scream like a banshee with blood lust aflame
make sure the Devil herself knows your name
I tongue-kissed with War and Lady Death came
the greatest of battles are all fought in vain
Death’s Testament, Book of Yosif (2:19), excerpt from “Ballad of the Fighter”
I duel Caius the following Monday. There’s a bit of an audience this time, and our two-minute duel is fought to a symphony of cheers. He doesn’t bother to guard his weakened left opening, and I take his sword with a well-placed envelopment. Dune and Osyrus manage to beat their opponents too, but it’s through the complicated point system and not a disarmament. Despite having one loss each, they stay in the running for the five academy slots. I’m the only trainee who wins by knockout.
Osyrus, Dune, and I have a little celebration, which I’m only half present for. Dune has a pack of candydrops. I bum one, ignoring the bottles of cheap shine. I close my eyes and let the wispy, dull lightheadedness ease the ache in my mind. The tightness disappears from my muscles, and I sag onto my bed.
“We’re thinking of heading up to Ávila for a few nights,” Osyrus says. “We’ll stay with my ma, and we’ll pick up some tricks from her swordsmen. You want to come?”
“I’ve got work,” I say.
Not to mention my swordsmanship training with Lanista Quincey and my tutoring sessions with Pierre-Marie. If they worked me any harder, I’d keel over like a stronghorse that’s been whipped too many times.
“You sure?” he asks. “Statistically speaking, one of us will get pitted against a legacy staffmaster next week.”
Descendants of elite guardsmen—who inherit black leathers and bistaffs as their birthright—will enter the final bout with their sacred blades cocked. There are three of them this year: Staffmaster Belén’s twin grandsons, Rowan and Valentine, and Staffmaster Péri’s daughter, Sabilli. The bistaff gives them an advantage. Even if it weren’t for the length and pull of the blade, the elites have groomed them since birth. I’m counting on three academy slots going to them, and since there are only five bouts—fought by ten trainees—that doesn’t leave me with great odds. Épée school seems more likely.
It’s a pity. According to Dune, épée school students don’t make very much. My monthly paycheck would be comparable to the hours I’m clocking at the medi-center. It’s better than Leisure Street, but it won’t pay Akeeva’s law school tuition. I know she said it doesn’t matter, but it does to me.
“Go to Ávila,” I tell Dune and Osyrus. “Have fun.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Dune sounds skeptical. “We could swing by Main Street and see your family.”
“We could go to L-Street too,” Osyrus says cheerfully. “See some other girls. Ones who aren’t related to you.”
“Don’t go to L-Street,” I say. “You’ll get shanked before you get laid.”
They leave. For the first night in my entire life, I have a room to myself. I dream of my sisters, and I wake up at 0600 so I can clock in early at the medi-center.
###
By the Sunday before my final bout, Pierre-Marie and I have worked our way through two English textbooks and three units of spoken French. We’ve studied the important militant leaders of L’Anglimar’s lore: Yosif di Vivar, the God King’s second-born titan, who utilized an army of five thousand men to claim the Seven Circuits. Yosif’s son, Vandame the Second, a chronic narcissist who was hated by his fighters. If it weren’t for his children—Aleric and Adelia di Vivar—who slaughtered him and usurped Yosif’s sacred bistaff, L’Anglimar would’ve fallen before Médéric the First was born.
The names start to blur together. Aleric. Adelia. Médéric the First. Marquise. Jalo. Isador. All generals, all Yosif’s progeny, all di Vivars by blood or marriage.
At last, we get to Médéric the Second.
“Killián’s father is an interesting person,” Pierre-Marie says. “In terms of militant strategy, he was the crème de la crème, with a logical approach to war that eviscerated the Xobrites. He used mobility to challenge assaults in the lower foothills before the Xobrites could formulate a plan, much less gather momentum. Every tactic was carried out with precision—a remorseless wall of assaults no legion could penetrate.”
“When I met Brid, she said Médéric broke her brother’s hands,” I say.
Pierre-Marie tilts her head to the side.
“In Médéric’s defense, Mirobárdic is a little shit,” she says. “In Miro’s defense, he’s a child. He’s more interested in reading than combat—when he was ten, he won an internship with the First Circuit’s primary newspaper. He’s constantly skiving off classes to work on his writing. It drives Killián crazy. That said, I’ve read a few of his articles. They’re exceptional for an eleven-year-old, and I expect they’ll improve as he ages.”
“Do you know who birthed the twins?” I ask.
She stares at me.
“I have a friend who’d kill me if I didn’t ask.” I shrug. “Sorry if it’s irrelevant.”
“It is irrelevant,” she says. “Court-ordered bloodline tests have established that the children are di Vivars. Yosif’s divinity runs through Miro’s veins, so he has the agency to succeed Killián. That’s all that matters.”
“Does Miro want to succeed Killián?”
“Miro has no interest in his family’s legacy,” Pierre-Marie says. “It makes for some intense conflict. Pray you never have to attend a di Vivar family dinner.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Drama surrounds the royal sects,” Pierre-Marie says grimly. “The land of politics is a hellscape. Going back to Médéric…I’ve seen Killián ravage armies outnumbered ten to one. I’ve seen him strike down war-mongering fighters with a touch of his hand. But I’ve never seen him as angry as he was when Médéric went after Miro. We were certain Médéric would die that night.”
I swallow.
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“That seems like a decent segue into our study of Killián,” she says after a pause.
A headache blurs my mind, and I have a hard time focusing on her words. Killián isn’t said to have inherited his father’s instincts. Whereby his father was a leader of intuition, Killián is a strategist to his core. He pins enemy forces with an initial penetration movement and has them flanked by reserves before they know what’s happening. His genius lies in his ability to grasp essentials. He’s one step ahead of everyone else, enemies and allies alike…
“Pop quiz,” Pierre-Marie says, and I jolt upright. “What’s Killián’s battle cry?”
“Protect the innocent,” I say swiftly.
She sighs.
“That’s the di Vivar family maxim,” she says. “What words did Killián carve on Yosif’s scythe to claim the bistaff as his own? A tradition dictated by Death’s Testament, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Shit. I wasn’t listening.
“Etcetera, etcetera?” I guess.
Her eyes narrow. “Strength lies in honesty.”
“Stands to reason.”
“Page 289. Let’s start on Killián’s brother.”
She flips through The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow and taps on a portrait of a young, kind-faced man with dimples and a roguish smile.
“Jebah Mortcorvus di Vivar,” she says. “He’s almost thirty—seven years younger than Killián. He specializes in swift, violent attacks, and he’s massacred his way through half the villages in the lower foothills.”
“The neutral villages?” I yank the book toward me. “The ones that aren’t affiliated with L’Anglimar or the Xobrites? Isn’t that a war crime?”
“If you ask Jebah—no,” she says. “It’s a necessary evil that keeps the Xobrites from pushing troops into unaffiliated territory.”
“I’m not asking Jebah,” I say. “I’m asking you.”
“I try not to judge.” There’s a peculiar look on her face—maybe they have a history. “Honestly, I feel sorry for him. His daddy issues are almost as bad as his older brother complex.”
“Uh…”
“Sorry. Forgot you were a child. Let’s pretend I said this—Jebah has moments of genius. He forces his troops to carry their own provisions, which eliminates the need for supply lines. He’s able to cover thirty miles per day, which is unprecedented. He pursues and destroys all fleeing conquests, fighters and non-fighters alike. He spares women and children—not men. Never men.”
Her gaze is stern.
“When you meet him,” she begins, “and make no mistake, Ko—you will meet him…be prepared. If you remember one thing from our lectures, remember this. Wickedness exists, not because of wicked people, but because of the ones who do nothing to stop it.”
I wonder how much I’ll be contributing to the wickedness of this world. Can’t say I’m a big fan of wicked people.
Outside, the bell tower chimes 2200. I snap to attention, then turn my gaze to her.
“Shite,” she says. “I lost track of time. I’ll walk you to your dormitory.”
I gather up my kit bag and jacket, and we start the trek across the quad. The oil lamps have burned low, and the sandy foothills are eerily dark. I glance around nervously as we pass the statue of Yosif, but that’s stupid—no one will give me trouble for breaking curfew if I’ve got a retired elite by my side. Pierre-Marie shoves her hands into the pockets of her trousers and whistles through her teeth. She limps as we walk, and I hold out my arm to guide her. Reluctantly, she grips me.
“I guess this is it,” she says when we’ve arrived in front of Barrack Two. “Good luck tomorrow.”
I embrace her. It’s a short, awkward hug, but when I pull back, she offers me a genuine smile.
“Thank you.” I place a fist over my heart and dip my head. “For everything.”
“This isn’t goodbye.” Her eyes gleam. “I’ll see you at L-DAW.”
“If I win my final bout.”
“I’m rooting for you.” She knocks my shoulder with a closed fist. “We all are.”
Something flutters in my chest. Anxiety, or perhaps excitement. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“True,” she says. “The question is…can you handle it?”
I hope so.
Great Yosif, I hope so.
###
The next morning, in the musty, subterranean basement below the Colosseum, I find out who I’ll be dueling. The final pairs are determined by testers the day before the last bout, and the sheet is posted by the stairs.
1. Dune Callisto // Laurent Daucourt
2. Valentine Cunn // Kolton Diable
3. Sabilli Oziaz // Sebastien Laflèche
4. Osyrus Rhodes // Romane Micheaux
5. Wren Neri // Rowan Cunn
Damn. Disappointment slams against me. I’ve been pitted against one of the elite legacies. Valentine, Staffmaster Belén’s grandson. He’s eighteen and muscular, with his grandmother’s piercing gaze and a set of hazel eyes he must have inherited from his paternal line.
I turn away from the sheet. He’s leaning against the southern wall, wrapping the scythe blade of his bistaff in canvas. We make eye contact, and he offers me a nod. I’ve had a few conversations with him in the mess hall and the Ludos Magnus. He comes across as nice but curt. He has the right to be—he’s been groomed for this moment since birth.
Dune and Osyrus pat my shoulders—comforting, friendly knocks of goodbye.
“It was nice knowing you,” Dune says.
“Maybe you’ll come out on top,” Osyrus says. “Lady Luck is pashing on you.”
I can’t find it in myself to respond.
Dune’s bout is the first one called. I wish him luck as he and Laurent follow Tester Wynn up the staircase. We wait ten minutes, and Wynn reenters the basement.
“Valentine Cunn and Kolton Diable,” he says. “Please step forward.”
For the final time, I make the trek up the long flight of stairs. Valentine carries his bistaff. I have my rusted sword, the canvas blade guard, my gray leathers, and the shiny laurel on my chest.
It won’t be enough, but like Hel if I’m going to make this easy for him.
Wynn stops us before we pass through the double doors. I can barely hear him over the noise of three thousand spectators packed into the stadium above our heads. He says something. I lean closer.
“I want a nice, clean bout,” he repeats.
Valentine nods. “Naturally.”
“You have my word,” I say.
Valentine’s gleaming scythe stares down at me. On the central ridge, stamped in ornate lettering, is the Cunn family maxim: Forever fighting. On the fuller, between the hilt and the scythe blade, is Valentine’s battle cry: Fertilize with corpses. Yeesh. I wonder how he landed on that. I guess four years at the juvenile camp in Ávila would make anyone a little bloodthirsty.
Wynn pushes open the doors. Valentine brushes by me and enters the pit. For whatever reason, I hesitate. Should I say a prayer? Why would the God King care about this fight? I’m a Whoreson—born to be used and cast aside. The fact that I got this far is a total joke…
Bullshit. None of this is a joke. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a better life for my family. Anticipation rises inside me, curling in my stomach like a coiled biter.
Wynn clears his throat. “Problem?”
“Nope,” I say, and I enter the Colosseum’s pit for my last bout.
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