Red Rising — Chapter 29: Unity

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Unity

Titus is what Dancer did not want me to become. He is like

Harmony. He is a creature of vengeance. A rebellion with Titus at

the helm would fail in weeks. Worse, if Titus continues this way,

continues unstably, he puts me at risk. Dancer lied, or else he did

not know that there are other Reds who’ve been carved, other Reds

who have donned the mask of the Golds. How many more are there?

How many has Ares planted here, in the Society? In the Institute? It

doesn’t matter if it is a thousand or just one. Titus’s instability puts

every Red ever carved into a Gold at risk. He puts Eo’s dream at

risk. And that is something I cannot abide. Eo did not die so that

Titus can kill a few kids.

I sob in the armory as I resolve what must be done.

More blood will stain these hands, because Titus is a mad dog and

must be put down.

In the morning, I pull him into the square in front of the House.

They clear away the remnants of the night’s feast. I even have the

slaves there to watch. A few Proctors icker high above. There is no

medBot oating beside them, which must stand as their silent

consent.

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I push Titus down on the ground in front of his former tribe. They

watch quietly, mist hanging in the air above them, nervous feet

scraping the cold cobblestones of the courtyard. A chill seeps into

my hands through the durosteel of my slingBlade.

“For crimes of rape, mutilation, and attempted murder of fellow

House members, I sentence Titus au Ladros to death.” I list the

reasons. “Does anyone contest my right to do so?” First, I glance to

the Proctors above. Not one makes a sound.

I stare at cruel Vixus. His bruise is not yet gone. My eyes go to

Cassandra next. I even look at craggy Pollux, the one who saved

Cassius and opened the gates for us. He stands by Roque. How

loyalties shift here.

How my own shift. I will make a Red die because he killed Golds.

He dug the earth like me. He has a soul like mine. In death, it will

go to the vale, but in life he was stupid and selsh with his grief. He

should have been better than this. Reds are better than him, aren’t

we?

Titus’s tribe stays silent; their guilt is bound up with their leader.

When he goes, it’ll go. That is what I tell myself. Everything will be

well.

“I contest the sentence,” Titus says. “And issue a challenge to you,

turdlicker.”

“I accept, goodman.” I bow curtly.

“Then a duel per custom of the Order of the Sword,” Roque

announces.

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“I choose then,” Titus says, eying my slingblade. “Straight blades.

Nothing curved.”

“As you have it,” I say, but as I step forward, I feel a hand at my

elbow and feel my friend come close behind.

“Darrow, he is mine,” Cassius whispers coldly. “Remember?” I

make no sign of acknowledgment. “Please, Darrow. Let me honor

House Bellona.”

I look to Roque; he shakes his head. As does Quinn, who stands

behind Cassius. But I am leader here. And I did promise my friend,

who now recognizes my ascendance. He requests instead of

demands, and so I make a show of considering and then accepting

his request. I stand aside as Cassius steps forward with a straight

blade held in his fencer’s grip. It is an ugly weapon, but he’s

sharpened it on stones.

“Pisser,” Titus snickers. “Wonderful. I’ll be happy to drench your

corpse with piss again when we’re through.”

Titus is meant for brawls. Meant for muddy battleelds and civil

wars. I wonder if he knows how easily he will die today.

Roque draws a circle in ash around the two combatants. Clown

and Screwface walk out with arms full of weapons. Titus picks a

long broadsword he took from a Ceres soldier ve days before. The

metal scrapes over stone. Echoes around the courtyard. He swings it

once, twice to test the metal. Cassius does not move.

“Pissing your pants already?” Titus asks. “No fretting, I’ll be quick

about it.”

Roque performs the necessities and commences the ght.

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Cassius is not quick about it.

The ugly blades sound brittle against each other. The clangs are

harsh. The blades chip. They grind. But how silent they are when

they nd esh.

The only sound is Titus’s gasp.

“You killed Julian,” Cassius says quietly. “Julian au Bellona of

House Bellona.”

He pulls his blade free of Titus’s leg and slides it in somewhere

else. He rips it out.

Titus laughs and swings feebly. It is pathetic at this point.

“You killed Julian.” A thrust accompanies the words, words he

repeats until I no longer watch. “You killed Julian.” But Titus is long

dead. Tears stream down Quinn’s face. Roque takes her and Lea

away. My army is silent. Thistle spits on the cobbles and puts her

arm over Pebble’s shoulders. Clown looks even more dejected than

usual. Even the Proctors make no comment. It is Cassius’s rage that

lls the courtyard, a cruel lament for a kind brother. He said he did

it for justice, for the honor of his family and House. But this is

revenge, and how hollow it seems.

I grow cold.

This was meant for me. Not for my poor brother, Titus—if that

was ever really his name. He deserved better than this.

I’m going to cry. The anger and sadness well in my chest as I push

through the army. Roque looks at me when I pass him. His face is

like a corpse’s.

“That wasn’t justice,” he murmurs without looking me in the eyes.

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I failed the test. He’s right. It wasn’t justice. Justice is

dispassionate; it is fair. I am the leader. I passed the sentence. I

should have done it. Instead, I gave license to vengeance and

vendetta. The cancer will not be cut away; I made it worse.

“At least Cassius is feared again,” Roque mutters. “But that’s the

only thing you got right.”

Poor Titus. I bury him in a grove near the river. I hope it speeds

him on his way to the vale.

That night I do not sleep.

I don’t know if it was his wife or his sister or his mother they

hurt. I do not know what mine he came from. His pain is my own.

His pain broke him as mine broke me on the scaold. But I was

given a second chance. Where was his?

I hope his pain fades in death. I did not love him till he was dead;

and he should be dead, but he is still my brother. So I pray he nds

peace in the vale and that I will see him again one day and we’ll

embrace as brothers as he forgives me for what I did to him,

because I did it for a dream, for our people.

My name, three bars beside it now, oats nearer the Primus hand.

Cassius has risen too.

But there can be only one Primus.

Since I cannot sleep, I take the guard shift from Cassandra. Mist

curls around the battlements, so we tie sheep around the walls. They

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will bleat if an enemy comes. I smell something strange, rich and

smoky.

“Roast duck?” I turn and nd Fitchner standing beside me. His

hair is messy over his narrow brow and he wears no golden armor

today, only a black tunic striped with gold. He hands me a piece of

duck. The smell makes my stomach rumble.

“We should all be pissed at you,” I say.

His face is one of surprise. “Tots who say that usually mean to

explain why they are not pissed.”

“You and the Proctors can see everything, yes?”

“Even when you wipe your ass.”

“And you didn’t stop Titus, because it’s all part of the

curriculum.”

“The real question is why we did not stop you.”

“From killing him.”

“Yes, little one. He would have been valuable in the military,

don’t you think? Perhaps not a Praetor with ships in the ink. But

what a Legate he would have made, leading men in starShells

through enemy gates as re rained down against their pulseShields.

Have you ever seen an Iron Rain? Where men are launched from

orbit to take cities? He was meant for that.”

I do not answer.

Fitchner wipes grease from his lips with the black sleeve of his

tunic.

“Life is the most eective school ever created. Once upon a time

they made children bow their heads and read books. It would take

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ages to get anything across.” He taps his head. “But we have widgets

and datapads now, and we Golds have the lower Colors to do our

research. We need not study chemistry or physics. We have

computers and others to do that. What we must study is humanity.

In order to rule, ours must be the study of political, psychological,

and behavioral science—how desperate human beings react to one

another, how packs form, how armies function, how things fall apart

and why. You could learn this nowhere else but here.”

“No, I understand the purpose,” I murmur. “I learn more when I

make mistakes, so long as they don’t kill me.” How well I learned

from trying to be a martyr.

“Good. You make plenty of them. You’re an impulsive little turd.

But this is the place to fragup. To learn. This is life … but with

medBots, second chances, articial scenarios. You might have

guessed that the rst test, the Passage, was the measurement of

necessity versus emotion. The second was tribal strife. Then there

was a bit of justice. Now there will be more tests. More second

chances, more lessons learned.”

“How many of us can die?” I ask suddenly.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“How many.”

“There is a limit set each year by the Board of Quality Control,

but we’re well within the bounds despite what happened with the

Jackal.” Fitchner smiles.

“The Jackal …,” I say. “Is that what happened the other night

when the medBots blitzed south?”

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“Did I say his name? Oops.” He grins. “I mean to say that the

medBots are very eective. They heal nearly all wounds. But will

they be so eective when Cassius nds out who really killed his

brother?”

My stomach tightens.

“He already killed Julian’s murderer. Apparently you weren’t

watching.”

“Of course. Of course. Mercury thinks you brilliant. Apollo thinks

you’re the softest one here. He really does not like you, you know.”

“I could give a piss.”

“Oh, you should care much more than that. Apollo’s a peach.”

“Right. So what do you think? You are my Proctor.”

“I think you are an ancient soul.” He watches me and leans

against the rampart. The night is misty beyond the castle. From its

depths, a wolf howls. “ I think you’re like that beast out there. Part

of a pack but deeply sad, deeply alone. And I can’t puzzle out why,

my dear boy. This is all so much fun! Enjoy it! Life doesn’t get

better.”

“You’re the same,” I say. “Lonely. You’re all japes and snide

comments, just like Sevro, but it’s just a mask. It’s because you don’t

look like the others, isn’t it? Or are you poor? Somehow you’re an

outsider.”

“My looks?” He barks a laugh. “What does that matter? Think I’m

a Bronzie because I’m not an Adonis?” He leans forward, because he

really does care about what I’m going to say.

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“You are ugly and you eat like a pig, Fitchner, but you chew

metabolizers when you could just go to a Carver and x yourself to

look like the others. They could take care of that paunch in a

second.”

Fitchner’s jaw muscle ickers. Is it anger?

“Why should I have to visit a Carver?” he hisses suddenly. “I can

kill an Obsidian with my bare hands. An Obsidian. I can outwit a

Silver in parlance and negotiation. I can do math Greens only dream

of. Why should I make myself look any dierent?”

“Because it is what holds you back.”

“Despite my low birth, I am of note. I am important.” His hatchet

face dares me to contradict. “I am Gold. I am a king of man. I do not

change to suit others.”

“If that’s true, why do you chew metabolizers?” He does not

answer. “And why are you only a Proctor?”

“Becoming a Proctor is a position of prestige, boy,” Fitchner

snaps. “The Drafters voted me to represent the House.”

“Yet you’re no Imperator. You lead no eets. You’re not even a

Praetor in command of a squadron. Nor are you any sort of

Governor. How many men can do the things you say you can do?”

“Few,” he says very quietly, face all anger. “Very few.” He looks

up. “What is the bounty you desire for capturing the Minervan

standard?”

“Isn’t that Sevro’s deal?” I say, understanding the conversation is

nearing its end.

“He has passed it to you.”

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I ask for horses and weapons and matches. He agrees curtly and

turns to leave before I can ask him one last question. I grab his arm

as he starts to ascend. Something happens. My nerves fry. Like

needles in acid through my hand and arm. I gasp. My lungs can’t

function for a second.

“Gory hell,” I cough out, and fall to the ground. He wears

pulseArmor. I can’t even see the generator. It’s like a pulseShield,

but inlaid in the armor itself.

He waits without a smile.

“The Jackal,” I say. “You mentioned him. The Minervan girl

mentioned him. Who is he?”

“He’s the ArchGovernor’s son, Darrow. And he makes Titus look

like a blubbering child.”

Large horses graze in the elds the next morning. Wolves try to take

down a small mare. A pale stallion rides up and kicks one of the

wolves to death. I claim him. The others call him Quietus. It means

“the nal stroke.”

He reminds me of the Pegasus that saved Andromeda. The songs

we sang in Lykos spoke of horses. I know Eo would have liked a

chance to ride one.

I do not realize till days later that when they named my horse

Quietus, they were mocking me for my part in Titus’s death.

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