Godsgrave. Jay Kristoff

“I like you, Corvere,” Tenhands said. “You remind me of me in my younger turns. More balls than most men I’ve ever met. And you get your killing done, so you’ve earned a little ego. But word to the wise: you’d best leave that lip of yours behind when you head back to the Mountain. The Ministry aren’t as fond of you as I.”

       “And why would I head back to the Mountain? I’m posted to—”

       “Speaker Adonai sent a blood missive just now,” Tenhands interjected. “You’ve been recalled by the Ministry.”

       Mia’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Goosebumps on her skin.

       “… Why?” she asked.

      Tenhands shrugged. “All I know is they’re leaving me a killer down, and a pile of throats that need slitting. If I could use Blades on more than one offering at a time, that’ d be something. But that’ d breach the Promise.^fn4 So when you see that bastard Solis, be a love and knee him in the codpiece for me, will you?”

       Mia’s mind was turning, suspicion and excitement entwined in her belly. Being recalled by the Ministry could mean anything. Reassignment. Rebuke. Retribution. She’d served the Black Mother well in the past eight months, but every Shahiid in the Mountain knew she’ d failed her final trial, refusing to kill an innocent. The only reason she became a Blade at all was because Lord Cassius had baptized her as he lay dying on the sands of Last Hope. Perhaps the good grace his endorsement had given her had finally run out …

       Who knew what awaited her when she arrived?

       “When do I leave?” Mia asked.

       Tenhands lifted her bone needle, looked meaningfully at Mia’s backside.

       “As soon as you can walk.”

       Mia sighed. No sense fretting on what she couldn’t change. And getting back to the Mountain, she could speak to Chronicler Aelius again, see Naev. Maybe find some of the answers she sought.

       “Bend over,” the bishop ordered. “I’ ll try to be gentle.”

       Mia took the bottle of medicinal goldwine and took a long, deep pull.

       “I’ ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

      It turns out three men at once was almost more than Mia could handle.

      The battle had started well enough. The pit fighters had advanced, spurred on by the jeering crowd and the fact that Mia had thrown her wooden sword into the dirt. The first—a burly Itreyan—had bellowed a war cry and swung his blade at her head. And with a glance, Mia had reached toward the dark at his feet.

      Out here in the light of two suns, the shadows were sluggish and heavy. But Mia was stronger now, in herself, in what she was, and she’d been playing this particular trick for years, after all. With a glance, she affixed the big Itreyan’s boots in his own shadow, stopping his charge short. Weaving close as he lost balance, she’d kicked him hard in the knee, punched him square in the throat, and as he toppled backward, she’d pirouetted and caught the sword flying from his hand to the tune of the cheering crowd.

       “… you are showing off now …,”

      came a whisper in her ear. “That’s the bloody poin—”

      The blow caught her on the back of the head, sent her reeling. She barely managed to turn and block the next flurry, staggering back into a semblance of guard. The remaining pit fighters—a broad Liisian with a pockmarked face, and a taller Dweymeri with only seven fingers—advanced, giving her no time to catch her breath. She was forced back across the Pit, warm blood dripping down the back of her neck.

      Sevenfingers stepped up, swung at her face, throat, chest. Mia countered, locking him up and slipping inside his guard, but Pockface’s sword cracked across her ribs before she could strike, and an elbow sent her sprawling into the dirt.

      She kept her grip on her sword, rolling aside as the pair tried to stomp her head in. Scrabbling on the ground, she slung a handful of red sand into Pockface’s eyes, lashed out with her boot and sent Sevenfingers to the ground. Rolling to her feet, she planted her boot in the now-blinded Pockface’s bollocks, hard enough to elicit a groan of sympathy from every man in the crowd. And to their cheers, she smashed her sword hilt into his face, smearing his nose across his cheeks.

       “… behind …”

      She turned, barely blocking a blow that would’ve caved her skull in. The burly Itreyan was back on his feet, chin smeared with vomit and spit. She danced with him in the dust, strike and riposte, weave and flurry. Burlyboy was huge, twice as strong as she. But what Mia lacked in size, she made up for in speed and sheer, bloody ferocity. The Itreyan swung hard, snapping her gladius in half as she blocked. But with a shapeless cry, she danced inside his follow-through, crouched low and smashed her broken sword up beneath his chin. The splintered wood punctured his throat, gouts of blood coating Mia’s hands as Burlyboy fell.

       “… left, left …!”

      Mister Kindly’s whisper brought her around, but too late—a gladius caught her across the shoulder, sent her reeling as the crowd roared. Sevenfingers swung again, struck her in the ribs, Mia gasping in agony. She locked up his swordarm, pulled him close. Smelling sweat, dirty breath, blood. Sevenfingers punched her in the face, once, twice, and with a ragged cry she reached out to the shadows, locking up his feet as she pushed backward with all her strength. With his feet rooted, the man toppled backward, Mia falling on top of him, fingers finding his mouth, slipping inside his cheeks and twisting like fishhooks before ripping outward.

      The man screamed as his lips split, the crowd baying. The girl began pounding on his jaw with her fists, once, twice, three times. Hands red. Teeth gritted. Blood in her mouth. Picturing a smiling consul with dark, pretty eyes. A grand cardinal with a beard like a hedgerow and a voice like honey. Their faces pulped as she pounded, again

       “… mia …”

      and again, picturing her mother, her brother, her father, everything she’d lost, everything they’d taken, and this man beneath her just one more enemy, just one more obstacle between her and the turn she’d spit on all their fucking grav—

       “… mia …!”

      She fell still. Drenched in sweat. Breath burning. Covered in warm, sticky red. She could feel Mister Kindly’s chill, mixed with the blood on the back of her neck. The world came back into focus, its volume swelling in her ears. And beneath the thundering pulse and echoes of her past, she heard it. Swelling in her chest and tingling her fingertips.

       Applause.

      She stood, painted to the elbows in red. The crowd in the bleachers were on their feet, Teardrinker tending a flurry of bids rolling in from the sanguila at the Pit’s edge. Three hundred silver. Three hundred fifty. Four. And on trembling legs, the girl walked across the Pit and stood before Leonides. She looked her would-be master in the eye, and dropped into a perfect curtsey before him.

      “Domini,” she said.

      The sanguila regarded her with narrowed eyes. His executus whispered in his ear. And as a storm of butterflies took wing in Mia’s belly, Leonides raised his hand and spoke in a voice that rang across the entire Pit.

      “One thousand silver pieces.”

      A low murmur rippled across the audience, Mia’s heart thrilling. Such a sum! Truth told, it was an overbid—the man could have probably knocked out most of his fellows with half that. But Mia knew the domini of the Lions of Leonides was fond of theater, and his bid told everyone in the Pit that he was in no mood to haggle.

      Leonides wanted her. And so, he would have her. Price be damned.

      It