XXXIII

I, WHO REST HERE, WAS named Belli. A child who loved learning and competing, and excelled at both. Taken through violence by the enemies of my beloved Catenan Republic. Proconsul Volenis erected this monument to his dearly departed daughter.

The fields of the dead stretch around me. Silent and still in the cool summer morning, the looming crypt-dotted mountainside of the Necropolis to my left. The Eternal Fires crackle in the distance as I read the words on the six-foot-high tombstone again. Let my gaze linger on the familiar face intricately Will-carved beneath, near lifelike curls framing it. Belli looks back at me proudly.

“Thought I might find you here.”

I don’t turn at Emissa’s quiet voice from behind. “I missed their funerals.”

“You were unconscious. Nearly dead.”

I nod. We both know why.

Silence again. The corners of my vision are filled with other tombstones. Pristine too. Covered with names and stories I know too well.

Seventeen, in all. Buried together in a place of honour.

And these were only the ones whose families don’t have mausoleums.

“She would be so angry to know you ended up in Governance anyway.”

I breathe a soft laugh. “She would say I did it to avoid the competition.” I still to this day feel a little guilty, using her like that. Her desire to remove me as a rival beyond the Academy—not to mention the benefit in goodwill her father would have seen in Sytrece, where he is nominally Military, but depends heavily on Governance favour to operate—was too easy to exploit. “I saw her, you know. When I ran the Labyrinth during the Iudicium.” I rise to my feet, gaze finally turning to Emissa. “It wasn’t the Anguis.”

She’s staring at Belli’s carved face too. Composed, but I know her too well, can read her eyes.

Grief and guilt, just below the surface.

“Come on,” is all she says, eventually tearing herself away. “We don’t have long.”

We’re alone in the sun as gravel crunches beneath our slow footsteps. “Why are we here, Emissa?” It’s been almost two months since Placement. I sent her a message as soon as it was over, letting her know that I was ready.

She sent three words of response. Festival of Jovan. And a Will-imbued stylus, which had lain motionless atop a blank wax tablet for weeks until a few days ago. With tensions close to exploding in the city, despite the ongoing festival—events breaking out into bursts of violence more often than not, now—I’d genuinely started wondering whether I was ever going to hear from her.

When I pushed through the crowds and got on the Transvect this morning, though, this was the last place I expected it to stop.

“I told you in my message. To talk to the Anguis prisoner.”

I go to express my disbelief, then hesitate. Military’s control over Agerus has always seemed a little strange to me. “They have cells here?”

“Very secret ones. You shouldn’t have brought the others.” Emissa sounds anxious as she adds the remonstrance, casting a glance back toward the anchoring point of the Transvect. The brooding monolith splits the skyline. We can’t see the Transvect itself, which is being realigned for the journey to Solivagus. Nor Livia, Aequa, or Eidhin, who will be waiting on the platform for me. “Veridius—”

“Veridius doesn’t get a choice.” Truth, though sneaking off to this meeting alone would have been all but impossible anyway. Livia was Tertius Ericius’s stipulation. Aequa was mine. And Eidhin, when he found out the plan, was his own.

Emissa’s mouth quirks in the smallest of wry smiles. An achingly familiar expression. I look away.

We walk without talking for a minute. Emissa leads us away from the graves, along the base of the mausoleum-covered mountainside. We are still alone.

“It was meant to be me,” she says suddenly, so quietly that I almost think she’s talking to herself. “Not Belli. Running the Labyrinth, I mean.”

I process it, then, “I’m glad it wasn’t.” Whatever has been lost between us, I want her to know that much.

She smiles sadly. Glances at me, and exhales. “I met Veridius when I was fourteen.” Quiet and heavy and slow. “He came to Villa Corenius to interview me. My tutors had been bragging about how well I was doing in my studies, and he’d heard. He was impressed, too. A few months later, between the Academy cycles that year, I was invited to visit Solivagus along with a few others. Belli, Iro, Prav. We stayed for the entire summer, and almost all we did was learn to run the Labyrinth.”

I grunt. Unsurprised. “He was preparing you for the real thing.”

“We didn’t know that, though. When I went home again, he told my father that he’d place me in Class Three, maybe even favour me for Domitor if I studied hard enough over the next couple of years—but only if I didn’t go through the Aurora Columnae until after I graduated. That was the price I had to pay for getting a head start.”

Our crunching footsteps echo off the stone cliff to our right. The path ahead is straight for hundreds of feet, no one along it. “Your father would have been happy.” Her stories of Magnus Quartus Corenius—who earned his long-overdue promotion, I heard, about a month ago—were inescapably about how hard he would drive her to succeed, before the Academy.

“He was. A little too much so.” She gives a small, melancholic smile. “He was planning to marry me off, before that, but after… that’s when he started pushing me. Every day. When he wasn’t there, our Dispensator had strict instructions to do the same. I was training or studying from waking to sleeping. Most days, I wouldn’t see the sun unless I was sparring or running.”

There’s no self-pity in the words, though I wouldn’t expect that of her. I knew some of this already, but she’s always glossed over it. A period of her life that was devoted to the monotony of education, and thus not worth a great deal of conversation. This is the first time I’m seeing it was something more. Something worse.

“I kept it up for nearly a year,” she continues. “And then it… started to get too much. I was lonely. Always tired. So my father decided that the best way to keep me focused was to put me through the Aurora Columnae anyway. Secretly, so that Veridius wouldn’t find out. That way I could have a few people cede to me, and focus for longer. Train harder.”

I grimace. It’s a big admission to make; the Magnus Quintus must have spent a fortune on bribes, because the penalties for sneaking someone through the rites are second only to violations of Birthright. Part of me wants to tell her how sad I am for what she was put through. I am sad for her. But I know her. Know she doesn’t want that. So I just listen.

“He made it happen, of course. Didn’t make me any happier, but it worked. Then after my application got accepted, Veridius asked me to come to the Academy a couple of months before first trimester began. I assumed it was going to be more training, that the others would be there again too. But it was just me.” She breathes out the memory. “He’d chosen me. Out of everyone, he said I was the best candidate. You have no idea how good that felt. The relief. Like the last two years hadn’t been for nothing. I didn’t even ask what I was a candidate for.”

She slows to a stop, though I can’t see why. The path ahead stretches on. “What is it?”

“We’re here.” She gestures to a triangular archway to our right. Set back into the shadow of the mountain and carved from the rock itself, almost invisible. It’s narrow. Old. The opposite of ostentatious. But it still very much looks like all the other tombs.

“Really?”

Emissa doesn’t dignify the question with a response, and I trail after her.

There are two lanterns hanging at the entrance; Emissa takes one and lights it. The warm yellow illuminates the triangular arch better, revealing an inscription across it. Vetusian, unusually. I study it. Mors janua vitae.

I freeze.

Emissa notices my pause. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what that means?”

Emissa glances at the inscription curiously. “Death… is the door to life?” Almost as good at reading Vetusian as I am.

Death is a doorway.

It could be coincidence. The quote here is a famous one, as far as Vetusian texts go.

Still.

“Does it mean something to you?” Emissa continues, turning her gaze back to me with a puzzled frown.

“Just seems a bit out of place, for the Republic.”

“I suppose.” Emissa gives me another look, unconvinced, but sees she’s not getting more out of me.

We walk into the narrow tunnel, only the pool of our lantern’s glow lighting the way. I briefly check my sense of imbued Will. Still something I have to focus on consciously, but it’s easy enough now. Emissa’s the closest beacon, but farther ahead, there are a few more faint ones. Sextii like me, I suspect. Self-imbued people feel very subtly different to imbued objects, I’ve found, though I still can’t quite express how.

Nothing concerning, though. I ignore the sensations again. “So you said Veridius chose you?”

“He did.” She seems reluctant to keep talking, but does anyway. “After I signed a Silencium, he showed me the ruins and told me that there was another Cataclysm coming. And that I might be able to stop it.” She laughs bitterly. “I’ll leave it up to him to explain that part. But after he was done, when I asked why he’d chosen me, he said that only someone who had never been through the Aurora Columnae could do it.”

I scowl. “You still think I won’t go if you give me all the answers?”

“I know you won’t.” She shrugs in a vague, non-apologetic sort of way. “Anyway. I told him straight away what my father and I had done. He was furious, but… I still wanted to help however I could, and he’d already shown me too much. So he got me to sign and imbue another document, admitting to the illegal use of the Aurora Columnae.”

“He still has it?” When she nods, I wince. “So he’s been using you, too.”

“No. I’m helping him.” Sharp reproof in her voice. “We made sure there would be nothing to link us, and then I was supposed to pick a position in Military that could get me the sort of access he’s been missing. I was meant to figure out what they know, and what they were planning to do about it. That’s why he arranged for a few Septimii to cede to me during the Iudicium. It’s why he told me about Indol defecting, too—just in case I had to use it against him. We were counting on me being Domitor.”

“Sorry.”

She huffs at my wry tone. “As you should be.”

We start down some gently sloping stairs. The glistening walls remind me of Letens Prison. Our footsteps echo.

“One thing I don’t understand,” I say eventually. “If this threat—this second Cataclysm—is real, why in all rotting hells would he not tell anyone about it?”

She looks across at me with amused affection. “Really? You’ve been in Caten long enough. You tell me.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. I knew the answer months ago. All I had to do was think about the powerful men and women I was busy getting to know. Imagine the chaos, the arguments. The power struggles cloaked as altruism that would result in nothing ever being achieved.

“Rotting gods-damned Senate,” I mutter.

I’m about to say more when suddenly there’s movement from the darkness ahead.

“Halt.” Red cloak and black eyes in the lantern-light. A cloud of obsidian daggers suddenly glitters in front of our faces. I have a moment of panic. Some part of me cannot help but see the tunnels in Suus. My father and I, stopped by a Praetorian just like this one.

“Quintus Corenius and Sextus Catenicus. We’re expected.” Emissa’s voice is unconcerned.

“Authorisation?”

Emissa produces a folded sheet and hands it to the man, who vanishes into the darkness behind the unmoving daggers. I examine them warily, little else to focus on. There are more than a dozen. Not impossible for a single Praetorian, but I’d bet there are at least two more assisting from the shadows.

We wait in tense silence; I want to ask Emissa what’s going on but she seems to have expected all this, so I hold my tongue. A minute passes.

Then I’m shielding myself from abrupt light, lanterns springing to life in unison along the hallway around us and ahead. The revealed passageway ends in an open doorway about thirty feet away, the two Praetorians guarding it watching us with black eyes and unmoving intensity. The first man, just in front of them, beckons us.

The hovering cloud of obsidian parts to allow us through, then re-forms and trails us until we step into the room. The small space is nondescript, plain stone walls surrounding a single desk with a lantern, quill and ink, and single sheet of paper waiting on it. Another door sits closed opposite.

“Sign the Silencium, Catenicus, and you may proceed,” says our chaperone, gesturing. The stone door booms shut behind us, and immediately the feel of the room changes. As if the air has suddenly grown dense. My skin crawls.

“Will cage,” murmurs Emissa before I can say anything.

I roll my shoulders at the oppressive, uncomfortable feeling. The protective mesh of Harmonically imbued metal triangles that now sits constantly around my torso remains firmly in place, unaffected given I’m inside the cage too. I knew that would theoretically be the case, but I hadn’t expected it to be tested until we reached the Academy.

I hide my relief—nothing illegal to what I’ve created, but it’s not much of an advantage if people know about it—and snatch up the paper. A quick scan shows familiar, standard language. If I talk about anything I see here, Military will have the legal right to put me in a Sapper. And so on, and so on.

I sign. I’ve put my name to so many of these things that it barely bothers me now. “Just me?”

“They already have mine.”

The Praetorian examines my signature, then opens the way forward. “You know how this works?”

“I do,” says Emissa before I can respond.

He nods. “Ten minutes.” We’re ushered through and the stone slides shut behind, hiding the Praetorian from view and sealing us in.

I come to a halt as I take in the next room. Smoke from two fresh torches vanishes through thin slits that must circulate the air down here. They light a room that’s about twenty feet in both width and length. More stone walls, though the stifling feeling of the Will cage has vanished.

The space ahead is empty, except for the angled stone slab in the centre of the room, and the man chained to it. An obsidian blade jutting from his chest.

My blood runs cold.

One of the corpses from the ruins on Solivagus? It’s my first thought, but one I dismiss as I take in the man. Deep lacerations cover his face, cleaned and bloodless though they are. He’s clothed, but where skin shows through it’s scratched as well, torn in places. His eyes are closed.

I recognise him. Don’t place from where, not at first. But then I see his neck. Swathed in bandages.

“Rotting gods.” I take a half step back. I remember him on the ground next to Callidus. Throat torn clean out. “He’s dead, Emissa.” Deep unease in my chest, even if I keep my voice steady.

She walks past me. “You remember what I told you, about why I stabbed you during the Iudicium?”

“Of course,” I say slowly.

She picks up something from beside the slab. A medallion. Thin stone, some kind of symbol engraved on it. A scarab, I think, from the glimpse I get.

She drapes it around the corpse’s neck. Steps back.

For a second, nothing happens.

And then the dead man’s eyes snap open.

I WATCH IN DETACHED HORROR as pallid skin begins to pull tight around dry wounds, leaving only thin, raw lines. The Anguis corpse rasps a breath and jerks. Thrashes. Issues a throttled moan of what could only be intense pain.

“Are you alright?” Emissa’s watching me more than the man. I’ve backed away several steps.

“What in the rotting hells?” I whisper it. “No, Emissa. I’m not alright. What is this?”

“This is the Necropolis. The real Necropolis. I told you about iunctii—well, Military found some pre-Cataclysm artifacts that can create them. Bring the dead back to life, and then these swords can force them to do whatever you tell them. To tell you the truth about anything they know.”

I say nothing, just staring at the grotesque form chained in front of me. “So if they really want to know something from someone who’s alive…”

“There’s a reason this place is so secret.”

“Gods’ graves.” I finally rip my gaze from the prisoner to her. Mind racing. An active temptation for Military to abuse Birthright. I wonder how often they resist it. “How did you get me approved to see this?”

“I didn’t. Veridius spoke to my father. Strings were pulled.” Her mouth twists. “The Praetorian wasn’t joking about the time limit, and I’ve been here before, so whatever questions you have—ask them now.”

I stare at her. Swallow numerous dazed objections, and turn back to the prisoner. His breathing has calmed, but he still wheezes awfully. His eyes are wide. Terrified as they stare into mine. “Can he even talk?”

“He can talk.”

Vek. I turn to the man. Some combination of horror and fury roiling as I lock eyes with the corpse of the man who killed my friend. “What is your name?”

“Antonius… Pius.” Wheezing and hoarse. Pained. Dragged unwillingly from his lips.

“Are you Anguis?”

A nod. The movement clear.

I glance at Emissa. “You’re sure he has to tell the truth?” Asking more to pause and steady myself, than to be sure.

“The truth as far as he knows. The truth according to him.”

I take a breath. Queasy, mind racing. At the least, I came here to confirm what the scarred stranger told me during the Iudicium, even if the truth of it seems to have been playing out in Caten’s politics. And I wanted to see exactly how the Anguis had managed to sow so much doubt using only a single prisoner’s admissions.

Now I know.

“The Anguis abandoned you, didn’t they. At the Iudicium.” It’s what Callidus said. That the man had been angry about being left behind.

A shake of the head. “I got… separated. Accident. Only had the tracking stone for… Catenicus. Knew they wouldn’t leave without… killing him.”

Beside me, Emissa frowns, but I ignore her. “But he wasn’t there.”

“He… was there.” He gasps it. Barely a whisper. “I… made him pay… for Melior.”

I stare for several seconds. Heart lurching. “The boy you…” Breath short. “The boy you tortured. Didn’t he tell you that he wasn’t Catenicus?”

“No. Admitted he… was.”

Oh, gods. Callidus. Gods-damned, courageous idiot.

To my side, Emissa’s expression twists in horror as she understands. Understands what happened and understands who this is as she puts a supporting hand on my arm. Eyes soft and sad. She didn’t know.

My vision swims and I turn away, just breathing, until I’m sure I can keep the welling tears from coalescing.

“How did you sneak onto Solivagus?” My voice shakes a little. It’s the anger, now, more than grief and more than the shock of speaking to a dead man. But I need to move on from that line of questioning. It will lead only to pain. And this isn’t an opportunity that will come again.

“Got close on a… ship. Big one. Will powered. Strange looking, modified. Obelisk instead… of a mast.” He groans and coughs, the rattling rasp echoing through the room. “They flew us over the… Seawall on platforms.”

I paste on a frown for Emissa’s sake, though it’s not too far from my guesses given the pieces I already had. The Navisalus. Relucia and her contact discussing using a ship as an anchoring point. I have no idea how the Seawall itself works, but from our dissection of Transvect mechanics under Praeceptor Scitus, I know that what Antonius is describing is possible. It’s how his comrades managed to escape, too, I imagine.

“What was the name of the ship?”

“Painted over.”

“Where did you leave from?”

“Thuaidh Island.”

I grunt. In the Sea of Quus, northern coast of Tensia. Uninhabited. “How did the Anguis get the resources to make something like this happen?”

His lip curls. Teeth blackened with flecks of dried blood. “Caten. Senators.” Some latent glee, even through the pain. “Your people.”

I’m silent. Visibly tense, reacting with carefully crafted shock and anger to the answer I knew he would give. Then, “What? No. You’re lying.”

“He’s not,” Emissa says quietly.

I let my fists clench and unclench. Pretend for Emissa’s benefit to a slowly dawning, confused fury. “Who, then? Which senators?” I growl.

He shakes his head. “Only… know we had help. Things I overheard. Rumours. We joked about it. The Hierarchy… killing its own.” He laughs. A choking, awful sound.

I don’t have to fake my anger at his reaction, this time.

I ask a few more rapid questions after that, the ones Emissa would expect of me, though I already know the result. Can he identify any other Anguis? He says he was newly recruited and that none of them knew one another’s true identities. Does he know of any Anguis hideouts? He gives the location of three, which I can only assume Military has long since raided. Did he see or overhear anything else that might be useful? He gives a series of observations that I assume have already been followed up. Probably leading initially to small victories that lend credence to his words, but after that, nowhere.

This was perfectly executed by the Anguis. No way to suggest that he’s trying to misinform. Enough information to leave no doubt about senatorial involvement, but not enough to point the finger at any one person or group.

“Almost time,” murmurs Emissa suddenly.

Antonius hears and something in him changes. His broken, scarred body tensing, trembling. Eyes roaming the room desperately before coming back to rest on me.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please.”

Behind us I hear motion at the door. A grinding as it starts to slide away. I don’t look away from him. Meet his gaze. The horror of this place, what is being done here, washing over me. The anguish of knowing that even in his last moments, Callidus protected me when I could not do the same for him. I’ve held it at bay these past ten minutes, but only just. Only just.

The metal shards sit just beneath my shirt. I could end this travesty before anyone could do anything about it. And I want justice for my friend.

“Are you suffering?” I ask Antonius quietly.

He nods. Tears in his eyes. “Yes.” Barely audible. Rasping. Rattling.

“Vis,” warns Emissa.

I ignore her. Walk up to him. He trembles at my approach. I lean in close, my mouth at his ear, so that only he can hear.

“Good.”

His plaintive, weeping moans follow us into the darkness.