NOVEL NEXT Chapter 4 - Bloodshed
Hope bluffs through antes, bids, and fees
what good is Hope in times like these?
the tables turn when souls are sold
without Hope, everyone must fold.
"The Soul Trade," Verse five
"You'll have to talk to the academic lanistae directly," Segolé says when I ask him how many papers and tests I missed. "Veneer Week should give you time to make up the coursework."
"General Killián said I'd be shadowing him?"
"You'll be doing that too." He pauses. "I heard you switched your allegiance to Death last night. Wasn't there myself, but Lefe caught me up this morning."
"I heard I might get burned at the stake for it."
"We'll see." He jerks the reigns, and the horses quicken their pace. "It's a pity. If you must die—which everyone must do, lad, remember that—the stake is a bad way to go."
Something about his tone makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
"Lady Fate says I'll be dead within a week."
"It's politics," he says. "Even before you deserted, King Audrin had a bone to pick with you because of the Leómadura scandal."
I stiffen. "What?"
"They're cousins, and even though it's maternal and Leó doesn't have the patronymic, Darkblooms protect their own," he says. "A public hanging isn't good for the family reputation. King Audrin's fighting for acquittal—all the Darkblooms are. Invoking lex deserts might be a way of getting you to back down. Can't file a suit if you're dead. It is what it is."
A dark, pulsing knot coils in my stomach. I've been trying my best not to think about Leómadura—between Brid Naya'il's visit to the medi-room, my declaration of allegiance to Lady Loss, everything that happened at dinner last night, and the dream that followed, my mind has been on other matters. Hearing Segolé bring him up so casually—gruffly, but casually—makes my mind reel. How much has he been told?
"What's going to happen?" I ask.
"It's a tough situation." His gaze is fixed on the horses' backs—determinedly not looking at me. "You might have to testify before the Darkblooms. You might be burned at the stake before you can do that. You might die in some other mysterious, unrelated way. We just don't know. Fate says you have a week."
What isn't he telling me? There's something else, or he'd have the guts to meet my eyes.
"I don't understand," I say.
"Leó's not denying that an…incident…occurred," Segolé says. "Bad news is he says he paid you. With your birth stratum and the Septemvirate's prejudices, it's not a good look. Might not warrant a hanging on appeal. Course, if you die, that clears up everything for the Darkblooms. It's very neat, very convenient—but again, they're Darkblooms. It's what they do."
I'm not sure which is worse—the fact that a terrible thirty-seven minutes can be boiled down to the word incident, or what Segolé said thereafter. I distantly remember Leómadura shoving coins in my pocket after the incident was over—incident, incident, incident, Hel I hate that word…I must've left them in the pocket of the leathers I abandoned on the washroom floor.
The fact that Segolé—and Killián, and King Audrin, and everyone else who's been made aware of the incident—knows about the coins is humiliating in a way I can't describe.
I didn't want the money. I didn't want to be in his office. I definitely don't want to testify, don't want to think about those thirty-seven minutes ever again. What happened was awful, demeaning, beyond mortifying. If I never have to talk about it again I'll be overjoyed.
It doesn't sound like I'm getting that option.
"I didn't want his money." Heat burns my cheeks, my neck. There's nothing to say to the headmaster of L-DAW when you're at the center of the scandal—it just sucks.
"I got that impression by the way you high-tailed it from the academy like your ass was on fire," Segolé says, then blanches. "Poor choice of words. You know what I mean."
I'm too embarrassed to respond.
"I hate that this happened at L-DAW," Segolé says, still not looking at me. "I hate that it was Leó—I've known him his whole life. I hate that we're having to deal with the politics bullcrap from Audrin. For what it's worth, I'm sorry, boy—birth caste be damned. This shouldn't be happening."
"Thanks," I say, wondering if it's too late to disappear from the First Circuit, never to return.
I guess I tried that already.
It didn't work out.
###
As soon as the chaise parks in front of Colçon's Tower I flee from Segolé like he's the one threatening to burn me at the stake, escaping from the silence that fell in the wake of our earlier unpleasant conversation as quickly as I can. Judging by the rising sun, the dimmest rays of which are peeking over the looming sandstone fortress of Le Château du Roi Dieu, I've still got some time before PT. I hike my kitbag further up my shoulder as I walk down the hall to the boy's dormitory.
A pair of white leathers are folded on my pillow—I wonder if they're the same ones I left in the washroom when I departed. The books I left behind are stacked on the bedtable by my bunk—the lower bunk, the one below Dune's. He's snoring; Rowan's bed is empty, and Osyrus is gone too. I run my fingers along the spines—The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow by Rarre Lucci, Training the Untrainable by Segolé Baumé, L'Anglimar's Lore Retold by Médéric di Vivar the Second, The Puritan's Guide to Strategy by Lefe Frétou.
After a moment's pause, I open my kitbag and put the set of shaving blades from Killián beside them on the table. No need to lug it with me to PT. Other than that, my kitbag is mostly empty. I have a second copy of Training the Untrainable, a mostly empty first-aid kit, an extra pair of socks, and a receipt from the depository in Zaranea. A receipt for fifteen éclats—the pay of a first-year staffmaster. It doesn't make sense considering how far away I am from graduating L-DAW. I shouldn't be an elite—I'm barely a student.
Then again, very little of what Killián's put me through makes sense. Between the four titles, the pay, and the black leathers, it's like he's trying to push me through the ranks of Lady Death's Guard as quickly as possible. How much of this have I earned, and how much does it have to do with the instability of the di Vivar household? Killián's made his plans for Brid and me clear. What will the coming months bring if I manage to avoid being burned for deserting Lady Loss's church? How am I supposed to navigate an effing troth?
I shake Dune awake. He flails a bit and stares at me, shock mingling with exhaustion.
"You're back!" A grin splits his face, but then he scowls and reaches out to punch my shoulder. "Dude. Why in Hel did you run off without saying goodbye?"
My temples throb. I rub the back of my neck.
"Lanista Segolé said you were doing your internship at a correctional facility," he continues when I don't respond. "How'd you like Cahuela?"
"Never made it—long story." I shift from foot to foot. "What did I miss?"
"A couple of tests and essays…oh, and Staffmaster Kempe's our new grunt lanista." He frowns. "That's the big news. Ol' Leó disappeared, straight up off the map."
I find myself ridiculously glad that news of the incident hasn't made its way to my cohorts in the L-DAW program, but Dune's looking at me curiously. I tell myself it's just the black leathers and promise to fill him in on my promotion once we find our cohorts.
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Billi offers me a similar greeting to Dune when we join our fellow recruités in the mess hall below Colçon's Tower—a punch to the shoulder and a barrage of questions. I tell her, Dune, and Osyrus the barest of details while Rowan lurks farther down the table, trying not to look like he's listening in. I got stationed in Cahuela to complete an internship, and on my way there I got pulled to the frontline by a denmaster. I got my third title during that battle, and my fourth one was sworn to me in the medi-center after a subsequent altercation with the Xobrites.
"Our boy came back in black leathers with four titles," Dune says musingly as we settle ourselves on the wooden bench across from Billi and Osyrus. "Only goody gumdrops golden boy would earn elite status during his academy internship."
"This is ridiculous," Osyrus fumes, but he's grinning even so. "Weirder than how you got your first title, mate. Lady Luck isn't just flicking herself off to you—she's so pashed she's getting your name tattooed on a tit."
Rowan pushes himself back from the table abruptly. "We're going to be late for PT. You two don't have time to eat," he says sharply, then beelines for the door.
"He's just jealous." Billi reaches across the table to pat my hand, seeming to forget her annoyance at my abrupt disappearance from the academy. "Congrats, Ko—seriously. Da filled me in on the Battle of Crête Déchiquetée when he returned to the First Circuit. He said you did swimmingly for a first-time pridemaster. You should be proud."
"Thanks," I tell her. "I still don't think I earned a title at Gidad, though. Bard said it came with the burden of expectation…and I have a hard time believing I'll make it through grunt session."
"You knew Ko was on the frontline and didn't say anything?" Osyrus demands of Billi. "First time you keep your trap shut?"
"I figured he'd be back eventually with tales from his conquests." Billi sniffs. "There was no need to gossip."
"All you do is gossip!"
"I missed you," I tell my friends, breaking through Osyrus's outraged sputtering. "All of you."
"We missed you too, Ko," Billi says brightly. "Unfortunately, Rowan's right—we need to get a move on. Hope you boys are comfortable working out on an empty stomach."
I already ate, but there's no need to rub that in Dune's face. We make our way to the quad with minimal chatter. It's a brisk morning, and frosty dew clings to the grass. It crunches beneath our feet like beetle exoskeletons, the noise off-putting. The rising sun casts a gleaming glow over the sandstone fortress that surrounds us—Colçon's tower, the keep, the wall-like battlements that circle the grassy bailey. It's a beautiful morning, made more perfect by the exquisite castle.
Lanista Kempe is waiting for us on the grassy front beside the stables, and we line up at attention in front of her. Her textured hair is pulled back into braids, and she's wearing black leathers—she was promoted to elite staffmaster for her actions during the Battle of Gidad too. She doesn't smile when we make eye contact, but she doesn't scowl either. I find myself ridiculously pleased that she's Leómadura's replacement. We got to know each other on the ride out of Zaranea, where I met Brid and Miro's mother, Ásca, and Kempe seems to know her stuff. She's knowledgeable, if a little brisk—I wonder what kind of lanista she'll be.
"Welcome back to the academy, Diable," she says. "Glad to see you somewhere other than a medi-bed. Recruités Callisto, Rhodes, and Cunn—at attention, please. Good."
"Morning announcements." She paces in front of us. "You'll be sparring with the Session Twos today during combat training—grunts versus plebs. No night hunt this weekend—after your afternoon classes get out, you're free until the end of Veneer Week. Anyone going home for the holidays?"
Dune and Osyrus both raise their hands—Dune's from a blacksmith sect in the Third Circuit, and Osyrus's mother is stationed in Two. Kempe glances questioningly at Rowan, who perks up under her gaze.
"I'm staying in the First Circuit—my grandmother's coming into town." He puffs his chest out. "We'll be attending the festivities."
"I'm assuming you'll be shadowing your father?" Kempe asks Billi.
She nods.
"And of course you're staying here—General Killián mentioned that," she says to me.
I'm uncomfortably aware that eyes swing toward me.
"I have a lot of catching up to do," I say, breaking attention to rub the back of my neck. "I'll probably be studying."
If she's heard that Killián wants me to shadow him, she doesn't mention it. It further hammers down the truth that I've gained more status than I know what to do with. For all intents and purposes, I shouldn't even be back at L-DAW. When I dropped out, I was supposed to spend the rest of my career in Cahuela. Now there's a bistaff strapped to my back and four titles pinned to my chest.
"Death sprints around the quad," Kempe says at last. "You all know the drill—I want three miles, under twenty-one minutes. Go."
We take off at a brisk pace. Rowan heads the pack, slowly pulling ahead as we make our first loop. I fall in between Billi and Osyrus—Dune, who's bigger, falls behind. My right arm begins to ache—a dull, thrumming pulse that starts in my shoulder and is liquid fire in my fingertips. My mutilated left hand is equally aggravated, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I lost weight and muscle during my time in the medi-center, and Billi and Osyrus are gaining distance on me. Even Dune catches up, and I'm fighting back tears by the time he does. It hurts, damn it, almost as much as it did when the horse first fell on me, when Jebah sliced my left hand bloody, when the ride from Gidad to the First Circuit was an agonizing ocean of instability in the bouncing carriage. I wonder blearily how I'm going to make it through twelve laps.
After the first lap, I'm completely winded—my time in the medi-center must've killed my stamina as well as my muscle mass. It feels like someone is plunging venombeast-tipped needles into my right arm, into my maimed left hand. Rowan laps me. So does Billi. Kempe stops me after my fourth lap and peers into my eyes.
"You're too injured to be doing this," she says. "You need to heal."
"There isn't time." I brush the injured claw of my left hand over my face, wincing while I do, wincing more at the cold pity in her stare. "I'm behind enough as it is."
"I'm not letting you into my Combat Training class," she says flatly. "The plebs will destroy you. It'll just be embarrassing."
"You're kicking me out?"
"It's the last day before Veneer Week—things will be better when you get back from break." Her voice is almost kind. "Go up to the medi-center and get some painkillers, Diable. After that, stop by the academic lanistae offices and see if any of them are in this early. You can start catching up on your other assignments."
I've never felt so weak. "I'm sorry."
"You were injured in the line of duty—twice." She pats my shoulder bracingly, sending tendrils of hot agony up and down my left arm. "Cut yourself some slack. There's plenty of time to catch up—after break, you'll have another two months of Session 1 to look forward to. Chin up, grunt."
While the rest of my cohorts finish their death sprints, I'm plodding to the right of Colçon's Tower and heading toward the central facility. The First Circuit's medi-center is on the bottom floor of the main complex. I turn right off the quad and enter though the giant set of curved doors. Pushing them open with my injuries is a struggle, and they slam behind me with an ominous thud. I'm still panting as I make my way down the hall to the hospital where I spent the last five days.
Hiley, one of Bard's interns, is seated at the reception desk of the intake area. It's a large room with an assortment of potted plants and a few sparse windows that overlook the quad—Billi and Osyrus pass on what must be their final lap around the grassy field. I place my left hand on the wood in front of Hiley, nearly overturning an urn-shaped jar filled with feathered pens. My entire body is shaking, and the pain makes it hard to breathe. I didn't know PT could hurt so much, and I find myself missing the shape I was in when I arrived at L-DAW.
"Is the Medic Bardic in?" I ask. My voice sounds pathetic, even to me.
"He's entertaining a visitor." She eyes me suspiciously. Her gaze lingers on the bandages binding my right arm. "Can I help you?"
"I'm hoping for a painkiller."
"Arm bothering you?"
"Both arms, actually." I flex my left hand—without bandages, the absence of nails on my fingers is stark. The nailbeds are oozing. "PT."
Her expression is pitying. "Healer Graydon is in today—he should be able to fit you in. Have a seat."
The wooden chair beside the window is hard and uncomfortable. After a few minutes of waiting, I get up.
Hiley doesn't look at me as I push past the wide door on the far side of the waiting area. I find myself in the same room I spent most of last week in. Medi-beds, most of them empty, are placed at strategic intervals throughout the chambers. The bouquet of flowers Kempe left me—now mostly dead—is still on one of the bedtables. A few of the beds are occupied—a soldier reclines in one, the stump of his arm heavily bandaged. Another man—maybe a noble, judging by the haughty expression he surveys me with—is in another, impossibly fat but seemingly uninjured. I cast my eyes downward as I make my way past him and walk briskly toward the end of the room.
At the far end is a curtain. I push past it and find myself in a long hallway lined with three doors. I pause in front of the first—Hiley didn't explicitly forbid me from exploring, but she did tell me to sit. I feel guilty for disobeying her instruction and almost turn back, but then I hear Bard's voice. Loud. Angry. It comes from the door at the far end of the hall. Curiosity overriding my pain, I tiptoe toward the noise and press my ear against the far door.
"—a testament to the inadequacy of our king himself that you have been allowed out of the dungeons," Bard is saying. "And you have the audacity to come to me for help? I should cut your throat where you stand and spare us all the indecency of watching this pitiful attempt at justice run its course."
"If you cut my throat, you'll never hear my offer," says another voice.
I freeze where I stand, pressed against the door.
I know that voice, know it in a way I'll never forget. Know it in a way that—seemingly impossible mere moments ago—makes me forget all pain inflicted upon me by PT.
"And it's a mighty good offer," adds Lanista Leómadura.