C HAP TER TWENTY-THR EE
he Circus is located just a few hundred feet from the river, and the breeze carries the scent of water and damp stone, with anT underlying fishy undercurrent. Only a handful of people are still trickling through the huge open gates, many of them stopping to place bets with bookies waiting outside.
Even from outside the Circus, the noise is a deep, continuous roar, like the rumble of a waterfall or the buzz of a colossal beehive. It’s the sound of three hundred thousand people waiting for their favorite charioteers.
“Are we late?” I ask.
“No. People arrive early to make sure no one takes their seats. Most of them have been drinking for hours,” Neris mutters next to me. “Godsdamned security nightmare.”
“At least it’s not our problem,” Micah says. “It’s Nistor’s.”
I’d almost forgotten the wardens belong to Sigilkeeper Drugov Nistor. The city wardens were allegedly created to protect everyday citizens from crime and violence. In the Thorn, I’ve only ever seen them going door-to-door and demanding protection payments from business owners.
From Micah’s sneer, he’s not exactly impressed by them either.
I follow the imperiums as they walk around the back of the stadium, and Tiernon opens a door, gesturing for me to follow the others inside.
The sound of the crowd surges toward me, anticipation thick in the air. Almost every stone seat is already filled, spectators wearing the colors of their favorite charioteers.
The greens are made up of mundanes. Since charioteers are forbidden from using power, the Circus is the one place where mundanes can truly compete with vampires and sigilmarked, and when green charioteers win, the people of Senthara celebrate for days.
I’d never imagined I’d get to see the races. Years ago, Gerith went through a stage where he was obsessed with charioteers, and even built his own chariot—with little more than a few discarded boxes. He used one of my belts as a whip, which he waved in the air while Evren pretended to commentate the race.
“Something amusing?” Tiernon asks.
The smile falls from my face, and I shake my head. It’s the kind of story I would have told him if we had kept in touch all this time. If he’d left me a letter, maybe written occasionally. My heart would still have been broken, but it might have healed by now.
I know what I’m doing. Playing cards with him again brought up all kinds of memories of arguing over who was winning.
Of harmless flirting that turned to more. Of cards thrown to the floor as he scooped me over his shoulder, hauling me to bed. So I’m shutting those emotions down, locking the doors on those memories and ensuring Tiernon can’t hurt me yet again.
It’s part punishment, part self-defense.
Emotions flicker across Tiernon’s face—almost too quickly for me to catch. But I do see the disappointment. And the bitterness.
My stomach twists and I turn away. We’re positioned next to the emperor’s pulvinar, where Nyrant stands waiting, along with four other imperiums I haven’t formally met. From here, I’ll be able to watch the emperor, but more importantly, I’ll be able to study his security. Knowing I took Maeva’s spot on the imperius makes my stomach churn. But I won’t waste it. Below us, the immense track is a ribbon of ochre dust, with at least a hundred mundanes sweeping the track, painstakingly searching for stray stones and rocks that could tip a chariot wheel. It’s the kind of task that could easily be completed with power.
Gold statues of Umbros create a central barrier down the middle of the track—each at least thirty feet tall—while hundreds of aether lamps float in the air. The light flickers along the oversize, ornate jeweled crowns, necklaces, and bracelets adorning the gold statues.
Tiernon’s eyes turn cold. “My father has just raised taxes again this year.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak a bad word about the emperor. So far, he has been very, very careful not to say anything that could even be misconstrued as criticism.
I turn my attention back to the jewels, my stomach curdling. Each time taxes are raised, life in the Thorn becomes even more difficult. Still, being too poor to afford tickets to the races meant most of us were spared the sight of the emperor’s opulence so blatantly flaunted.
The emperor enters his pulvinar, and the crowd roars loud enough to make my ears ring. He raises his hand, a wide smile on his face. Tiernon immediately makes his way to his father.
I wrap my cloak tighter around me as a chill seeps into my bones. Vampires don’t feel the cold. The emperor’s open-air Circus and arena is just one more taunt to the sigilmarked.
Micah takes Tiernon’s place. “How did you get so good at cards?”
He’s the only imperium who has spoken to me since Rorrik declared I would join. The others have coolly ignored my existence.
“You’re really still thinking about the game?”
Micah’s eyes turn to slits and I laugh. “I learned how to play young, and I used the skill to gamble in the kinds of taverns I had no business frequenting. When I was older, I was a bodyguard, which taught me to be meticulously observant. I had to pay close attention to the person I was guarding, and everyone in the vicinity at the same time, since anyone could be a threat.”
“Even the smallest change of expression or body language could mean bad news for your client,” Micah says, and I nod.
“It’s reactive.”
“Do you think you could teach me?”
“To bodyguard?”
He sends me an unamused look. “To win. I’m tired of always losing to the others.”
“Sure.” I like Micah. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nods and I shift on my feet.
“The others … do you think they’ll forgive me for joining the imperius this way?” I don’t know why I care. I’m not planning to be here for much longer. And yet I … do.
Micah chuckles. “Only a few of them actually qualified in the first place. Neris was invited because she saved the emperor’s life when she was still in the Guard.”
Neris stares at the track, ignoring us, but I can tell she’s listening. “Deitra spent a solid three months being our lackey.”
Micah laughs. “Whatever we needed, she took care of it.”
Deitra has positioned herself several rows away. My shock must show on my face, because she raises one dark red eyebrow before glowering at Micah, who smirks back at her.
“Don’t worry about the others. You were clever and you got what you wanted,” Micah says. “Besides, you’re still a novice. You’re not guaranteed a permanent spot until Tiernon formally approves you. You’ll be training with the other novices and us, which means you now need to work twice as hard.”
“I already am.”
He considers that. “You’re right. But imperius training just got a lot more difficult for you.”
On my right, Neris ponders me. When she doesn’t say anything, we all fall into silence. The air is heavy with the scent of roasted nuts, and I take a greedy inhale. Three rows down and one across, a vendor is weaving through the crowd, offering watered wine and snacks. I see Leon and Albion, reaching into their pockets for change as they flag one of the vendors down, and I’m sure Leon has already placed his bets.
Cheering breaks out behind us. At the top of the stands, where the poorest citizens are crammed shoulder to shoulder, wardens are throwing loaves of bread into the crowd.
“Arvelle,” Maeva calls, waving from the section to our right.
“I’ll be back,” I say.
“Be good,” Micah says. “Tiernon won’t be happy if anything happens to you.”
I wrinkle my nose at him and he laughs.
Kaeso and Garet sit on Maeva’s right, and I sidle next to her on her left side.
“You’re looking … close with the Primus,” Maeva murmurs.
My gut twists. “Yeah. Um. I convinced the imperius to let me join. As their novice.”
Her eyes widen. “I didn’t realize you wanted to be on the imperius. Congratulations, Arvelle.”
Guilt stabs into my gut. But taking her spot was likely my only chance to get close enough to the emperor to kill him. I’ll make it up to her one day. I’ll do whatever it takes to make amends.
“And the Primus?” Her eyes narrow when I open my mouth. “I’ve seen you … chatting with him. The Primus doesn’t chat.”
I glance at Kaeso and Garet, but they’re busy arguing over the best charioteers.
“I know the Primus from when I was younger. I only learned who he is recently, and he’s keeping an eye on me.” Likely due to guilt from abandoning me, although I don’t mention that.
Maeva’s eyes widen. “Do you have feelings for him?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
Her eyebrows shoot up, and my cheeks heat. “My feelings are … complicated.”
Maeva shakes her head at me. “I may be attracted to women, but even I can admit the Primus is a fine example of a man— even if he happens to be a vampire. But … you know the dangers.”
No children. Ever.
Despite the fact that I have no intention of having children with Tiernon, the thought is depressing, and Maeva nudges me with her elbow, changing the subject. “The rest of us moved into the novice quarters earlier today. We get our own rooms now.
I know you’ll be moving into the imperius quarters, but you should come visit.”
“I will.”
“You know, they’re already getting the gladian quarters ready for the next round. The Sands just ended in my home city.
That means there will be new gladians training here within a few months.”
My gut twists. More gladians for the emperor’s entertainment. More gladians to fight and die for him, and then, if they’re lucky, to be given a position as a novice. It hasn’t escaped me that even with their superior speed and strength restricted, not one vampire was killed during the Sundering. While I was fortunate enough not to fight any of them, the others weren’t so lucky.
It’s all just a game for the emperor. It’s all just a way to continue to relish in vampire superiority. When I lived in the Thorn, I was too busy surviving to care. But being here has allowed me to see just how the emperor plays with the sigilmarked —while sharing only as much power as suits him.
I take a long, deep breath, then slowly release it from my lungs.
“I’m just thankful we won’t have to step into the arena again,” Garet mutters.
Maeva leans across Kaeso and gives Garet a disbelieving look. “You heard Nyrant. We’re novices now. Not yet guards.
Even while in the early stages of training for the Praesidium Guard, those who displease the emperor can be killed with the flick of his thumb. And plenty of people die during training—or when stepping back into the arena.”
Garet frowns. “What do you mean?”
“The populace is interested in gladians who become guards. In our training. The emperor still makes those who are training get into the arena and put on a show occasionally. And he doesn’t cry into his pillow if we die during those fights.”
There’s a hint of something in Maeva’s voice I haven’t heard from her before. Bitterness maybe. The weeks here have changed her. She’s no longer the bubbly woman I met on my first day here. Part of me is glad. That woman would have died within days.
But another part of me mourns the change.
“Look”—Kaeso points—“the race is about to start.”
Down the far end of the track, a magistrate appears, leans over the track, and drops a white napkin.
The gates slam open. Four chariots appear, each painted a different color—red, white, blue, and green. They lurch forward, a sudden explosion of motion and sound, and the crowd erupts into cheers, drowning out the rumble of wheels on packed earth. The horses’ hooves slam into the ground, kicking up sand and dirt. The wind sweeps through my hair, carrying the shouts of the drivers and the crack of their whips.
Each driver controls four horses, which gallop across the long side of the track, wild-eyed as they strain against their harnesses. The green chariot pulls slightly ahead before the turn, the driver leaning to the left.
Edging ahead has given him the room he needs to take the turn wide, but he loses a little ground as the blue chariot takes his place on the inner position on the left.
Garet shakes his head. “There are seven laps. The green pulled away too soon.”
“It’s not too soon if he can get enough of a lead,” Maeva says, and Garet gives her a patronizing look that makes me want to punch him in the throat.
Garet is right, though, and the green falls behind, jostling with the white and red chariots. The crowd groans.
The chariots approach the bend once more, about to begin the second lap. But the white chariot directs his horses, pushing the red chariot toward the stone wall in the center. The horses are forced closer and closer. The red driver’s expression twists into blind terror as he fights for space, his chariot inches from the stone that would shatter his wheel.
My heart quickens, my nails digging into my palms. This won’t end well.
The red chariot attempts to drop back, but the white chariot slows with him, staying close, the driver’s teeth bared in a feral grin.
The red chariot’s driver strains, his horses throwing their heads, desperate for room. But there’s nowhere for them to go.
His wheel hits the stone, and the chariot flips, dragging the driver behind him.
A gasp ripples through the spectators as the driver disappears beneath his chariot. But I catch a glimpse of his hand wrapped around the hilt of a knife. He’s attempting to cut himself free from the leads tied around his body.
His horses round the corner, still galloping, still dragging him behind them. A cloud of dust rises in their wake, and the driver manages to escape the chariot, rolling across the track and narrowly avoiding the green chariot and its horses thundering toward him.
My lungs ache, and I let out a slow, shaky breath. The red chariot’s horses are still galloping, incensed. They turn the next corner, and the empty chariot bounces once. Twice.
The chariot goes wide, sliding across the track. And then it reverses course as the horses narrowly avoid the blue chariot ahead of them.
The red chariot swings back across the track and slams into one of the statues in the central barrier. The statue wobbles, but stays standing, although the heavy necklace around Umbros’s neck snaps, priceless jewels falling across the track.
“No,” Maeva says.
“I’m sure the emperor has plenty more,” I mutter, still focused on the driver of the red chariot. He’s curled around the feet
of one of the gold statues, unmoving.
“No. Look.” Maeva points. Several spectators are fighting with the wardens at the edge of the track. More jump into the fray, until the city wardens are forced to sprint from nearby sections toward the scuffle.
Two men take advantage, leaping over the gate.
I shake my head. “They’re insane. They can’t possibly think they’ll get away with it.”
“They’re drunk. And desperate,” Maeva snaps. “You can’t put bread in front of a starving man and expect him not to take a bite.”
The chariots in the lead are already rounding the corner once more, whips cracking, horses galloping. The blue chariot is in the lead, the driver hunched in his chariot, focused intently on the track in front of him.
The men hesitate.
“Don’t do it,” I mutter.
The men charge across the track, eyes on the jewels.
The first man almost makes it. He sprints, arms pumping, eyes glazed, focused on the rubies scattered in front of them— each the size of a baby’s fist.
But the blue chariot has nowhere to go. The driver attempts to steer to the right, but it’s too late. Four sets of front hooves hit the man with the force of a charging bull, riding over his limp body. The chariot bounces and flips, throwing the blue driver free. He must have chosen not to wrap the leads around his waist, and the decision saves his life as he gets to his feet, sprinting toward the safety of the central barrier.
The second man makes it across the track, hands grasping for the jewels.
A bolt hits the man in the throat. His body slumps to the ground as chariots stream past. At the edge of the track, a warden
slings his crossbow over his shoulder.
The crowd breaks into angry shouts.
To our right, chants break out, a group of spectators waving their fists. The sound grows in volume until the words become
clear.
“No more taxes!”
“Uh-oh,” Maeva whispers.
Even from here I can see the emperor’s displeasure as he gestures for a gold-crowned man to step closer. The man is thin and wiry, with dark gray hair thinning on top. Sigilkeeper Drugov Nistor.
The color has drained from Maeva’s face, and the look in her eyes makes my stomach spiral.
Nistor gives the emperor a sharp nod, before bowing low. When he turns to murmur something to a city warden, my skin begins to itch.
Maeva sucks in a breath. “Arvelle … maybe we should leave.”
“Leave?”
To our left, a handful of novices are attempting to do just that, and I spot Brenin among them. But the wardens stop them, fingers pointed as they gesture for them to return to their seats.
A wave of dread pours through me, drowning everything else.
A few rows below us, a group of bronze sigilmarked and a handful of mundanes have taken up the chant. A woman with long red hair holds her daughter on her hip, waving her fist as she screams her rage at the emperor.
“No more taxes!”
The little girl’s bright red hair matches her mother’s, and she lets out a belly laugh, waving her tiny hand in the air. She can’t be more than one or two years old. Next to her, a boy with hair a slightly darker shade stands next to his father, who frowns, scanning the crowd.
Maeva clutches at my arm. I follow her gaze to the left, far above our heads. Several wardens are barking at a group of mundanes who continue their chants. One of them throws an empty cup at a warden. The warden opens his hands, and fire roars toward the group.
They don’t even have a chance to beg for mercy before they’re engulfed in flames.
