We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 6

T he boy is back three days later. I warned Kassia that our place has been taken by someone else. She was curious, but she hated confrontation.

“We’ll find another place,” she’d soothed me, but her mouth had turned down.

I don’t know what makes me go back, but the boy is lounging in my oak when I arrive. I expect him to snarl at me for stealing his jacket, but his eyes lighten when they meet mine.

“You came back.”

“You’re in my tree again.”

He takes one hand away from the branch he’s leaning on and shakes his finger at me. “Perhaps it’s my tree now.”

He’s the first noble I’ve ever met. And he reinforces everything I’ve heard about them. They believe they’re entitled to anything they want. All they do is take.

Bitterness floods my mouth and I turn to go.

“You stole my jacket.”

I stiffen, slowly turning. “And?”

“Why?”

He can’t possibly be this stupid. Lifting my chin, I meet his eyes. “I sold it. The velvet paid to refill our aether stones. And the buttons fed us for two weeks.”

He looks aghast. “You have to worry about such things? You’re younger than I am.”

“How do you know I’m younger?”

“You’re small. Puny.”

I scowl at him. His gaze slides over my face. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

I have a feeling this is the closest this boy will ever come to an apology.

Casting a final look at him, so clean and beautiful and shiny, I turn to leave again.

“Wait.”

His voice is strong. Commanding. He’s only a few years older than me at most, and he’s already used to giving orders. But I don’t have to take them. Not here. Not in my territory.

“Please.”

That word does it. I turn once more, finding him lounging against the tree trunk, one leg stretched out along the lowest branch. He’s moved farther down, as if he’s planning to follow me.

Stupid boy. I know the Thorn inside and out. He’ll be lost before he takes ten steps.

“Stay with me. I’ll give you this.”

He plucks a button off his jacket and holds it out in his hand, the gold taunting me.

“Won’t your parents notice if you lose a button?” For the first time, I consider how much trouble he must have been in when he returned with no jacket.

Confusion slips across his face. “No.”

His home life is so different from mine. What else is different? I drift closer to the tree, stepping over acorns littered on the grassy hill around the trunk of the oak. Triumph flashes in the boy’s eyes and my skin prickles. My instincts roar at me.

Ignoring the little voice inside my head that begs me to turn and leave, I hold out my hand for him to drop the button down.

He gives me a haughty look. “I don’t think so. You’ll get it when we are finished here.”

“How do I know you’ll give it to me?”

He inclines his head. “Because I gave you my word.”

Such a statement is ridiculous in the Thorn. But for some reason, I believe him.

“Fine,” I say, climbing up. “Move out of the way.”

I should have listened to my instincts that day.

Should have left and never turned back.

But I didn’t.

T HE FIRST DAY of anything is usually the worst.

I remind myself of this over and over as Maeva and I return to our bedroom in silence. Several other women follow us, murmuring in low voices among themselves. One of them is the woman who stared at the emperor’s son the same way my mother used to look at glister.

I can’t let myself focus on the vampire who just killed a man in front of me, or Baldric, who already wants me dead, or the emperor, who I have to somehow kill.

Instead, I force my mind to clear while I change into loose-fitting pants and a tunic, which I tuck into the pants.

Maeva’s still getting dressed when I walk back toward the dining hall. Leon appears at my side, and I jump. He still moves far too quietly for such a large man. If the lack of daylight disconcerts him, it’s not evident. He shaved at some point yesterday, but it hasn’t done much to soften his unkempt look.

“Are you even allowed down here?”

“Guardants have access to most of the rooms beneath the arena,” he mutters.

And he must know his way around, since he was once a champion in this very arena—long before the Sands were compulsory. It’s the reason Kassia and I were so certain we would both live. We’d felt as if we had a secret weapon on our side.

I press myself against the stone wall, making way for a group of gladians who are heading toward the dining hall.

“Don’t bother eating,” Leon says, the expression on his face as grim as if he were the one about to march to his own death.

I know what that means. Leon’s planning to push me hard enough that any food in my stomach would come straight back up.

I fall into step next to him.

“You’ll be training at the same time as the other gladians,” he says, “which means they’ll be watching you. They’ll be sniffing out any signs of weakness that they can use against you in the arena. Everything you do in this place matters.”

My stomach churns. If Bran had come to me earlier with his little deal, I might’ve had longer to train before I had to display those weaknesses in public.

“What do you know of the rules of the arena?” Leon asks.

“Not much. I only know the rules of the Sands.” I keep my voice as empty and neutral as his own.

He keeps his gaze pointedly turned from me as we make our way toward the training hall. “There are three main rules during active fighting. Gladians can’t exit the arena until someone either dies or throws down their weapons—bowing to the emperor and asking for his mercy.

“Gladians also can’t enter anyone else’s fight without automatically joining them and risking something worse—the emperor doesn’t like his entertainment interrupted. And even if you win, your survival depends on the emperor’s mood—and his thumb. If he flips that thumb down, you’ll be executed.”

My mouth turns watery, and Leon finally glances at me. “He’s unlikely to waste his gladians in such a way. He has the criminals sentenced to the arena for that. He would much prefer to watch his gladians fight to the death among themselves.”

That’s reassuring. “Is every fight to the death?” It wasn’t in the Sands, but the Sundering is far deadlier.

Leon shakes his head. “Some gladians agree among themselves to go to first blood. However, the emperor casts a fond eye over those who give the crowd a good show. And occasionally, that first blood will be a wound too great for the healers to fix in time.” We enter the hall, and he turns to look at me, his eyes steely. “And of course, there are those who want to impress the crowd—and their sponsors—with their kill count. This place is filled with people who are out for themselves. People from families with ancient grudges who use their children to settle them when they enter the arena. People who have scores to settle from the Sands.”

My mind immediately pictures Hester and Baldric, but Leon is still speaking.

“Never assume your opponent is just aiming for first blood. You know exactly what happens when—”

His voice cuts off, and suddenly all I can see is Kassia, her eyes wide with the realization that she’s about to die.

Silence gnaws at the air between us. I open my mouth, but Leon is already walking away, gesturing for me to follow him. We walk past thick ropes hanging from the ceiling, past the mats laid out for wrestling, and past the targets for archery.

Some of the gladians have already broken into groups, while others are training solo or with their guardants. Maeva is standing with her own guardant, her expression serious as she nods at whatever the man is saying.

Already, the musty scent of sweat hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of oiled leather. I catch the coppery tang of blood and slice my eyes toward a vampire training on one of the ropes. Every so often, his eyes flare, and he bares his fangs, head craned as he looks toward the source of the bleeding. But he keeps moving.

I suppose even vampires don’t survive within the ludus without exceptional self-control.

Several gazes turn my way, and I ignore them, focusing on the wall at our right … and the gold plaques lining the wall, names of past victories carved into the gold.

My stomach tumbles.

Since Lysoria is the empire’s capital, residents of our city are fortunate enough to fight in the Sands in the emperor’s own arena.

Arvelle Dacien.

My own name screams at me, the plaque at eye level, as if placed exactly here to taunt me.

My palms are suddenly slick with sweat.

I can’t do this.

“Arvelle.” Leon’s gaze sweeps past me to the plaque, and he swallows, his eyes turning blank. “We’re this way,” he says and turns without another word, forcing me to trot after him or be left behind.

Praesidium guards are posted every few feet along the walls in the training hall. All of them wear black body armor made from aetherweave—a relatively new invention. Six years ago, the material was all Leon would talk about. Kassia had teased him mercilessly about his obsession.

The guards’ chest pieces are embossed with the emperor’s mark—the two interlocked triangles highlighted with glowing silver accents. Deep purple cloaks are fastened at their shoulders with ornate silver clasps, and even their gauntlets and greaves have been crafted from aetherweave and reinforced steel.

All of the guards are armed with finely crafted swords, daggers sheathed at their sides, and likely several other weapons hidden on their person. And all of them are watching the gladians carefully, as if preparing for one of us to suddenly attack.

Leon has claimed a corner to the right, at the far end of the hall. Wooden sparring swords are waiting in a pile, along with several shields. I’ve never fought with a shield before. They weren’t allowed in the Sands.

Leon nods toward the closest shield. “Pick it up.”

The shield is large and rectangular, curved at the edges to offer increased protection. It’s huge, reinforced with bronze, and so heavy it takes the use of both my arms to lift it.

“These are called scutums,” Leon says. “The Guard uses them in battle, but so do the stronger gladians. Not only does this kind of shield provide the best protection, but it makes an excellent weapon in the arena as well.” His mouth thins as he watches my arms shake, and he takes a practice sword, swinging it at me.

I’m losing the battle to keep the shield high before he even finishes the swing.

“Put it down.” Leon’s voice is somehow both sharp and empty at the same time.

Something in my chest wrenches. I knew he hated me, and I told myself I’d accepted that years ago. But …

I drop the shield on the ground, and a snigger sounds to my left. A woman strolls past, effortlessly holding a scutum of her own. I recognize her as the woman who looked at Rorrik like he was everything she’s ever wanted directly after he murdered someone in front of us.

“You can’t lift it?” Her voice is purposefully loud, and she ignores Leon, turning to stroll away, but several other gladians nearby have heard her, and I can feel their eyes on me. My skin turns hot.

So much for not showcasing my weakness.

I turn back to Leon. Silence hangs between us as he studies my face. I’m not sure what he sees, but he leans down and picks up another shield.

“Your skill has always been your speed,” he says gruffly. “You’ll use the parma. Yes, it’s smaller,” he continues as I gaze at the round wooden shield. “And no, it won’t provide you with as much protection. But you’ll be more mobile, and you can train with it while working on your upper body strength.”

Yes, my skill has always been my speed. Because this man ensured it when I was too young to understand what he was doing.

The training hall fades around me. Suddenly I’m five years old, Kassia’s hand clutched in mine, standing in Thalunia’s temple, as Leon begs his goddess to bless us the way he was blessed.

The memory turns fuzzy, and I push it away, sliding the strap of the shield over my left forearm, positioning my hand so that I can grip the handle. Even the smaller shield is heavy, and the muscles on the left side of my body strain as I hold it up at chest height.

Leon nods. And then he swings.

Again and again and again, his sword meets my shield. We fall into a rhythm. He’s not even breaking a sweat, but he aims each slash, swipe, and strike at different points on my body, forcing me to shift both the shield and my feet accordingly.

I tire quickly. Too quickly. Within minutes, I’m panting, my arms shaking. Leon’s expression is dark, and when he throws down his wooden sword, it hits the floor with a clatter.

“Your strength is all but gone, your natural instinct has disappeared, and your speed …” He shakes his head. “Even Thalunia’s gifts must be trained. What were you doing for the past six years?”

Bitterness rises, sharp and hot. “Keeping my brothers fed and alive.” While he ignored us and became a recluse in his cottage.

Leon opens his mouth to say something, but his gaze slips past me.

The Primus is leaning against a nearby wall, that armor covering every inch of his body and face. And he’s watching me.

“You need to go home,” the Primus says, his voice as rough as boots on gravel.

My sweat turns icy. He hasn’t paid attention to anyone else near me. Does he know I’ve been sent to kill the emperor? Is that why he’s attempting to give me a chance to leave? A chance to live?

Several people nearby laugh at his words, and the Primus slowly turns his head. The laughter cuts off abruptly.

I keep my gaze on him. “I can’t.”

“Then I’ll make you.”

Someone calls to him, and he turns, stalking away.

“Ten laps,” Leon says, as if nothing happened. “Sprint.”

Nodding, I go to drop the shield and he shakes his head. “Take it with you. Hold it up.”

Grinding my teeth, I join a few others in their laps. Thankfully, they ignore me.

Circling the hall allows me to see the others training.

A group of gladians work on knife skills, hands fast and sure as they throw blades at their targets, disarm their opponents, and slice out with wicked speed.

Several people climb up and down the ropes using only their arms. A woman calls down to Maeva, nimbly wrapping the rope around her waist and one leg and holding herself horizontally in the air. She reminds me of an acrobat, and Maeva gives her a grin before going back to her own drills. She’s fast, too, her sword slicing through the air as her guardant calls out instruction.

In one corner, a group of gladians are training with magic. All of them are at least half-crowned bronze, and a man with a face covered in freckles throws flames from his hand, while his opponent sends up a gust of wind, driving the flames straight back at him. A woman with long, yellow-blond hair smirks, and both of the men curse, feet wheeling as they slip on the sudden pool of water beneath their feet.

In another corner, a group of vampires are throwing knives, the blades nothing but a blur, until they hit the target with a thump .

I pass Leon and he folds his arms. “Faster.”

Everywhere I look, sigilmarked and vampires spar with scutum and parma shields, broadswords and daggers. Their arms are strong, their footwork flawless. Each lap reinforces just how out of my depth I am.

Baldric and Hester train in the center of the hall, fighting two opponents each. Baldric trips one of the men, slamming a wooden sword into his back with a laugh.

By the time I finish a few laps, I know exactly why Leon made me run laps, and it has nothing to do with the burning in my muscles.

Six years of bodyguard work has sharpened my instincts. Guarding the kind of people who have potentially violent enemies is a great way to learn how to judge those enemies at a glance and react accordingly.

By my fifth lap, I know Maeva is playing smart. Instead of showcasing her skills for everyone to see, her movements are carefully restrained, her speed slower than what she’s capable of. She can’t completely dampen her instincts when responding to a strike or blow, but she’s slowing that response down as much as she can.

Clever.

By my sixth lap, I know Baldric has an anger problem—as if that wasn’t already evident from the moment we met. He’s strong and fast, but each time his opponent gets beneath his guard, he takes it as a personal affront, his eyes hardening, teeth bared in frustration.

By my seventh lap, I know the best way to fight Hester will be to tire her out. She’s fast, but her stamina is lacking. Kaeso, on the other hand, never seems to stop moving, the vampire dancing from side to side as he grins at his opponent.

By my eighth lap, I know if I ever have to fight Titus—the hulking brute of a man who seems to have more muscle than brains—I’d better have honed my speed to a knife edge. If he hits me even once, I’m in big trouble.

By my ninth lap, I’m too tired to focus. My abs feel like a knotted fist of pain, my arms throb, and my back muscles scream relentlessly at me.

Finally, I drop my parma, suppressing a wince at the ache in my arms. Leaning over, I suck in huge, panting breaths.

Leon’s eyes meet mine and he gives me a stiff nod. “Get something to eat and meet me back here after lunch.”

I keep my head high, attempting to hide my exhaustion as I stroll from the training hall. I know from experience I’ll barely be able to walk when I get out of bed tomorrow morning.

On a whim, I stroll past the dining hall, until I’m standing in front of the statue of Anoxian. It’s quiet here. Peaceful. Is Anoxian pleased by the emperor’s games? Or does he find them to be a poor substitution for true battle?

Several gladians have left more offerings at his feet overnight. A dagger—clearly new. A bunch of dried flowers, tied together with black ribbon. A set of bracers.

I’m not as pious as I should be. I’ve never felt the gods steering me toward any particular path as others claim to. And yet …

Please, Anoxian. Don’t let me die before I free my brothers. I’ll give you a good show in the arena. I’ll devote each challenge to you. Just help me stay alive.

Silence. I don’t know what I was expecting. Shaking my head at myself, I turn to go, but something catches my eye. A tiny mark carved into Anoxian’s chest. A mark that wasn’t there when I arrived yesterday, I’m almost sure of it.

A twisted spiral starts from a sharp point at the center and widens as it unfurls. Surrounding the spiral, thin, spidery lines radiate outward like cracks in glass, growing fainter as they extend. Encircling the spiral, a ring is punctuated by four distinct symbols in each direction—symbols I’ve never seen before. Tiny dots and lines are randomly dotted across the entire design, the gaps jagged and uneven.

The mark is entirely unfamiliar, but it makes my skin break out in goose bumps, makes a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. My reaction to it is violent, a sudden wave of nausea crashing over me.

Giving into my instincts, I turn and hurry away.

I LOAD MY tray with flatbread, chicken, and fruit, before making my way toward a small table near the front of the room. A table where I can be alone.

A huge hand wraps around my upper arm. I yank at it, and my tray wobbles dangerously.

The Primus doesn’t release his grip.

I freeze, waiting for the cold slice of metal as his sword runs me through. Instead, the Primus leans close.

“You’ll sit with us.”

All the spit evaporates from my mouth. “No thank you.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

He hauls me toward the imperius’s table, and voices around us trail off. The back of my neck heats. At least eight of the imperiums are already seated, still wearing their intimidating black armor, although no one else is wearing a helmet.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

The Primus simply kicks a chair out from the table and nods at me to sit.

I hesitate.

He looms even closer, his armor creaking as he folds his arms.

The tables surrounding us are silent, the gladians watching my every move. I’m unlucky enough to glimpse the contents of several gladians’ mouths as they drop open midchew, their eyes widening as they watch us.

The man across from me removes his helmet from the table to give me more room for my tray. Amusement flashes in his eyes as he glances between me and the Primus. He’s a handsome bastard, with dark brown skin, sharp cheekbones, and eyes the same color as his bronze sigil.

Controlling my anger, I place my tray on the table and drop into the chair.

The Primus sits down and leans back in his chair. “You shouldn’t be here. So I’m going to make your life miserable until you leave.”

Simple words, and yet it takes a moment for them to sink in.

“Why?”

A woman sitting at the other end of the table lets out a quiet snort. The Primus gives her a warning look, but she merely raises one eyebrow, pushing back several tight black curls that have fallen free from her braid. Her gold sigil is almost half-crowned, and it contrasts sharply with her dark skin.

I reach for my cup. Casting a longing look toward the small tables near the front of the dining hall, I find Maeva standing near the food line, her eyes wide as she stares at me.

What is happening? she mouths, and I shrug.

The dining hall is still quiet, people speaking in hushed whispers as they stare at our table. The absurdity of it hits me like a slap. The emperor’s son brutally murdered a man in front of all of us this morning, and yet my seating arrangement for lunch has caused far more shock and horror.

“Eat,” the Primus orders, and I find him watching me.

Of course, he still hasn’t removed his helmet, but I can practically feel his gaze burrowing into me.

I take a bite of my chicken, which is probably delicious, even if it tastes like sand in my mouth.

“Not hungry?” I ask, waving my hand at the empty table in front of the Primus.

Across from me, the man with the bronze eyes flashes a grin. “The Primus has become weirdly attached to his helmet lately.”

“Careful, Micah,” the Primus rumbles.

I take another bite of food. Swallow.

“Facial disfigurement?” I wince. “That’s unfortunate.”

The Primus goes still, as if my audacity has shocked him.

Truthfully, it has shocked me .

Several of the other imperiums glance my way before looking at the Primus.

The woman down at the other end of the table opens her mouth to say something, but a man next to her grabs her gloved hand and squeezes.

“Why are you here?” the Primus asks.

Bran’s instructions weren’t difficult to memorize. After all, the best lies have a kernel of truth.

“I … I won the Sands in this district six years ago and I’ve wanted to enter the Sundering ever since,” I recite. “But I couldn’t afford to take the time away from my family. This year, I was lucky enough to be sponsored.”

According to the note Bran left me, it’s not uncommon for gladians to be sponsored. It’s also not uncommon for those sponsors to be kept a secret. Not only do sponsors receive a cut of a gladian’s winnings, if we survive the Sundering, they then have someone in the Praesidium Guard who has some measure of loyalty to them.

“Why did your sponsor not ensure you arrived two weeks ago?”

“I believe I was a last-minute addition. A bet between him and a friend.”

A beat of silence, and then the Primus shakes his head. “Every five days, the emperor takes appellations from the public,” he says in his rough growl. The injury that ruined his face must have also damaged his vocal cords.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will use the appellation process to appeal directly to the emperor. And you will beg him to allow you to leave.”

“No, I won’t.”

After today’s training session, I wish I could. But my brothers come first. And I have no doubt Bran will kill them without a second thought.

The Primus watches me. He’s really mastered the art of silent intimidation and I’m sure he knows just how unsettling it is not to be able to see his eyes.

“I saw you training today,” the woman says. “The Primus is right. You shouldn’t be here.”

Maybe they truly don’t know why I’m here. But if the Primus doesn’t know I’ve been sent to kill the emperor, this interest in my welfare is strange.

“Why do you care?”

“Your incompetence reflects on all of us,” the woman says.

Ouch. If I was truly here to succeed as a gladian, that would definitely sting.

“Enough, Neris,” the Primus says brusquely.

I stuff another bite into my mouth. I’m no longer hungry, but I need the fuel to get through the rest of the day.

The Primus casually reaches out and takes an apple from my tray. He doesn’t remove his helmet, merely holds the apple up as if he’s never seen one before.

“Everyone else here fits in,” he says. “They’ve trained for this. They want to be here. You haven’t, and you don’t. That makes you a mystery. And I’m very good at solving mysteries.”

My scalp prickles. I was stupid. So, so stupid to think I could come here, survive the arena three times, and then get through the predator sitting next to me to kill the emperor.

Evren’s face flashes before my eyes, his lips blue as he suffocates in front of me. Pushing my tray away, I get to my feet.

Everyone has a weakness. Even the vampire watching me so intently.

I just need to find his.