himself a chariot, like Elias had wanted.
Madoc could do a lot more with that coin.
Though the chances were slim, he found himself hoping to be chosen.
“Madoc of Crixion.”
Madoc didn’t move.
The crowd quieted. The gladiators looked to each other in confusion.
“You?” Narris swore.
It couldn’t have been him. Hope or not, Madoc hadn’t expected his name to actually be called. He was new. He’d come on three days ago. This was impossible. Narris had misheard.
The entire stadium had misheard.
He sucked in a hard breath. Geoxus was still staring at him, only now he was smiling. It was the smile of the statue in Market Square. It was the smile that had calmed Madoc when he was a child, alone on the streets and afraid. That had convinced him to pray for help.
Geoxus’s chin dipped as if to say, Yes, you.
“Go.” Narris’s hard whisper made him jump. “Madoc! Go now!”
Madoc tentatively stepped forward.
The crowd began to cheer again as he took another step through the line of gladiators.
One of the seasoned fighters sneered at him, and he sidestepped into another, then stumbled, catching himself before he hit the ground.
The crowd laughed and cheered harder.
All the while, Geoxus smiled.
He knows, Madoc thought. He’s angry. This is my death sentence. As soon as I step onto that stage, someone’s going to ram an iron spear through my heart.
But how did he know Madoc’s name?
Because he knows all. Because he saved your miserable life when you were a child, and he gave you to the Metaxas. Because he is a god.
But if that was true, why was he making Madoc, who had no geoeia, one of his Honored Eight?
Madoc could feel the Kulans watching him as he made for the stage, could feel the curious, pointed gaze of the girl with the wild hair. Would he have to fight her? Would he have to kill her?
Somehow, he made it onto the stage. On numb feet, he walked across the smooth, shaped earth, passing the other champions, who barely acknowledged his presence. Past a curious, appraising Lucius, to the end of the line, where Petros waited with eyes that gleamed with deceit.
He stood beside the last gladiator, his hands empty without a weapon.
Please don’t make me use geoeia, he prayed.
Geoxus was talking. Congratulating the Honored Eight. Saying they would serve Deimos proudly. That their names would live on long after their deaths.
“You look confused, Madoc,” whispered Petros beside him. “Don’t worry. I told Geoxus how well you’ve fought in my amateur matches. How you’ve built your career in the streets. He was willing to forgive you for breaking the law in exchange for what I assured him would be a fierce showing in the arena. He thinks you might be his secret weapon—isn’t that something?”
Petros had told Geoxus he was a fighter. That’s why Madoc had felt watched at Headless Hill, why Geoxus had chosen him for the Honored Eight. His father was punishing him for what had happened with Cassia, or for beating his hired fighters, or because he’d been born. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t keep Elias close enough to throw geoeia, Geoxus would see that he was a fraud.
He focused on Cassia’s face. He remembered her hand, stretching toward him when they were children, filled with a chunk of dry bread. How she’d sat with him on the temple steps while Ilena had shopped at the market, chattering like a bird about the shapes of the clouds, and how well she could swim in the river. She’d given him all her food, and when he’d gobbled it up, she’d taken his hand and pulled him across the street.
Come on, she’d said. Let’s go home.
Madoc would bring Cassia home, even if it took fighting. Even if it meant winning.
Even if he had to lie to a god.
Six
Ash
ASH INSTANTLY REGRETTED telling Tor about Hydra’s message.
They stood in the finest viewing box of Crixion’s grandest arena, just behind the god of earth and the god of fire. The whole of the city screamed for the eight Earth Divine champions Geoxus had just selected.
One of them was Stavos of Xiphos, and it took every speck of strength left within Ash to not look at him.
“Stop worrying.” Tor echoed Hydra’s words to Ignitus, but it sounded like a plea to himself.
Rook’s jaw worked. “Maybe she didn’t mean a direct threat. Maybe the rumor was over something”—he motioned at the lavishness of the obsidian stage below, the rows upon rows of gilded gladiator trainees—“frivolous.”
Ash unintentionally followed