We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 35

N eris has warded Leon’s room, but when I reach his door, the ward temporarily drops, allowing me entry.

Interesting. Those kinds of wards take more power than I thought Neris could access.

Albion exits his own room, walking toward me. His face is pale, his eyes devastated, but I shake my head, and he goes still. I have to do this alone.

So I take a deep breath in an effort to prepare myself.

It doesn’t help.

I open the door. For a moment, my mind can’t comprehend what I’m seeing, and I just stare, unable to move. The floor is coated with Leon’s blood, the walls closest to the door sprayed with crimson.

Perhaps Leon’s goddess was protecting him after all. How else could he have lived through this?

I’m careful not to step on the dark sigil on the floor. Someone has used chalk to create it, but the construction must have taken time—each line and whirl perfect, precise.

Leon’s room is small, but whoever tried to kill him shoved his bed up against the wall to give themselves room.

The sigil is circular, with two outer edges about four inches apart. Strange symbols I don’t recognize are spaced at regular intervals within the two larger circles.

Inside the smaller circle, a series of carefully drawn dots and slashes form a precise pattern. Two stylized swirls are positioned on either side of Mortuus’s mark—almost like the letter S—mirroring each other on the left and right.

Not one drop of Leon’s blood mars the inside of the sigil. It’s as if the sigil itself repelled the liquid, sending it splashing to the ground and walls surrounding it.

My mind helpfully provides me with an image of Leon’s crumpled body on the marble floor. His screams of agony as his ribs were cracked open.

I lean over, hands on my knees, the edges of my vision darkening.

Leon would only allow someone he trusted into this room. But it wouldn’t have been difficult to take him by surprise. Follow him to his room, wait until he opens the door, shove him inside. If they took him unaware, they could have used their power to deal the first blow. And Axia said he was drugged.

I move around the sigil, studying the swoops and swirls. I believed Rorrik when he told me about the sacrifices to Mortuus, and yet … the thought that someone is attempting to free him … it makes sweat break out on the back of my neck.

Not someone. Someones. Tiberius is dead, and Rorrik mentioned a sect sacrificing people to Mortuus. Since the murders continued after I killed Tiberius—something I no longer feel any guilt about—at least one other person in the ludus is attempting to free Mortuus for good.

But why? What possible motive could they have?

Sighing, I move to one of the only clean spots in the room and sit on the marble floor next to Leon’s chair, my back against the wall as I contemplate the sigil.

Decay. Death. Destruction. Chaos.

The murderer could be one of the emperor’s enemies. Someone who feels hopeless, like there’s no other way to make him pay. I could understand that, except for the fact that Mortuus won’t discriminate. He won’t just kill the emperor if he breaks free of his prison. He’ll slaughter everyone.

What if someone is killing against their own will? There are hundreds of myths and legends from before the gods began to lose power, and in many of those stories, the gods trick their followers into doing their bidding.

My skin turns clammy. That thought is even scarier.

Sitting here isn’t helping. I reach out a hand to push myself up off the floor, my elbow knocking the chair. My finger brushes something soft.

It’s tiny—little more than a piece of fluff, stuck beneath the chair leg.

But it’s not fluff. I lift it to my face, my heart pounding.

It’s the tip of a lavender feather.

Leon has a healthy respect for the maginari. I’ve seen the sorrow in his eyes that tells me he hates what the emperor does to the maginari who oppose him, but as far as I know, he’s never interacted with them directly.

Shoving the feather into my pocket, I leave Leon’s room. The room’s ward pops back into place behind me, and I hurry down the corridor toward the healers’ quarters.

Maeva is sleeping once more. Axia gives me a warning shake of her head, but I stride to Maeva’s side, ruthlessly shaking her shoulder to wake her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper as I lean close to her ear. “But I need you to tell me everything you know about where the maginari are kept … and how you were planning to get in.”

R ORRIK ’ S PENDANT BUMPS against my sternum as I stride down the corridor between the ludus and the arena. Tomorrow, the emperor will put us all on display, marching us into the arena to be presented to the public. I have no doubt he has something suitably grisly planned directly after the presentation.

For now, the corridor is almost empty, and the imperius armor I’m wearing will at least allow me to get near the maginari without raising suspicion—unless one of the imperiums catch me sneaking around, impersonating them.

Unsurprisingly, Maeva didn’t allow my initial refusal to help her free the maginari to dampen her own determination. She’s been planning to find a way down to them for months, and I repeat her instructions silently in my mind as I make my way to the holding rooms beneath the arena.

Twice I’ve waited in this exact spot. And I was too busy contemplating my own mortality to notice the trapdoor at the very edge of the room.

But Maeva wasn’t. The last time we were here, I noticed her staring in this direction. Even then, she was planning her approach.

A sudden sound breaks the silence. It’s the abrasive sound of boots scuffing against stone in the distance, and my heart trips in my chest. I’ve taken too long, and if I don’t move now, the patrol will reach me in moments.

I brush away a thin layer of sand, hauling the trapdoor open. It lets out a screech that makes my blood turn cold and I burrow into the yawning hole like a rat retreating into the shadows, pulling the door closed behind me.

Panting in the dark, I keep moving. Five steps down, and I’m in a dank, freezing corridor. My teeth begin chattering almost immediately, the sound deafening to my own ears.

The most dangerous part is over, according to Maeva. The maginari have never escaped before, and the emperor keeps most of them too weak to even attempt such a thing.

I keep my steps light as I walk down the corridor. No use advertising my presence if a guard decides to do a check.

“Left,” I whisper as I get to the first intersection. “Left, left, right.”

By the time I take the final turn, there’s no need to remember Maeva’s instructions. The scent of filth reaches my nostrils, tinged with an underlying reek of hopelessness and despair.

The corridor opens to a cavernous space so large, I can’t see where it ends. The cage within the space is a monstrous construct of twisted iron and silver, the bars thicker than my forearm, the floor littered with scratches and gouges. Even from here, I can feel the power emanating from the lock in the center of the cage. Warded. Even the most powerful gold sigilmarked couldn’t break that ward without the key to that lock.

Thousands of eyes turn toward me, glowing with the eerie light of suppressed power. Maginari.

Some slink back into the shadows, their forms barely discernible. Others press closer to the bars, hissing and screaming for release.

A centaur steps forward, his hooves clomping on the stone floor. His nose and eyes spark something in my memory and I stare at him.

It hits me. His eyes are the same dark blue as the centaur the emperor ordered killed in the arena just weeks ago. I can see the resemblance in the flattened bridge of his nose and his high forehead.

This centaur’s relative was slaughtered in front of me.

I remove my helmet, conscious that the maginari likely know who the imperius are.

“You’re the broken sigilmarked,” the centaur says, his eyes on my forehead.

How could he possibly have heard of me down here? I rub at my sigil self-consciously and he lets out a booming laugh. “And why are you here?”

I hold up the feather. “Someone has been killing guardants, gladians, and novices. They attempted to kill my own guardant and left this behind.”

“And you believe we should help you?”

I choose my words carefully. “I would be grateful if you would.”

He lets out a low chuckle, but his eyes blaze with repressed rage. “I hope you continue to kill each other. I hope it’s messy and bloody and agonizing.”

When I don’t reply, he raises one eyebrow, his front hoof scuffing against stone. “How many of our people have you watched be slaughtered in that arena? Did you cheer, too, sigilmarked?”

“No. I didn’t cheer. But you’re right. I watched them die. And I did nothing.”

A harpy shuffles forward, her human face pale, almost ashen, with an unnatural translucence that contrasts sharply with the dark, wild tangle of her hair. Her eyes are large and piercing, burning with a predatory intensity. But it’s her wings I focus on. The powerful, beautiful wings sprouting from her back are a soft lavender tipped with gray.

Just like the feather in my hand.

“She is a victim, just as we are victims,” the harpy says.

The centaur snorts, giving me a derisive look. “She doesn’t look like a victim to me. She strolls these corridors freely, armed and armored as an imperium.”

Movement in the shadows. The centaur shifts to the side, bowing his head respectfully as a griffon slowly moves toward us.

“Enough,” the griffon says, his voice low and clear as he mindpaths. His feathers are lighter than Antigrus’s, but he steps closer, and for a moment I’m back in the arena again, my sword stabbing deep into the griffon’s chest.

“You are Arvelle,” the griffon says.

“Yes.” My voice is tight. “There is nothing I can say to you to make up for what I did. No apology I can offer—”

“Shhh. Antigrus told us about you. He allowed us to see every moment in that arena. You gave him the only escape you could. Through mercy.”

“It wasn’t enough,” I whisper.

“It was enough for him.” The griffon turns his head, staring at the centaur. “We will tell her what we know, Linaros.”

“Pholus—”

“You will do this for Antigrus.”

Linaros sighs, giving me a look of pure dislike. But he bows his head to Pholus once more, holding his hand out to me.

I slip my arm between the bars and give him the feather. His mouth curves up. “Sloppy of him to leave this behind.” He hands it to the harpy, who smiles as if she was the one to misplace it.

“Him?” I ask.

Pholus nods. “He was working with one of the sigilmarked.” His expression turns sly. “Although I heard you killed him too. Perhaps you can be useful, human.”

Tiberius Cotta.

“And the other man?”

“I do not know his name. Perhaps I can describe him to you.”

I can feel time ticking down, but I give him a nod.

“He has been using our poison,” a woman says, her voice a low hiss, and she steps out of the shadows. I get one glimpse of snakes where there should be hair and immediately lower my gaze, my heart rattling my ribs.

The gorgon lets out a delighted laugh. The hissing is louder now, and I fight the urge to take a step back.

Everything I’ve learned about interacting with predators—including looking them in the eye—would be the wrong choice here. I’m relatively sure the aether-enchanted bars would prevent the gorgon’s gaze from turning me to stone, but I’m unwilling to risk it.

“He harnessed our poison to use it against those who trusted him,” she continues. “His misery made me strong. The misery of men always does. I got close enough to see his memories. Would you like me to show you?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because a man has wronged you. Women have been each other’s sword and shield since the beginning. When men turn against us, we turn to one another.”

“How will you show me?”

“Look into my eyes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Tell her she can trust me, Pholus.”

Unlike the centaur, her voice doesn’t hold quite the same amount of respect, but the griffon steps closer, drawing my attention. He holds my gaze.

“In this, you can trust her.”

“If I turn to stone, I’m going to be really annoyed.”

The centaur snorts. Taking a deep breath, I lift my head, meeting the gorgon’s eyes.

Images flash before me. Chains, sigils, the gorgon’s snakes milked of their venom.

“He cannot allow your friend to live,” the gorgon says. “He began the sacrifice and must finish it.”

More images, until I’m seeing through her eyes. The symbol of Mortuus. The sound of a muffled apology.

And a face I know well.

Albion’s face.