The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(67)
“That scroll,” he continued, “is for you to use only if you happen to find yourself in a bad situation with no avenue of escape.”
I plucked at the edge of the scroll’s black wax blob with a fingernail.
“Leave it sealed,” Charon said, reaching to cover my hand with his.
“What is it?” I asked, frowning. “Some kind of magic?”
He laughed a little. “Of a sort, I suppose. It’s a promise.”
“Of what?”
“Money.”
I felt my mouth twist in a sour grimace. “Does it always have to come back to that?” I asked.
“It’s the kind of magic that appeals to most Romans.” He squeezed my hand once and let go. “Keep this safe and hidden, and keep it with you at all times when you leave the grounds of the ludus. And if you ever find yourself in need—dire need, mind—give that scroll to whoever it is that threatens you. Unless they hold the wealth of Caesar himself in their hands, I promise this will save you from almost any peril. It guarantees substantial payment upon the safe delivery of your person to my house.”
I sat there, stunned by the generosity of his gifts. Charon was a man who bought and sold souls. And yet his own soul was a slave to the love he had for my sister. I thought again about Cai’s offer to buy my contract. Charon seemed to almost sense what I was thinking. He reached out and tapped a finger on the iron ring I still wore around my neck.
“When I put this on you, Fallon, I never meant for it to be permanent.”
The slave master stood and nodded a bow to me. Then he turned and left me sitting there in Sorcha’s garden, wondering about the invisible armor—and shackles—that love could bind around a heart.
? ? ?
When I returned to my cell after the evening meal, I noticed that someone had been in my room. It would have been hard not to notice. The familiar shadows dancing on the bare stone walls looked wrong. They were thick and tinged with crimson. I squinted through the gloom and sucked in a sharp breath when I saw my oath lamp. In my absence, the brightly colored panes had turned black, reducing the flame within to a muted, reddish gleam. For a moment, I wondered if the Huntress Moon had transformed the delicate glass meadow bird into one of the Morrigan’s battle ravens. It perched there at my window, waiting for me, belly full of the wandering fires of dead souls—
Stop it. The Morrigan is your ally, not your enemy.
I strode across the room, lifting the guttering lamp down. This was no magical transformation. Someone had rubbed the thing with a coating of the sticky black pine tar we used on the chariot horses’ hooves—I could smell the pungent tang of it as soon as I picked up the lamp. Another prank.
Or a threat. Or a warning . . .
As I turned with the lamp in my hand, the lurid glow it cast revealed that the wall above my bed was covered in dripping black scrawls—words and pictures—calling me a Roman lover. At least, that’s what I politely interpreted as their meaning. I couldn’t read the words, but the images were plain enough. The threat was clear—someone at the ludus knew about me and Cai. I had to be more careful. If Sorcha found out there was actually something between us, she might very well bar me from the arena. That, in itself, was worrying enough.
But then I saw the bird. Arching above the vile pictures was a crudely rendered raven. With wide black wings and a huge, sharp beak frozen open in a silent shriek.
Definitely a warning.
I lit the wick of an old tallow candle and blew out the flame in the defiled lamp. Turning my back on the wall, I sat down on the edge of my bed and began, painstakingly, to clean away the soot-black stains from the oath lamp with a strip of linen. As I worked, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Morrigan that I’d had the foresight to take the box of Charon’s armor directly to the quartermaster to be stowed along with my swords in one of the caravan wagons. I hated to imagine what might have happened had I left it in my room. I would need my gear in pristine condition.
Because now, more than ever, I was determined to make my mark on the circuit. They thought they could frighten me with pictures painted in tar upon my walls? The pictures I drew would be in the sands of the arena, rendered in my rivals’ blood. And the letters I carved with my sword? They would spell out Victory.
XXIV
CHARON’S WELCOME GIFT of armor marked me as a contender and went a long way toward convincing the crowd I was worthy to be in that arena. But ultimately, my reputation—such as it was to become—was sealed with the outcome of my very first circuit bout. The bout that would forever brand me as the Fury Killer.
? ? ?
The Ludus Achillea’s traveling train had set out early through the gates of the compound, and there was an almost festival atmosphere as the girls and our handlers set off down the road, heading northeast into the Umbrian countryside. Our first performance venue on the circuit was in the town of Perusia. As the sun set, we made camp outside the walls of the town. We would sleep that night in tents kept under guard by our escort, Decurion Caius Varro and a dozen or so of his men.
As the stars began to flicker to life in the darkening sky above us, I spotted Cai near Sorcha’s tent speaking to his men. He turned, suddenly, as if he’d sensed me watching him. I felt a wave of heat wash over me as he stared at me across the distance. Even though the veils of smoke and sparks from the campfires, I thought I saw a raw longing in his gaze. There must have been something like that in mine too, but then I remembered the ugly pictures and words scrawled over my room: Roman lover. I quickly tore my eyes away.