but there will be plenty of higher-ranked Will users. Not to mention the hundreds of Praetorians here. Assuming they recognise his name—and he’s infamous enough, here in Caten—he’ll be dead from a swarm of Razors within the next ten seconds.

“No one can use Will.”

Aequa’s leaning forward in her seat, eyes wide as she studies the Arena, her dismayed mutter barely audible over the tumult. I return my gaze to the lake, seeing what she’s seeing. The fallen lanterns. The ships drifting gently to a stop against the raised stone paths.

The absolute lack of an attack upon one of the most wanted men in the Republic.

“Rotting gods,” I breathe.

It shouldn’t be possible, and yet, Aequa’s right. I can see a red-uniformed Praetorian standing only twenty feet away. His expression is stricken. Utterly panicked.

Down in the middle, Estevan has turned toward the centre of the Arena, lit starkly against a still-flaming puddle of oil. He’s facing the ships, the majority of which have now grounded themselves against the spoke-like paths. Facing the fighters who have begun to cautiously disembark.

“HAIL, NAUMACHIARII. HONOUR AND GLORY. I AM SORRY THAT YOU HAVE BEEN SACRIFICED UPON THE ALTAR OF DISTRACTION. I AM SORRY THAT YOUR FELLOW MAN HAS FAILED YOU SO DEEPLY. TODAY, I OFFER YOU RELEASE FROM THIS DEGRADATION. I OFFER YOU A WAY OUT. BUT WHEN YOU GO, DO NOT FORGET HOW YOU GOT HERE, OR WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR IT. SEEK US, ONCE YOU ARE FREE. JOIN THE ANGUIS.”

A raucous cheer registers as the last words scream off the water and roll away. At first I think it’s in response, but then I turn at motion somewhere to my left, watching with heart in throat as a dozen Praetorians leap the barrier onto Estevan’s stony peninsula. Several men wielding stylii follow, no doubt eager to share in the glory of killing the Anguis’s leader. Hundreds in the crowd who have spotted their incursion are boisterously urging them on.

In the centre of the lake, where the ships have run aground, the naumachiarii are in disarray. Some few have resumed their fighting, as if unable to even conceive of anything else, steel flashing dark orange against the burning of decks and sails. Many are streaming along the far rocky paths toward the edge of the stadium, clearly intent on the freedom Estevan has just promised them. I can already see spectators fleeing from where they’re headed.

The rest of the naumachiarii are sprinting toward Estevan. Their blades are out and from the way they’re charging, they’re aiming for him rather than the Praetorians. Hoping to deal the killing blow. A reward, a pardon, would surely await whoever managed it.

Estevan has finished his speech, and he must see both them and the Praetorians converging on him. Still he just stands there, head bowed, as his attackers draw closer. A hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty.

A deep, discordant thrum screeches through the Arena.

There’s a flicker in the darkness around Estevan, like the afterimage of a lightning strike, and the men and women rushing toward him seem to just… evaporate.

A moment later, across the lake, the rear section of the eastern stand explodes.

It’s impossible to comprehend, in those first terrifying seconds. No one’s running or screaming or panicking. Just still. Mute. Stunned. Around the distant thundering of disintegrating stone, there’s… silence. A dark, roiling cloud of grit is rising; though the still-standing part of the stadium mostly prevents it from flowing down onto the lake, I can only imagine what it must be like in the city. Distant figures scramble to flee whatever’s just happened. The lanterns over there are winking out in rapid succession as they’re enveloped by dust. Darkness chases after.

Another thrum. A rippling in the air, closer this time, above the stand about five hundred feet to my left. There’s a compression. I feel my ears pop.

And every person in that section—four, maybe five thousand people—explodes as one into a sickening, violent haze of crimson mist.

Another second. Nothing but pounding heartbeat. I can feel fear building to a crescendo around me, thick and sharp.

Then there’s running and screaming and panicking.

Everything’s chaos. A blur. Aisles clogged, people falling down and others trampling them to flee. Bodies flail, scramble over seats. I’m shoved and elbowed from all sides as people force their way blindly past me. They’re stampeding toward the exit in the eastern stand, the only way out, though I’m almost certain that’s what has just been obliterated.

Aequa and I are both standing; she’s pale, breathing heavily, looking like she’s about to run too as she stares wide-eyed at the glistening, viscera-coated benches where people used to be. To her credit, she also seems to be assessing. Her refusal to give in to the panic helps, and I forcefully resist the pure, animalistic fear that’s crawling beneath my skin, begging for me to follow the crowd. The seats around us are already empty.

“What do we do?” Aequa’s voice quivers. Her attention’s turned to the cloud of debris on the far side of the lake. That’s why she hasn’t moved. She’s realised that the only way out is gone.

My gaze is on Estevan again, head still too full, too taut and overwhelmed to answer. The man is sitting now, cross-legged. Head bowed again. I can’t imagine how he’s doing any of this, but I don’t believe for a second that he’s finished here. Even in his passive position, even from this distance, there’s a palpable aura of menace radiating from him. A heavy, hostile layer that billows, drapes the entire stadium in dread.

The clarity’s sudden and sharp. I grab Aequa’s arm, pulling her against the flow of the fleeing mob. “Follow me.”

Aequa resists. Appraises where we’re heading—directly toward the stand where Estevan has just murdered thousands—and then me. “Are you insane?”

“However he’s doing it, he’s trying to kill as many people as possible. He’s not going to target an empty stand.” I can’t believe how calm my voice is. Even if it does sound as though it’s coming from far away. Someone else’s. “I think I know a way out.”

I turn to look at the frenzied masses still spilling past. The entire stadium is filled with screaming, shouting, cries of pain and confusion and utter, manic fear. There’s no way I’ll be heard over this noise.

“Don’t!” It’s Aequa, the shout in my ear somewhere between plea and command. She puts her head close to mine. “They’re not going to listen to you. And if they do, there will be a stampede, and none of us will get away.”

I clench my teeth. Nod.

We force our way westward, toward the last of the light in the sky. It’s not difficult; the seats ahead have all but emptied and only stragglers shove their way past, eyes glazed and faces set in rictuses of trauma. Dotted around the stands are those who haven’t yet moved, either. People just sitting or standing, staring blankly.

There’s another dark thrum, vibrating through stone and into my chest. I stumble, turn to watch despite the dread the sound carries with it.

Estevan is looking toward the north-eastern section of the Arena, which heaves with a crush of desperate bodies pushing vainly against one another. His right hand is outstretched, palm out.

He clenches it into a fist.

Again that flicker against the dark, a ripping of the air, this time streaking out from Estevan across the water. There’s something in it, I think. A distortion. An image, though it’s so fast it’s impossible to tell of what.

None of that matters amid what comes after. Bile burns the back of my throat as I take it in. I don’t even know how many people die this time. Ten thousand? Fifteen? Impossible to tell at this distance, but an entire wing of the stadium glistens a wet, dark red. Murdered. Massacred in a heartbeat.

Estevan was waiting for them to flee. To bunch together, exactly as they did.

The panic in the screaming, if possible, becomes harsher, more fraying. The press of bodies that had been flowing toward that stand ripples in hesitation. I see people start to leap into the water. Higher, I can see shadows scaling the back wall of the stadium. Vanishing as they fling themselves off toward Caten. The drop is hundreds of feet onto the street.

I shudder and press on, Aequa by my side. We’re approaching the edge of the stand which suffered the first attack, and despite the urgency, neither of us can help but falter. A faint steam rises from the scene ahead, bringing with it a salty, damp stench that hints of rot. There’s nothing to identify as bodies beneath it, nothing which could resemble human remains. It’s all just shredded flesh and blood. Mangled bones protruding through raw lumps of muscle and cartilage, draped across benches and ground, scattered randomly. An unendingly grotesque paste of death.

“Come on.” I make it an apology as well as an appeal, pulling Aequa with me into the red damp. I suspect only the chorus of terror behind us pushes Aequa enough to come with me.

Both of us choke and hack as the full extent of the hot reek hits our nostrils, creeps into our mouths. We pick our way carefully over rent flesh, me guiding Aequa to the stairwell. Our feet slap in the wet. Aequa’s not making a sound, but her eyes are red, tears on her cheeks.

It’s an eternity until we reach the welcoming tunnel down to the outer ring of the Arena. I risk a glance back after ushering Aequa ahead of me. Estevan is still seated, looking at the ground again. Recovering from his strike, bracing himself for the next one. More people have leapt the barriers and are charging toward him. It’s probably what I would do, in their position.

I don’t wait to see the result. I already know what it will be.

Another soul-shaking thrum chases me down into the passageway.

The stairs aren’t as coated in viscera as the seating above, though there’s still plenty of evidence of death. The same goes for the inner ring of the Arena. Stone is no shield against whatever Estevan is doing.

The area around the sewer stairwell is deserted. It’s quiet, the distant screams all but muted by the thick stone, though another juddering, dissonant chord soon growls its way through. Aequa and I both flinch. Who knows how many more Estevan just killed.

“Where does this go?” Aequa’s breath is coming in shallow, short gasps. I’m not much different, to be fair. She’s holding herself together remarkably well.

“Sewers.” I don’t see the need to elaborate, the faint smell from the opening—sickening and yet better than what we experienced above by far—backing up my statement. Aequa pauses for a half step; I can almost see the questions forming on her lips. Then she sets her jaw and forges downward.

The sound of rushing water greets us a full twenty seconds before we reach the bottom. The first two steps are underwater now, the flow not quite knee-deep. It’s fast, too, I quickly discover as I step into the current. Not pulling me off my feet, but strong enough to be worried about my balance.

“Careful.” I let Aequa grab my arm as we hurriedly wade. It makes it harder to stay upright and I nearly slip a couple of times, but she’s lighter than me, needs the extra support. It’s almost completely dark down here. I can hear her heavy breathing over the torrent rushing by. Another thrum vibrates the stone around us, eliciting a squeak from Aequa, though she never stops moving.

My heart pounds out of my chest, and I try not to imagine the water level rising. Estevan tore up the base of the Arena to create his paths across the lake; there’s no telling what damage that caused, what weaknesses it’s created in the Arena’s basin. This stream could become a deadly torrent at any moment. There’s nowhere to take refuge if it does.

Though it feels slow, it’s probably only a minute until we reach the narrow archway where I met Estevan. It’s almost too low to the water to duck under, but we manage; the torch within has gone out but there’s light filtering down the shaft where the stairs end. We splash our way over and I help Aequa up onto the first step. She sobs with relief as her feet touch dry ground again.

“These should lead out. Get clear of here. There’s no telling how far that thing he’s doing reaches.”

She stops. Shakes her head, unable to process the words. “What?”

I hesitate. The current’s not strong in this side room, just deep. I’m going to have to fight against it going the other way. In the dark. By myself.

I know I should leave with Aequa, and my every instinct is pleading with me to do just that. Not only from fear. If I walk away, I can actually think. Assess what the Anguis having this terrible power means. Understand the consequences, come to grips with Estevan’s intimation that this is why the Hierarchy invaded Suus.

And… for all I’m appalled by Estevan’s actions, his words resonate. These people are my enemies. The Octavii here did choose their side. That they didn’t expect there to be consequences is their failure, not anyone else’s.

But.

My father’s voice, like so often in my life, echoes in my head. The power to protect is the highest of responsibilities, Diago. When a man is given it, his duty is not only to the people he thinks are worthy.

He was talking about leadership then, but I know what he would say to me now. Know what he would want me to do. Know what he would do.

And if I had to guess, based on what Sedotia said, the stylus still tucked hard against my chest means I may be the only person here who can get close enough to Estevan to stop him.

“Luck, Aequa.”

I squeeze her arm in a vain attempt at comfort, then turn and plunge back into the icy water.

The Will of the Many

XXI

THE WATER’S RISING FASTER THAN I’d anticipated. I struggle against it. I can’t let myself lose my balance—I haven’t swum in years. Not since Suus. But it’s up to my knees. Stronger, faster, more violent as it batters me. Everything it touches is numb. It’s up to my thighs. My waist. I slip. Somehow catch myself against the slick stone of the sewer wall. Press on.

Then I’m out, dragging myself up the stairs, gasping and hacking as water splashes high enough to inhale. Behind me, there’s a gurgling crash as a torrent floods past, frothing so high it’s almost submersing the entrance. Somewhere, the path between the lake and these tunnels has cracked opened.

There’s no getting out this way until the Arena is dry, now.

I take precious seconds to catch my breath and rip off my sodden toga, rescuing the stylus from its folds. The stone sliver feels warm against my hand. Then I’m hauling myself up the narrow stairs, back into the mausoleum of the Arena’s outer ring. Dashing around raw flesh and trickling blood as I climb into the main stadium again.

The screams are ominously fewer. More grieved than horrified, hopeless rather than panicked. Fainter and sporadic. I stop short as I emerge into the red-coated stands, hit by that hot, thick, cloying smell. The lake has started to drain; the jagged pathways Estevan created jut from the water, decorated by the dark wreckage of ships draped with the dead. Flames still burn everywhere, though lower now, a darker orange. But it’s enough to illuminate the sole man out in the centre, cross-legged, looking as calm as when I left.

My gaze switches to the stands, and something breaks in my chest. There are fewer people than there were before. Significantly fewer. The remainder are cowering, hiding behind one another, bunched around where the exits should be like frightened animals. Whole swathes of the stadium are empty. Impossible to tell from this distance and in this light, but it’s not hard to conjure images of the same hideous, slick carnage that’s all around me.

I start for where Estevan’s jetty meets the seats. It’s not far. It feels like miles. I keep one eye on Estevan, but either he doesn’t notice me or he’s ignoring me.

I reach the intersection where smooth, Will-cut stone meets the haphazard path stretching across the Arena. It’s only a few feet wide, slick with water overlayed with sporadic red where Estevan detonated his attackers. The stylus in my hand is getting warmer.

“Idiot,” I mutter to myself as I clamber over the barrier and step out onto the narrow bridge. “Vek. Idiot. Vek.”

The water’s draining fast, and I’m elevated here. Precarious. I won’t die if I slip and fall into the dark swells below, but there won’t be an easy way to climb out, either. My sandals are well-made and give me a decent footing, at least. I press forward, step after gradual step, clutching the stylus like a totem against Estevan’s power.

I’m about fifty feet away when I start to see the distortion in the air.

It’s almost invisible, at first. A tremor, a trembling vibration that I attribute to some mixture of encroaching darkness and fear. But every step brings it into sharper relief against the background of the far stands. A jagged visual warping with Estevan firmly in its centre. My father’s former adviser is little more than a silhouette, still sitting, head bowed. The blurring agitation in the air makes him look like he’s phasing in and out of existence a hundred times a second.

The stylus in my hand is hot now. Close to burning my skin and buzzing against my terrified grip, trying to worm its way free. I don’t let it.

Estevan still has his back to me; I’m tempted to call out, to plead with him to stop, but the images of the men who approached him before, their fates, are etched on my mind. I’m numb, and not only because my tunic still clings cold and sodden to my skin. What am I doing? The air feels thicker here, hotter and hard against my face. Dread flows through my veins. I step forward. Again. Again. If I stop moving, I won’t be able to start again.

I take a clumsy, desperate run at the last few feet, skidding to my knees and breathlessly grabbing Estevan, the sharp tip of my stylus at his neck.

As soon as I touch him, everything flickers.

For a moment—not even a second—we’re not in the Arena anymore. I’m still on jagged stone, the spoke-like pattern jutting from the earth. But the water is gone. The surrounding walls, the stands beyond, are gone.

Caten is gone.

It’s too brief for more than an impression. The purple-and-orange bruise of smoky, lightning-cracked sky. Some sort of impossibly vast pyramid, surface smooth and black and mirrored, its base stretching for miles. The harbour with a vast, lit bridge dividing it, lined by statues that must stand a hundred feet high. Waves, monstrous curling whitecaps, towering over them. Exploding against them.

Pain accompanies the sight. Rippling through my body, a burning from the inside out. I’m screaming. Blind. My blood boiling, my flesh peeling, every muscle and joint drawn inexorably, mercilessly apart.

Then I’m back, breath coming in ragged sobs, barely aware enough to keep my grip on the stylus. Estevan is still in front of me. We’re still kneeling in the semi-darkness against slick, torn rock, surrounded by dark stone and death. Only the memory of that place, and the agony that accompanied it, remains.

“So you came.” It’s Estevan. He sounds unsurprised. He hasn’t moved, though he must feel the point against his neck. His voice is cracked and sombre.

“Stop whatever you’re doing, Estevan.” He’s calm enough, but I’m in no state to be the same. I push the stylus harder against his throat, dizzy from the echoes of what just happened. The air is heavy and charged, buzzing. The stone in my hand almost too hot to grip. “Please. Don’t make me do this.”

“I’m not. You can still walk away.” The pulsating vibration around us beats faster, harder. Building.

“No, I can’t.” I grit my teeth. “Come on, Estevan. We’re on the same side. We’re not monsters.”

Estevan tilts his head up and to the side, enough so that I can see his face. His eyes are red. Tears leak from them. “We are what they make us, Diago.”

“We don’t have to be.”

He laughs, a hollow sound against the ethereal moans of terror still echoing to us over the water. “That’s the power of the Hierarchy—we do, because there is no standing apart. You fight the tyranny of the many, or you are one of them.” He hangs his head again. Tired. “Silence is a statement, Diago. Inaction picks a side. And when those lead to personal benefit, they are complicity.”

It’s a strangely melancholic statement, delivered without malice. I still feel its accusation.

Energy continues to build around us, vibrating against my skin. I can feel Estevan’s muscles begin to tense beneath my grip. “Maybe you’re right, but there has to be a better way. If we do this, then what do we deserve?” My voice is shaking. The stylus has broken his skin, a thin line of blood wending its way down his neck. “I’ll help you, if that’s what it takes. I’ll help the Anguis if you just stop.”

“No, you won’t. Sedotia was right about you.” Estevan sighs. Still staring at the ground, he slowly, gently, reaches up, clasping my hand where it’s holding the stylus. A comforting gesture. “But a broken blade can still cut, Diago.”

His grip abruptly tightens.

Then in one savage, sharp motion, he’s twisting and thrusting the stylus upward, through his neck and deep into his brain.

The Will of the Many

XXII

IHAVE NEVER KILLED A man, though my training has taught me how. Come close a few times, since Suus. Always believed I could if I needed to.

As Estevan’s body sags against my chest, hot blood dribbling down the embedded stylus and over my hands, I’m aghast. Bewildered. Sick.

And, for a single, shameful moment, relieved that the decision has been taken from me.

I cradle my former countryman as the terrible build-up of energy around us vanishes, allowing an eerie hush to slither into its place. Waves lap the path, gentler now, motion driven by the steady escape of water somewhere far below. Occasional cries still echo through near-darkness, wails that speak of shock and grief, but most of those who remain in the stands are mute.

I bow my head over the body resting against me, just breathing. Mind clouded by shock and an exhaustion that’s hitting me too hard, even for what I just went through. People will be watching; I can’t look like I’m mourning a man who just killed tens of thousands. And I can’t have this strange stylus tied to me.

So, unspeakably queasy though it makes me, I use the smallest movement possible to pull the stone spike free. Warm, sticky liquid spills over my fingers and onto Estevan’s tunic. Then I stand, letting his corpse slide off me. It slouches to the edge of the narrow peninsula. Teeters.

With an effort, I use my foot to kick Estevan’s body off the side.

His form tumbles into the dark; there’s a splash and then he’s bobbing, floating face-down, barely visible. I toss the stylus the opposite way, toward the protruding mast of a bireme, trying to make it a wrathful act of disrespect. I don’t think many people will be able to see what I’m doing—the scant illumination created by the broken lanterns has all but vanished by this point—but I need it to look disdainful, not suspicious.

The stylus makes the smallest splash and sinks from sight. Even if it’s found, noticed amid the ruin of what’s happened here, plenty of other people carried stylii today. There will be no reason to think it’s the one I used. No reason to examine it for anything unusual.

The deed done and the driving terror that’s been keeping me going finally leaking away, I find myself staring down at my hands. Crimson drips from them as they shake.

It’s a few seconds before I register the cheers floating across the inky water.

I look up. In the distance, people are moving. Standing. Emerging from their huddles up against the blocked exits, shifting cautiously for a better view of the lake. Of me.

My whole body’s trembling from fear, from stress, from pain. The applause is just one more assault. I try to take stock, to figure out whether I’m missing anything that could give me away. Where is Sedotia in all of this? Has she already escaped? Will she be looking for revenge, given what I just did? There are too many people still in the destroyed stadium and my vision’s starting to blur; if she’s nearby, I can’t see her.

My knees give way and I slump to the ground. There’s blood where I’m lying, but I’m too tired to care. It’s not a natural exhaustion. My face hits sticky, cold stone.

I close my eyes and drift as ovation echoes around me.

WHEN I WAKE, I’M IN a bed. Warm and comfortable, albeit stiff. There’s a lot of light and it hurts to open my eyes; I spend several seconds adjusting, the glaring white pain fading into images.

I’m back in my room at Ulciscor’s villa. It’s late morning, judging from the angle the sunlight is pounding through the window. For an instant I think I’ve overslept, and my body tenses and tries to rise on instinct. An abrupt ache keeps me down, and I’m suddenly reliving flashes of my last waking moments before now.

Oh.

I test my limbs more cautiously this time; I’m sore, but nothing seems injured. How long has it been since the naumachia? At least the night and some of the morning. Probably longer, if I’m back here.

Nobody’s around, and the door is shut, so I allow some time to steel myself. Sitting up still makes the room spin. There’s a tray of bread and water on the sideboard, and after a few steadying breaths I’m acutely aware of how hungry I am. I tear into the loaf.

I’m still wolfing down chunks of torn-off bread when the door opens.

“Master Vis!” It’s Kadmos and, to my bemusement, he both sounds and looks pleased to see me. “How are you feeling?”

I swallow awkwardly, partially chewed mouthful forcing its way down my throat. “Sore.”

“From everything I hear, that’s understandable. Very understandable.” He’s still smiling. Beaming, in fact, to the point where I wonder whether there’s some terrible news he’s eager to share with me. “The Magnus Quintus will be delighted you’re awake.”

“Ulciscor’s here?”

“He is.” He doesn’t even flinch at my familiar use of the name.

I rub at my eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“The better part of a week, young master.” The sombre way he says it, I can tell there was some debate as to my chances of waking up. “Which means I should fetch the Magnus Quintus immediately.” He moves to leave and then hesitates. Nods to me, genuinely respectful. “I am glad to see you well, Master Telimus.”

The portly man leaves, fast enough that I don’t think he sees my jaw hanging.

I haven’t had enough time to digest Kadmos’s words or his deference before there’s motion again in the hall.

Ulciscor smiles as he fills the doorway, relief easing the lines of worry around his brown eyes. He’s composed but his close-cut black beard looks a touch scruffy, as though he’s neglected trimming it for the past few mornings.

“Well. About time,” he says, walking over to the bed and gripping my forearm in glad greeting. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Confused. A little worried that Kadmos just told me it’s been a week since the naumachia.” I look to Ulciscor for confirmation, squeeze my eyes closed in frustration when he gives it morosely. Vek. A week of training lost, then. Just like that. “Was I injured?”

“We don’t know. We couldn’t find anything physical, but after what Melior did…” Ulciscor peers at me. “You truly only feel a little sore? Don’t hide it if it’s worse. You’ve been accepting food and water, when prompted, and relieving yourself—but otherwise, you may as well have been dead.”

I shift uncomfortably at the thought and then gingerly stretch, testing everything. “Honestly, if I’ve been lying here for a whole week, this is probably just stiffness.”

“Good. That’s good. Let someone know straight away if something’s wrong, though.” He’s genuinely relieved. “A lot of people are going to be pleased to hear you’re alright.”

“Even Kadmos, apparently.”

“Especially Kadmos. Rotting gods, the man’s been hounding me to arrange a Vitaerium for you, of all things.” He waves a hand at my blank look. “They’re a little like Sappers, but for keeping people alive. Very expensive. Still something I might have tried, if I’d thought it would work on you.”

I’m glad he didn’t try. I haven’t heard of them before, but the thought makes my skin crawl. “I didn’t think he liked me much.”

“You were right. But with the credit you just did to the Telimus name, that won’t be the case anymore.”

I digest the comment in silence. I’m not under any suspicion, then.

“Melior?” I ask eventually.

“Very much dead.” There’s satisfaction in Ulciscor’s voice. He must see something in my expression because he holds my gaze, serious. “Feel no shame in the act, Vis. He was a monster and in taking his life, you saved thousands of others. Thousands.” He gives the last word real weight, trying to drive home its importance. “They say more than half of the people in the Arena survived, thanks to you.”

I nod hollowly. Collected enough now to quell any sign of sadness or regret. No matter what Estevan was doing, he was a subject of Suus. And he was fighting for people like me.

“What about Aequa?”

“She’s well. She’s asked to come by to check on you more than once.” He seems caught somewhere between amused and irritated by that. “Your… illness has given us a reason to forego your training with her, at least.” His tone indicates that’s a separate conversation. One he’ll be having with me sooner rather than later.

I chew my lip. Not wanting to ask, but knowing that I have to find out, eventually.

“What happened after I…” I trail off, gesturing to my head.

Ulciscor takes a seat opposite, then briskly starts running through events since Estevan killed himself.

The hours immediately following the attack were chaos, naturally enough. More than a third of the people inside the stadium died, by all estimates; the resulting, massive weaknesses in some Will pyramids caused a ripple of infrastructure problems that the Hierarchy is still scrambling to resolve. Small issues such as city lanterns not lighting, to things like a Transvect carrying more than three hundred soldiers crashing somewhere north of Sytrece.

It seems the Anguis expected this and planned accordingly, coordinating more attacks elsewhere in the capital. Three senators were killed on their way to oversee celebrations in the Forum. A dozen Sextii died in an assault on the Praedium District. Other raids, though, were turned back, the Anguis fighters annihilated when they discovered their targets weren’t as debilitated as expected.

Neither result makes me feel any better.

I don’t say much as the Magnus Quintus talks. Occasionally ask for a clarification here and there, or acknowledge something he’s said. I’m listening, but I’m also using the time to furiously catch up. Retracing my steps at the naumachia. Figuring out who might have seen something that could give me away.

“The gathering of large crowds in Caten has been temporarily prohibited, as a precaution. The public have been asked to submit the names of any suspected Anguis members for proscription, which will continue for another week. The Senate’s suspended until that ends.” Ulciscor’s moving on to the more recent consequences, now. “There were a lot of Magnus Octavii and Magnus Septimii among the casualties at the Arena, though. There’s been disagreement about how to fill so many key roles. Some squabbling over how to divide the strongest candidates, even within Military.” He sounds disgusted at that.

“Were you affected?” I’m suddenly curious.

Ulciscor’s confirmation is bleak. “I was walking through the Forum and next thing I knew, I was on the ground. It wasn’t painful. Just… shocking, to be diminished like that. To feel so much weaker. Like I’d suddenly been bound and blindfolded.” His voice is quiet. He rubs at his dark pate. “I only had seventeen deaths in my pyramid, and most of them were only Octavii. Some of the others had hundreds.”

I study Ulciscor. He’s sincere, I think. Far more open than he was the last time we spoke. The attack truly shook him.

“I’m sorry.”

He snorts softly. “You, of all people, don’t need to be. I cannot imagine how much worse it would have been without you. It will take us months to recover, but if you hadn’t done what you did, that might have been years.” The Quintus forces a smile. “At least national heroes have a much better chance of advancing through the Academy.”

I chuckle, but my humour withers as I realise Ulciscor’s serious. “Lanistia has been telling me it’s best not to draw attention. Do my impressing of people at the Academy, rather than build up expectations.”

“Gods’ graves, Vis! You just killed the leader of the Anguis and single-handedly stopped the most deadly attack on Caten in its history. The Senate has just hailed you Vis Telimus Catenicus! It’s far, far too late to arrive quietly.” My dismay must leak onto my face, because he laughs at my apparent modesty. “This is good, lad. Be proud! We Catenans do love our heroes. You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect introduction.”

Vek. He means it to be motivating. I feel like I need to bathe.

“What about the Anguis who are still out there?” I ask eventually. Sedotia doesn’t strike me as the type to forgive what I’ve done. In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already exposed me. The weight of that—the realisation of what is surely a looming threat—settles deep.

“Only a few people know you’re here, but we’ve arranged for extra protection around the villa anyway. And the Academy has pledged to increase their security as well.” Ulciscor’s apologetic about the latter. Knows it will make my job harder, once I’m there. “They’ve given you special dispensation to arrive on the first day of classes, too, rather than the usual three days beforehand. To give you as much time as possible to recover.”

“Kind of them,” I mutter, doing a quick calculation. A full two weeks left to train, then. Still not much.

Ulciscor eyes me, and I can see he’s finally going to ask what he’s been itching to since he arrived.

“Can you tell me… what exactly happened? From what I hear, many others died trying to do what you did.”

I supply my own version of the naumachia in as much detail as I dare. Fortuitously noticing the sewer entrance before the attack, guessing its purpose, and then realising that it might be a way out for Aequa. Chancing upon a dropped stylus on the way back. Noticing the way Melior seemed to build up to his attacks, and waiting until he was in the process, distracted, before I struck. Then succumbing to the strange energy around him.

I still have no idea what Aequa’s said, but when I’m done, Ulciscor, to my relief, seems satisfied.

“It’s possible that you were resistant to whatever he was doing because you’ve never ceded,” he muses, nodding agreement to an implication I’ve already made. “That’s tricky. It’s important we find a way to counter whatever power the man was using, but your circumstances aren’t something we want to make public. Too many questions.” He leans forward and gazes at the floor, deep in thought.

“Will I need to worry about that when you present me to the Senate?”

“What?” Ulciscor looks at me blankly, then, “Oh! Good news on that front, too. Your adoption was unanimously ratified before things were suspended. It seems that saving sixty thousand or so Catenan lives earns you some credit, even with senators.” He grins. “You should have seen Advenius’s face when he stood with the rest of them.”

I allow some amusement, then cough. “About that.”

“Advenius made it seem like I was a bad bet, and you panicked.” Ulciscor sighs. “Lanistia told me everything. I wasn’t pleased when I heard the news. But it’s water past the mill. Done and all for the better, as it turns out. We don’t need to speak of it anymore.”

A moment, and he sighs again—heavily, this time—as he sees my expression. “Or perhaps we do?”

“Advenius… Advenius said that your brother committed suicide. And Aequa told me that everyone believes that, except you. That your opinion about Veridius being responsible is common knowledge.” I’m still catching up, mentally, but I have to know, and I can’t summon a more tactful way to raise it. “I asked Lanistia, and she only said that you were sure Veridius killed him. She didn’t want to go into the details.” I shift uncomfortably. “It’s just… given our deal… that worries me.”

“You think I’m grasping at straws. Trying to restore my brother’s honour, rather than following evidence.” His expression doesn’t reveal what he thinks of that. “You think there might be nothing at the Academy for you to find.”

“No. I just want to understand why I shouldn’t think that.”

Ulciscor observes me impassively for a few more seconds, then leans back. There’s weary acceptance in the motion.

“As I’ve said, Caeror was in the group who first trained at Solivagus. For a while we thought the entire Academy cycle would be cancelled because of the grain riots, and he was devastated. Then so excited when they announced the move. We all knew before he even left that he was going to be in Class Three. My parents were so proud of him. So was I.” He’s talking deliberately now, a tautness to his voice. Like he’s trying to focus on the words and avoid the memories.

“The first trimester, everything seemed to be going well. He came home for the Festival of Jovan and was so happy about everything. His progress, what he was learning. His new friends. Including Veridius.” Acid enters Ulciscor’s tone at that. “And then two months later, he missed the Festival of the Ancestors.”

“That was unusual?”

“Very. And when I tried to go and see him, I got stopped. Blocked. Religion had told us there were new rules around visiting, but I didn’t think they’d enforce it.” He plucks absently at his sleeve. “But I didn’t think too much of it, either. Religion’s always been protective of the Academy. And you have to understand what being there is like. The outside world feels so distant. I just assumed Caeror had gotten caught up in the life.”

I nod, not saying anything. Not wanting to interrupt.

“We weren’t supposed to be in communication with each other, but security on Solivagus was still basic back then. No Will cage at the entrance, so after the festival, I managed to sneak him in a stylus that was sub-harmonically locked to one on my end. Too risky to use often, but he’d send me messages from time to time. Mostly jokes. Stupid things.” He cracks a wistful smile at that. “He seemed fine. Content, even. Just before the end of second trimester, he sent me a note to say he wouldn’t be coming to stay with me in Caten like we’d planned. He and two of his friends were going to spend the winter on Solivagus, to get ready for the Iudicium. I thought it was a little strange, but I was excited for him, too. Sad that I wouldn’t get to spend time with him, but he was seventeen, and it seemed pretty clear that he was with a girl, there. I wasn’t going to be the one to drag him away.”

His smile fades. “I’d just made Quintus back then, anyway. I was working day and night. My parents asked me a couple of times to use my influence to check on him, but I kept telling them it would be inappropriate. That he was alright.” He swallows. “The messages started drying up in that third trimester, but I assumed he was just studying hard. Then he sent me one about a week before the Iudicium. A long one. He really wanted to meet, but I thought he was just nervous, and… it would have been against the rules. He could have been expelled, and my position could have been affected. So I ignored it.”

There’s so much regret in that last sentence.

“Two weeks later, we got word that something terrible had happened during the Iudicium. There was an accident, and the girl Caeror was with had been terribly, permanently injured—was probably going to die. Caeror had blamed himself. Veridius, who was the only other one there, said that he was inconsolable. Couldn’t face the idea of going to a Sapper with the guilt. Went mad and threw himself off a cliff in a fit of grief, despite Veridius’s best efforts.” He finishes softly. The words are raw.

I’m silent, digesting for the first time how hard that would have been for Ulciscor. For his family. Not just the loss, but the manner of it. Suicide in the Hierarchy is the most fundamentally dishonourable act, the ultimate shame. The circumstances of Caeror’s death would be a stain against the Telimus name, even today.

None of that does anything to explain why Ulciscor is so convinced it’s a lie, though.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Hesitate.

Ulciscor sees my indecision, saves me the indelicate question. “I knew him, Vis. I knew him. I cannot imagine a soul less inclined to despair, no matter what had happened.” He holds up a hand as I open my mouth to respond. “But I hadn’t seen him in almost a year, so that alone wouldn’t have been enough.”

He reaches into a pocket, pulls out two neatly folded sheets of paper. He opens one on the table between us, the way he carefully smooths the creases almost loving. “This came two days before Caeror died. I almost threw it out without looking at it again. Didn’t want to torture myself.” He pushes it across to me. It’s old, the ink faded. “Tell me what you see.”

I scan the letter. It describes being nervous about the Iudicium. The writing’s messy and it’s stilted in places, rambling. But that’s all.

I shake my head. “I don’t see anything.”

“Caeror and I, when we were children, used to pretend we were spies in the Catenan army and pass coded messages to each other. Our favourite cipher was the rule of three—first letter of every third word after ‘brother.’ ” Ulciscor indicates the paper. “Look again.”

I do, taking my time.

“The first word is ‘translation.’ ” He’s right. There’s something hidden here.

Ulciscor pushes across the second sheet of paper. More writing, much shorter and in a different, neater hand.

“ ‘Translation right. Obiteum lost. Luceum unknown.’ ” I read the first part aloud, brow furrowed. “I remember hearing you mention this to Nateo, in the prison. But ‘Obiteum’ and ‘Luceum’… they don’t mean anything in any language I know.” I move on, silent again as I check the words on the second sheet against Caeror’s letter. Scintres Exunus worked. Gate still open. More strange pre-Cataclysm power. Only Veridius knows. It all matches.

I examine them a moment longer, then hand the sheets back. “You’re right, it’s a message. But it doesn’t make much sense.”

“There were dozens, before that one. I remember some of them seemed strangely worded, but I didn’t pay enough attention. The whole point of giving him the stylus was that he could write to me privately—I have no idea why he needed to use code. It never occurred to me to look for something like that. And I had no reason to keep the letters.”

“You think they would have provided context.”

“I do.”

I watch as he meticulously folds the pages again. “I agree that this is strange, but…”

“It’s not proof of anything,” agrees Ulciscor. “And I could have forged this letter myself, which is why I never showed it to anyone. But it was enough for me to find the girl Caeror had been spending so much time with. The one who got injured. She survived, but she was the daughter of a Sextus who couldn’t afford the ongoing treatment necessary. Veridius was trying to step in and take care of her, but I convinced my parents that we should intercede. That it would go some way toward… improving our image.” The words still leave a bitter taste in his mouth. “She couldn’t talk for months, but eventually, everything healed. Everything but her memory, and her eyes.”

He looks at me expectantly. My suspicions have been building as he’s talked, but even with the last part, I’m still certain I’ve somehow reached the wrong conclusion. “Lanistia?”

“Yes.”

I have a hundred new questions. “So she and Caeror…”

“Yes.”

Attractive or not, it’s hard to picture the woman romantically involved with anyone. “Gods’ graves. That’s…” I shake my head. Still bewildered, but a few more things are making sense now. “And you said her memory never recovered?”

“The Iudicium and the months before it are gone, for her. Whole other swathes of her life are missing too. The physicians said they might come back over time. They never did.” Ulciscor says it all in a flat monotone, but I can hear the strain beneath. “Veridius was the one who supposedly saved her. Carried her out of the forest, half-dead, and told the Praeceptors his story. By the time they got to Caeror, the alupi had done their work. No way to tell what had really happened.”

No wonder Lanistia didn’t want to explain it. “So she doesn’t remember anything?”

“She remembers Caeror. She remembers enough to know that he and Veridius found something out there. Something they were keeping secret. Those ruins in the woods near the Academy I told you about, and then the ones out to the west.” The man opposite rubs his shaven scalp. Voice quiet. Looking more tired, more vulnerable, than I have ever seen him. “She says that Caeror thought of Veridius as a friend. As a brother. At least, as far as her most recent memories go.”

He doesn’t bother to disguise his acrimony.

“But why would Veridius say he committed suicide?” Ulciscor’s right: put it all together, and it does seem like something is off. But that doesn’t make it any less puzzling. “Why not just say it was an accident? And if he was willing to kill Caeror, why save Lanistia? He couldn’t have known about her memory.”

“An argument Veridius himself made.” Ulciscor’s grim. “And neither I nor Lanistia have the answers. Maybe she didn’t see anything, or maybe he thought she was going to die anyway. But as far as claiming suicide? That was probably part of his deal with Religion—which he clearly did have, given that he defected to them immediately upon becoming Domitor. Suicide protected the Academy from any recriminations or investigations. Even my parents wanted it all put to rest as quietly as possible.” He rolls his shoulders, quick to glaze over that last detail.

I watch him, hiding a genuine wave of sympathy for the man that I know he would see as pity. “You should have told me all of this from the beginning.”

“It would have complicated your training. For you, because you would have questioned every demand Lanistia made of you. And for Lanistia, because I think she would have seen it and wondered if you were right to do so. But I was always going to tell you before you left.”

I move to protest, then subside. He might be right. I can only imagine how much Lanistia must hate Veridius, must be desperate to find out what happened to Caeror. To her. Enduring her relentless pushing, her endlessly aggressive lessons, with that knowledge in the back of my mind—it would have been hard not to wonder at the necessity of it all. To think that, just maybe, she wasn’t approaching my instruction as objectively as she should be.

“You’re telling me now,” I point out eventually. “I still have two weeks of training left.”

“I’m hoping you know each other well enough by this point to deal with it.” He eyes me. “And that you’re smart enough to see that Lanistia’s methods are working. Even after a week in bed, you look bigger than you did a month ago. Stronger.”

I concede his point with a grunt. The constant training and full diet has continued to bear fruit.

“She says you’re improving academically, too. Filling in the gaps. Even after losing a week, she thinks you’ll be ready.”

“Rotting gods. She actually said that?”

“Don’t let on that I told you.”

We share a grin, some of the weight of the conversation lifting.

We talk for a while longer, but the consequential matters have been dealt with. Ulciscor’s soon noting my drooping eyelids and suggesting that he instruct Kadmos to check in on me, and for Lanistia to give me the rest of the day before we resume training. I don’t argue either proposal. We say our farewells.

“I should mention, lad. I’ve already been back and forth between here and Caten too often these past few days—and I’m needed there. So this is the last time we’ll speak before you leave for the Academy. Probably the last time until the Festival of the Ancestors.” Ulciscor’s standing. Clapping me on the shoulder. An awkward, almost affectionate act. “Life and luck, Vis. Be careful.”

“I will.”

He leaves.

The Will of the Many

XXIII

IT’S JUST PAST DAWN WHEN I wake to a rough shaking. I groan and open my eyes to see Lanistia’s dark-glassed visage glowering down at me.

“You overslept.”

“Gods’ graves, Lanistia. Nice to see you too.” I bat away her hand and sit up, scrubbing the blurriness from my eyes. No dizziness this time. The aches of the previous day seem to have eased considerably after the extra rest. “I thought I might have earned a later start.”

“I thought a week’s sleep would be enough.”

“You would,” I grumble as I swing out of bed. I splash my face using the bowl of water on the table, rake my fingers through my hair, straighten my tunic. She watches impatiently.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good enough.” It’s mostly true. There’s still stiffness in every movement, but as I stretch, I can feel the muscles loosening. And though I’m tired, I don’t have the weariness that plagued every breath yesterday.

“Then let’s get moving.”

It’s a strange morning. On one hand, there’s a comforting sense of familiarity as we spar above Ulciscor’s verdant fields, gravel crunching, clouds of breath dissipating into the young light. A few of the Octavii toiling below cast glances in our direction—in my direction, I suspect—but otherwise, it feels as though I could have been simply imagining the naumachia. As though it never really happened.

But I’m all too aware of the passage of time, too. Of how dramatically things have changed since the last time I did this. When I got aboard the carriage a week ago, it felt as though I still had an eon to prime myself. I felt in control, as far as that was possible.

Now I’m underprepared, relative to my time left. Behind.

At first Lanistia doesn’t seem to be treating me any differently than usual; we train hard, and I begin gathering bruises at a steady rate. But as the session drags on I start to notice that her blows don’t sting the way they usually do. That I’m getting away with mistakes.

After the third time she doesn’t take an obvious opening in my defence, I step back. “You’re going easy.”

“Perhaps.” Lanistia straightens. “You were unconscious for a week. Better to ease back into this.”

“We don’t have time for that.” I growl the words. Annoyed that I’m the one having to say them.

“We also don’t have time for you to relapse. Just because Kadmos hasn’t been able to find anything wrong with you, doesn’t mean we can ignore what happened.”

My lip twitches in frustration. “I know you want to push. So push.”

Lanistia moves to take her stance again, then hesitates, instead brushing some imaginary dirt from her tunic. “Ulciscor said he told you about Caeror.”

“He did.”

“And there’s nothing you want to ask me?”

“Is there anything you think I need to know?”

“Not particularly.”

“If there’s something you should be telling me, I assume you will.” I am curious about no small number of things, but it’s not fair to sate my curiosity at the expense of her pain.

Lanistia studies me a moment longer. “Alright.” There’s the slightest relaxing of her shoulders. An almost imperceptible nod of what is very nearly gratitude.

We resume, and I quickly discover the bite to Lanistia’s attacks has returned. I’m surprised to find myself… if not pleased, exactly, then content. I feel like Lanistia and I understand each other a little better than before.

Our sparring continues in relative silence for several minutes, until the young woman opposite me abruptly stops, holding up her hand to indicate I should do the same. She swivels toward the road leading to the villa.

There’s the faint, persistent crunching of wheels against gravel, and a carriage trundles into view. Lanistia and I frown at it together in the hazy half-light of the cloudy dawn.

“Expecting someone?”

She shakes her head, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her brow.

It’s early for an unannounced visitor. The carriage has stopped outside the villa’s entrance; Lanistia and I walk over together as the driver opens the door. The man who emerges is Ulciscor’s age, I think. Short and rakishly thin, almost bony, with hollowed cheeks and wavy dark hair. He moves with lithe confidence as he dismounts, turning to observe our approach.

“Welcome to Villa Telimus.” I take the lead, as would be expected now my adoption has been ratified. “I’m Vis Telimus.”

“Ah! Young Catenicus himself.” The stranger scrutinises me, looking more fascinated than impressed. “I was told you were still unconscious.”

“Sorry to disappoint. And you are?”

“Sextus Gaius Valerius. I’m here to examine you.”

“You’re a physician?”

“Something like that.” The man turns, pulls a bag from the carriage and starts rooting around in it. “I just need a few samples. And some answers, as you’re in a position to give them. Nothing that will take much of your time.”

“Our Dispensator is an excellent physician, and he’s already cleared Vis of any lingering illness.” It’s Lanistia, curt and impatient. “Under whose authority—”

“The Senate’s.” Gaius is calm as he interrupts, producing a stone tile from his bag and presenting it to me. “The authorisation from Magnus Tertius Servius.”

I take the tile. It’s blank on both sides. I frown over it, then, assuming it means what Gaius is saying, but not sure how, show it to Lanistia. She examines it with her customary lack of expression.

“Ulciscor isn’t here,” she says eventually.

“I’m sure you can find something to verify it against, Sextus Scipio.”

Lanistia grunts—irritated that the man knows who she is, I think—but then with an obvious effort, modifies her tone to be more accommodating. “Of course. Please come inside. We do have to check, you understand, given recent events.”

“Naturally.”

Gaius trails after us into the villa, and Lanistia instructs him to wait in the atrium before ushering me toward Ulciscor’s office. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I glance across at her. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.” A crease in her forehead. “Ulciscor is in Servius’s pyramid, so this should…” She’s putting the tile up against the entrance to the office as she talks; there’s a click, and the door swings open.

“It’s genuine, I take it?”

“It’s genuine. And this is an old form of authorization. It’s unusual. Direct and discreet. Even if Ulciscor was here, he’d be expected to comply without asking questions. And then forget Gaius was ever here.” She pulls the office door shut again, adjusting her glasses distractedly.

“So he’s not a physician?”

“I have no idea. But I can’t imagine he’s been sent here like this just to make sure you’re well.”

“What do I do?”

“Whatever he says. Take note of everything he asks, everything he does. I’ll get word to Ulciscor later.”

We return to the atrium, where Gaius is crouching, examining the intricate mosaic floor. “This is beautiful craftsmanship,” he observes as we enter, not looking up. When neither of us respond, he sighs, standing and stretching. “I trust everything is in order?”

“It is.” Lanistia hands back the tile.

Gaius nods in unsurprised fashion, then gazes at Lanistia steadily. There’s a good five seconds of tension before Lanistia grimaces and walks out, shutting the door behind her.

“Well then.” Gaius motions me into a chair, then begins extracting things from his bag. Several small, coloured stone vials, which make a clinking noise as he places them on the table. A series of unpleasant-looking bladed tools. “Tell me, Vis. When exactly did you wake up?”

He speaks easily, assuredly, with none of the hesitation that comes with deference. That’s strange; the man’s not obviously anyone of importance, and I’ve learned enough of Catenan society to know that a plebian Sextus would normally be more cautious around a patrician’s son.

“Yesterday.”

“Not long, then. Good. Good.” Gaius talks distractedly, unstoppering a vial that appears made of topaz and peering inside, then swishing the contents and giving it a brief sniff before putting it back. “Can you relate exactly what happened at the naumachia? Everything you saw Melior do, every interaction you had with him. In as much detail as possible, please.”

I start my story, which quickly turns into a halting one as Gaius interrupts again and again, requesting explanations or clarifications or more details about almost everything I mention. He works as he does so. He takes samples of my hair, my nails, my spit. Scrapes flakes of skin off one arm, then makes a cut on the other and, to my concern, starts draining a small amount of my blood into an obsidian vial.

“Rotting gods, what is that for?” I break off what I’m saying as globules of red begin disappearing into the container. I didn’t raise an objection when the scalpel broke my skin, but this is too much.

“Testing.”

“For what?”

Gaius doesn’t reply. He’s watching the vial intently, holding it up to the light. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. It’s definitely obsidian. Completely opaque.

“What are you testing for?” I repeat the question. Harshly, this time.

Gaius frowns at the vial for an infuriating second longer, then grunts, as if surprised. “Anything strange. The power Melior used is new to us. There’s no telling what effect coming into contact with it might have on a person’s body. We need to be thorough.” He starts tending to my cut, staunching the trickle down my arm.

It’s a deflection, albeit a well-delivered one. I don’t press. Whatever the real answer is, Gaius isn’t about to give it up.

The physician’s questions resume, and I continue to play the compliant, somewhat bemused boy who simply wants to forget about a traumatic experience. I repeat a lot of the same excuses when he asks for specifics. It all happened so suddenly. It was so violent. I was panicked, did what I thought was right at the time without much critical thought involved. I was lucky.

In the end, much to the man’s evident irritation, I give him nothing beyond what I’ve already supplied to Ulciscor. Just as when I talked to the Magnus Quintus, part of me wonders if I should be saying more. Helping prevent another such attack from ever taking place. The carnage Estevan’s weapon caused is something I would never want to see repeated. A memory that will haunt me forever.

And yet… it is a weapon. One the Hierarchy doesn’t have. One they may actually fear.

Gaius eventually concedes defeat, packing away his samples carefully. He lingers before closing his bag, though, then draws a sheaf of creased papers from it.

“One last question,” he says, his tone a mix of exasperation and resignation as he unfolds the sheets, splaying them out disinterestedly on the table in front of me. “I don’t suppose these mean anything to you?”

There are four pages, each bearing images sketched with extraordinary artistry. A night sky, the silhouettes of what look like people eerily hovering in front of a full moon. A desolate alien landscape, dunes half covering a city’s worth of broken buildings, shattered glass pillars rising from the sand between them like jagged knives. A massive hall with an equally enormous triangular opening at its end, writing in a language I don’t recognise inscribed on the walls all around.

But it’s the fourth that captures my gaze. A giant black pyramid set against towering waves.

It’s not exactly what I saw, in that uncanny second before I reached Estevan. But it’s close enough.

Against my will, my gaze loiters on that last image too long. I do everything I can to recover and tear it away, but Gaius’s casual tone, the way he seemed to be signalling the interrogation was over, disarmed me. A deliberate ploy, judging from the way his eyes gleam, sharp and appraising, when I look up again.

“They’re very strange.” I squint back at them, more to collect myself than to take in more detail. “What are they from?”

It’s a reasonable attempt at salvaging the situation, but even without looking at him, I can feel the heat of Gaius’s scepticism. There’s a breath, and then, “You recognised this one.” The physician leans over, jabbing the black pyramid pointedly.

“I did think it looked familiar,” I admit, trying to sound both sheepish and dismissive. “Would I have seen it in a book, perhaps?” I look up, letting the question hang.

We stare at each other for a full couple of seconds before the spindly man sighs, looking down and collecting the papers again. “No. It wouldn’t have been from a book.” He’s perfectly nonchalant, but he doesn’t believe me. He returns the pages to his bag, then taps the table with a finger twice. A leaving signal of irritation, I think. “If you do… remember… anything, send word to Tertius Servius. I’ll come. Any information you have will be well rewarded.”

“I will.”

Gaius gives me a brief, almost curt nod, then leaves. He’s replaced by Lanistia, who promptly shuts the door behind her. “Well?”

It doesn’t take long to relate the encounter, Lanistia’s usual inscrutable expression firmly in place. She’s worryingly silent after I finish.

“You should talk to Kadmos about this,” she says eventually. “You’re due to have your lesson with him after the morning meal anyway.”

“Kadmos? Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe his extensive medical background. His decades of study. The fact he was the youngest ever head of the Azriat. His—”

“Alright.”

“Good. If he has any new insight, let me know. I’ll send word to Ulciscor now.” She balances on the balls of her feet, as if about to leave, then plants them again. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” I’m genuinely puzzled.

“Go back. At the naumachia.” She’s intent. Her glasses are divided into the green and blue of the horizon outside the window. “Aequa told us you could have escaped with her. Why didn’t you?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You can do better than that.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I think it should have been suicide. And we both know those scars on your back mean you have no real love for Caten.” Her voice is low. Certain. “You’re brighter than most, Vis—but bright doesn’t mean brave, or caring, or heroic. More often it means the opposite. Ulciscor may not see it, but don’t think I’m as blind.” She taps her glasses with a small, ironic smile.

I chew over the words.

“No. No.” When I do eventually speak, I don’t conceal my anger. My indignation. It’s real enough. “It was the right thing to do. Just because I don’t want to be one of the Octavii, doesn’t mean I’d leave them all to die.”

“I didn’t say that. I said it’s strange that you were willing to sacrifice your life for them.”

“Maybe I’m a better person than you,” I snap.

Something about the remark hits home; Lanistia doesn’t outwardly react, but it definitely gives her pause. Her silence allows me a chance to consider. I doubt I would have gone back without Sedotia’s stylus. Even as it was, I hesitated.

But I don’t regret it.

“Maybe you are.” Lanistia says the words quietly. “But that’s not necessarily what we need from you, Vis. It’s a quality that won’t serve you well in the Academy.”

She pivots and is striding from the room before I can respond, leaving me to worry about the peculiar happenings of the morning alone.

The Will of the Many

XXIV

“HAIL, MASTER VIS.”

It’s turned into a preternaturally muggy summer morning, the air heavy and my tunic still clinging to me after training, despite the respite of Gaius’s examination. My head’s bowed over a tome detailing a very Catenan perspective on pre-Cataclysm society; I’m chewing bread absently, don’t register the words for a second.

“Kadmos.” I push the book aside and greet the Dispensator affably as he takes a seat opposite, brushes his stringy black hair back over his shoulders, then wipes away the sweat that’s already beading on his extremely high forehead.

The portly man returns my cheerful expression once he’s settled, startling me. Nothing’s regressed since yesterday, then. “You’re well enough to resume our lessons, I trust?”

“I feel fine. Good, in fact, after the extra rest I got yesterday,” I assure him. “I have to thank you, too. I didn’t realise that you were the one tending to me while I was unconscious. Lanistia tells me you lost a lot of sleep, making sure I got through those first few days safely.”

“It was nothing, young master.”

“Not to me.” I mean it. The way Lanistia described it, the man all but attacked anyone who tried to take over for him. I make sure he sees that I’m being genuine, then lean forward. “Speaking of which, there was a man here this morning. Another physician, sent by Tertius Servius.”

“They sent someone else to attend to you?” Kadmos is offended by the concept. “Ulciscor and I have been updating the Senate on your well-being, right up to and including this morning.”

“This was something else.” I tell him about Gaius’s taking of samples, though I leave out his questions and the drawings. “Do you know any reason why he would do that?”

Kadmos’s consternation has grown as I’ve explained what was done to me, until his eyes are bulging with indignation. “There is no reason that would be of assistance,” he sputters, dragging the back of his hand across his creased, glistening brow. “Some of the old cults might have burned what this man took from you—Tarchanism, was probably the last surviving one. But even that would have been in some misguided attempt to heal you. There is nothing anyone can glean from dead skin and a little dried blood.”

I shift. “And there’s nothing they could do with it?”

He’s stares at me blankly, then chuckles. “No! Gods’ graves, no.”

Lanistia said the same thing, but it’s a relief to hear it confirmed. I hadn’t been able to think of any nefarious purpose, myself, but I’m also keenly aware that my knowledge of higher-level Will use is still limited. “Good. Thank you.”

He hears the dissatisfaction in my voice, I think, though it’s not aimed at him. “I could investigate further, if you wish? I still have contacts in Sytrece who might be willing to look through some of the libraries there.”

“No, thank you, Kadmos. That’s very kind, but the Tertius clearly meant this to be done quietly. I wouldn’t want there to be any trouble.”

“Of course, young master.”

I eye him. I’ve known from the beginning he was a learned man; the proof has been in every lesson we’ve had together. But his surliness always meant the source of that knowledge was never a topic of conversation, and his mention of Sytrecian contacts has reminded me of it. “You were really in charge of the entire Azriat Institute?”

Kadmos shifts, chair creaking beneath his weight. “It wasn’t for very long. I got the position about six months before the proscriptions began.”

“Oh. That… must have been awful.”

“Such were the times,” he says with no trace of bitterness, splaying his hands. “I was young, even to be a professor, and my position was one that garnered no small amount of jealousy. When the pretender Erimides made his claims, very few in Deopolis thought it was wise to risk the friendship of Caten—myself included—and sure enough, when Dimidius Carthius inevitably crushed the revolt, he wanted to make examples. I still don’t know who named me, but they took me from my bed one night, and… here I am.”

“But you weren’t guilty of conspiring?”

He chortles. “I would not be much of a conspirator, young master. I was never exactly the dashing, secrets-in-the-night type.”

I don’t know what to say. It seems so obviously, outrageously wrong.

Kadmos sees me struggling and smiles again, only the barest trace of sadness in the expression. “A man will always wonder what might have been, but a wise one recognises fortune when it comes. For all I left behind, life has not been unkind to me.”

“How could you just accept it though? How could you not resent them for what they took from you?” The words are out of my mouth before I consider them; I reach out my hand as if to snare them back and then let it fall, wincing.

He ponders me. Still glistening with a sheen of sweat, but dignified. Then he rises and turns, uncinching his tunic and raising it so that I can see his back.

“We all have them, young master,” he says quietly. “Or did you think you were the only one to ever refuse the Aurora Columnae?”

I survey the pink and milky-white stripes layered across his skin, speechless. They’re old, faded—but there’s no mistaking them.

“There comes a point in every man’s life where he can rail against the unfairness of the world until he loses, or he can do his best in it. Remain a victim, or become a survivor.” Kadmos lets the cloth fall to cover the scars again. “Submitting was a burden, but never one I would trade for the alternative. I have thirty years more of memories, many of them fond. I live well, surrounded by luxury and with the trust and respect of a family I love. And yet I had colleagues who went to the Sappers, or who got sold to knights and were sent to work in the mines. Learned men all. Long dead.”

He holds my gaze. He thinks he’s helping me, I realise. Thinks that by doing what I did at the naumachia, I’ve made my choice. That I’m him thirty years ago, giving in to the enemy and joining them.

I try to look as though I’m not sick at the idea of living out my life like Kadmos. I empathise with him more, certainly.

But his approach to the Hierarchy is the opposite of who I want to be.

We move on to study for a while, Kadmos deciding to use my illness as a practical lesson, cheerfully explaining the various tests he put me through while I was unconscious. Despite the bleak subject matter, I enjoy the work. Kadmos is more free with his praise now, remarking several times how far I’ve come in the past month, even as he still corrects the occasional mistake. I’m surprised by how much I find myself glowing beneath his approval. It’s feels like a long time since I’ve been given any sort of acclaim for my efforts.

We’re interrupted a few times—the Dispensator still has charge of the estate, even as he teaches me—and just as the sun is reaching its zenith, an Octavii approaches, carrying a letter.

“Hm,” the rotund man says, poring over the missive with a frown. “Lady Telimus writes. She’s heard about the naumachia and asks after your well-being.” He raises an eyebrow as he reads. “There’s an implication she might be coming back to Caten sooner than expected too.”

I’d almost forgotten about the woman. “Do you think she’ll be a problem?”

“Not that you’ll have to worry about. I doubt you’ll meet her until after the Academy, even if she returns early.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s lovely.” It’s not sarcasm, but it’s not said with the warmth required for it to sound honest, either. “Often away, though.”

There’s plenty of implication in the second part, even if Kadmos again delivers it as simple, uncoloured fact. Women in the Hierarchy—particularly young wives such as Ulciscor’s—are generally expected to focus on family, no matter their skills wielding Will. The fact that Relucia is abroad working, when she and Ulciscor have no children, speaks volumes.

I’m tempted to ask more, but I doubt Kadmos will stretch propriety so much as to tell me anything I can’t already glean.

I let the matter drop, and we resume our race to prepare me for the Academy.

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS PASS in a rough blur of training, learning, and practice in the Labyrinth.

My anxiety over a potential Anguis response to the naumachia remains unfounded: there’s no hint of retribution, no concerns from any of the guards posted around the Telimus estate. No statement from the Anguis at all, in fact. Lanistia guesses the organisation is in disarray, scrambling to recover now their leader is dead and their major attack largely foiled.

That doesn’t mean I rest easy. There’s some part of me that was forged into steel after Suus, I think—some part of me that knows exactly how to wall off memories that would otherwise tear me apart. And I could feel it hard at work over those first couple of days after waking, when I was asked to relive the naumachia again and again. But the nights are a different beast. I close my eyes and see a lake of blood. I clamber over slick, steaming entrails and bones. I wake sweating, or shivering, or sometimes crying out into the darkness.

It fades, as all things do. And the relentlessness of my days means that even when I do start awake, exhaustion forces me back to slumber within minutes.

But my sleep is never the same.

Dawn is bright and clear the morning of the day I leave for the Academy. Lanistia and I have just finished our final sparring session; I’m bathed in a light sweat, breath misting as we walk back to the villa. Around us in the fields, Octavii are starting their labour, distant chatter ringing across the hills. Lanistia’s uncharacteristically mute; usually this is where she berates me on all the mistakes I’ve just made, and then berates me about all the mistakes I’m about to make in studying. And then berates me for being behind.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I find the silence uncomfortable.

“Ulciscor sent word yesterday,” Lanistia says suddenly. “He’s arranged for you to travel to the Necropolis for the Festival of the Ancestors—that will be the next time you’re allowed out of the Academy. And he looked into the students you met after the Transvect attack.”

“Oh?” With everything else that’s happened since, I’d almost forgotten his suggestion that I might have been drugged.

“Indol Quiscil is the Dimidius’s son, as he thought. Belli Volenis and Emissa Corenius were the other two. Belli is the daughter of Quintus Volenis, the governor of Sytrece. Emissa is the daughter of Magnus Quintus Corenius.”

I recognise the names from my studies. Important families. Important students.

“They’re in Class Three, so they’re among the elite in the Academy. And they’re all from Military families. Ulciscor says that makes them unlikely targets for Veridius—much easier to co-opt students he could offer advancement to. So they probably didn’t do anything to you.”

“One more thing to probably not worry about, then.”

Lanistia grunts. “You won’t have much to do with them for a while, anyway—remember, you’ll be starting in Seven, and classes at the Academy are meant to mimic pyramid rankings in the real world. Unless you reach Class Three, the most they’ll interact with you is to give you orders.”

I nod. Silence again. Unless you reach Class Three. I don’t want to ask. It feels too much like conceding defeat, admitting I actually care what she thinks.

“You’ll do well.” She volunteers the statement as begrudgingly as anything she’s ever said. She’s facing straight ahead, though for all I know she could be focused on my expression. “If you keep working, there’s a chance you can do what you need to do.”

“Find what you and Ulciscor are looking for?”

“Get into Class Three.”

I swallow. Tension drains out of my shoulders as I acknowledge the statement.

Then I allow myself a grin. “You think I’m pretty good.”

She snorts. “I definitely didn’t say that. Or imply it.”

My grin widens. “No, no. I can see it now. You secretly like me. You think I’m—”

I’m staring up at the sky, rasping, air vanished from my lungs. From the corner of my eye I can see Lanistia walking away, her gait as calm as it was just a moment ago.

I groan, roll to my feet. Smile. Jog to catch up to Lanistia for the last walk back to the villa we’ll ever take.

IT FEELS STRANGE, LEAVING. THIS isn’t a home, not by any measure of the word as I understand it. There’s no love here, from or for me. Not truly, anyway, regardless of how the others feel. There can be no love without honesty.

But I still feel an emptiness as the door to the carriage closes. A sense of loss as I peer out the window and watch Lanistia’s and Kadmos’s forms slide from view. It’s been a sanctuary, of sorts. A place where I’ve found a renewed sense of purpose.

Eventually the green hills vanish on the horizon and I sit, alone with my thoughts, as landscapes roll by. It’s a short trip from here to the Transvect platform. Any sense of nostalgia is quickly swept away by anxiety, no matter what I pretended to Lanistia.

In a few hours, I’ll be at the Academy.

The Will of the Many

The Will of the Many

XXV

ISTILL REMEMBER THE TIME I had to give my first official speech at Suus. A small thing, a few words of introduction to a feast. I was all bravado until the afternoon before. Then something snapped. My heart wouldn’t slow down. My hands shook. I threw up.

“I don’t want to do it,” I eventually told my father. Voice small. Head bowed.

He sat me down. Put his arm around me. Said nothing for a while.

“You should be glad you’re nervous,” he told me finally.

I remember laughing bitterly, sure he was joking.

“It’s true.” He was always so gentle. “Nervousness means there’s a fear to be faced ahead, Diago. The man who is never nervous, never does anything hard. The man who is never nervous, never grows.” He stroked my hair. “Do all you can to think of it as an opportunity. A blessing. No matter how it makes you feel in here.” His hand pressed lightly against my chest, covering it.

I place my own hand to my chest now, imagining it’s his touch. Feel my heartbeat. Hold tight to his words as the Transvect skims the chop of the Sea of Quus.

Though I’ve been to Solivagus before, I have no memory of actually arriving, and today I’m the only person on board. So I soon find myself pressed up against the window, watching with unabashed curiosity as the island looms on the horizon.

The sun’s well past its zenith as the Transvect first flits along the sparkling water and then eases to a crawl, sliding low past one of several white monoliths jutting from the depths. It did the same thing on the way out, last time. It’s the only way across the Seawall, according to Ulciscor: anything else that attempts to cross the submerged stone barrier that rings the island—ships, even just people swimming—is sucked down by some unseen force. Dragged to the bottom of the ocean floor and held there.

From the bleak way he said it, it wasn’t a theoretical knowledge.

The wood and stone around me gives the shudder of a waking animal and starts to build speed again. I try to estimate how far we are from the shore. A mile, perhaps? The Transvect skims the waves for a few more seconds before prying itself upward. The sheer bluffs that guard the shoreline gradually begin to drop on the approaching horizon.

I move to the other side, trying to catch a glimpse of the ruins Ulciscor told me about when we were here. We’re too low, though, and Solivagus is an obscuring green mass of steep hills and deep canyons.

I’ve been jittery all trip, but it’s only now, as the Transvect finally crosses the threshold of the island, that the first real pangs of anxiety start to hit. All of the chaos and stress of these past months has been about this. Preparing for this.

There’s no more room for mistakes.

“Vis Telimus?” A white-cloaked man is waiting alone on the platform as I step out of the Transvect. A crooked, blunt nose dominates his craggy face.

“That’s me.” I present the stone identification tile Ulciscor gave me with what I hope is a winning smile.

The stranger smiles back, revealing a missing tooth. He doesn’t look much past forty. “I’m Septimus Filo. But call me Ulnius.” He accepts my tile and then eyes the satchel slung over my shoulder. “Is that everything?”

“It is.”

He holds out his hand and beckons for me to give it to him. The motion’s economical more than demanding. “I’ll have it taken to your quarters.”

Which means it will be searched first, of course. But there’s nothing to find. I hand it over.

“Follow me. And keep close.” Ulnius starts walking. There’s a slight limp to his gait. “We’ve had some reports of alupi around here, these past couple of weeks.”

“Wolves?” Ulciscor mentioned them.

“Big wolves.” The way he says it, he’s understating. “They usually know better than to come near the Academy, though. I doubt there’s anything to worry about.”

I’m not exactly reassured, but it’s not as if I have a lot of choice. I trail after the man.

“Did you recover well from your injuries? After the last time you were here,” he adds, seeing my confusion at the question.

“Oh.” The white cloak registers, and then more vaguely, the name. “You’re the Academy physician?”

“I tended you when you and the Magnus Quintus first arrived,” he confirms. We start up the steepest part of the path. Ulnius seems to have no trouble with it.

“Everything’s healed well. Barely a scar.” I hesitate. “Thank you.”

“Please. I get to boast that I sewed up young Catenicus himself. I should be thanking you.”

I give an awkward chuckle in return. As little as I’m pleased by the name, I’m going to have to get used to it.

We walk for a minute, just the leaves rustling to accompany us. The trail branching off to the east—the one Ulciscor thought might lead to the nearby ruins—soon appears, but I don’t let my gaze linger. Whatever lies out there is going to have to wait for a while yet.

Ulnius looks several times like he wants to say more. Eventually, he does, faltering to a stop.

“Before we go any farther, I… need to say something. The Principalis is probably about to tell you how that name of yours doesn’t mean anything in here. That you still have to earn your way. And as far as your lessons go, he’s right. But… look. One of my sisters was at the naumachia. And she survived, praise Arventis.”

He falls silent. Searching for the words. I let him.

“I talked to her, about a week ago. I’d heard the stories already, but watching her actually remembering it…” He exhales. Meets my gaze. “Whatever you need, Catenicus. While you’re here. After graduation. Whenever. Just let me know.”

He dips his head earnestly, then turns and presses on up the steep path.

IT’S NOT LONG UNTIL WE’RE admitted through the discomforting Will cage of the Academy entrance, Ulnius pointing out the various buildings he thinks will be of interest as we walk the manicured path down to the quadrum. The massive stone square is eerily quiet compared to the last time I was here, only the tinkling of its central fountain audible. That’s to be expected, though. The sun’s dipping low. Everyone is surely taking dinner by now.

Ulnius guides me into the Praetorium, then up a winding staircase. Knocks confidently on the door at the top.

A moment later, Veridius’s youthful visage is smiling out at me.

“Vis! Welcome. Please, come in.” His expression is warm, genuinely pleased. He turns his smile on Ulnius. “Day’s almost done. Did we make it?”

The physician smirks. “Estellia from Five came in with a cut on her hand about an hour ago.”

“Bah.” Veridius laughs ruefully, managing to infuse even that simple word with unaffected charm.

“So I’ll let you know when you can take my shift?” Ulnius looks pleased with himself as Veridius gestures in amused defeat. “Vis. Principalis.” With a nod to both of us, he disappears back down the stairs.

I enter Veridius’s office, which is the only room on the first floor, judging by the lack of doors leading elsewhere. It’s well-appointed but not grandiose: a desk in the centre with a couple of seats opposite, a couch in the corner, one wall lined with full bookshelves. On one shelf, displayed without ostentation, is a circlet of golden leaves that must be Veridius’s Crown of the Preserver. Windows face both north and south. In one direction I can see the breadth of the quadrum. The other provides a spectacular view over the treetops of Solivagus and beyond, the ocean.

And, peeking out from behind one of the mountainous rises, what I think could be the ruins Ulciscor told me about. They’re barely visible on the horizon, little more than a glimmer of stone among the trees.

“I’ve worked with worse views.” Veridius is following my gaze. His thoughtful blue eyes turn back to me, and I shuffle my feet, unable to help feeling as though he knows what I was focusing on. “How’s the side?”

“It’s healed well, thank you.”

“Good. Walk with me? I have other duties to attend, but I wanted to at least be the one to show you to your quarters.”

I trail after him downstairs and into the quadrum.

“So. Magnus Quintus Telimus thinks very highly of you. His letter of submission was glowing.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Principalis.”

“How did you meet him?”

“Good fortune. Our paths crossed in Letens, and…” I shrug modestly. “He’s been searching for someone to take in, to support. Someone who might be able to do well here. I was a little older than what he had in mind, but I’m grateful to be given the chance to prove myself.” It’s what Ulciscor and I agreed upon—uncomplicated, and with relatively uncontroversial implications. Most people will see a childless senator spotting a talented orphan and assume we struck a bargain: me gaining access to the Telimus name, and Ulciscor gaining a powerful, beholden family member if I do well here. An unusual move, but not without precedent. Not outside of decorum.

“Good fortune indeed,” murmurs Veridius. There’s no sarcasm to it, no insinuation. We’ve left the quadrum, heading away from the clifftop. Painted statues of the gods line the path here, and traditional pyramidal shapes infuse much of the decorative work in the gardens. A few cork oaks dot the green expanse; in the distance I can see a couple of students reclining in the shade of one, books in hands. A shallow stream cuts through the grounds. Everything is quiet and perfectly kempt. An oasis against the wilds beyond the wall.

Veridius pulls me to a stop. Delays as he examines me, then sighs.

“I can only assume that Ulciscor has told you of the past I share with his family.” He’s placid as he says the words, neither blame nor concern to them. “And thus, of the things he believes I did to his brother. To Lanistia. Am I correct?”

I’m caught off guard at the directness of the question. “Yes.”

“Which means I can safely assume that he has asked you to do something, while you’re here.” He waves a hand at my expression. “I won’t insult you by asking for the details. But I do hope you realise that Ulciscor’s accusations are those of a man who loved his brother, not of a man with cause. Caeror and Lanistia were my friends. My good friends.” His voice has gone quiet, and there’s heartache in it. Genuine sorrow. If it’s a performance, it’s a good one. “He acts on his pain as best he can, and I find it hard to blame him for that—so I swear to you, you will get no disadvantage from me because of it. But nor will I look the other way if you break the rules in service of his misguided revenge.” He holds my gaze as he says it. It’s a simple statement of fact, delivered firmly and gently. He just wants me to have fair warning.

“I understand.” I’m thrown by the man’s candour. I should be strenuously denying any hint of Ulciscor having ulterior motives, but doing so right now would feel childish.

The Principalis clasps his hands behind his back as he starts walking again, and I take a couple of jogging strides to catch up. “So. Do you prefer Vis, or Catenicus?”

“Vis.”

“You don’t like the honour?”

“It’s not that,” I lie quickly. “I just prefer not to think about it.”

Veridius is sympathetic. “Of course. Of course. And along those lines, I have asked Aequa and I will ask you as well: please don’t go into the details of what happened. Most of the other students only have rumours that they dismiss as exaggerations, currently. And those few who are aware of the truth don’t need to be reminded of it. Better all-around if we just keep the focus on what we do here.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you. I read the reports, by the way. This weapon the Anguis used is monstrous. You are a true hero, Vis.” Heartfelt. Completely sincere.

Despite myself, I can’t help but feel a brief flush of pride. Followed by immediate irritation at my own reaction. Rotting gods, but the man is charming.

We keep walking. A brisk sea breeze sweeps in, dulling the last bite of the sun and whipping the Principalis’s toga dramatically behind him. I can see him wanting to ask more about the naumachia, but instead he moves on. “So what are your goals here, Vis?”

“To rise to the highest class I can.” An obvious one, and something Ulciscor assured me there was no point being shy about. If I let the Praeceptors know my intent to advance, they’ll pay more attention to me.

“And how high do you think that is?”

“Hard to say, when I haven’t had a class yet.”

Veridius chuckles. “Truth.” He steers us to the right, along a new branch of the path, returning the friendly waves of a couple of passing students in the distance. “There’s been some talk of placing you in a higher class, thanks to your… new profile. What do you think of the idea?”

I vacillate. He’s actually asking, or at least seems to be.

“I think I should start in Class Seven.”

He runs a hand through his tousled, dirty-blond hair, looking vaguely surprised. “You want to?”

“Of course not.” I’ll probably regret this—if I push the idea, Veridius might allow the head start—but it’s what feels right in the moment. “I’d be displacing someone without proving myself. I need to work my way up, the same as everyone else.”

Veridius thinks and then nods, again in that approving way that makes me feel as though I’ve done exactly the right thing.

For the next few minutes, he probes more. About my past, my education. But it comes across as curious rather than suspicious. Rote, to an extent, but friendly—questions he asks every student. He’s getting to know me. When I shy away from giving specifics, he doesn’t press. It’s not an interrogation.

I don’t know what I expected from him, but this is different. Disarming. Exactly what I would have wanted from an introductory conversation, in fact. He tells me a little about life here. Reiterates how the classes work—the bulk of the students are in Class Seven, and then a steadily decreasing, set number as the groups are considered more advanced. Forty-eight in Class Six, twenty-four in Class Five, twelve in Class Four. There are only six in Class Three, and those compete at the end of the year in the Iudicium for the final, elite placings.

I already know it all, of course, but listen patiently, more than happy to be doing that rather than answering questions.

We arrive at a tall, tapering cuneate building that I’d noticed from a distance several minutes ago. It’s intimidating up close, a couple of hundred feet wide at the base and almost a hundred to the jagged tip, decorative edging on each floor painted bright red.

“This is where you’ll be living for the next year,” says Veridius as he pushes the double doors wide. “The Sevenths all share a communal space, I’m afraid. You only get a bed and a desk.”

“I’ve had less.”

Veridius surprises me with a chuckle. “That’s nice to hear. Sometimes the reactions are not so understanding.”

“Really?”

“Most students are accustomed to the lifestyles of their parents.” He’s still smiling. “They all adapt. They just complain while they do it.”

We enter the cool interior of the boys’ dormitory. The entire ground floor is one enormous connected space, though it’s sliced into thirds by a series of short, dividing walls. A large Will dial on the wall shows that it’s almost seventh hour past noon. From the hush and lack of motion, we’re the only ones here. Cots and desks alternate along the walls, carefully positioned to give each set its own space, which is also denoted by a number carved into the stone. The orderliness of the arrangement is offset by the mess of crumpled, shoved-aside sheets on a lot of the beds and the paraphernalia strewn across most desks. And the floor, in many cases.

Veridius runs a displeased eye over the scene before beckoning me farther in. “There are some unused beds in here somewhere. I imagine they won’t be hard to spot,” he adds dryly.

We’ve been walking for about ten seconds when I catch movement from the corner of my eye.

“Callidus?” Veridius has spotted the figure too, sitting at a desk with head bowed in concentration. The boy starts at his name. He’s lithe and dark, with a thick mop of curly black hair and sharp features. My age, but small by comparison.

“Principalis!” Callidus is abashed as he scrambles to his feet.

“Why aren’t you at dinner?”

The young man’s brown eyes dart to the side. “I wanted to figure out something from class this afternoon. Get ahead early.”

“Hm.” Veridius sounds about as convinced as I feel. “Well, as you’re here, this is Vis. He needs someone from Seven to show him around. Starting with a meal.”

Callidus doesn’t hide his grimace. “Principalis, I have to—”

“Not a request.”

Callidus studies me. He looks more uncomfortable than anything else. “Of course.”

Veridius begins amiably quizzing Callidus about his study habits over the break as I wander a little way off to find a vacant cot. It’s easy enough to spot one, thanks to neatly tucked sheets and an accompanying desk completely absent of detritus. I half listen to the conversation in the background, but it all seems innocuous enough, even if Callidus continues to sound awkward in his answers.

“Bed number thirty-three,” I announce to Veridius. I can’t help but think of the numbering system in Letens Prison as I do so.

“Not superstitious, I take it?” the Principalis asks with mild amusement. I snort and shake my head. “Thirty-three, then. Your things will be waiting for you when you get back. Callidus will take you to the mess hall now, but if you have any concerns—if you need to talk to me about anything at all—don’t hesitate. You know where to find me.” He watches me to make sure I understand, to make sure I see that it’s a genuine offer, before ushering us back toward the entrance.

Veridius bids us farewell; Callidus eyes his retreating figure and then angles us along the path back toward the quadrum, significantly more reluctant now that Veridius isn’t watching.

“Sorry we interrupted you. If you’d prefer to just tell me where the mess is—”

“Thanks, but he’ll check I went with you.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. He noticed that I wasn’t at the midday meal, too.” Callidus isn’t resentful, just certain. “It doesn’t matter. I was getting hungry anyway.”

Still, as we enter the quadrum, I can’t help but notice the worried cast to Callidus’s features, the way he scans ahead. The square’s still all but empty.

“Vis, wasn’t it?” Callidus asks the question absently. “I’m guessing the Principalis wasn’t impressed that you arrived so late.”

“He knew about it in advance. Extenuating circumstances.”

Callidus glances at me, interest piqued. “Really?” Then he slows for a step. “Wait. Vis Telimus?”

I try not to wince. “Yes.”

“Huh.” Callidus guides me up the stairs of the Curia Doctrina, under the lavishly carved STRONGER TOGETHER and inside.

“You were at the naumachia.” Callidus’s curiosity has clearly overtaken his restraint. “You’re the one who killed Melior. You’re Catenicus.”

I nod, not really sure how else to respond.

“Rotting gods.” Callidus rubs the back of his neck as he processes.

Thankfully he doesn’t have time to say more; we’re passing between painted marble columns and descending a wide set of stairs, plunging into the muted roar of a hundred and fifty students talking among themselves.

The hall down here is massive, its entire eastern wall a series of archways cut from the cliff itself, allowing a spectacular view down over the glimmering ocean. We’ve emerged onto the lowest of five distinct levels, each one set about three feet higher than the next. The tiers looking down over us have fewer students sitting at their tables. At the uppermost level, it appears there’s just a single table with a few couches sprawled around it.

Nobody pays us much attention as we enter, but I can see Callidus casting a concerned eye over the room. “We sit down here.” He indicates the tables near where we’re standing. It’s the most crowded level by far, at least fifty students crammed in. “Sixths get the level up, Fifths the next, and so on.”

I continue to scan the crowd. Aequa’s up on the second-highest tier of the hall, her back to me. Above Aequa, reclining on the couches, are Emissa, Indol, and Belli—the three who snuck in to see me after the Transvect attack. In Class Three, just as Ulciscor said. Emissa and Indol are laughing about something, and Belli is focused on what looks to be a Foundation board. None of them have spotted me. There don’t seem to be any Praeceptors in the room.

“Where do we get our meals?”

“Upper level.” Callidus indicates a servery opposite the archways on the top tier. His gaze slides to the side, lingering on the half dozen students on the couches up there.

We head for the servery, Callidus with conspicuous reluctance. A few of the Class Seven students—Sevenths, as they’re apparently known—have noticed us now, but aside from my catching a few curious glances, nobody says anything. They don’t hail Callidus.

We’re only one level up when one of the Sixths spots us and freezes. Stops eating and rises. And rises. The pale young man is enormous; his auburn hair is cropped short, though there’s also light red stubble along his jawline. That and his burly physique made him look older than I assume he must be.

He’s sitting apart from the other students in Class Six, not in any of their conversations, but the heavy menace in the way he stands draws their notice.

“Ericius.” The boy growls the name, sharp blue eyes on Callidus. “Finally.”

Callidus has stopped in his tracks. “Of course they chose him,” he mutters, low enough that only I can hear it. He takes a breath and straightens, facing the other boy’s approach. “We don’t have to do this, Eidhin.” He rubs his neck. “I know it must be Prav, or Ianix, or maybe even Dultatis who asked you. But I’d really prefer we didn’t do this.”

“And yet we must.” Eidhin’s speech is slow, careful. Not comfortable with speaking Common. “Your father has made mistakes.”

“Well that makes two of us,” Callidus retorts.

It’s a flippant, nervous reply, not particularly directed. Yet something moves in Eidhin at the words. His face darkens to something ugly. “Say that again.” He’s only ten feet away. Advancing. The rest of the hall has started to quieten, most of the upper levels now having noticed the confrontation. Nobody’s moving to intervene.

I sigh, then step forward next to Callidus. Just far enough to be a cautioning presence.

Eidhin pulls up short at the motion, looking at me for the first time. “You are?” His tone is dismissive.

“Vis.” I paste on a friendly smile and take another step forward, between Eidhin and Callidus this time, sticking out my hand. “I’m new.”

“Yes.” Eidhin slaps my hand aside and moves to push past me. I know I should let him. He’s in Class Six, a rank above me.

But I’m moving back into his path anyway. Eidhin is much larger than me. Muscular. Callidus wouldn’t stand a chance in a physical confrontation, and doesn’t seem inclined to run despite that fact.

“Sixth.” I glance over Eidhin’s shoulder. It’s Emissa, calling out from the level above. The Thirds have descended a couple of levels to watch. All except Belli and the boy opposite her, anyway, who are still poring over the Foundation board in the background. “Don’t.”

She’s a Third, speaking with unmistakeable authority. Eidhin’s lip curls anyway and he moves to shove me aside this time, but I’m accustomed to dealing with men much bigger than him, and simply move so that he stumbles. I’m not trying to embarrass him, but a ripple of laughter runs through the onlookers. Which appears to be just about everyone, now.

“We’re only here to get some food,” I say quickly, holding out my hands palms-outward to show I have no ill intent. Already cursing myself for this decision.

Callidus says something from behind me, and I half turn instinctively.

Which means I don’t see Eidhin’s left hook coming until just before it connects with my ear.

I WORK HARD TO CONTROL my anger.

My nature has always been to be quick with a sharp defence, either verbal or physical—even before the Hierarchy took my family, my country, and everything else I’ve ever cared about. But that’s been an unaffordable luxury, these past few years. A bane to anonymity. So I’m always reminding myself not to be reactive. Not to draw attention. Step aside, stuff my fury deep down, and always keep to the background.

On the other hand, the Theatre was my release from all that. Fighting on that stage was one of the only ways I felt I could still stand up for myself.

So when Eidhin—this bullying stranger—actually lands a hit, I gods-damned well answer.

The blow’s a stinging one but I know how to take a punch and recover quickly; the larger boy’s eyes widen in shock and pain as I pivot in response and swing low, striking him hard in the stomach. A familiar, wheezing gasp as air rushes from his lungs. I step back. Let him double over and then coldly, furiously uppercut.

There’s a sickening crunch as I connect with his nose. Blood. Eidhin drops as if dead.

I stand there, red painting the knuckles of my right hand, and for a horrible second have to study the body on the floor to make sure Eidhin’s chest is still rising and falling. I’m used to fighting Septimii, used to pouring every inch of power I can find into every hit.

Probably shouldn’t have done that with Eidhin, even if he is bigger than me.

The whole hall’s gone silent, the weight of eyes on me crushing. Callidus is gaping at me, a half-awed, half-dismayed expression frozen on his face. I move before anyone else can, dropping to my knees by Eidhin and removing my toga, tucking it gently behind his head and then staunching the flow of blood with its hem. There will be consequences for this, but at least if I show contrition, it might not be as disastrous as it feels.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” The voice is angry; I look up again to see another Sixth rising from the table nearby. He’s athletic, strands of black hair falling over high cheekbones and a dark, brooding expression. Piercing green eyes glare at me, then at a hand on his arm. The girl beside him pulls the young man forcibly back into his seat. He goes reluctantly.

A breath later, Emissa, Indol, and two other Class Three members I don’t recognise are joining me, though they’ve seen what I’m doing and are moving to help, rather than showing aggression. Interesting. They’re in charge here, at least while there are no Praeceptors around. Their lack of outrage is encouraging.

“Idiot,” mutters Emissa with a shake of her head as she kneels opposite me, pushing her hair from her face and pulling a cloth from her pocket, dabbing some of the dribbling blood off Eidhin’s cheek.

“Me, or him?”

“Me. Your new friend’s father isn’t exactly popular at the moment; I should have known someone would want to send a message.” She glances up at me. “Though it does also apply to you, a bit. And him. Especially him. Let’s just call it all-inclusive,” she concedes, tone light as she quirks a quick smile, dimples forming.

I find myself grinning back. Her eyes are very green. I almost forget the situation.

There’s a loud cough from Indol, who’s hovering over us. “Nequias.”

“Rotting gods. Don’t argue with him; you’ll only make things worse. Good luck,” murmurs Emissa with a wry shake of her head, standing quickly. I do the same, following her and Indol’s gazes to the older man stomping his way over to us. He’s middle-aged and angular to the point of being gaunt, though toned beneath his fine tunic and red-hemmed toga. A sharp nose holds up a pair of tinted glasses, not dissimilar to Lanistia’s.

“What happened here?” He glances from Eidhin to me, looking like he’s already come to a conclusion. “Who are you?”

“Vis Telimus, Praeceptor.” I keep my voice respectful. Nequias is the Praeceptor for Class Three, the highest position in the Academy behind Veridius. “I only arrived today.”

“An exceptionally short stay, then. We don’t take kindly to Sevenths attacking their betters here.”

My heart drops. He’s not joking about the short stay.

“It wasn’t him, Praeceptor.” It’s Indol speaking up, to my surprise. I turn to see him meeting Nequias’s gaze. “Eidhin started the fight.”

“Not that it was much of a fight,” murmurs one of the other students, a girl with bright blue eyes whose name I don’t know. Beside her, Emissa hides what I suspect is mirth with her hand.

Nequias ignores the by-play, focusing on Indol. “Why would he do that?”

“He was targeting Ericius there. You can probably guess why. The new boy wasn’t standing for it.”

Nequias scowls, looking more rather than less angry at the explanation. “So Eidhin might have been going to start a fight with someone else, is what you’re saying. But our Seventh here actually did.”

“Eidhin swung first.”

“Swinging first in a fight isn’t the same thing as starting it.”

Indol’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“Telimus. Telimus.” Nequias switches his attention back to me, rolling the name along his tongue as if suddenly discovering it. “Of course. Ulciscor’s boy. Catenicus. Don’t for a moment think your reputation will keep you from the consequences of something like this.”

Murmurs ripple down the hall as those closest to us catch what Nequias is saying. There’s no visible movement, but the sense of those farther away straining to listen becomes almost palpable.

“Of course, Praeceptor.” This is unfair, but I’m used to that. And it’s not that I trust Emissa—Ulciscor’s initial suspicion about her still plays on my mind, no matter his eventual conclusion—but her warning makes sense. Angering Nequias further is a bad idea.

Callidus is standing behind the Praeceptor, and I can see the lithe young man starting forward, mouth open to protest. I give him the slightest shake of my head. He’s a Seventh, too; I doubt he can say anything that will deflect the blame from me, but there’s a good chance he could get himself in trouble as well.

At the moment, he owes me. It’s not a lot, but I can use it.

“Indol, Ianix, get Eidhin to the infirmary and let Septimus Filo know what’s happened.” Indol moves to comply, as does the dark-haired Sixth who looked like he was going to defend Eidhin earlier.

Nequias glares at me. “And you? Follow. Now.”

He storms off toward the main staircase and I trail after him pensively, trying to ignore the weight of the eyes of what appears to be every student in the Academy.

The Will of the Many

XXVI

THERE’S AN UNCOMFORTABLE, HEAVY NERVOUSNESS that’s unique to waiting on a punishment that means something. I remember it well from my days at Suus, sitting outside the Great Hall until my father finished his business. Aware he was about to hear of whatever I’d done wrong and then pronounce judgment on me, the same way he had to on so many of his people.

The lead-up was always the worst part. Anticipation and uncertainty. Knowing I’d made the mistake, but not yet having met its consequences.

I never once felt like that in the orphanage. There was fear, yes, when I knew the lashings were coming. Rage and frustration. But never this biting, gnawing unease that worries at me as I sit in the side room not far from the mess hall, gazing out the eastward window at the dusk-lit ocean.

“Vis?” The feminine voice makes me start; I didn’t hear anyone enter, buried too deep in my worries. I turn to find a woman settling into a seat opposite. Middle-aged, judging from the streaks of grey dusting her hair. She fixes me with a sharp, hazel-eyed gaze, though the lines around her eyes make her appear amiable rather than stern.

“That’s me.” I smile to indicate I wish it weren’t the case right now.

“I’m Praeceptor Taedia. I teach Class Five.” She returns the expression as she says it. An encouraging sign. “I’ve been speaking to some of the students who saw what happened. I’ve heard enough to know that Eidhin brought this upon himself, but… needless to say, this is not an auspicious start to your time here.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Her smile fades a little. Worried. “You’re a Seventh, and you just struck a Sixth. Publicly. If Eidhin decides to pursue the matter, he could have you expelled.”

I’d wondered, but a cold fist still squeezes my heart at the confirmation. Lanistia warned me many times that the class rankings here were born from the Academy’s origins as a Military institution. What I just did is the equivalent of a conscript punching an officer in the face.

“How do I avoid that?” It’s an open plea. Taedia seems kindly, concerned. She’s more likely to respond to vulnerability than bravado.

“Swallow your pride.”

“Vis.” Veridius’s voice pierces the room from behind me. I jump to my feet, turning to see the Principalis enter, followed closely by Nequias and another boy I vaguely recognise. He was sitting with Emissa, I think. A Third. Veridius’s expression is sombre. Nequias just looks smug.

“Principalis.” I resist the urge to launch into a defence of my actions. I’m frustrated but if I show that, if I seem like I’m hot-headed, it will only weaken my case.

“Praeceptor Nequias has been keeping me informed.” Veridius doesn’t sit, arms crossed. The sound of his disappointment cuts. “And Iro here has verified that you were the aggressor. Solely at fault.”

I gape at the Third. He’s tall and muscular, with a prominent, hooked nose. Very Catenan. I don’t know him.

He stares back at me, and though his expression doesn’t change, I swear there’s the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“However,” continues Veridius, “before passing any kind of judgment, I would like to hear your side of the story.”

“I apologise for what happened.” I sound as contrite as I can be. “But the other boy, Eidhin, was about to attack Callidus—”

“You don’t know that,” interjects Nequias.

“Let him speak.” Veridius’s tone is sharp as he admonishes the older man. Nequias glowers but subsides.

I continue, relating events as accurately as I can. There’s no need to lie, no benefit to it. Iro looks dubious the entire time, as if I’m making the whole thing up. Nequias tries to interrupt me again at one point, but Veridius quashes him with another sharp reproof. I can see from the way Nequias stands apart from him, the way they interact, that there’s no love lost between the two men. Given how quickly Nequias seems to have taken a disliking to me, that’s surely to my advantage.

Veridius contemplates me for a good few seconds after I finish. “Bring him in.” He directs the command to Nequias, who disappears through the door before returning with a grim-looking Eidhin in tow. The boy’s nose is taped, and ugly bruises are forming under both eyes. He doesn’t hesitate to meet my gaze, though. There’s barely checked anger there.

“I’m sorry, Eidhin.” I address him calmly and directly, putting every ounce of sincerity I can into my voice. I have to take control of the situation, give them what they want to hear. “I honestly thought you were going to attack the boy who was showing me around, and… I reacted poorly. I was part of an orphanage until a few months ago, and I’m used to having to deal with things through violence. That doesn’t make it justified, though. You have my word that it will not happen again.” I step forward, extending my hand.

There’s a surprised silence, Eidhin coming to a standstill, clearly not knowing how to react. He was expecting more aggression, probably. Denials.

“It is… not excuse.” He says it roughly, voice nasal. He doesn’t make any move to take my hand.

“Of course,” I say quickly. Obsequiously. “Please understand, though, that my actions were through ignorance as well. I simply didn’t know who you were. So again, I apologise.” I keep my hand outstretched. It almost physically hurts to scrape like this, but I’m trusting it will be worth it.

“It changes nothing.” Eidhin just looks awkward at my insistence. That’s good. Behind him, I can see Veridius suddenly lean forward, intent. He sees what I’m doing. I will him not to open his mouth. Eidhin isn’t Catenan. He might not know.

I thrust my hand closer to Eidhin. My arm’s beginning to ache. “Please. Eidhin. Whatever consequences may come from my actions, I just need you to know that I am truly sorry for what I did.”

Eidhin’s bemused. “Fine. Yes. You are sorry,” he says in disgust, limply grasping my hand—barely more than a slap—before dropping it again.

There’s an exhalation from Veridius, and from the corner of my eye, I can see Taedia shift as she understands what’s happened. “The boy knows how to apologise,” she murmurs approvingly, loud enough for me to hear.

For Nequias, Iro, and Eidhin, too. Eidhin glances askance at Nequias; the older man’s face is turning red as he catches up. Iro’s expression is black.

“That was not a Threefold Apology,” Nequias says quickly.

“The form was observed, Nequias. Messy, but observed.” Veridius looks amused. “I will still set a penance, but Eidhin here has forfeited any right to pursue the matter.”

“What?” It’s Iro rounding on Veridius. Incensed.

Veridius locks eyes with him, his calm gaze turning cool. He says nothing. Iro scowls and looks away, while Eidhin continues to look baffled.

“Praeceptor Nequias, perhaps you can escort Eidhin and Iro back to the dormitory. And then I’m sure you have plenty to do to prepare for tomorrow’s class.” Veridius’s voice remains mild as he stands and moves to the door, opening it and stepping politely aside.

Nequias, unmistakeably fuming, grabs Eidhin by the arm and almost bodily hauls him out, a seething Iro trailing behind. The Praeceptor passes close as he leaves. “Learn to respect your betters, boy.” He murmurs the words.

I meet his gaze and give him my widest, friendliest smile. “Thank you for the advice, Praeceptor.”

Nequias’s lip twitches and he looks like he wants to say more, but instead straightens haughtily and stalks out, shutting the door behind him with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Gods’ graves, boy,” says Taedia as soon as they’re gone, jovial even as she’s admonishing. “Maybe you’re not the stupidest student on campus after all.”

“Arventis blessed you today,” adds Veridius, with a reproving look at Taedia.

“It’s justice,” counters Taedia irritably. “I talked to some of the students who saw what happened, and they all said the same thing before Iro started whispering in their ears. Breac started it, Telimus finished it.”

Breac. I don’t recognise the name, but it’s certainly not Catenan, which means Eidhin’s not an adoption like me. I haven’t just made an enemy of a powerful senatorial family, at least.

“The details don’t matter. At best, Vis here was careless. I need to set a penance.” Veridius rubs his face. “Mucking out the stables every evening until the Festival of the Ancestors, I think should do it. During dinner. It won’t hurt to keep you and Eidhin out of each other’s way for a while.”

“You have horses here?” I’m surprised. We had some on Suus, but I can’t imagine they have much utility here.

“We keep a few. Mounted combat training, mostly.” Veridius doesn’t expand on that. “Praeceptor Taedia will point out where you need to go, but you can start tomorrow night. Septimus Ascenia looks after the animals; I’ll make sure she’s there to show you what to do.”

I’ve never mucked out stables before, but I’ve seen it being done. Even worse than the general unpleasantness of the task, it’s time consuming—and having to do it over dinner means I’ll miss my one good chance during the day to socialise, to perhaps undo some of the damage I’ve done today. The Festival of the Ancestors is two months away, too. But I’m not going to push my luck by protesting.

“Well. I think we can all agree that this has been an eventful first day.” Veridius sighs and stands. “You can go. Get yourself a meal. But Vis? That little trick with Eidhin won’t work again. This is a second chance. It will be beyond anyone’s power to give you a third.”

I take the warning with as good grace as I can and trail Praeceptor Taedia out the door. We start along the hallway, the entire right-hand side a series of long arches overlooking the ocean. It’s barely visible now, out there. Dark shapes shifting and swelling, white caps occasionally catching the last of the light.

“Between you and me,” Taedia says quietly as we head back toward the mess hall, “seeing what you did to Eidhin wasn’t the worst way to start the trimester.”

I almost choke and eye the grey-haired woman, trying to decide whether she’s testing me. “Really?”

“Boy barely knows the language. Does nothing but scowl and snap. He’s not exactly a favourite around here.”

I check again to make sure she’s not baiting me. “There certainly didn’t seem to be a lot of people rushing to help him.”

“You’ve probably only upset whoever put him up to it, and a couple of the Praeceptors who think we should act like we’re in Military. Though I’ll feed you to the alupi if you tell anyone I said that.” She’s cheerful, relaxed. I decide I like her. “Just steer clear of Iro Decimus.”

Decimus. Easy enough to place the name: Magnus Tertius Decimus, of Religion, must be his father. “Did I wrong him, somehow?”

“No.” She takes a breath, as if wanting to say more, then shakes her head. “No. Not at all. Just stay away from him, and you’ll be fine. As long as you don’t do anything else stupid, of course.”

“I’ll keep my head down.”

“Will you? From what I can tell, that’s not a strength of yours.” She opens a door, ushering me through and into the kitchen. Three people bustle around, moving between a bank of ovens, a preparation bench, and a larder. They barely look up when we enter before returning to their tasks. “Why did you even do it?”

“Stop Eidhin? He was angry, and a lot bigger than Callidus.”

“What if Callidus deserved it?”

“Then there are more measured approaches to justice than punching.”

Taedia chuckles at that, waving absently at one of the Octavii, who starts piling food onto a plate for me. “True. True. Well. Whatever the reason, thank you. This has been more entertainment in a single day than I got all of last trimester.”

Once I’ve been provided with a seat and a meal, Taedia bids me farewell. I sit in the kitchen for a while, hunched over my food, ignoring the occasional glances of the Octavii and assessing how things have gone so far.

Badly, I decide. Quite badly.

I eventually push my plate aside, nod to the Octavii, and trudge my way back to the dormitory. It’s all noise and activity as I enter. Boys congregate around desks or beds, while others play a game involving some sort of ball over in the corner. From the cheering and yelling of both participants and spectators, it’s a regular thing.

Nobody notices my entrance at first, though I catch a few looks as I make my way over to my space. Then there’s a ripple of quiet—not silence, but pauses in conversation as more and more of the Sevenths notice me. They’re surprised, I realise. Shocked. They didn’t expect me to be back.

I walk the gauntlet of sideways glances, at first heading to my bed, but changing my mind halfway and angling instead for where I first met Callidus. Sure enough, the lithe boy is at his desk, head bowed over a book and studiously ignoring the goings-on around him.

I stand to the side, then cough. “Callidus?” He turns, and I blanch. A dark bruise swells his left cheek, and a long, red scrape lines his temple. “Rotting gods.”

Callidus’s curly hair shadows his eyes, but it’s not hard to see that the look he gives me isn’t a welcoming one. “Eidhin didn’t have you expelled?” When I shake my head, he grunts. “Well I’m glad this worked out for you, anyway.”

I swallow an irritated reply. “He accidentally accepted my Threefold Apology.”

Callidus stares at me, then laughs softly. “Of course he did. Idiot.” He touches his bruised face, still chuckling bitterly.

“Eidhin did that?”

“No.” Callidus shifts gingerly in his chair. His injuries extend to beneath his clothes, then. “Of course, if he’d just been allowed to push me around a little in front of everyone, the second messenger wouldn’t have been needed.”

My heart sinks. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to make an impression.” It’s not an accusation, exactly. More of a weary observation, even if it’s an incorrect one. “And congratulations to you, because it appears you did.” He motions over my shoulder, and I crane my neck to see half the dormitory watching us.

When I look back, he’s returned to his book.

“I’m sorry. Truly,” I say to his back, trying not to make it sound as though it’s coming from between gritted teeth. “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Not knowing what else to do, I leave him and return to my own desk, ignoring the curious eyes that follow. My satchel’s waiting, and I start unpacking the bag’s few contents. A couple of books Kadmos insisted were important but that had remained unread. A wax diptych and stylus. Some clothes. Nothing valuable, nothing particularly personal.

“Don’t worry about him.”

I turn to find a Seventh standing a few feet away. He’s got chiselled features, blond hair and blue eyes suggesting southern heritage. He steps forward, extending his hand amiably. “Drusus Corani.”

“Vis Telimus.” Corani—a Military patrician family, from memory. Powerful. I clasp his hand, then cast a glance over at Callidus, who’s still poring over his book. He’s about thirty feet from us. “You’re talking about Callidus?”

“He’s not worth your time.” Unlike me, Drusus doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. “He still thinks he’s better than us because his father bought him a starting position in Three. But as everyone can see, it was a waste of money.” He wields the pronouncement with loud satisfaction.

Nearby, several other boys who are paying attention to the conversation nod their agreement. “It’s true,” adds one with a squashed nose and blocky face, vociferous too as he spares a disdainful glance for Callidus before shuffling closer. Keen to be part of the conversation, but still either wary of me, or intimidated. Maybe both.

“And don’t think he’s a way into the good graces of Magnus Ericius, either. His family have all but disowned him, after last trimester,” a burly boy wearing the earrings of a Sytrecian chimes in. Loudly.

Magnus Ericius. I recall that one immediately: Governance’s Censor, the one man who can veto appointments to the central pyramids and thus the Senate. A Tertius, but along with the two Consuls from Military and Religion, one of the three most powerful men in the Senate. One of the most powerful men in the Hierarchy, in fact.

“Not that you can blame them,” adds Drusus with dark enjoyment, more confident now he has a chorus behind him. He glances across at Callidus, who’s still hunched over his book at his desk and hasn’t overtly reacted. There’s a tense, defensive set to his shoulders, though.

I watch him for a second. Three. Not saying anything. I should just accept the opinion of Drusus and these others, endear myself to the group. It’s clear Callidus isn’t liked. It’s an easy win.

But what he said to me before stung, untrue or not. And worse: my time in Letens echoes in these boys’ ugly smiles, the way they’re so eager to jump in with a spiteful quip, piling on top of one another’s attacks in search of easy bonding. I’ve been on the other end of that mentality. I remember how helpless it made me feel—that once started, there was no way to make it stop. No one who wanted to stand against it.

“I’m surprised any of your families still admit to being related to you, to be fair.”

The laughter dies, replaced by an air of scandalised confusion. Drusus’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Well. You’re all Sevenths. Same as him.” This is stupid. Social suicide. “From what I can tell, the only difference between you and him is that his father is more successful than yours.” I should stop. “It just seems that if you’re saying he’s not worth my time, you’re saying none of you are.” I pronounce it calmly. Meet his gaze.

Gods, but I hate my temper sometimes.

There’s a mutter from the half dozen boys listening, and Drusus’s lip twitches. His composure is gone. “And you think you’re better—why? Because you fought Melior?”

“Because I killed him.”

Drusus pales. So do several of the others.

“Be that way, then,” he mumbles, almost inaudibly. The small crowd quickly disperses, muttering among themselves and occasionally casting dark backward glances.

Callidus, I note, is still reading, acting as if he hasn’t overheard. I sigh and turn back to my own desk. I don’t know what I expected.

The conversations around the large hall are dying down as everyone begins preparing for bed. I follow suit. Unsurprisingly, neither boy on either side of my space seems interested in talking, so I douse my lamp and lie down.

A few minutes later, the majority of the hanging lamps are extinguished as one, plunging the room into near darkness. A Will-based mechanism, I assume. The dim is broken by occasional spots of shuttered light where some students haven’t finished retiring, and there’s still some chatter from a few corners of the room, but soon enough those wink out and fade away, respectively.

Then all’s quiet. In the distance, I hear waves crashing against the shore somewhere far below.

I close my eyes, but Suus is there. It takes me a long time to sleep.

The Will of the Many

XXVII

THERE’S A DISORIENTATION TO WAKING up somewhere for the first time. A brief disconnect between your memory and the present, as if your mind is refusing to acknowledge that you’re in unfamiliar territory.

Years ago, I liked the feeling. That slow realisation usually meant I was on holiday with my family somewhere.

This morning, it brings a jolt that is very close to panic.

I sit upright, fully awake, terrified that I’ve overslept, that I’ve forgotten some important detail to do with my first day of classes. It’s not yet light outside. The hanging lamps burn low. Everything’s still. The sound of constant breathing fills the room, broken more often than not by sharp snorts and snores. Somewhere several beds away, I hear one of the Sevenths murmuring something in his sleep. There’s the crisp sound of a page turning, and I twist to see Callidus alone is awake, at his desk again and reading by the light of a shuttered lantern.

I glance at the massive Will dial on the wall. Not out of routine; in another hour, it will be dawn. I’m just one of the first to wake.

I think about lying back down, but more than two months with Lanistia has trained my body not to listen to what I want. I’m sliding out of bed and padding over to my satchel, pulling cloak over tunic and fastening my sandals, before I can decide to do otherwise. Callidus’s back is to me; he doesn’t notice my waking, and I don’t disturb him.

The communal latrine also provides basins of water for washing up, so I relieve myself, splash my face, and go through my usual preparations for the day as I try to decide what to do next. There’s no point in studying, as I don’t have anything to review yet. And I don’t have anyone with whom I can train.

It seems like this might be a good time to familiarise myself with the grounds.

Outside the dormitory, the Academy is hushed, covered by a light, damp mist. The ocean hisses in the distance. Clouds diffuse the starlight, though in the east I can see a false dawn beginning to brighten the sky.

Off the path, in the heavier darkness beneath the trees lining it, a shadow stirs.

“Vis.” A slim black shape detaches itself and stands a little way in front of me. “Can we talk?”

“Aequa?” Her skin is almost silver in the dim light, her long black hair shadowing most of her face, but it’s definitely her. I stop short, nonplussed. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you. My father mentioned you rose early, during your training. I’m usually awake now, anyway, and thought you might be around.” She sounds abashed. “Sorry. I know it’s a bit strange.”

“No. No, it’s fine.” I’m prepared for this conversation, though I didn’t expect to be having it before dawn. I gesture toward the quadrum. “I don’t suppose you’d care to show me around while we talk?”

“Of course.” There’s relief, the release of nervous energy as she snaps into motion, beckoning for me to follow her along the path.

We start walking. I’m tempted to broach the topic first, but if I do, it will feel obvious that I’ve been planning my response. Our breaths mist.

“Isn’t anyone else awake?” I ask.

“Most of the Praeceptors will be. And there are plenty of us studying.” She indicates behind us, back at the dormitory. The windows on the first two floors are dark, but light fills several farther up. “It’s the same for the girls. They won’t be down until breakfast, though. And the Sixths and Sevenths won’t even bother getting up until then.” There’s a measure of disdain at that.

Silence falls between us again. Aequa fidgets as she walks, and I can see my patience won’t be necessary for long.

“I… had a few questions,” she says abruptly, her quiet voice cutting through the still of the early morning. “About what happened at the naumachia.”

“Alright.”

She smooths her tunic. Nervous. “We didn’t pass the sewer entrance on the way in. And you’d never been there before.”

“That’s not really a question.”

She eyes me.

“Sorry.” I smile easily back at her. “I knew where it was because I noticed it on the way to the latrine. And I guessed what it was because that older couple next to us kept arguing over whether the whole thing was worth it, given that the aqueducts had been diverted from their baths.” She’ll remember that. It will help. “It got me thinking about how they were going to get rid of all that water once it was over, and I realised the stairs must have been a sewer access.”

“It wasn’t anywhere near the latrines.”

Vek. She’s looked into this fairly seriously, then. “It was the way I went—I wandered around for ages before I found them.” I chuckle. “Or did you think I spent a full twenty minutes relieving myself?”

Aequa shows a hint of amusement, though there’s also a twist to her mouth that suggests dissatisfaction. It’s not a perfect story—I doubtless seemed too sure in guiding her through the sewers themselves—but that’s the sort of thing that’s difficult to gauge and easy to deny. “Of course.” She bites the left side of her lower lip. “I just… I keep thinking back to it. When it all started. You were different from everyone else. More confident.” When I try to look modest, she shakes her head. “No. I didn’t mean it as a compliment. It was like… you knew you couldn’t get hurt. You were upset about what was happening, but you didn’t seem afraid.”

We’re at the quadrum now, as public a place in the Academy as there is. I wonder whether it’s a conscious decision on her behalf, given what she could be implying.

“You know my past, don’t you? I was in Aquiria when it collapsed—but before that my birth parents were killed, my lands stolen, and then my life threatened for months until the Catenans came. I never went to sleep without wondering whether I would wake.” I focus on the Temple of Jovan ahead. Eye contact usually indicates sincerity, but for revealing what should be a difficult truth, awkwardness can come across as more genuine. “It’s not that I wasn’t afraid at the naumachia, Aequa. It’s just that I’m more used to it than everyone else.”

I say it with sadness, then look at her. Driving home the sincerity of the statement. My past, fictional though much of it is, is a powerful tool if I use it right.

“Oh.” Aequa’s quiet, and I can almost hear her probing at the assertion, wondering if there’s some way she can dissect it, investigate it further. “So when you went back…”

“I was terrified.” I shuffle my feet. “But it also seemed like an opportunity.”

“Oh.” I can immediately tell that’s a motivation she can understand. Catenans love their heroes, and making a name for myself won’t have harmed my chances at the Academy.

“I’m sorry for leaving you like that.”

“Given the outcome, I think it’s alright.” Aequa indicates it’s the end of the matter, and I inwardly relax. I don’t think she’s entirely convinced, but she’s not going to pursue it. Not for the moment, at least.

The conversation moves on to the promised tour of the Academy, and we spend a fairly pleasant half hour roaming the grounds as the east begins to brighten. Aequa points out buildings of interest both around the quadrum and beyond. The temples of Jovan and Mira. The large gymnasium for physical training. The Curia Doctrina and Praetorium, which I already know, alongside baths that are apparently open to Fourths and above. She’s a little awkward at first, as if unused to talking, but she warms to the task as we go.

“What’s that?” I point to a long building set well away from the others, almost hidden behind a copse of trees.

“The Labyrinth.” She glances at me, clearly curious to see if I know what she’s talking about.

“Ah. My father told me about that. He said it’s one of the more difficult tests here.”

“It’s not easy.” Aequa’s gaze lingers on the low-slung stone structure. “I imagine you’ll be asked to run it, soon enough. Everyone else did as part of their entrance exam.”

“How did you do?”

“Not well—mainly because of my arm. Only a few people were better than awful the first time, though. Most of us have improved a lot since.”

There’s a pause, and Aequa glances up at the sky, where the sun is threatening to peek over the horizon. “I should get back.” She draws in a breath. “I owe you, for the naumachia. I know that. But the way things are here, with you in Seven…”

“It’s alright. I understand.” Even without Lanistia’s many warnings, my experience with Eidhin has made it clear that differences in class rankings are taken seriously here. Aequa associating too much with me would be frowned upon by her peers, maybe the Praeceptors too. “We’ll talk more when I’m a Fourth.”

She chortles before she can stop herself, then waves a hand apologetically, still smiling. “When you’re a Fourth. Of course. I look forward to it.” It’s delivered with amusement rather than malice, and I accept her incredulity with a grin before bidding her farewell.

She stops after a few paces, though. Turns back, all trace of humour gone.

“I still have nightmares.”

I don’t say anything for a long second, then nod. Just slightly.

It’s all the confirmation she needs. She leaves.

A chime rings out as I’m walking back to the dormitory, a single, crystal, quavering note that invades every corner of the Academy’s grounds. The bell for the morning meal. There are more students about now, and the majority seem headed for the Curia Doctrina.

I square my shoulders, and follow suit.

I SPEND BREAKFAST, UNSURPRISINGLY, ALONE on the lowest level of the mess hall. Drusus and the other boys must have been busy relaying some version of our exchange last night, because I receive nothing but cold looks from the other Sevenths as they trickle in. Callidus sits apart, too; his face doesn’t look as swollen as it did, but the bruises remain painfully obvious. Nobody seems inclined to ask him about them.

I’m not unaccustomed to solitude, but this doesn’t feel like an auspicious start to my time here.

The repast—some wheat pancakes with dates and a drizzle of honey—is filling enough, if a little cold by the time I make it back to my seat. I eat unhurriedly amid the susurrus of voices, using the time to observe the levels above me. Everyone seems quieter this morning, more circumspect, the excitement of the first day back faded. I catch a few wondering glances from those higher up. Another series of dark looks from green-eyed Iro in Class Three, whom I seem to have wronged somehow. A friendly dip of the head from a red-headed Fifth, a scowl from a lean girl next to him. People I don’t know, don’t recognise. I see one of the Praeceptors present this morning—a ruggedly good-looking man of around forty, with a scruffy beard and black, shaggy hair—openly watching me. He doesn’t bother to stop, even when I boldly meet his gaze.

It’s an uncomfortable meal, all up.

When the next chime heralds that it’s time to go to class, I trail after the other Sevenths into the heart of the Curia Doctrina, then to a side room off the main hall. Most of the students cluster around desks in small groups once we arrive, laughing and talking among themselves. Callidus is already seated, reading something. Alone.

I inhale, then stride over and sit next to him. He looks up at me but doesn’t say anything, quickly returning to his book. I don’t try to interrupt him.

The chatter wanes as a woman all but bounces in, cheerful as she surveys the group at large. She’s plump but not unfit, her easy confidence marking her as the Praeceptor for Class Seven. She signals me up to the front of the room.

“I’m Praeceptor Ferrea,” she informs me as I approach, pushing back shoulder-length red hair that is fading to dark auburn. If I had to guess, I’d say she was in her forties. “You must be Vis.”

“I am.”

“Welcome.” Brisk but friendly. “We’re still reviewing last trimester, so you should have a chance to catch up if you need to. And the rest of this week will be focused on lessons in rhetoric. If you have any questions as we go, just ask.” It’s a dismissal, introduction apparently done.

Once I’m back in my seat, Ferrea stands in front of the class, book in hand. “We’re going to continue with the principles of Will today.”

I squint, fairly sure I misheard. The principles of Will aren’t exactly advanced—the opposite, in fact. I was never meant to wield Will, and I still learned them when I was at Suus.

But perhaps I’m misunderstanding. Perhaps there’s more to it than I realise, some extra level of complexity that would have been too difficult to explain to me back then.

“Imbued Will can be applied in three ways. Can anyone tell me what those are?”

I smirk. But my amusement dies as no one calls out, no one raises their hand. Not one student out of the more than six dozen in the room.

I glance at Callidus beside me. He’s not paying attention, curly black hair hanging over his face as he bows over a wax tablet, scribbling something on it.

“Direct, Relational, or Conditional.” I call out the answer loudly and clearly.

Students twist in their seats, faces turning toward me as Ferrea—surprised that someone has spoken up—nods. “Exactly.” She returns to her book.

“Although Kaspius says that Relational is too general these days, and should be split into two sub-categories.”

I’m taking a chance. It’s the bluntest method possible, aggressively showing off my knowledge like this. I don’t like it, feel uncomfortable doing it. But Ulciscor and Lanistia both suggested it would be the quickest and most effective way to move on from Class Seven.

Ferrea pauses, cocks her head to the side before looking back up at me. “And why is that?”

“Because ‘Relational’ covers too much ground. Harmonic and Reactive relationships are being grouped together by the same term, but they’re vastly different from one another. Given that we use this language to describe every single imbued object, he argues that the lack of specificity hurts development, hurts documentation, and thus hurts advancement.”

Ferrea walks down the aisle between desks, closer to me. “You’re paraphrasing.” The rest of the class is watching. Silent.

“I can quote verbatim if you want.”

“No.” She waves away the offer. “Paraphrasing is good. It shows you understand the material. Anything else you want to add?”

“Not for the basics.”

A small smile plays around Ferrea’s lips as she acknowledges me. Good. She’s impressed.

She turns and walks back to the front of the class. Callidus finally stops writing.

“You sure you want this?” He says it quietly, not looking up. It takes me a second to realise he’s talking to me.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be put up a class if you keep doing that.”

“Isn’t that… good?”

Callidus hesitates. “If it’s what you want.” He resumes his scribblings, almost seeming annoyed at himself for speaking.

The lesson continues, and I make a point of answering every question Ferrea poses—adding more information where I can, making sure I show a deep understanding of the concepts involved. It’s not hard; in fact, it’s fair to say I’m a little bemused by how easy it is. I might be misremembering, but I feel I could have answered many of these questions almost as well when I left Suus three years ago.

As time passes, I can see her interest quickening. The questions become probing—not in the way Lanistia’s were, or even Aequa’s, but definitely increasing in difficulty. And she starts standing in the middle of the room, near my desk, looking at me directly half the time. As if I’m the only one she’s really talking to.

The other students, thankfully, don’t seem to care that they’re being ignored. In fact, many of them seem blissfully happy that the Praeceptor’s attention is elsewhere; when we began most of them were sitting at attention, but now there are plenty of heads leaned together in casual, albeit whispered conversation.

As the sun peaks outside, we break for lunch in the mess hall. I collect my food and sit at a table by myself. Ferrea seats herself with the group, a little apart, head bowed as she works on something while she eats. Still, I occasionally catch her throwing considering glances in my direction.

To my surprise, Callidus plants himself opposite me a minute later. The lithe boy gives me the slightest of nods, then pulls out his book and continues to read, ignoring me.

I chew my salted bread, surreptitiously eyeing the tome Callidus has been reading most of the morning, then frowning as I recognise one of the diagrams on the upside-down page.

“Some light reading?” The book is Analysis of Pattern Recognition in Will-based Systems. I tackled it at the Bibliotheca. For a month. I’m not sure I understand all of it, even now.

Callidus doesn’t look up. “Something like that.” I can’t help but feel a little concerned. Perhaps I’m underestimating what it will take to move on from Class Seven after all.

“I struggled to understand the principles he talked about in the later chapters. When he gets into Conditional imbuing and the theories behind physical versus mental degradation of linkages…” I gesture, indicating bewilderment.

“You’ve read it?” Callidus, for the first time, looks genuinely taken aback.

“Read. Not necessarily understood.”

Callidus chews his lip. Reassessing me. “I haven’t made it that far yet.” There’s another moment, a held breath, and then something seems to go out of him. Tension slips from his shoulders, and he leans over the table, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry. About being upset last night. I know you were only trying to help.”

“You do?”

“Either that, or you’re even dumber than the Sevenths over there. Only a true idiot would think that punching a gods-damned Sixth was a wise way to introduce yourself.”

I grasp his hand. “I promise I’ll let you get beaten up next time.”

Callidus snorts a laugh. “Fair.” We sink back into our seats, both more relaxed. “So. Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“What they’re saying about you.” Callidus sighs with exaggerated frustration when I look at him blankly. “You heroically stopped the attack at the naumachia. Swam through a lake of blood to kill the Anguis’s leader while ships burned dramatically all around you. Saved the whole rotting city from some mysterious Will-weapon. You remember that, right?”

“Oh. That.” I smile, despite myself. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“The Principalis asked me not to.”

He rolls his eyes. “Because the man’s done you so many favours, thus far.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Principalis had to know he was putting you in a difficult situation when he paired you with me.” He shrugs. “He knew I was at the dormitory when he brought you in. And he definitely knew why I wasn’t going to dinner.”

“But he had no way of knowing what would happen.”

“Everyone knew what was going to happen. My father vetoed a half dozen applications for the Senate over the trimester break, which is more than any Censor has in the past ten years combined. Plenty of people here are from families who had years of planning ruined.” He shakes his head. “There were always going to be repercussions. Which means the Principalis put you squarely in the middle of a conflict. Or at least adjacent.”

“I could have stayed out of it.”

“You’re Catenicus. I think that would have seemed unlikely.” He peers at me. “Besides, the bad blood between him and your father isn’t exactly a secret.”

I shift in my chair. “Ah.” Callidus might be right. Veridius couldn’t simply refuse me entry, or even be the one to expel me—my reputation after the naumachia has seen to that. But no one could protest if another, higher-ranked student pressed a case. I’m a little unsettled I didn’t see it myself.

“Ah,” Callidus agrees glibly. He’s intense when he actually talks. Quick and intelligent. “At least you’re still here, I suppose. What I want to know is: how in the gods’ graves did you get Eidhin to accept a Threefold Apology?”

I tell him. When I finish, his unaffected laughter rings across the mess, turning several heads. Including Eidhin’s, who glares down at us through puffy, purple-and-black circles. I know I should care—the Sixth is doubtless assuming we’re laughing at his expense—but I don’t. Instead, I grin along with Callidus. A genuine expression.

“Rotting gods but I wish I’d seen that.” Callidus is still chuckling. “It must have felt good.”

“It certainly didn’t feel bad.” I raise my mug. “To our enemies, and the destructions they bring upon themselves.”

He clinks his mug against mine. “Seriphius?”

I don’t hide my surprise. Seriphius’s philosophies are far from basic reading. In fact, those books were in the restricted section of the Bibliotheca in Letens. “You’ve read him?” When he indicates he has, I lean forward. His current book, casually recognising Seriphius—and yet he never raised his hand today. Never tried to answer any of the questions. “You don’t really belong in Class Seven, do you?”

Callidus’s eyes slide toward the rest of the Sevenths, a large group of whom have just erupted at a bawdy joke. “I could probably be higher.”

He seems about to say more when the chime signalling the end of the meal sounds and Praeceptor Ferrea stands, commanding our attention. Within a minute we’re heading back to class, the chance for any significant further conversation lost.

The afternoon progresses much as the morning, the sun creeping farther and farther inside the long archways and across our desks. The Will dial at the front of the class indicates we’re about an hour away from dinner—or, in my case, mucking out the stables—when Ferrea finishes the lecture she’s been giving on the finer points of oratory.

“Now. We’re going to be testing for the remainder of today.” There’s a collective groan from around me, and she waves away the sound with a half smile. “I warned you. I need to reassess you all, figure out how many of you actually did anything during the break.”

“I wonder what number that will turn out to be,” murmurs Callidus, not looking up from his book.

Ferrea walks up, stops at my desk. “Vis, I need to get a baseline for your knowledge, so you can ignore the questions being asked to the class. Answer these ones instead.”

I accept a sheaf of papers. It’s what she was working on at lunchtime, I realise. Her handwriting is neat, precise.

I bow my head and start reading as the red-headed woman resumes her place up the front of the class, calling out questions at regular intervals. There’s the heavy, urgent scratch of stylii on wax tablets in the silence between, and when I glance up, I can see everyone writing furiously. Interesting. The Sevenths aren’t as apathetic as they first seemed, then.

I correct myself as I gaze around: everyone’s answering the questions except the boy next to me. Callidus is writing—but only to take notes on Analysis of Pattern Recognition, which he’s brazenly kept open in front of him.

The questions I hear being asked are very basic; the ones I’m reading are less so. They’re still nothing compared to what Lanistia would grill me on, or even the reading I’d been doing in Letens’s Bibliotheca before that. If anything, some of the most simple are the hardest, as they require dredging fundamental answers from my memory that I didn’t expect to need to recite here.

But I finish within thirty minutes. As the other students answer the latest question, I wave and catch Ferrea’s attention.

“Struggling with something?”

“Finished.” I brandish the wad of papers at her to emphasise the point.

The Praeceptor looks dubious but beckons me forward, issuing another problem to the class as she does so. I hear a ripple of frustrated mutters. She’s moving faster than a lot of the students would like. When I reach her desk, she takes the pages and flicks through appraisingly.

“Hm. I’ll look at this later. You can go back to your seat. Answer the rest of the questions with everyone else.”

Despite her words, once I’m seated again I can see her arranging the pages on the desk in front of her, glancing up only now and then as she delivers the next part of the test. Her face is expressionless as she reads.

A few students sigh in relief as the Will dial slides around to indicate the end of the lesson, Ferrea sending a couple of girls to collect everyone’s answers. Callidus glances up, looking surprised that it’s already time to leave, then starts packing his things away. I lean over.

“Didn’t think the test was worth taking?”

“Did you?” He stretches, considering my answer a foregone conclusion. “Time for dinner.”

I’m blocked several paces short of the door by Praeceptor Ferrea. “The stables are a little to the east of the quadrum, out toward the wall. You can’t miss them. Septimus Ascenia will tell you what to do. She’ll be waiting for you.” From the way she says it, the Septimus probably won’t be waiting patiently.

I carefully keep my face clear of any vexation, giving a polite acknowledgment. After she’s gone, I sigh and glance at Callidus. “Until tomorrow, then.”

He gives me an encouraging slap on the back and joins the flow of students heading to the mess, while I split off into the grand, columned main section of the Curia Doctrina.

I slow, appreciating the view. It’s getting close to sunset and the island is tinted a ruddy, burning orange, though the water beyond still gleams blue. There’s a Transvect approaching; I watch with interest as it skims the waves, moving at a crawl as it approaches one of the white anchoring points before shaking itself into motion again, surging forward and lifting off toward its destination.

I go to keep walking, then stop again. Consider. According to Lanistia, there will be a single Transvect commissioned to run between here and Agerus—where the Necropolis is located—during the Festival of the Ancestors. Going back and forth, returning to the island every couple of hours over the course of two days.

I’ve been wondering how I can possibly reach the ruins Ulciscor told me about. There might be something there I can exploit.

I’m deep in thought for the rest of the short walk to my punishment.

The Will of the Many

XXVIII

THE STABLES ARE APART FROM most other structures in the Academy. The smell of horse dung flares my nostrils as I get closer, and I can hear the occasional clopping of hooves within. I find myself loitering before heading inside, though. Assessing. It’s more isolated than I expected here, and I’m not more than a few hundred feet away from the eastern wall separating the grounds from the rest of Solivagus. Treetops beyond sway in the breeze.

I can’t see anything else, but if my orientation is right—and Ulciscor was correct about their location—the ruins I need to investigate should be somewhere not too far beyond.

I gaze at the barrier. Fifteen feet high, stone spikes along the top tinted gold by the setting sun. Difficult, but not impossible. Certainly not compared to getting through the guarded Will cage at the entrance and back again. All I need is some way to scale the wall, and a period where my absence won’t be noticed.

Night would be the best time to do it, of course. It’s just all but unviable while I’m occupying the same room as more than fifty other boys.

Eventually, I make myself move on. I need to be patient. Spend these first few weeks simply settling in, not doing anything risky.

Septimus Ascenia, a raspy, brusque woman in her fifties, is waiting for me in the stables. She tersely explains how to muck out the stalls. Emphasises in no uncertain terms that I’m not to touch a hair on any of the animals if I value my life. Leaves me with a pitchfork and the promise that if the job’s ever not done to its usual high standard, she’ll be dragging me back at whatever hour she happens to notice.

The next ten minutes pass in monotony as I scrape piles of hay-riddled horse dung from the floor and carry it to the designated area outside. It’s not difficult work, and it gives me a chance to settle. To review. I’m comfortable with how today went, I think, especially considering the preceding one. The work in Class Seven was dull, but I feel like I’ve made a good start in impressing Ferrea. And I’m confident she’ll approve of my answers to her test.

“Anyone in here?”

The female voice echoes through the stables; I stop mid-scoop, then lay the pitchfork against the wall and stick my head out of the stall.

“Emissa?” It’s the girl from Class Three. Her dark hair is bound back away from her face, and she’s changed out of her finer clothes and into the more practical attire of a simple tunic bound at the waist.

“Evening, Vis.” She gives me a sunny wave.

I step out of the stall, smiling back. “What are you doing here?”

“Penance.”

“Ah.” I raise an eyebrow as she walks over to the nook where the implements are kept and snatches up another pitchfork. “You know what you’re doing, I take it?”

“It’s a popular punishment around here.” She struts into the stall I’m working on, spinning her tool in a showy twirl before stabbing it into the hay. “Though if yesterday’s anything to go by, I imagine you’re going to find that out for yourself soon enough.” Bright green eyes betray her amusement.

“I’m already here for two months. That will be quite enough experience for me, thank you.”

“Rotting gods. Two full months?” She shakes her head as she starts working. “Better than the alternative, I suppose.” A definite question to the observation.

I tell her how I avoided expulsion as we scoop wet shavings into a bucket. Emissa listens with an entertained smile, her company making the work less onerous.

“Lucky,” she says as I finish, giving a quiet laugh. “I might try and spread that around a little more, if I were you.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Well, you hitting a Sixth and getting away with it isn’t exactly a precedent anyone higher than Class Seven will like, around here. Even if it was justified. Half of them will think you’re getting special treatment, and the rest will think it devalues their own position.” She falters. “And… I’m fairly sure Iro has been telling the lower classes that’s what they should be thinking. As well as suggesting that your reputation from the naumachia has been exaggerated for political purposes.”

I restrain a curse. “Why would he do that?”

“No idea. He might believe it. Or maybe it’s something he’s been asked to do by his father. Either way, he seems to have taken a disliking to you. And I don’t think the Fourths will take it too much to heart, but the Fifths and Sixths… well. Even if they don’t believe Iro, they won’t want him to see that.” She winces as she sees my expression. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” My good mood sours. I’m already unpopular with the Sevenths, but I was hoping that if I could advance quickly into Class Six, it might not matter.

Worse, I’m stuck here during dinner for two whole months: the punishment seemed like a reprieve at the time, but more and more I’m wondering whether Veridius might actually have preferred this outcome. Isolating me, rather than expelling me and drawing attention as a result. Whatever the case, it’s going to be hard to improve my reputation if I’m never around. And from watching the politics of my father’s court, I know how swiftly even unfounded rumours can turn ruinous.

“I think you did the right thing, by the way.” She doesn’t look up as she sifts through another batch of hay for droppings. There’s a modest flush to her cheeks as she says it.

“Hitting Eidhin?”

I get an eye roll of mock reproof. “Stopping him. Nobody else would have.”

“Thanks.” I scrape my shovel beneath a pile of dung. The fresh odour hits my nostrils with force, and I wrinkle my nose. “Though at the moment, I’d argue the others are the smart ones.”

“Oh, they are,” she agrees readily. “I only said you did the right thing.”

I concede a chuckle at that.

“How were your first classes today?”

I hesitate. “Class Seven was… less demanding than I expected.”

“That’s diplomatic.”

“Yes it is.” I scrape some clean shavings to the side. “Any advice on how to move up a few classes?”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Well.” She leans on her pitchfork, pinching the bridge of her nose as she thinks. “It’s about impressing the Praeceptors, I suppose, more than anything else. Ferrea is easy: be nice to her. If she likes you, and you show her you’re smart enough, she’ll force the issue straight away. From Class Six, though…” She screws up her face.

“What?”

“Dultatis.” The way she says the name isn’t exactly respectful. “It will be up to him to advance you, and he’s…” She sighs. “He’s friends with Praeceptor Nequias—think a shorter, fatter, more weaselly version. To me and any other ‘true Catenans,’ they’re polite. Friendly, even. But anyone like you, born in…”

“Aquiria,” I supply.

“Aquiria, or anywhere outside the heartland, they have a tendency to look down on. I’m not sure that any amount of impressing Dultatis is going to help with that.”

“Oh.” That sounds less than ideal. “Good to know.”

“Sorry.”

The conversation moves on to lighter things, and soon enough we’ve finished one stall and are onto the next. Horses stamp their feet as we pass, as if trying to get our attention. The sunlight has faded outside, but Will-triggered lanterns burst to life as soon as the light dimmed and now cast a rosy glow across the stables.

We chat the entire time, mostly about the Academy and what I can expect over the coming weeks. There’s an easy, immediate connection with Emissa; she has an effortless likeability about her, a vivaciousness that seems unaffected. It also doesn’t hurt, I’ll admit, that even in her work clothes she’s undeniably pretty.

I have to be wary of that, too, though.

My parents would often warn me that attraction—the rush of flirtation, the excitement of seeing someone reciprocate your interest—can become compulsion, if left unchecked. A desire that encourages poor decisions. The king and queen of Suus, of course, were warning me of girls more interested in my position than me, but the principle remains the same. And I can already feel the tug in my chest when Emissa laughs at something I’ve said, my instinctive smile in response. Can sense my enjoyment of the conversation edging past being just appreciative of the company. It’s not something I can afford to ignore.

“I have to admit,” I say as we’re loosening and spreading fresh shavings around the final stall, “after seeing what things are like around here, I didn’t expect to be having a friendly conversation with a Third tonight.” I leave the hint of a question in there. I don’t really want to ask—don’t want to threaten the pleasure I’m taking in the company, I suppose—but it seems unusual, that she’s so willing to ignore the rigid-seeming social barriers of the Academy. Coincidental that it’s her here with me tonight, too. One of the few people in the entire school who I’ve already met.

I’ve been trying to ignore it, but Ulciscor’s concern from after the Transvect attack still sits uneasily in the back of my mind.

“I’ll do what the Praeceptors want while they’re watching, but honestly? It’s ridiculous that we can’t socialise outside our classes. For me, that leaves five other people I’m allowed to talk to. And I don’t like more than half of those.” She grins. “Also, we’re shovelling manure together. I feel like that tends to level things out a bit.”

I chuckle, though I can’t help but feel the tiniest flash of disappointment, too. This won’t carry over beyond tonight, then. At least it probably absolves Emissa from any suspicion. She hasn’t asked any prying questions. She’s even only mentioned the naumachia in passing, though I know she must be as curious as anyone else about it. I’m grateful for her restraint. It feels like it’s dominated every other conversation I’ve had since it happened.

Between the banter and the extra set of hands, we’re replacing the water in the last stall before I realise it. Despite my sudden reluctance to finish, we’re soon stowing our tools and walking back to the quadrum together.

“I should report back to Ferrea and get my dinner,” I admit as we reach the vast cobblestone square. Torches flare and sputter in a stiff breeze. No one else is around. “Do you need to see her, too, or someone else?”

“Neither. I’m off to study.”

“I thought you said you were doing penance?”

She’s untying her hair, starting to angle away in the direction of the girls’ dormitory. “I never said anyone set it. I just… felt bad. That I didn’t do more to help, yesterday.” She’s still smiling at me. Her green eyes sparkle in the torchlight. “I’ll see you around, Vis.” She’s turning with a cheerful wave and walking away before I can respond. Doesn’t look back.

I stare after her for a full second before starting back into motion, vaguely annoyed to find a smile on my face.

I head into the Curia Doctrina and down into the mess, where Ferrea said she would be waiting. Sure enough, the woman’s sitting alone at one of the long tables.

“Vis.” She looks up in surprise as I approach. “You’re finished?”

“I am.”

“Ascenia will be dragging you out of bed in the early hours if you haven’t done everything perfectly.”

“I know.” I consider mentioning Emissa’s contribution, but it will only make it seem like I got away with doing less than my punishment required.

“Very well. Your food’s waiting for you in the kitchen. After that, you’ll need to go to the dormitory and collect your things.”

Cold washes over me. “Why?” Surely Nequias and Eidhin haven’t figured out some way to get me expelled after all.

“Because you need to move up a floor. There’s a bed waiting for you in Room Nine.” She stands, gifting me with an approving beam. “Congratulations. You’ll be reporting to Praeceptor Dultatis in the morning.”

The Will of the Many

XXIX

THERE’S LIGHT AS I WAKE, more than there should be. I rub my eyes against the red sting through my eyelids, opening them to find one of the desks in the corner occupied, a lamp burning above it. Shuttered, but still bright in the enclosed space.

It sluggishly comes back to me where I am. Only three other boys share the same room as me now, though I haven’t met any of them yet: it was late by the time I gathered my belongings and found my way up, and it didn’t seem polite to introduce myself by waking them. The floor belonging to Class Six—marginally smaller than the one below, but housing almost half the number of students—is divided into several rooms, each one offering more space and significantly more privacy.

Just enough, I think, to sneak out one night soon without anyone noticing.

I lie motionless, observing the figure at the desk across the room. It’s ominously large. Familiar. Close-cropped hair is auburn in the lamplight.

Vek.

Eidhin is shirtless, which I think is strange given the evident chill in the air. Though if he’s a southerner, he’s accustomed to much colder climates. He’s bowed over a wax tablet, stylus in hand, jabbing at it with short, sharp motions and muttering something just low enough that I can’t make out the words. There’s no mistaking his vexation.

Darkness glowers through the window beyond but my body tells me it’s time to get up, so I roll to my feet. I don’t think I make a sound, but the murmuring from the corner cuts short, the broad-shouldered boy twisting in his seat to look at me. The whole of his chest is tattooed in complex patterns, black lines intersecting and overlapping in dizzying knots and whorls. His eyes are a startling blue as they bore into me.

We watch each other for a couple of wary seconds.

“Lentius is gone?” He enunciates each word in a careful growl.

“I…” I’m ruffled, not following, then, “Oh. The boy who was here before me? Yes. I’m his replacement.” Lentius must be the name of the boy who was ranked last in Class Six. He’ll be a Seventh, now.

“I liked Lentius. He said little.” Eidhin examines me, then deliberately turns back to his desk, resuming whatever he was working on.

I stand there, debating whether to say anything else, then shake my head in irritated resignation and start getting dressed.

With no materials of my own to study, I splash my face with water using the bowl on the table, then head for the exit. I can at least get in a run before breakfast.

The red-headed boy at the desk doesn’t stir from his frustrated attack on the wax tablet as I leave.

DESPITE THE BRUSQUE INTERACTION, I’M feeling good as I jog down the lantern-lit external stairs of the dormitory, the dewy chill of dawn nipping at exposed skin. I’m two days into my time at the Academy, and already advancing. Getting into Class Three before the end of the year feels just a little more possible.

I spend some time exercising in the quiet of the parkland nearby, morning air starting to burn in my lungs by the time the chime for breakfast quavers across the grounds. I spot Callidus a little way ahead on my way to the Curia Doctrina and, after a second’s hesitation, jog to catch up to him.

“So. I saw your things were gone this morning. Ferrea didn’t waste any time,” he greets me cheerfully as I fall into step with him.

“She recognises excellence, clearly.”

He grins. “Well. She recognises participation. A lack of incompetence, maybe.”

I make an amused, acceding gesture. “And as it turns out, that lack of incompetence has landed me in the same room as Eidhin.”

“Ooh.” Callidus cringes. “Tense?”

“He didn’t seem pleased to see me.”

“To be fair, I don’t think Eidhin has ever been pleased to see anyone. But you’re a Sixth too, now. If he didn’t try to hit you again, you’ll probably be fine. Probably.”

I cough a laugh. “Thanks.” My good mood improves at the easy way we’ve slid into the conversation. It’s been a long time—a long time—since I’ve felt even the tenuous bonds of friendship, and I’m surprised to discover just how much I’ve missed it.

When we reach the mess, though, Callidus shakes his head emphatically as I move to the seat opposite him.

“Sit with the Sixths,” he urges me seriously, his gaze assuring me that he neither means offense, nor will take any from my conceding. “You burned your boats with this lot”—he jerks his head toward the steadily filling tables nearby—“on my account. Don’t make me feel guilty twice over.”

I vacillate, but can see the wisdom in his advice. “Alright. But don’t think this means I won’t drag you out for some sparring tomorrow morning.”

“Sparring?” He groans good-naturedly, but when I raise an eyebrow he waves me away with an agreeable nod. For all his complaining, I think he enjoys the company, too.

There are already a group of Sixths gathered with their morning meals, perhaps ten boys and half as many girls clumped around one of the long tables. Eidhin, I note, is seated there too but separate again. Not ostracized, but with just enough space between him and the others to indicate that he’s not part of their conversation.

That conversation trails off at my approach, then stops altogether as I slide into a vacant seat with what I hope is sociable confidence. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Vis. I’ve just come up from Class Seven.”

There’s a long, awkward silence.

“We know,” one of the boys eventually says edgily. It’s Ianix, the brooding Catenan who was angry at my defending myself against Eidhin. “We’ve heard all about you.”

“Oh?” I ignore the implication, maintain my genial expression.

“What Ianix is trying to say, is that it might be better if you don’t sit with us.” The interjection from the dark-haired girl on the left is quiet but blunt. She pushes long curls away from her face, glancing around at her companions rather than me as she says it.

“Sorry,” adds the girl who was speaking when I arrived. It’s a soft apology, seems genuine. None of the remainder of the group will meet my gaze, though.

I let my friendly façade fade, trying to look offended more than angry. “Look. I know I didn’t make the best first impression, but I promise you that—”

“Come on.” Ianix pushes back his chair and stands, addressing his companions. “There are plenty of other tables.”

I feel my jaw twitch as the other students follow suit. The way they move—hurriedly, anxiously, with none of the stalking offense that would indicate an actual dislike of me—indicates they’re more afraid of appearances than anything else. A few of them even steal glances up toward Iro at the Class Three table as they go. The result remains the same, though. Within ten seconds, I’m left at the table with only Eidhin sitting a few spaces away.

The muscular, red-headed boy looks up from his food at me, as if sensing my intent to try talking to him. “No.” He bows his head again, ignoring me. Resumes his meal.

I sigh. Briefly consider pushing my case, or trusting that some of the Sixths yet to arrive might be more receptive.

“No. Rot this,” I mutter, feeling heat in my cheeks as I pick up my meal and head back down to Callidus’s table. I pause before putting my plate down, though. “Do you mind?” Genuinely asking. I don’t want to be responsible for Callidus getting in more trouble.

He gives me a sympathetic grimace, evidently having seen what just transpired. Unfortunately, I think just about everyone else present did, too. “No,” he says, drawing out the word, his hesitation suggesting he considered answering otherwise. “But you do this, and it’s as good as admitting you belong down here. It won’t help your standing with anyone.”

“I’m not sure that can get much worse, anyway.”

“Alright.” He shrugs and raises his mug jovially. “To the Pariah Table.”

Despite Callidus’s good cheer it’s hard not to remain stiff as I start eating, but soon enough the other boy’s laid-back demeanour rubs off, and there’s only the occasional prickling at the back of my neck as I imagine scornful gazes settling on me from above. The conversation stays light, and by the time the chime sounds to signal the start of class, any embarrassment has faded. Replaced, if I’m being honest, mostly by hot annoyance.

If everyone in Class Six is going to try and ignore me, then I’ll just have to make them pay attention.

The Will of the Many

XXX

THE NEXT SIX WEEKS ARE among the most frustrating I can remember.

It’s clear from the outset that in some ways, Class Six isn’t going to pose much of a challenge. While the Sixths are more willing to engage in work than the Sevenths, what they’re being taught doesn’t seem to be any more difficult; half the time, the lectures cover things I learned before fleeing Suus. And when we shift to tasks of a more physical nature—sparring in the gymnasium, mostly, interspersed with running the limits of the Academy grounds to test our endurance and speed—I consistently prove to be better conditioned than most of the rest of the class. Of the forty-seven others, in fact, only Eidhin, Ianix, and a girl called Leridia push me in either discipline.

None of that seems to matter to Dultatis.

Class Six’s Praeceptor is large and round-faced, most of his hair having fled the crown of his head, the scant remainder a close-cropped black. Despite his paunch there’s no doubt he must have once been a strong man, and the hardness hasn’t left his demeanour: from the moment I join his class, it’s clear he doesn’t like me much. When I attempt to answer questions, he ignores me in favour of others; when no one else is willing to speak and he’s forced to listen to my responses, he derides them, quibbling over wording or implying that I haven’t given him anywhere near enough information. Even when he simply looks at me, his eyes are cold. Angry. It feels like there’s a special enmity there, though aside from my not being Catenan—and there are others in the class who match that description just as well—I cannot fathom what I’ve done to earn it.

The remainder of Class Six seems to pick up on the Praeceptor’s disdain. Combined with Iro’s lingering influence, it means I rarely hear more than two words from them in my direction. Certainly none of my friendly overtures go anywhere.

I bite my tongue, though, every day. Accept the isolation, the disregard and pedantry, as gracefully as I can. Technically, I’m not being wronged, and there’s no ignoring the fact that my introduction to the Academy was far from poised. I can’t afford to be seen feuding with a Praeceptor, no matter the man’s attitude toward me.

So instead, I try to focus on the small positives.

I fall into a comfortable routine of pre-dawn sparring and spending the two earlier meals of the day with Callidus, whose company I increasingly value. He’s charming, quick-witted, and affable, and my conversations with him become a balm against the wounds of class. He’s also far too smart to be a Seventh. I can tell there’s more to the story of his fall from Class Three; more than once it seems Callidus is about to elucidate on his position, only for him to abruptly change the subject. As curious as I am, I don’t press.

Emissa materialises several times more to help me while I muck out the stables, too, claiming a sense of obligation. I can’t deny I enjoy the company. Those nights, when I go to sleep, I find myself replaying my banter with her and smiling. There’s no harm in it. I need to find joy in this place somewhere.

But that warmth in my chest has always faded by morning, and I fast return to feeling like I’m stuck. Without options.

Which is why, halfway through my second month, I finally break.

“OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS,” announces Praeceptor Dultatis once everyone has assembled, “we will be running the Labyrinth.” His small, faded brown eyes glare around at the class, which has gathered at the base of the Curia Doctrina’s stairs in the quadrum. I get the impression he’s not angry, particularly. It’s just the way he always looks.

I lean forward in anticipation. My abilities manipulating the Labyrinth at Villa Telimus had come a long way by the time my training with Lanistia came to an end. I’ve been quietly eager to measure myself against the other students here.

“This will be our only access for the trimester. So we need to make our time there count.” His voice booms across the massive square, which is otherwise unoccupied. “Perhaps someone can remind me why this is such an important assessment?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then I call out. “Because it tests the same skills that are needed for using Will.” I’ll be expected to know all about the Labyrinth, by this point, even if I’m not supposed to have seen anything like it before.

Dultatis’s eyes roam the crowd, as if searching for someone else to answer, before sliding unwillingly to me. “That’s an overly simplified—”

“It tests memory, which is needed for any long-term imbuing; physical strength for capacity; speed and precision for efficiency; logic and split focus for Harmonics and Conditionals.”

“Vis?” I nod. “Don’t interrupt me again.” There’s a titter of amusement from a few of the students.

Dultatis is already moving on. “Your results will also contribute significantly to your standing in the class. So make sure you give your all.” He’s watching me while he says it. I tamp down my irritation, make sure I look nothing but polite and attentive. As usual.

The Praeceptor’s speech apparently done, he strides off and the class trails after him, down a narrow path past the Curia Doctrina and out of the quadrum. There’s excited chatter among the students, but nobody directs conversation toward me. In fact, I’m a somewhat notable island amid the crowd. I do my best to ignore the deliberate isolation. At least Eidhin, toward the front of the group, commands an equally apprehensive ring of space around him.

It’s only a few minutes before our destination appears ahead: a long, sleek, flat-roofed building, almost temple-like in the way its entrance is adorned with a colonnade. It’s a uniformly dark grey stone, though, without any of the friezes and artistic additions meant to flatter the gods. A dark, strangely hollow shrine if there ever was one.

I’m caught up in the general feeling of anticipation as we pass between the towering triangular-cut columns and start descending a torchlit staircase. Even if Dultatis hadn’t already stated as much, this is obviously a rare event for Class Six. The lightly polished, charcoal-grey stone continues below, and the sound of our footsteps clatters off the walls, mixing with the enthusiastic babble.

I’m prepared to feign awe when we enter the main chamber—there’s no telling who will be watching my reaction, after all—but I don’t have to pretend.

While the layout of the Labyrinth is comfortingly familiar as soon as we file onto the platform overlooking it, it’s the only thing that feels the same. Where there were rough-hewn walls at Villa Telimus, here there are smooth dark panels, polished to a mirror-like sheen; where there were barely visible symbols carved into doorways, there’s now artisanship on display, each representation large and inlaid with burnished bronze. The sparse torches of the Telimus Labyrinth are here replaced by a line of fire that rings the entire arena, unbroken flame dancing red and reflecting vividly against the dark mirror of its surroundings. The control bracer sits atop a triangular pedestal of polished black, silhouetted, the smaller gemstones studding its surface giving it a vicious aspect.

My surprise at the ostentation of it all causes me to stumble, and I look up to see Dultatis smirking, though he’s not looking directly at me. Good. The more overawed I appear, the more effective my performance here is going to be.

“Praeceptor Dultatis.” The call comes from off to the left, farther along the platform, and the press of bodies spreads out enough for me to see Veridius striding toward us. The excited conversation around me quietens to a surprised murmur as others register his presence, too.

“Principalis?” Dultatis looks as taken aback as his students. “I was told the Labyrinth would be ours today, but if I’ve been misinformed—”

“No, no.” Veridius waves his hand in genial dismissal. “I simply discovered some extra time and thought I might watch this morning. If you have no objections?” He comes to a stop in front of Dultatis. He’s a head shorter than the man, but Dultatis feels the smaller of the two; Veridius’s presence is charming more than imposing, yet it commands the space in ways I suspect Dultatis can only dream of.

“Of course not, Principalis.” Dultatis’s answer is less than convincing.

Veridius amicably takes his response at face value. “Wonderful. I’m eager to see how your students have progressed since last trimester.” The matter settled, he steps back, gesturing with a flourish to the Labyrinth. “Please! Pretend I’m not here.”

Dultatis nods brusquely, turning to face us again. He doesn’t bother to conceal his irritation once Veridius can’t see, and his glare searches me out before moving on. He obviously considers me the source of the Principalis’s intrusion, no matter what Veridius just told him.

“We’ll proceed according to class standing. Top ten and bottom ten run today, everyone else tomorrow. If you’re not running today, you’ll be a hunter at some point,” the balding Praeceptor announces. “You all know the rules. If you’re responsible for injuring someone while using the control bracer, it’s immediate expulsion from the Academy. There’s no combat here, and no trying to just run past people, either. If the hunters corner you, you lose. That’s all. Now: choose your partners.”

The instruction’s an anticipated one; students around me immediately begin gravitating toward one another, and within moments most are standing in pairs.

All, in fact, except myself and Eidhin.

I hesitate. I’ve successfully avoided interacting with the large southerner for almost the entire time I’ve been in Six. His nose has long since healed, and he’s never threatened me. Even the one time Dultatis paired us in sparring—deliberately, I’m sure—Eidhin never tried to do more than the practice demanded.

That doesn’t mean his glare doesn’t burn whenever he glances my way, though.

I sigh, then walk over to the square-shouldered boy. “Looks like it’s us.”

He grunts, looking about as pleased as I feel.

We shuffle over to the edge of the balcony, joining the others overlooking the Labyrinth as the first pair is chosen. It’s Ianix, who’s ranked first in Class Six, along with Leridia, the girl with the curly dark hair and generally unpleasant attitude. Along with them, a half dozen other students are being directed to head to the other side of the Labyrinth. They leave at a brisk jog.

The Praeceptor takes the control bracer from its position atop the pillar. It looks smaller than the one at Villa Telimus. Lighter. He signals to Ianix and then, as the boy descends the gleaming stairs to the maze’s entrance, starts affixing the bracer to Leridia’s arm.

“They don’t wear the control bracer while they run?” It’s not how Lanistia described it to me.

I direct the question to Eidhin, but it’s a girl off to my right who answers. “They only do that in Class Three.” She opens her mouth as if to say more, then registers who she’s talking to and snaps her mouth shut again, turning away.

Seeing it’s the most response I’m likely to get, I watch curiously as Leridia positions herself on the balcony above Ianix, at the centre of our side. In the distance, four of the six students have reached the far end of the maze; one of them stands opposite Leridia while the other three descend from sight. The remaining two of the group are perching on the east and west balconies, respectively, closer to our side than the other.

Leridia will be controlling the maze while Ianix runs it, then. And the three around the sides must be the spotters Lanistia described to me, there to call out Ianix’s position to their partners down below as they try to prevent him from getting to the other end.

When Dultatis is satisfied everyone is in position, he raises a hand until silence falls. Leridia, Ianix, and the three spotters all watch him. Unblinking. The fire lining the walls crackles. Leridia’s hand hovers over the bracer.

Dultatis drops his hand dramatically. “Begin!”

Ianix is sprinting around the first corner and heading west before the Praeceptor’s echoing bellow fades, Leridia manipulating a stone and a grinding below answering as the first panel rotates, clearing what was previously a dead end. I flinch at the sound; Leridia’s control wasn’t so graceless as to lose the stone from the bracer, but I can almost hear Lanistia’s disapproval at the inelegance of it.

“My side!” The boy on the western balcony yells out, positioning himself level with Ianix and holding up his hand. There are flickers of movement on the far side of the maze as the three hunters start in. Leridia’s walking westward, eyes roaming the way ahead of Ianix, looking for the next panel to move.

The rest of Class Six hang over the balcony, some whispering among themselves as they watch. Those are occasionally shushed by others, who follow with nervous looks over toward the Principalis. While Veridius doesn’t appear to notice, absorbed as he is in the contest, it’s evidently frowned upon to make too much noise here.

There’s a breathless minute as Ianix progresses deeper into the maze, the spotter whose hand is raised keeping level with him and occasionally calling out the specifics of his movements to those below. Leridia stalks around the side and ahead of her partner, silhouetted by the fire, stopping twice to focus on her bracer. She gets a harsh grating from a panel and a flinch from me both times. She’s calling out different numbers to Ianix whenever she alters something, but I can’t see any relation between them and what she’s doing. Some sort of pre-arranged code to avoid helping the hunters, I assume.

A sharp curse bounces around the vast space when Leridia attempts to use the bracer a third time, and I can tell the stone’s fallen off. She immediately shouts out another number to Ianix, who skids and changes direction. Leridia’s skill might be lacking, but the communication between her and her partner is impressive.

I join the crowd as everyone begins trailing around the edge of the maze, the group staying close while taking care not to interfere with Leridia or any of the spotters. I can feel interest around me sharpen when Ianix nears the centre and begins slowing to a cautious jog, increasingly hesitant at every intersection. We’ve still only been getting flashes of the hunters as they close in. They’re keeping low, using the walls to conceal themselves from Leridia as much as possible.

I spare a glance for Veridius, who’s still back toward the entrance. The Principalis is watching—to all appearances intently—but there’s something absent about his expression. Something that suggests his mind is elsewhere.

“Eleven!” Leridia calls, almost a scream, as a blond girl suddenly sprints into sight only a couple of turns away from Ianix, and with no barriers between them. Ianix tears off to the right as the underground chamber explodes into urgently shouted commands from spotters and Leridia alike, the latter fumbling with her bracer, frantically trying to find the right symbols on it. A panel shudders into the blond girl’s path, mere moments before she would have been past, blocking her way. She snarls and wheels, glancing up at the spotters for guidance.

The spotter on the far end of the maze has raised her hand as well, I notice. She can see Ianix, is keeping herself in line with him as he moves. Between her and the spotter on the side still doing the same, it should make it easy for the hunters to calculate where he is.

The two other hunters have broken cover too, now, converging from different directions, and I can see the frustration and panic on Leridia’s face as she wrestles with the bracer. Ianix has seen the dark-haired girl’s struggles and is responding by retreating, looking rattled himself, moving in increasingly random directions and sometimes ducking down to try and break line of sight from above.

None of it matters. A minute later, it’s over, with Ianix trapped against a dead end by the blond girl. There’s a sigh of disappointment, a smattering of applause from the class. Veridius claps as well, but it’s clearly encouragement, not adulation.

“Do the runners normally get caught?” I ask Eidhin, not really expecting an answer.

He watches Ianix trudge dejectedly back toward the stairs. “Always.” The way he says it, it’s a stupid question.

I cough. “Should we work out some sort of code? Like Ianix and Leridia?”

He turns his back on me and starts toward the maze’s entrance with the rest of the class.

“That’s a no, then,” I mutter to myself, joining the flow. Up ahead, Ianix emerges onto the balcony, exchanging a few terse words with Leridia along with the bracer. A similar changeover is happening between the spotters and the hunters, albeit a more congratulatory one.

Soon enough the contest begins again; though Leridia is a faster runner and Ianix better at manipulating the maze, the combination’s still nowhere near strong enough for Leridia to evade capture. Another smattering of applause once she’s caught. Apparently this is a good showing as far as the class is concerned, though Veridius continues to look more supportive than impressed. That doesn’t surprise me. If Lanistia were here, she wouldn’t be shy about showing her dismay at these performances.

“We’re going to have our lowest rank run next.” Dultatis makes the announcement with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Telimus. Get your partner and get into position.”

I don’t move for a breath. Surprised to be called so soon, and stung, perhaps naïvely, to be named worst-ranked in the class. It makes a sick sort of sense, though, I suppose. It’s not as if Dultatis has given me the opportunity to prove anything yet.

Eidhin is already stalking toward the control bracer, so I still my anger and head for the entrance to the Labyrinth.

I glance over at Veridius as I walk. He’s watching me thoughtfully. Gives me an infinitesimal nod as our eyes meet.

Once down the stairs into the maze, I have a minute to settle as the hunters and spotters take up their positions. I steady my breathing, calm my nerves. I spent most afternoons of my last month at Villa Telimus wandering the Labyrinth there: partly to practice my manipulation of it on the run, but also to translate my intimate knowledge of its top-down layout into an equally exhaustive confidence while inside it. And the Academy’s Labyrinth is structured identically. Identically. Superficial differences aside, every corner of this place should feel familiar.

I scan the crowd above. Plenty of curiosity up there, but not much in the way of support. Eidhin is in position, bracer strapped to his arm, alternately studying it and the maze. Dultatis is by his side, staring down at me. He looks away when he realises I’ve seen his gaze, checking across the chamber before raising his arm and then letting it drop almost immediately. “Begin!”

And then I’m running.

The Labyrinth is more than a thousand feet long and has more than fifty panels that can be manipulated; if I sprint along the most direct route possible, I can get to the end in less than two minutes. Of course, the most direct route also has the fewest options, the highest number of choke points for the hunters. The only way to slip past all three of them is to choose a path with plenty of potential variability, and trust that Eidhin will make the right decisions for me.

So I angle off to the right, the side of the maze opposite to the one both Ianix and Leridia chose. I move at a good pace, but take care not to wind myself, reserving my energy for when I’ll need it most. Ahead, there’s the booming of panels sliding into place. No horrible, shivering grinding, though. That’s a good sign.

My breath’s hot in my lungs as I proceed, doing all I can to hug the concealing walls between myself and the spotter at the far end. The one on the right has already marked me, has her hand in the air as she keeps pace. I’m about a third of the way through the maze now, and I can feel tension causing my feet to drag, make me hesitate every time I approach a corner. Eidhin hasn’t made a sound, hasn’t communicated once. I use a precious second to glance behind me up at the balcony, where he’s trailing. He’s scanning the way ahead. Doesn’t see my frustrated look.

Another minute passes as I jog, apprehension growing. I flinch when the passageway ahead of me slams shut without warning, closing off the way I was intending to go; I falter and then dash down the newly formed corridor instead as the spotter on my right shouts furious, frustrated information to someone. The spotter at the back is yelling too, his hand raised. I’m sweating, heart pounding. There must have been another student just in front of me. I recalculate my route, try to envisage where they’re likely to go next, especially if they know my exact position. There are only bad options ahead. I whirl and double back, taking a different path.

It’s not panic, though. If there was a hunter that close, they’ve potentially locked themselves in to this route; with a little backtracking, I may just be able to get around them. I feel a flicker of excitement as the corridor rearranges itself again, giving me an opening to the left. More panels boom farther along. Eidhin, still silent, has had the same idea.

Time drags in a breathless, tense haze. A minute. Three. I’ve lasted longer than either Ianix or Leridia. Eidhin’s manipulation of the maze directs me back again, but the third time, I can hear panels slamming behind me. The back of my mind registers a murmur from the rest of the class, quickly shushed. I take the cue and burst forward, lungs burning. I’m two-thirds of the way through.

I’m just beginning to feel a grin split my face when sandy-haired Stult steps out of a side passage. “Got you.”

I skid to a stop. Spin. There’s a slender girl—Tanila—about twenty feet behind me, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. She looks up, damp black hair slapping her face, and gives me something between a smile and a glare.

There’s no way past either of them. The two paths leading out of this corridor finish at dead ends, with no panels to change that fact.

I’ve lost.

The Will of the Many

XXXI

“ALITTLE COMMUNICATION WOULD HAVE been welcome.” I snatch the control bracer from Eidhin. Frustrated. It hasn’t helped that the first thing I spied after emerging from the Labyrinth was Praeceptor Dultatis’s smug expression. “I almost made it.”

The hulking red-headed boy’s gaze as I slap the device on my arm is implacable. Not defensive, not reactionary, just… steady. I open my mouth to say more, then exhale instead.

“We almost made it.” It’s not an apology. I’m just correcting myself. “You’re quite good with this.” I waggle my arm, indicating the control bracer, which is significantly lighter than the one from Villa Telimus. I make it a half question.

Eidhin grunts. Shrugs. “You were…” Vexation flashes across his face. “Gwyll cymlys,” he finishes, a mixture of exasperated and begrudging. Before I can respond, he’s walking away.

I frown after Eidhin as he stomps down the stairs into the maze. Gwyll cymlys: “better than competent.” A weak compliment, but that’s not what has me taken aback. It’s a phrase peculiar to the officially dead Cymrian language.

I study my partner’s burly form below, playing back our rare, brief exchanges over the past weeks. He certainly has the look of a southerner, but that applies to the far south-west, too. His short responses have to be at least partly from surliness, but if—

“Begin!”

There’s a savage satisfaction in the booming announcement; I suspect Dultatis has noticed my distraction. I scramble to orient myself as Eidhin sprints hard up the centre, and for an awful moment I think he’s simply going to plunge into the series of corridors from which it’s almost impossible to escape. But at the last second he dashes left, into a tight, twisting section that already branches into four quite disparate exits.

I can see his plan, I think, after another thirty seconds of chasing after him while he confidently twists and turns. He’s got a set path in mind, but it’s winding enough and he’s moving so fast that it’s difficult for the spotters to properly relay. They’re desperately yelling instructions, and then corrections, and then corrections of those corrections as even the two with their hands raised have to jog to keep up. The hunters are already drawing closer but there’s a hesitancy to their approach, an uncertainty bleeding over from how quickly their information is getting adjusted.

One thing’s abundantly clear: my partner doesn’t expect any help from me. I feel a flush of anger at the presumption. Eidhin’s tactic isn’t a terrible one, but he won’t win with it alone.

I’ve got the pace of his movement now. And the paths I think the hunters will be taking, based on the flashes I’ve seen from them. I take a deep breath, glance down to check I’ve got the right stone, and twist.

The way ahead of Eidhin slams shut.

“Go right!” I yell as the red-headed boy stops and wheels, scanning the balcony until his murderous glare comes to rest on me. He gesticulates furiously at the blocked way ahead, but I shake my head with equal fervour. “Go right!”

There’s a full second where he just stands there, frozen by frustrated indecision. Then he slaps the stone wall with his hand hard enough that it must surely hurt, and dashes off to the right.

“Alright,” I murmur, letting out a long breath.

For the next two minutes, I change the Labyrinth constantly as Eidhin runs. I’m hesitant, at first. Nervous. It shows in my first couple of adjustments, the rending of stone screeching across the chamber. But once I settle, that odd out-of-body calm, almost meditative flow, washes over me. I’m completely focused and I know I’m completely focused, some small part of my mind watching my actions and thrilling at how precisely I’m working. I’m seeing three, four choices ahead for the hunters, blocking off their best options at every turn. Redirecting them away not from where Eidhin is, but from where Eidhin will be.

I stop being worried about the crowd, about Veridius or Dultatis. My only anxiety now is that I’ll fall from this wonderful mind-state too early, falter, and lose confidence before I can finish.

Eidhin, for his part, has adapted well, responding to my opening or shutting panels exactly as I did for him. It’s a crude method of communication, though, and while we’ve maintained a safe distance thus far, the hunters are closing in.

“They’re trying to flank you! Take the second left and double back!” I shout the warning as I see it happening, knowing it’s giving too much information to the hunters, but left with little alternative.

Eidhin stumbles as he hears my yell. Fades to a stop. There’s uncertainty in his every line.

I remember our brief encounter earlier, and something clicks. “Take the second left ahead and come back this way!” I roar the command.

But this time, I do it in Cymrian.

There’s a raised murmur from the watching class, and I can’t help but enjoy the utterly startled look I elicit from Eidhin. He gawps in my direction, static.

Then, abruptly, he’s running again.

He takes the second left.

I continue to shout out instructions in Cymrian, excitement mounting as Eidhin takes turn after turn as directed. I’m far from fluent, but my mother was, and she ensured I was learning her father’s native tongue as soon as I could talk. These simple commands aren’t difficult to dredge up.

It’s almost easy, after that.

Between Eidhin going exactly where I need him and my increasingly confident adjustments to the maze, the hunters start to flail. The buzz from the class on the balcony grows louder and louder. Sixths crowd the railing, elbowing others aside and leaning over to get a better view.

I cannot remember a more satisfying moment than when I twist my last stone on the bracer, and then Eidhin is suddenly charging down the final corridor, hunters trapped in the passages on either side of him. He’s clear.

There’s no applause, only animated chatter from the rest of the class, but Eidhin still stabs the air in triumph as he jogs up the stairs on the far side. I laugh delightedly at the sight, then start unlacing the control bracer, hands shaking as the tension drains from my body. Ulciscor and Lanistia emphasised time and time again how important these tests were. I’ve done everything I can, today.

Dultatis and Veridius are both watching me when I look up. The Praeceptor’s face is flushed in the light of the fire, looking the very opposite of pleased. Veridius seems more intrigued than impressed. When he sees my glance, though, he gives me a deep, approving nod.

Eidhin joins us after a minute, just ahead of the spotters and hunters, who cut dejected silhouettes against the flames. He’s not smiling, but there’s an energy to his step. As happy as I’ve ever seen him.

Dultatis eyes us both as Eidhin comes alongside me. The red-headed boy still doesn’t crack a smile, but the way he stands is close to companionable.

“I enjoyed that,” he murmurs in Cymrian, staring straight ahead.

I feel the corners of my mouth tick upward, though I try to keep a blank face too.

Dultatis’s frown deepens, as if he suspects Eidhin just said something about him. “You did well,” he announces loudly, so the entire class can hear. “Unfortunately, you also broke the rules, so this won’t be entered into any official records.”

“What?” I blurt the word disbelievingly, and beside me, Eidhin tenses.

“You communicated in a foreign language. Code is allowed because it encourages planning, teamwork. Both of you knowing the same dead language is an advantage of coincidence, nothing more. It cannot be rewarded.”

“It was in code,” says Eidhin immediately.

“Pardon?”

“We. Spoke. In. Code,” he says, emphasizing each word deliberately, as if Dultatis were a child. “You did not say the code had to be in Common.”

“That’s true,” I agree calmly.

Dultatis’s eye twitches as a few titters echo through the class watching on. “Code is also allowed because there is the possibility of it being broken by the hunters if it’s not opaque enough. So while you are still to be congratulated”—he utters it through gritted teeth, the words undoubtedly for Veridius’s benefit rather than ours—“you are nonetheless disqualified.”

I stare at the Praeceptor silently. There’s that special rancour in Dultatis’s eyes again when he looks at me.

My gaze goes to Veridius, who’s standing a few paces behind Dultatis, watching. He gives me the slightest shake of the head.

Resentment boils deep in my chest. I’m a heartbeat away from exploding.

I calm myself through sheer force of will, and bow my head in grim acquiescence.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Eidhin looking between me and Dultatis, expression darkening. He whirls in disgust and stalks off to his usual position at the back of the class, whatever joy he’d taken from our victory vanished. I inhale, then make my way back to the other Sixths, refusing to look any of them in the eye. Any of the emotions I might see there—amusement, pity, whatever—could too easily provoke me right now.

I take up a position apart from everyone else, at the balcony railing, gazing out over the maze without really seeing it. In the background, Dultatis is picking a new pair to run. I don’t pay any attention to who. I don’t really care.

I watch the proceedings below alone, disinterested and brooding, as pair after pair run and fail over the next hour. I don’t bother to follow the class as they move along the sides, trying to keep view of the proceedings: Ianix and Leridia, it turns out, were by far the most skilled of the group. Nobody comes close to breaking through.

“What do you think?”

I start; I’ve been so lost in my frustration that I didn’t even notice Veridius sidling up to me. He’s watching this latest run with absent curiosity, not looking at me, but there’s no one else around he could be addressing. “Of?”

“Them.” He indicates the flurry of motion below and around the sides of the chamber. “These runs.”

I follow the current runner as he weaves pointlessly through passageways that are all but static, his partner up on the balcony already having lost three stones from his bracer. “It’s basically just one person trying to sprint their way through, hoping the hunters and spotters will be dumb enough to make mistakes. A lot of mistakes. And whoever has the control bracer seems to be there more to yell coded instructions than to actually adjust the maze.” It’s a blunt assessment, I know, but I’m in no mood for tact. “They’re terrible.”

I expect a rebuke, but instead Veridius just shakes his head. “They’re average,” he corrects me. “Just because you are good at something does not make others bad at it.” He winces as the boy below careens into a dead-end passageway, easily cut off by the single hunter in pursuit. “Well. Some of them are average.”

I feel a grin pull at the corners of my mouth, but it quickly slips again. “Praeceptor Dultatis doesn’t seem to share your opinion. That I’m good, I mean.” I fail to keep my tone light. “At anything.”

“Well. I fear that may be less about your performance, and more your name.”

I frown, finally glancing across at him. “What?”

Veridius looks as though he’s debating whether to expand on his statement. “Praeceptor Nequias and Praeceptor Dultatis were among those in charge here when I was a student,” he says eventually. “Praeceptor Nequias was all but guaranteed to be the next Principalis, and he would have picked the Praeceptor over there to be his second in command. Then your uncle…” He exhales. “Well. His death had ramifications.”

“So they were demoted.” My voice goes flat as I understand what he’s saying. “And they blame me?”

“They blame me. But they have no love for the name Telimus.”

My brow crinkles in frustration. While I’m not inclined to take Veridius’s word, what he’s saying makes some sense: the Hierarchy would be keen to punish anyone who oversaw the death of a prized student, no matter the circumstances. And it would have been an internal disciplinary matter for Religion. Ulciscor wouldn’t necessarily have known to warn me about a petty, long-held grudge like that.

“You can’t do anything about it?” I’m only half asking. I know the answer.

“It’s his class. His assessment.” Veridius shakes his head. “But even if I could, the Academy is meant to reflect the challenges we face in life, not protect students from their realities. Most pyramids out there are full of Dultatises. And Iros,” he adds meaningfully. “Whether the obstacles to our advancement arise from our ties or our actions, we need to learn to overcome them ourselves. It’s not fair, but nor is the world.” His expression is earnest, warm. Meant to encourage. “I imagine you already know something of that.”

“I do.” Veridius’s gentle, understanding manner makes it tempting to keep talking. To unburden myself. But the more I say to him, the more chances I’m giving myself to slip up.

Veridius sees I’m not going to expound, and straightens, turning back toward the rest of the class. “This place is often empty, early in the mornings.” He says it distractedly, talking more to the air than me. “And it’s never locked. An enterprising student might find it a good time to practice.”

He walks off, smiling and waving to another student he’s spotted. I watch for a while. He’s stopping and chatting with everyone. And everyone seems to welcome the conversation, is eager to bask in the Principalis’s brief attention.

I resume my ruminating glower over the Labyrinth, turning Veridius’s words over in my head. I can’t see any trap to them.

But even that realisation is an aggravation. I’m pinned down here. Stymied. Helpless. I can train all I want, and never progress past Class Six. I can physically feel the frustration building. A shortening of breath, a tightening in my chest.

As I watch another student fail below, I come to a decision. I need to do something. I need to act.

Tonight, I’m going to take a look at the ruins beyond the Academy’s wall.

The Will of the Many

XXXII

“YOU LOOK DISPLEASED,” SAYS CALLIDUS as he slides into the chair opposite me.

Our table in the mess is, as usual, vacant other than the two of us. The chatter of over a hundred and fifty students fills the large, graduated hall, though I deliberately have my back to the raised sections today, not wishing to endure more of the speculative looks I’ve been getting from the Sixths all morning. It’s sunny outside and the view out over the ocean is spectacular, shining swells undulating far below, a vivid blue against the green of Solivagus’s forests.

I sigh, pushing my plate away even as Callidus dips his bread in oil and begins enthusiastically devouring it. “You could say that.” I tell him about my morning. Guiding Eidhin through the Labyrinth, only to be disqualified. Veridius’s subsequent admission about Dultatis.

“Gods’ graves. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head in dismay. “No wonder half the Sixths keep peeking down this way. You really got Eidhin through the Labyrinth? On your first try?”

I allow some pride at Callidus’s impressed tone. “Only because I happen to know Cymrian.”

“Now you’re just showing off.” Callidus chews and swallows, his gaze moving over my shoulder. “Cymrian, you say.”

“That’s right.” I twist, following the direction of his contemplation. Eidhin is sitting on the level up, with the rest of Class Six, and yet as usual, also apart. He doesn’t notice our observation.

“Huh.”

“Does that mean something to you?”

“Not really. Someone told me last trimester it’s what he speaks, but the rest of what she said was so far-fetched, I didn’t believe a word of it.”

I cock my head to the side. “Such as?”

“He’s meant to be from the mountains, somewhere. One of those small pockets past Cymr itself that never got properly civilised.” He looks reluctant. “I heard that when the Fifth Legion came for them, his whole family—or his whole tribe, one of those—committed suicide rather than surrender. That he helped them. And then killed a dozen Praetorians before they caught him.” He says it all in a low, uneasy voice. “But we both know not to put faith in rumours. He wouldn’t be here if it were true.”

“He’d be in a Sapper,” I scoff in agreement. “Who told you that?”

“One of the Thirds. Just about everyone had heard it, though, after the first few weeks. It got around fast.”

“Lies tend to do that.”

He chuckles. “Truth.”

“Did you ever talk to him? Not counting the time he tried to punch you, obviously.”

Callidus smiles wryly. “No. I was in his class for all of a week.” He says it with the tiniest twitch of the shoulders, as if it’s of no consequence.

“Ah.” I push at the food on my plate. “I get the impression he should be higher than Six.”

Callidus chuckles again.

“That’s funny?”

“It’s funny that you’re surprised.”

I take a bite of my food, speaking around the mouthful. “What do you mean?”

Callidus shrugs. “The structure of this place is meant to mimic the Hierarchy. So how hard you work and how smart you are is… not irrelevant, obviously. But they’re only factors in a much larger equation.” He sees my sharpening curiosity and mistakes it for confusion. “You keep thinking of it as a fair system. Be good enough, and you’ll be justly rewarded. The best rise to the top. All that rotting nonsense.”

“You don’t believe it?” I find it hard to strain the incredulity from my voice.

Callidus stares out through the massive archways to the left, over the glistening ocean. Considering his words.

“Do you think it’s any different, out there?” He gestures to the west when he does eventually speak, in the direction of Caten. “Do you think that every single Septimus stuck in their position is less talented than every single Sextus? Or even less talented than the Sextus they’re ceding to? A fair system only works if there’s an unbiased means of assessing merit. When there is no pride or selfishness involved.” He gives a soft snort, shaking his head. “Which means that fair systems cannot exist where people are involved.”

He doesn’t meet my gaze. He has to know how unpopular this line of conversation would be with most of the students here.

He’s not wrong—I know this because I studied the Hierarchy for years and, moreover, did so from the outside, under people who were neither indoctrinated nor seduced by it. But it’s a dangerous topic.

“You’ve read Thavius, I take it,” I say noncommittally.

“Yes! The Academy’s a perfect example of what he talks about: we’re meant to be the brightest of the Republic, but almost all of us here are the children of senators and knights. We’ve been trained, educated, since we could walk. Of course we’re going to be ‘better’ than some fifth son of an Octavus who’s been ceding half his life, just so his family can get by. Especially at tests which are devised by the same people who trained us. Who decide what merit is.” He eyes me. Apologetic. “And then when there are exceptions like yourself, who come from nothing, teach yourself, save half the rotting city—there’s still the detritus like Dultatis to make sure that nothing changes.”

I’m silent. Not sure if I should feel shame at the deception. My upbringing was as advantageous as anyone else’s here. More so, maybe; my father had his pick of Sytrecian defectors as tutors, and my formal education began years before a Catenan’s would. It’s a necessary lie, of course, but one that feels oddly dirty here and now.

Callidus mistakes my discomfort. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear. We can just leave it alone.” He’s awkward. As unsure as he is passionate. He believes what he’s saying, but undoubtedly hasn’t received a warm reception to these sorts of opinions in the past.

“No.” I can’t make myself dismiss the topic. Hearing someone else talk about it feels like fresh air. “Do you really think that?”

Callidus relaxes a little. “You saw what the Sevenths are like—they make no effort at all. Do you know why?”

“I assumed laziness.”

“Well. Yes. Obviously.” He makes a conceding motion. “But also because they know at the end of it all, they’re guaranteed to be given the rank of at least Sextus.” He scoots around the table to sit beside me, taking out a wax tablet and erasing what was on it, showing me as he starts to write. “You know who my father is?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Callidus’s father is Magnus Tertius Ericius. The Censor, responsible for the management of the Hierarchy’s most important resource. The man charged with structuring and monitoring their pyramids.

“So the thing he has access to, which almost no one else does, is census data. All of it,” Callidus continues. He begins scribbling numbers. “Based on a standard pyramid, how many people out of every hundred would you expect to be Octavii?”

“A little under ninety?”

He pauses, stylus hovering. “Yes.” A touch of surprise in the word.

“I can do the math.”

“Most people can’t. Or don’t bother. Or don’t want to.” He makes a face, then keeps going. “About ten should be Septimii, a couple of Sextii. Quintii and above don’t even factor into it at those numbers, but you get the idea. Given that, with twenty-four million people in the Hierarchy, how many would you expect to be Octavii?”

“About… twenty-one million?”

“A little less. Then two and a half million Septimii. About half a million Sextii.” He jots the numbers, then glances up at me to check that I’m following.

“So?” The ratios do sound a little off to me—I’d say that Sextii were more rare than that—but then, I’ve hardly shared the same space as senators and the like over the past few years.

He draws the symbol of the Hierarchy beside his numbers. Three lines meeting at an apex, forming a pyramid. Then he starts a new batch of figures.

“Regionally, most communities are arranged so that Sextus is the highest position; everyone else of importance out there is a Septimus. Census data from last year said that there are only sixty thousand Sextii, eight thousand Quintii, and about two hundred Quartii in the Republic. Not in Caten, or in Deditia. In the entire Republic.” He looks at me significantly.

I frown, doing the calculations in my head. “That’s…” I shake my head. “That doesn’t change the Octavii and Septimii numbers much, but it means that one person in every thousand is a Sextii. Not one in every hundred.”

“Exactly.” Callidus draws a second, distorted pyramid beside the new numbers. The sides of this one curve sharply inward and then upward, leaving a thick base and a long, thin, barely tapering pillar to the top. “And it gets better. One of the other things my father and the Consuls manage is the Academy intake. How many students they’re allowed to accept. It varies from year to year. Do you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s based on a calculation of how many high-level openings will become available over the following eighteen months. Expected retirements, deaths, pyramid expansions due to population growth—anything that might become free that they can foresee leading to a position of influence.” He’s written a figure as he speaks; now he underlines it with vehemence. “This was the number, when we started first trimester.”

“One hundred and seventy-four,” I read. I do a quick sum in my head, but I’m not sure of the exact size of Class Seven. “The number of students here?”

“One more. Two students dropped out, first trimester. And you arrived.” Callidus looks pleased I’m not arguing. “This is why position confirmations are on an eighteen-month cycle. They want to make sure that when we graduate, they can shift people around to more regional pyramids if needed. Make sure that there are enough good positions for all of us.”

“Not quite the ‘anyone can be a senator with enough hard work’ story they tell the Octavii.”

“You need Arventis more than Vorcian,” agrees Callidus, invoking the gods of luck and effort, respectively. “And I know that it’s just part of life—no different to being born smart, or strong, or handsome. But if you want to succeed here, Vis, you need to see things as they are. You can’t expect to be promoted just because you should be. The Republic rewards people who take, not who deserve.” Quoting Thavius again.

“A system built on promise, and therefore on greed,” I murmur, supplying my own quote from the book. He’s right. I’ve been training so hard, been so intent on being better than the others in Six, that I’ve lost sight of the fact that it won’t necessarily help me. I’m going to need to find another way past Dultatis.

My resolve to get to the ruins tonight strengthens. If I can discover something important for Ulciscor, perhaps I can press him for help when we meet at the Festival of the Ancestors. Get him to exert influence over Dultatis, somehow.

I study the boy sitting beside me for a long moment.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Callidus screws up his face. He knows what I’m about to say. “Alright.”

“How in the gods’ graves did you end up in Seven?”

Callidus moves back over to his original position opposite me. Grabs his bread, takes a bite, chews. Waits to respond until he’s swallowed. “What makes you think I don’t belong there?”

I give him a stern look.

He smiles, despite himself. “Fine, fine.” His gaze flicks around the room, as if concerned someone will be listening. He opens his mouth to say more, but instead the crystalline chime to end the meal shimmers through the room, sparking a flurry of movement as everyone stands. Callidus exhales. “A story for another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Sure. And Vis?” Callidus is talking quietly, so much so that I can barely hear him above the hubbub of sandals stamping their way to class. “Those numbers that I just told you? Don’t repeat them to anyone. I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

I feel my brow crinkle, but he’s serious. I nod.

We depart into our separate classes, me joining the flow of Sixths marching out of the Curia Doctrina and toward the Labyrinth. My mood’s improved. I can’t trust Callidus simply because he sees the rot beneath the Hierarchy’s veneer—if he found out who I was, I doubt it would matter—but I still feel an affinity with the other boy. Genuine affection, even if it can’t be accompanied by honesty.

It’s the closest I’ve come to actual friendship in a long, long while.

The afternoon passes much as the morning did, deep in the bowels of the Labyrinth as I half watch run after unsuccessful run lit by the dramatic framing fire. Veridius doesn’t return. I occasionally find myself scrutinising a brooding Eidhin from the corner of my eye, wondering at what Callidus told me about him. For Eidhin’s part, he appears not to notice my examination, the muscular boy taking in the proceedings below as dourly as I. Neither of us is called upon to participate again, even as spotters or hunters.

Mostly, though, I use the time to mentally prepare myself for what I’m considering this evening. Once I’ve mucked out the stables, I just need to store the equipment I need, go to the dormitory as usual, and then wait for Eidhin and the other two boys in my room to fall asleep. There are stirrups in the stables; no one will notice if I take a pair, and they’re strong enough to act as rope for the wall. A section of cataphract armour—an armoured saddle, basically—from the stable can cover the spikes on the top, too. I’ve already picked out a spot on the Academy boundary past the horse paddock that the lights don’t touch. It’s well away from any buildings.

Once I’m over, though… well. I try not to think about how little information I have about the ruins. How well they might be guarded, or worse, warded using Will. Or how long I can safely be gone before someone wakes and notices my absence.

The time to dwell makes me waver but every time I do, I glance across at Dultatis’s smug face and firm my resolve. Callidus is right—there’s not a lot I can do here. But I can’t sulk, just sit on my hands and hope for the best. It’s only two weeks until the Festival of the Ancestors, and if I want to advance, I need to give Ulciscor a reason to help.

It’s time to find out what Religion is up to out there.

The Will of the Many

XXXIII

WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, YSA and I would often make a game of escaping our studies through the twisting palace hallways, dodging servants and tutors alike who would be guaranteed to either order us back, or inform one of our parents. I was always better at it than she. There’s a feeling in the air, when someone’s about. An oncoming presence that I’ve always been able to sense in enough time to duck into the shelter of a doorway, or double back around the corner before they come into view.

A skill for darker times, these past few years.

The other three boys in my room have all settled into regular breathing patterns within an hour of the lantern winking out. I wait another few minutes just to be sure, then slide out of my cot, pull on my sandals, snatch up my empty leather satchel, and pad to the door. No one stirs.

I keep a sharp ear for anyone else awake as I slip through the corridors of the Sixths’ dormitory, but everything’s quiet. Soon enough I’m at the door to the external staircase, and out into the biting night air. There’s a sliver of moon tonight, though it’s diffused by a thin layer of cloud. I pause at the top of the stairs, letting my eyes adjust. Everything’s coated in dulled silver, the bright reds, whites, and golds of the buildings all muted into shades. Nothing stirs below.

This is my last chance to turn around. To wait for a safer opportunity. There’s a tacit curfew in the Academy, and if one of my roommates wakes and notices I’m gone, I doubt they’ll hesitate to inform someone. Being caught roaming the Academy grounds this late will come with hard questions. Being caught past the wall will mean expulsion.

But if I can’t advance, can’t get a room to myself, a safer opportunity will never come. And the Festival of the Ancestors is looming. Even if Ulciscor can’t get me past Dultatis, I at least need something to make sure he doesn’t lose faith in me. Doesn’t decide I’m a failed experiment, and send me to the Sappers.

I descend and start for the far side of the compound.

The violent illumination of the quadrum is something I give a wide berth, opting instead to keep to the trees that line the boundaries of the Academy. I spot occasional figures—Praeceptors or Octavii, I assume—but they’re all in the distance, travelling well-lit paths and never once turning in my direction.

It’s not long before I’m at the stables. I listen and then duck inside, risking the light to snatch up the sturdy set of leather stirrups, small lantern, and strip of armour I tucked away earlier. I’m gone again in moments, no alarm raised.

The wall is an imposing proposition from up close. Fifteen feet high and smooth, shadowed, Will-cut stone—no handholds. A forest of thin, vicious spikes at the top, painted grey by the dim moon. I consider them for several grim seconds before giving a last, cautious glance around, then unslinging my equipment.

It takes me a dozen attempts at leaping and flicking the stirrups upward, heart in mouth the entire time at the noise I’m making, before they finally settle over one of the spikes with a scratching clang. I give the leather a guarded tug, then test my full weight against it. Nothing budges.

I exhale. No cries of discovery so far. There are no moving parts atop the wall, so there can’t be any simple Will-based alarms. I’m confident that there won’t be any Conditional ones set, either; those would surely be far too expensive to add to every inch of the Academy’s boundary, even for the security-conscious Veridius. Surely.

I hook the cataphract armour over one wrist, and start to climb.

My muscles cord as I pull myself up, the leather of the stirrups creaking, metal scraping against the spike it’s caught on, the armour on my wrist clanking as it drags fiercely. It’s loud against the surrounding hush but I forge on, reaching up and finding purchase on the edge of the wall with my fingers, arms trembling as I haul myself level. With a final heave, I sling the saddle up. It clatters over the top of the jagged array.

I have just enough anxious strength left to heave myself into an awkward, precarious sprawl atop the scaled armour. My side grazes one of the still-exposed spikes. It’s keenly edged, sharp all the way along.

I hold my breath. Crane my neck around, gazing back into the shadows of the Academy. Despite the noise, there’s no movement. Torches burn low at the entrance and in the quadrum, but the only other light is the soft silver filtering through the clouds.

I don’t waste time staying exposed at the top of the wall, inching across the cataphract-covered spikes. Sweating as I twist and slither and try not to envisage what would happen were one to find its way through a gap in the plating. I stop only to carefully disengage the stirrup from its spike and secure it to another on the other side, letting it dangle. There won’t be patrols outside the grounds, and I can do without the noise of attempting to hook it back on again when I return.

Finally I slide around until I can grab the stirrup with both hands and lower myself. Hold my breath once I hit the ground, eyes closed. Still no sound from the other side.

I’m out.

I turn to face a forest that’s dense, dark, and immediate. The gloom is deeper here, cut only by the occasional beam that finds its way past a canopy of constantly shifting leaves. Rustling alone breaks the hush.

I unsling my small satchel and retrieve the lantern from it, quickly checking it survived the climb before shuttering it and striking it to light. The way ahead is far too dark, the terrain too treacherous, to depend on the moonlight.

I orient myself, and strike out eastward.

My tension doesn’t abate as I press through a wall of bracken and then into the trees. I’ve been told by multiple people that alupi—the enormous, intelligent wolves indigenous to Solivagus—don’t come close to the Academy, but I know that’s a generalisation rather than a rule. Every shifting shadow beyond the lamplight makes me twitch.

It’s fifteen minutes before I hit anything that looks like a path. Not much more than a well-worn animal trail, really, but I can see the vegetation’s been cut away in places, and the hint of a heelprint or two in the dirt. It’s probably the track that joins the main way between the Academy and the Transvect platform.

I follow it, ducking under stray branches that whip in the wind, skin itching at the worry of being stumbled upon at every turn. There’s no one, though. The trail meanders but always keeps to the same general direction. I endure another ten minutes, at least, of picking my way anxiously forward.

And then up ahead, a hazy nimbus over the trees.

I slow. Extinguish my lantern, stow it, and depart the trail in favour of thick brush, ignoring the way the dry twigs dig at my skin. My ears strain, but there’s only the scratching of branch against branch in the breeze, the skittering of fallen leaves.

I finally come to a stop, crouching, as the source of the light emerges from behind the last screen of shrubbery.

The ruins of an ancient structure—or structures—stretch out before me, cracked and moss-coated rubble covering a clearing that must be five hundred feet wide. Most of the broken grey stone is no higher than my waist, but in the middle of it all stands a tall domed building, several holes in its curved roof the only immediate sign of damage. It’s ringed by a dozen bright lanterns, the gently swaying lights casting shifting blacks through the scattered stone nearby.

I watch for a minute. Five. Nothing moves. In the shadows, I spot a door waiting at the end of the short colonnade leading into the structure. The door’s intact. Closed.

I circle the edge of the clearing, concerned about those lanterns. They could have been lit via Will from anywhere—be for precaution or convenience, rather than indicating someone’s presence. But if Religion is willing to waste Will and oil doing that, then there will be security measures, too.

I don’t see anything unusual in my tortuous circuit. Walls guarded these ruins once, but no longer: only a line of rubble remains as a barrier to the space beyond. The outer sections appear to be the remnants of a vast complex. Away from the lanterns, diffuse moonlight paints jagged stone. A chill breeze off the ocean unsettlingly rustles the long grass that grows between the boulders.

Most concerningly, there are no other obvious entrances into the central building. Doors are one of the easiest things to secure with Will: they can be harmonically linked either with an alarm on the other end, or simply with something so heavy they’re impossible to open.

But there’s nothing else out here to investigate. No other option, unless I turn back.

I creep from cover, and start picking my way across to the domed building.

Moving anything here could trigger a Will-linked alarm, so I take care where I step, ensuring I tread only on grass. Twice I take the time to clamber over stone where a more obvious path would require shifting rubble aside. There are still no sounds other than those whispered by the wind. I twitch and duck at every imagined movement, feeling far too exposed as I traverse the pool of light cast by the lanterns and then pass into the murk of the colonnade.

Once I’m at the door I stop, peering back out into the woods before inspecting the entrance. Up close, the building is in worse repair than I realised. The stone has crumbled away around the edges of most of the bricks, and there’s more green than grey visible. It’s not Hierarchy-era, that’s for sure. It’s been here for hundreds of years. More, maybe.

It could even be pre-Cataclysm, just as Ulciscor claimed. From the era of the Aurora Columnae, made before recorded history.

Now my eyes have adjusted, I can see the door’s not stone as I first thought, but rather solid steel, cool to the touch. That’s good: steel is much, much harder to imbue. Strange symbols are inscribed on its surface. Another language, I think. I don’t recognise it.

I stand there, calculating. The door could be locked, in which case my evening is at an end. If it’s not, there’s still a good chance that opening it will trigger some kind of alarm back at the Academy. A self-imbued Veridius taking the trail at a run could probably be here in twenty minutes. Call it fifteen, to be safe.

Not much time to see what’s inside.

I start a mental count and, blood pulsing in my ears, push.

The door swings open at a touch. Silent. Faint light spills out and I take a nervous half step back. There are no shouts though, no movement or sound. I slip inside, trying to mix the need for haste with prudence. There’s only a single, large chamber. A circle of marble columns rings its centre, perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Leaning against the columns are tools—pickaxes, shovels. Rope.

I squint. The light’s off, a dull green tint to it. As I creep farther in, I can see its source: a gaping hole at the centre of the circle. A rope tied to one of the columns vanishes down into the area of missing floor, which looks as though it has been smashed away.

Fourteen minutes.

I force myself to ignore the natural drag of caution and hurry forward into the green light. The hole leads to a tunnel not too far below, and the rope dangles to its floor. I grab it, test it, and swing myself down, palms burning from the speed of the descent. My sandals meet stone with an echoing thud.

I shake out my legs to lessen the smarting impact of the landing as I look around, though its sting is quickly forgotten as I take in the long passageway.

Everything’s lit down here, but not by lanterns or flame.

Writing carves its way through the stone on both walls, and each and every letter glows a sickly green. Thousands upon thousands of words. Not carefully etched, though. Not done by an artisan’s hands. These are scrawled. Uneven. Rushed.

Thirteen minutes.

“What in all hells?” I whisper it as I edge closer, though there’s no one down here to hear me. I’ve never heard of anything that can illuminate stone like this. And the writing… it seems deep, engraved, and yet the way it flows speaks of someone hurriedly scribbling. Farther down, I can see words giving way to diagrams, complex drawings with more glowing notes scratched around them.

It’s not a language I’ve come across before, I conclude after another minute of assessment. There’s nothing familiar, no spark of recognition at the forms. I move my mouth silently to sound out the words, but some of the letters are completely foreign to me, rendering many of them even phonetically mysterious.

The passage stretches out in both directions, but I jog toward where the writing is broken by the series of small diagrams. These again have the appearance of being hurriedly sketched, yet are incredibly detailed—schematics of some kind, I think, dozens of lines and arrows criss-crossing a sea of notations. Strange symbols repeat on every single one. Numbers, perhaps? A sequence of instructions to create… something. The various stages of construction aren’t clear enough for me to divine exactly what.

Eleven minutes.

I rock on my heels, the fingers of my self-imposed time limit resting light around my neck. Torn between studying the images for a better understanding of them, and pressing on to see what else this place might contain. This won’t help Ulciscor, so the latter wins out. I tear my gaze from the strange glowing schemata and set out at a cautious trot, moving as fast as I dare while staying wary for any signs of company. The tunnel, and the writing, stretches unbroken for as far as I can see. I start to regret my decision. Every second I move away from the entrance is one I’m going to have to spend getting back.

I keep going for another two minutes, each step increasingly anxious. How far does this shaft go? It runs straight and narrow; smaller passageways occasionally split off but those are cloaked in darkness, unappealing even if I had time to spare. There are more diagrams amid the pulsing green scrawl that light my way: some are small, while others consume several feet of wall. I don’t give any of them more than a cursory look as I pass. Whatever they’re depicting, it’s alien to me.

Until, that is, I spot a series of familiar symbols.

I stop. Frown. Take a few seconds to place them, but once I do, the surrounding pictures begin to take shape.

The symbols are the same as the ones in the Labyrinth.

And the diagram, I think, shows how to make the bracer that controls it.

My hand itches for something to copy this down. Instead I study it fiercely, trying to etch every line into memory. I don’t know what this means, exactly, but it must mean something. Ulciscor will want to know about it in as much detail as I can give him.

I’ve almost resolved to turn back when I realise the tunnel ahead widens into an opening. I break into a jog.

Eight minutes.

The end of the passage is an archway that segues into a much larger space beyond. There’s something written across it in that same glowing green scrawl, but the language is different. This one’s recognisable. Not Common, but an old form of Vetusian. Native to this area, once.

In trying to become God, they created Him. I think that’s the translation, anyway.

I creep the last few feet and peer through the arch. The hall beyond is enormous, more than fifty feet high and at least three hundred long. No writing in here but still lit entirely in green, thanks to the rows of dimly illuminated cavities cut into both walls. Maybe ten feet high and wide, and equally far apart. There are tens of them. Hundreds.

It’s their contents that captures my attention, though. Makes my breath catch and blood freeze.

In each one, skewered by a long black blade through the chest, is a single, naked corpse.

I’m motionless, wide-eyed, for five seconds. Ten. My hands tremble as I prop myself up against the edge of the entrance. The green light is coming from the slabs of stone against which the men and women lie, making it seem as though they’re in some sort of garish display. Little more than silhouettes, and yet there’s no mistaking what I’m seeing.

They’re not skeletal, either, I realise faintly. Not shrivelled from dusty centuries of waiting in this tomb. From what I can make out of their faces and bodies, these people look as though they could have been killed yesterday.

Seven minutes.

“Rotting gods,” I whisper, mostly to steady myself. Whatever Religion are doing down here, I don’t want any part of it. But Ulciscor’s going to want to know more. Will value detail.

I take an unwilling step into the hall. Two. My footfalls echo. The imagined eyes of the dead bore into me. I ignore my crawling skin and break into a hurried stride, moving to the closest of the open coffins.

Features resolve as I near. The man was square-jawed, athletic. Black hair is combed back neatly from his face. His skin is smooth, unblemished save for where the darkly glinting sword pierces the skin above his heart. His eyes are closed. There’s no blood.

I stop six feet away. The blade is entirely obsidian, I think. Worth a small fortune.

Six minutes.

I mutter a low, frustrated curse. I need more time. At a dead run, it’s not more than a couple of minutes back to the rope, then another two to be up and out into the safety of the forest. I tear my gaze from the corpse and take another look around.

Now I’m farther in, I realise that the bodies don’t take up the entirety of the room: there’s a slender section in the centre of the far end which is dark, solid. Part of the wall there looks different. Shimmers.

I hurry across the vast expanse of the hall. The errant space between the macabre green-lit coffins is about twenty feet wide, and there’s a plate set into its centre, roughly a man’s height and width, which appears to be metal rather than stone. Not steel, though. Bronze? More strange words like on the walls outside are inscribed into it, though the writing’s different. Fastidiously neat, etched with a steady, meticulous hand.

I stand close to the wall, squinting in the dim as I try to make out anything familiar. The metal’s tarnished. I impatiently reach forward and brush my fingers against the cool surface, trying to make some of the symbols clearer.

There’s a tingling shock where my skin makes contact. I snatch my hand back.

A low, resounding thrum shakes the room.

I retreat a step and then spin as new light blooms behind me. The stone floor in the centre of the hall undulates with white light. Glistens and ripples, as though water has formed and somehow ignited. Those swells are quickly coalescing, drawing themselves into three large, separate pools. Outcroppings of light start to rise within them. Firm into shapes.

Through the shock, I recognise the contours in the left-most one.

It’s Solivagus.

The likeness to the island becomes more obvious as sections of the liquid light pull upward, hardening into peaks and troughs to create impossibly detailed mountain ranges, valleys. Lakes and rivers and headlands. Individual trees. A topology I’m partly familiar with from looking out the window of the Curia Doctrina.

The other two pools are forming land masses, too. The one on the right seems identical, but as I look closer, I can see that the contours differ. There are sloping beaches to the north, rather than sheer bluffs. A mountain missing in the west. An entire section of forest cleared in the shadow of a cliff, a small town nestled there.

The centre-most image differs significantly from the other two. There are no trees, though there are similarities to the land’s shape in the east. To the west, though, there’s nothing but a crater, barren except for an unsettling, hovering sphere in its centre. To scale, it’s the size of a small mountain.

I study it in bewilderment, then let my eyes trace the shoreline to the south. It matches the two maps on either side.

That’s Solivagus, too, then. But utterly destroyed.

Even as the realisation comes, a rasping voice starts drifting through the hall. Speaking Vetusian, I recognise after a startled moment. The words just slow and precise enough for me to translate.

“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.”

And on. And on.

I whirl, skin crawling, looking for the source. There is none. Soon another voice joins it, perfectly in unison. Soft and harsh and sad. And then another. The sound fills the hall. I flee, skirting the brilliant map, fearful of what may happen if I touch it. The illumination from it overwhelms the dim green, casting the corpses to the sides in sharp relief. I catch a glimpse of a man to my right.

His eyelids flutter open. There’s nothing but bloodied sockets beneath.

Cold fear claws at my chest. I stare at the body, frozen. It stares back. Unmoving. Ebony blade jutting through its chest.

“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death…”

Its lips are moving.

I stumble back, almost fall. My gaze goes to the body in the next cavity. It’s watching me with an eyeless gaze, too. And the next. And the next. All whispering.

“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate.…”

I run.

Back through the tunnel of pulsing scrawls, lungs burning, not looking back. I’ve left the whispers behind but I don’t stop; I reach the rope, leap at it, and haul myself up with manic energy, swinging wildly, panicked breathing loud in my own ears. The skin on my hands hasn’t recovered from the slide down and it hurts but I ignore it, wrenching myself upward again and again until my feet are scrabbling for purchase on the floor above.

It’s only when I’m through the hole and into the perceived safety of the upper building that I calm enough to bring myself back under control. I collapse with my back against the cold stone, gasping, letting my stinging hands shake. Just for a few seconds. Just until I can find the strength to roll and lurch to my feet again. I’ve lost track of the count, but I need to get out of here. Now.

I flee into the crisp night air, pausing only to yank the steel door closed again, the warm, natural light of the lanterns ringing the building feeling like home after the nightmares inside. I’m quickly past their illumination and into the silver-coated ruins.

I’m halfway to the forest when I hear the faint, sporadic gasps of breathless conversation coming closer.

I skid down behind one of the broken walls, hunkering deep into shadow as another muted exchange filters into the clearing, this one louder, though the words remain indistinguishable. Two men, I think. The rapid crunching of footsteps echoes. They’re approaching at a sprint.

Then the footsteps slow. Break into the clearing and falter to silence as fresh light creeps over the rubble.

“See anything?” It’s Veridius, exertion straining his voice. I risk a peek around the corner of my boulder. A torch is hovering aloft in front of Veridius and his companion, ten feet up, lighting the area. Veridius himself is scanning the ruins grimly. His eyes are black. Three obsidian daggers hang at his waist.

“Maybe… just let me… breathe first.” The other man is swarthy and thin, around Veridius’s age. Unlike the Principalis though, he’s doubled over, hands on his knees. Uncoloured horn-rimmed glasses perch on his bird-like nose, reflecting the burning light.

Veridius responds by sending his torch higher still, letting it swirl above the ruins. My shadows melt briefly away, but I’m concealed from the two men by stone, and I hold my nerve. After thirty seconds of fruitless observation, the Principalis scowls. “I’m going inside. Stay back in the trees and keep watch. If I’m not out in ten minutes, or someone comes in after me, go back and contact Xan. He’ll know what to do.” Before the still-winded man can protest, Veridius moves past him into the lantern-light, stretching out his hand. The floating torch glides toward him; the Principalis takes it from the air without breaking stride, then pushes open the steel door and vanishes inside.

The next few minutes stretch interminably. The man keeping watch—he’s vaguely familiar, but not a Praeceptor or staff as far as I know—does as he’s told, disappearing into the nearby shadows of the trees. I have no way of seeing where he’s looking, can’t tell if it’s safe to move. All I can do is wait, and breathe, and let my still-trembling hands come back under control. I don’t think about what I saw in there. Can’t dwell on it. Not yet.

Veridius reappears soon enough, his frown turned from forbidding to thoughtful. He waves vaguely toward the forest, a signal to his companion. “They’re all there, Marcus.”

“You’re sure?” The other man, Marcus, emerges from the trees, brushing bits of leaves from his tunic. He joins Veridius, nodding in apologetic acknowledgment to the Principalis’s reproachful look. “Alright. Rotting gods, that’s a relief. But then what set off the alarm?”

“Who. Who set off the alarm.” Veridius is talking absently, still thinking. “Someone was here, not ten minutes ago. Everything’s still lit up.” His gaze sharpens and sweeps the ruins. I jerk back, though there’s no way he can see me in the darkness.

“You think the island’s been breached again?” The tension in Marcus’s voice is obvious.

“Perhaps.” There’s a long pause. “Go back to the Academy, as fast as you can. Taedia will be on her way here; get her to turn around and check that none of the Thirds or Fourths are missing from the girls’ dormitory—if she asks why, tell her to talk to me after she’s done it. You go and check on the boys. Thirds and Fourths. And Sixths,” he adds, almost an afterthought. “I’m going to look around inside some more.”

“Be careful.”

I calculate furiously as the crunch of Marcus’s hurrying footsteps fades away. He was already tired from running here, has to relay a message to Praeceptor Taedia on top of that. I can still beat him back. Maybe.

Veridius, true to his word, is heading back into the ruins. I wait until the steel door has shut behind him.

Then I run.

I try to vary my progress along the path between bursts of sprinting and brisk walking, all too aware that I’m trailing Marcus. It’s unlikely that I’ll catch the man, but I have to countenance the possibility of him stopping to rest, or at least pausing while he talks to Praeceptor Taedia.

It’s five minutes before I reach the point I carefully noted when I first found the path, and another ten of me crashing heedlessly through brush and over uneven ground, risking a turned ankle in the heavily dappled moonlight, before I miraculously reach the Academy wall with only myriad scratches and shredded clothes to show for my recklessness. My chest heaves as I drink in the sight of it. Everything considered, I’ve made good time.

My makeshift rope, barely visible in shadow, dangles not a hundred feet from where I emerge; I rush over to it, focusing more on speed than stealth, all too aware that seconds could make the difference between safety and discovery. Even if he stopped somewhere along the way, Marcus is probably back at the Academy entrance by now. I just have to hope he decides to check the upper floors of the dormitory first.

I leap and snatch the stirrup at an angle, allowing my momentum to swing me up. It works, but when I reach for the edge of the wall I’m already higher than I realise, and tired, and I brush my urgently grasping hand against a spike instead. Pain flares, hot and sharp, along my palm. I bite back a curse and almost lose my grip, almost fall. Somehow, desperation overcoming pain, I haul myself up using fingertips alone.

I’m bleeding copiously as I unhook the stirrup from the spike, then lift the scaled armour, flinging them into nearby bushes below with an uncomfortably loud clatter. I’ll be able to duck out and collect them tomorrow night when I’m at the stables again. A dark smear on the top of the wall glints even in the dim light, but there’s no time to clean it.

I jump for the grass of the Academy, rolling to lessen the impact before scrambling to my feet and sprinting for the dormitory, wary for any signs of light or movement, half nursing my hand. Dark droplets shake loose as I run.

It takes me another three minutes at a lung-burning sprint to get back to the dormitory, only once having to deviate from a straight line when I spot some distant figure hurrying through the quadrum. There’s nobody in sight, but there are lights burning in the windows of the top floor. Too many.

I finally slow my mad dash, pausing in the shadows of the parkland outside the tall building, tearing a limp strip of tunic off to wrap my smarting hand. I’m a mess: dirty, sweaty, bleeding, arms scratched, and clothes torn. But I can fix the worst of that by quickly rinsing myself in the fountain at the entrance; the scratches I can cover, and I have spare clothes. My hand’s a problem—the cut’s deep, throbbing—but I’ll just have to hope Marcus is not doing more than a cursory inspection.

Lights begin to wink out on the top floor, and the upper door to the external staircase opens. I shrink back as a slim figure hurries down to the next level, disappearing inside. This is going to be close.

I scrub myself madly in the fountain, pulling off my tunic and using it to towel myself dry, anxiety a shield against the sharp chill of the night. Then I’m taking the stairs two at a time, quietly as I can. There are voices drifting from the floor housing the Fourths. Lamplight fills their windows.

I’m up the stairs to the first floor. Inside, padding down the hallway to my room. Nerves start to mix with disbelieving jubilation. I’m going to make it.

I slip into my room, pull the door shut behind me, and turn to find Eidhin twisting at his desk and staring at me.

Neither of us say anything, frozen. Eidhin’s shuttered lamp is bright enough to show me naked to the waist, carrying the very obviously bloodied tunic that I used to clean myself. His gaze goes from me, to the tunic, and then back to me again.

“Strange dream,” he says eventually in Cymrian. Softly enough that the other two boys don’t wake, but firmly. Meaningfully.

Then he turns to his desk and bows his head over the book he’s reading.

I stare at his back for a half-second longer, then scurry across to my bed, pulling a fresh tunic from my satchel and hiding the soiled and torn one in its place. I have clean clothing on and am beneath the blankets, eyes forced closed, within half a minute.

It’s not two minutes after that when our door creaks open again, and bright lamplight swings into the room. I can hear one of the sleeping boys mutter and turn restlessly at the intrusion.

“Ah. Eidhin.” I recognise Marcus’s voice. “I didn’t expect anyone to be awake.”

A chair scrapes. “Sextus Carcius?” Eidhin evidently recognises the man. “Why are you here?” It’s said in halting Common. Almost as many words as I’ve heard from the burly boy all at once.

“Have you seen or heard anything out of the ordinary tonight?” I can feel Marcus’s gaze sweeping over the beds. I focus on deep, steady breathing. The slash across my bound palm aches. “There’s been a small disturbance off-campus. Nothing to be concerned about, but I need to make sure no students were involved.”

“I woke only… hour ago. Nothing since.”

“You’re sure?” An awkward cough. “I don’t have to remind you of the consequences to your people of lying. Or the benefits of cooperating.”

“You do not. I am sure.” There’s more than an intimation of anger in the deliberate, cold response.

“As you say.” A long pause, Marcus evidently considering. “No need to wake the others, then. But do let me or the Principalis know if you hear anything.” The lamplight begins to retreat, then lingers in the doorway, casting half the room into deep shadow. “And get some rest, son. Even the Aedhu need more sleep than this.”

The door shuts. Footsteps pad away down the hall to the next room.

I don’t move, even after I’m confident Marcus has gone, half expecting Eidhin to demand an explanation. There’s no sound from the other boy, though. Just the occasional scratching of a page being turned.

After a minute, my pounding heart eases enough for me to breathe and take stock. The scratches on my arms are light enough that they should be barely visible by morning, and I can wear clothing over them. I’ll need to dispose of my torn and bloodied tunic, but I have plenty of time alone at the stables during dinner. I can burn it then without anyone being the wiser.

The wound on my left hand is another problem entirely. The cut is deep, is going to hamper me. And I’m fairly sure it’s still bleeding. I’m probably going to have to go to Ulnius and have it tended in the morning. He’s going to ask how it happened.

I don’t think I left much blood on the spike atop the Academy wall, but if anyone notices it, the timing of my injury is going to look more than suspicious. I can’t risk that. Not with what I saw out there tonight.

Whatever it actually was.

I repress a trembling shudder as my mind unwillingly returns to the crypt beneath the ruins. I didn’t imagine those bodies opening their eyes. Did I? Their faces were shadowed before that strange map appeared. I was flustered, panicked.

Any momentary doubt is quickly stilled by the memory of their message, though. That whispering. My fear didn’t conjure that. Another reference to Obiteum that I don’t understand, the same word as in Caeror’s hidden message to Ulciscor. And a clear warning.

I’m quite certain their eyes had been removed, too. Strange and unsettling, but also familiar. I can’t help but wonder whether Lanistia’s accident during her Iudicium is somehow tied to all this.