gonna be enough. I bet a bronze coin on her."
One of his friends snickered. "That beast ain't nothing but a tired old lizard. Irae's been feeding her dust, I hear, and whipping her. The creature's too thin and weak to win another fight. I'll take your bronze."
The first man laughed. "Torture makes that one hungry and mean. Who else? Bronze on the weredragon!"
Weredragon.
Inside his hood, Benedictus growled. That was a cruel word, a slur that should never be uttered, least of all by scraggly men who bet on misery and blood. He stepped toward them.
"A fool bets against a proud, dying race," he said, voice low. "And a greater fool stages fights for fools' bets."
The men laughed. "What are you, a poet or something?" the first man said, scratching his beard. Fleas filled it.
"You know me," Benedictus rasped. "You know my name. Your lord wants me forgotten, but it will not be so. You will hear our roar again."
With that he left them, stepping toward the amphitheater's gates. Foolish thing to say, he knew. Why did he risk his cover for these men? He forced himself to focus, to forget these cruel crowds, to remember his task. I will save you, Lacrimosa, he thought. Soon you'll be flying west with me to find our children. Kyrie too was his child now, by adoption if not by blood. All the last Vir Requis were his children, his torch to keep aflame.
And I have not forgotten you, Gloriae. In the deepest corners of his heart, Benedictus knew that Gloriae was evil now, corrupted and cruel. She might be unreachable to him, a maiden of steel in her palace, but Benedictus dared to dream, dared to pray that he could save her.
He paid to enter the amphitheater, stepped inside, and found himself dizzy. Tens of thousands of people surrounded him, cheering from a hundred tiers of marble seats. Slave girls danced in the arena, chains binding their necks, raising sand under their feet. They were nude, their bodies painted red and gold. Benedictus knew that their heavy makeup hid bruises, and one's nose was bandaged. Guards watched the dancers from the sidelines, clutching whips.
Benedictus imagined those whips cutting Lacrimosa, and he clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Below the lowest tier of seats, Benedictus saw doorways and stairwells leading underground. Which leads to Lacrimosa? Benedictus wanted to bash down every door, storm down every passageway, and save his wife. He forced himself to wait. There were many doorways here, and many guards, and he would not find her. If he charged brazenly, like Kyrie might, he'd only get himself killed, and probably earn torture for Lacrimosa.
"Patience," he told himself. "You're not a rash, hot-headed youth like Kyrie or Agnus Dei. You can wait. Bide your time. Learn where she is."
Nobody noticed him talking to himself. The crowds were too busy cheering, stamping their feet, and leering at the dancers. Benedictus found his seat on the thirtieth row and sat on the cold stone. A father with two children sat to his left. To his right sat two young maidens, henna on their eyelids and perfume on their fair skin. Both wore white silk that revealed more flesh than it hid.
Families with children, Benedictus thought in disgust. Young women on a day out. The blood of Requiem is sport for them.
The dancers finished their dance, bowed to the crowd, and disappeared into an underground passageway. Silence fell upon the crowd, and everyone leaned forward, waiting for the beast to emerge. Only Benedictus did not stare at the arena. He scanned the crowds until he found the man he sought.
Dies Irae.
His brother sat across the amphitheater, a palanquin of samite shading him. Two griffin statues guarded his sides, and a slave girl lay collared at his feet. Dies Irae wore his white, jeweled armor. Sun God warriors stood at his sides, his elite guard, their helmets shaped as sunbursts, their swords shaped as sunbeams.
"Hello, brother," Benedictus whispered. "It's been a long time."
Three hundred feet away, Dies Irae raised his eyes and stared at Benedictus.
Ice shot through Benedictus. He froze, unable to look away. How could it be? How could Dies Irae have heard him? Benedictus was about to run, but then Dies Irae looked away. Heart racing, Benedictus took a deep breath. He couldn't have seen me. My face is hidden in my hood. It was only chance.
His heart was still thrashing when Sun God priests stepped onto the arena, saluted Dies Irae, and