Seventeen

Madoc

THE HIRED CARRIAGE rocked to a stop at the palace gates. Inside the cab, Madoc turned a gold coin over his knuckles, hoping that Geoxus would agree to see him without Lucius or his suddenly supportive father.

“State your business.” A palace centurion stuck his head through the window of the carriage, and after inspecting Madoc, flushed in surprise. “Apologies, champion,” he muttered quickly, then motioned the carriage through, a messenger charging ahead on horseback to announce his presence.

By the time Madoc had gotten out and paid his driver, his heart was in his throat. He clung to the dim hope that Geoxus would show him mercy. That since he hadn’t known Madoc wasn’t Earth Divine, he might not sense the deception in what Madoc was about to say. That Lucius, who he’d bypassed by taking a carriage straight from Market Square, had not already informed the Father God of Madoc’s strange tactics against Jann.

Madoc tried to keep a steady pace as he walked between the rows of palace guards that lined the path to the entrance, but everyone was watching him, and without the distraction of other party guests, he felt on display.

The glow from the pulsing white stones lining the path danced off the archway mosaic of Geoxus reaching an open hand toward the small people of Deimos. For some reason it made Madoc think of how Ash had said Ignitus was stripping Kula’s resources, and how Petros was wringing the Undivine dry.

If Geoxus provided, his people wouldn’t be in need.

He shook Ash’s voice from his head. Geoxus did provide. The Divine had everything they could possibly want, and the Undivine could too if men like Petros didn’t twist the Father God’s intent.

Geoxus wasn’t like Ignitus.

Madoc was asked to wait in the atrium, where he again found himself overwhelmed with the grandness of the enormous painted columns, and the fountains, spraying crystalline water over white marble figures. He stared out toward the terrace where he and Ash had danced before the gods and party attendees, and he straightened the decorative armor he’d changed into for this meeting.

He was still a champion. He needed to look the part.

The guard returned not long after and escorted Madoc into a long corridor that ran the length of the front wall. They stopped at a small room with a planked wooden floor that Madoc eyed with wary curiosity. He had not seen another room in the palace like it.

“The Father God will meet you in his chambers,” said a servant, an old man with wrinkles around his eyes. He motioned toward the room.

Madoc’s mouth went dry.

He stepped into the room. It seemed significantly smaller now that he was inside.

“You may wish to take hold of the railings,” the old man cautioned. “The movement can be jarring.”

Madoc wasn’t sure what he meant, but as his eyes lifted, his jaw dropped. The top of the room had no ceiling, only a wooden crossbeam. A twisted chain was fastened to the center and extended up into the long stretch of tunnel overhead.

Another smaller rope hung from the ceiling, and as the attendant gave it a sharp pull, the ground beneath Madoc’s feet lurched.

“What is this?” He’d been wrong. Geoxus was going to kill him. This unique torture device was just the start.

“A pulley of sorts,” said the old man as Madoc gripped a railing. “Someone at the top loads stones onto a neighboring box, and when it’s heavy enough to counter our weight, we rise.”

The floor lurched again, along with Madoc’s stomach. Then they began to lift, as if the room were floating.

Slowly, the corridor began to disappear below them. The entrance to the small room became a smooth, solid wall, slipping by faster and faster as they climbed.

“How . . .” Madoc adjusted his white-knuckled grip on the railing. Cold sweat dripped down his chest. “How high does this go?”

The attendant smiled. “To the very top.”

Higher they climbed. Faster, until Madoc’s stomach felt like it was in his sandals, and he was sure they had poked a hole through the clouds. When he looked up, the small flickering lights had grown larger, and a ceiling came into view. Fear gripped him. If they kept on at this pace, they were going to slam into it.

“Shouldn’t we be stopping?” he asked.

“Yes, just about,” said the old man.

Madoc’s knees bent. He hunched, making himself smaller.

A moment later the pulley slowed, and the doors that appeared before them opened up into another room, this one just as grand as the rest of the palace, with a high ceiling glimmering with onyx and opal like stars in a night sky, and walls painted with bloody gladiator victories in the arena. Books lined the shelves on one wall, and a bed pressed against the other, three times the size of the one Ilena shared with Cassia at home.

Geoxus’s personal chambers.

With a tilt of the old man’s head, Madoc stumbled into the room, glad to be on solid ground. From behind came a creak, and when he looked back the doors were closed.

Before him, the balcony was open, and standing against the railing, looking out over the Nien River and the flickering lights of his city, stood the Father God, draped in black silk.

“Madoc.” Geoxus didn’t turn but motioned Madoc toward him with one hand.

On shaking legs, Madoc approached, moving carefully around a stout pillar shaped like two lush stone bodies wrapped around each other. The breeze from outside was stronger as he approached the balcony, the curtains dancing like smoke, teasing his ankles.

They were higher than Madoc had guessed. Stories upon stories in the air. He could see the ports at South Gate from here, and the line where the lights at the port at Iov met the black sea.

“Honorable Geoxus,” Madoc said, voice unsteady. He hesitated at the edge of the balcony, feeling an odd tugging sensation pulling him closer to the brink.

Geoxus turned, and Madoc felt the urge to look away. Waves of black hair stretched to Geoxus’s shoulders. The cut of his toga showed the gleam of his smooth, muscled chest. Power radiated from him, not unlike the anxiety that had crackled off Elias before the fight with Jann, and Madoc fought the odd impulse to touch the Father God’s arm, just to see if he could feel that power.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Madoc said.

“Of course.” Geoxus smiled, and guilt splashed over Madoc’s resolve. This was the Geoxus who had brought him Cassia when Madoc was alone in Crixion. Without his crown, he seemed more mortal than not, and Madoc felt a new wave of sickness over what he had to do.

Petros took Cassia, he reminded himself. Petros has hurt countless people in this city.

He had to break Geoxus’s trust in Petros, even if it severed his faith in Madoc too.

“I always make time for my champions,” Geoxus added. “You give our people so much.”

Madoc dipped his head.

“How are you faring?” Geoxus asked. “This must be quite a change for you. The life of a stonemason is quite different from the life of a gladiator.”

Madoc glanced at the luxury of the room behind him. There were servants he hadn’t noticed standing beside the bed, and a door beside the bookcase. They were so still, they’d blended in, like the statues around the room.

“It is very different,” he said.

Geoxus chuckled and leaned back against the railing, causing Madoc’s chest to constrict. “You look well.”

“I am, Honorable Geoxus,” Madoc said, but the questions had begun pressing against his teeth. Are you my god? Am I truly a son of Deimos?

Or am I something else?

“Still glowing from your latest victory, no doubt.” Geoxus grinned.

“That . . .” Madoc swallowed. Without thought, he pulled his breastplate away from his sweating chest, then stopped himself. How many times had Lucius told him that gladiators did not squirm? “That is what I came here to discuss with you, actually.”

“Yes, tell me all about it. I wanted to attend but was tied up with war proceedings. Petty details Ignitus wants accounted for.” Geoxus waved a hand dismissively, and Madoc frowned, reminded of the seaports that Kula stood to lose, and Ash’s words in the preparation room.

He has a list of my country’s resources, and he checks them off every time he wins one, as if he’s collecting them.

He could not think of Ash now. He had to think of Cassia. He had to be her champion.

“I only fought Jann today because Stavos forfeited our earlier match.”

Geoxus grew grim. “Yes?”

“I believe Petros may have had something to do with that.”

Geoxus stepped closer. “You believe your father was behind the murder of my gladiator.” His gaze darkened. “That is a very serious accusation. What proof do you have?”

Madoc felt as if his organs were vibrating. “None, Honorable Father God,” he said. “I only know that Petros would do anything to gain your favor.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Because I didn’t win today using geoeia.”

Madoc waited, braced for Geoxus to sand him raw or throw him over the edge of the balcony. An urge of self-preservation stirred the strange power in his blood, but it was trapped in place by a cage of doubt.

He had said the worst part; there was no going back now.

“I know Petros told you I went to him after I’d pledged myself to Lucius, but that wasn’t the truth. It was the will of my father that I submit myself to Lucius Pompino at the start of this war. Petros said I wasn’t to tell anyone who I was, and that I couldn’t use geoeia.” He deliberately left out any mention of soul energy, preferring to avoid territory he couldn’t navigate his way through. “He demanded this of me, and I had no choice but to comply because he’d taken my sister, Cassia. She isn’t his daughter. I thought if I could do what he asked, he’d give her back, but then I was chosen to be one of the Honored Eight . . .” Madoc shifted, aware of the fine line he was walking between accusing Petros of a war violation and accusing Geoxus. “I do not mean to question your judgment, but cheating caused this war. I do not want Deimos to be accused of the same due to my behavior.”

Madoc felt another tremor rip though him. Speak, he urged Geoxus. Say something.

Geoxus’s knuckles absently traced the line of his smooth jaw. “It is a weighty thing to turn against one’s father,” he finally said.

Madoc’s stomach churned. His god or not, Geoxus was still the ruler of this land.

He focused on Cassia. He would say whatever he had to in order to free her.

He would sacrifice, like Ash, to bring his sister home.

“Petros has turned against our people,” Madoc said, Jann’s words from the fight rising like knives in his memory.

Geoxus stepped forward slowly, and Madoc trembled as the Father God’s hand came down on the back of his head.

He did not feel a burst of strength or power. He did not feel seen, his mind on display for his god. He felt nothing but the gentle pressure of a kind touch.

“You’ll speak to no one of this,” Geoxus said.

“Of course not, Honorable Geoxus.”

“Good.” Geoxus sighed. “After all this time, few things surprise me, but you have. You’ve made me very proud with your efforts in this war.”

Madoc’s heart stuttered.

He should have been honored. Humbled. Geoxus was proud of him. But Madoc had fought in the arena—in a war—using a power other than geoeia. Such a thing was treason, upheld by the highest law. If Geoxus was pleased with Madoc’s win, it meant that he was allowing such treason, and that was something Madoc didn’t understand.

Geoxus was fair, and just. He was defending their country against the warmongering Ignitus—a god whose own people wanted him dead.

But Geoxus was saying Madoc did well, that he’d achieved greatness. By cheating.

That couldn’t be right.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I will withdraw from the war immediately. If you could ask Petros to return my sister . . .”

“Withdraw?” Geoxus huffed. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Madoc balked. “I told you. I didn’t use geoeia. My father . . .”

“Your father is under control. You have no need to worry about him.”

No need? Petros was torturing the people of Crixion with his debt collection and holding Cassia against her will.

“But my sister,” Madoc tried again. “Her name is Cassia Metaxa—”

“Tell me about the anathreia,” Geoxus interrupted. The wall of the Father God’s emotions faltered, giving way to the slick, hot pulse of intrigue.

Anathreia. Soul energy.

Ilena and Tor had been right.

“You know?” Madoc asked.

“Of course I know. Why do you think I chose you for the Honored Eight?”

Madoc’s bones turned to salt, fizzing as his blood rushed against them.

Geoxus didn’t just know who he was, the god of earth had chosen Madoc because of what he was. It had been a deliberate choice.

Madoc had thought he could come here and discredit his father by playing to Geoxus’s honor, but he’d been wrong.

Before he could find his bearings, Geoxus grasped his shoulder, leaning close. “Can you extract soul energy?”

Madoc flinched. Wariness drew his shoulder blades together.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, panic igniting in him as he thought of the preparation room where Ash and Tor had talked about killing Ignitus, and Seneca had brought up the Mother Goddess. They’d thought Geoxus wasn’t listening, but he must have been—that’s how he knew about the anathreia.

A moment later, his fear was coated with dread. “Why are you asking me this?”

There could only be one reason: he wanted Madoc to use it in the arena. That’s why he’d been chosen for the Honored Eight.

“Not yet, eh?” The Father God’s voice thinned. “I suppose it was prideful to think you’d learn so quickly. Not to worry—we have time before the final match.”

Madoc felt as though he were back in the moving room, only the floor had been torn away, and he was falling, nothing to cling to.

“Am I a descendant of the Mother Goddess?” he managed. “Are there more like me? How am I supposed to—”

“I know this must be a great burden on you,” Geoxus told him, somber again. “If I could ease your suffering, I would. But Deimos is depending on you, Madoc. We cannot show weakness now. One crack in a foundation is all it takes to crumble a tower.”

Madoc avoided the god’s gaze, ashamed of all the cracks in his own foundation—all the questions and doubt poking through his gladiator facade.

“This is only the beginning,” Geoxus continued. “I’ll explain more when you’re ready. All you need to know now is that great things are in store for our people because of you.” He straightened and snapped his fingers to summon the servant from the bedside. “Get our champion something to eat. He must be famished.”

Madoc had never been less hungry. Everything about this was wrong.

Geoxus already knew of Petros’s corruption and had him “under control.” The Father God was cheating at war. He wasn’t even Madoc’s god, not fully.

The intuition that Madoc trusted in every fight, the anathreia that told him when to stall and when to attack, was sending a warning through his soul.

Be ready, it said.

He would be.