The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(84)

She had told Sorcha the truth about what we’d all done—as far as she could remember it—but then Nyx had argued, protesting that the only place she was guilty of sneaking off to that night was down to the larder to pilfer a late snack. The kitchen boy confirmed having seen Nyx raiding the pantry. He’d received ten lashes for not reporting the theft. I wondered what Nyx had traded in return for that little lie. The only other person who could confirm or deny what had actually happened was Nyx’s lapdog Lydia.

“Lydia crawled trembling to the Lanista and told her how she’d heard you and Elka planning to escape,” Ajani said, her lip curling in disgust as she covered Elka’s shoulders with a square of linen bandage. “And how she’d been too afraid to do anything about it—because you, of course, had threatened to cut out her tongue if she did.”

I didn’t even know how one would go about cutting out a tongue, but I vowed, upon hearing Ajani’s story, that I would learn.

I’d been willing to believe that Nyx had truly had a change of heart. That we were sisters, like she’d said. Like we’d oathed. I ran a shaking hand over my face. My skin felt too tight, stretched across the bones of my skull, and the inside of my head was full of sheep’s wool and hobnails. Mandragora was truly awful stuff.

Ajani stood, wrapping up the leftover bandage. She left it and the pot of salve on the little table. With all the other girls confined to their rooms, she was taking a risk even being there, but I was grateful. “That’s my own magic,” she said, pointing at it. “My own herbs. Better than anything Heron has, but don’t tell him I said so. Keep the cuts clean and lightly wrapped. Tell her she cannot fight before they’re fully healed.”

“I’m fighting in the Triumphs,” came the muffled protest.

“You’ll scar.”

“Don’t care.”

Ajani rolled her eyes and made an emphatic gesture in Elka’s direction. I thanked her, and she hugged me before wishing me good luck with the Lanista and ducking out the door. I closed it behind her and leaned on it heavily. I felt like I’d been trampled by a team of oxen, and I could only imagine how Elka felt, with the mandragora aftereffects on top of what must have been scorching pain from Thalestris’s whip.

“What happened to you last night?” she asked.

I shook my head, not even sure where to begin. “It’s a tale long in the telling. Rest, and I’ll tell you the whole story later.” I reached over to gently smooth a wrinkle from her bandages. “I’m so sorry, Elka.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“No. You’re right,” I said. “It was Nyx’s. And I’m going to kill her.”

? ? ?

I found Nyx alone in the laundry, shrouded in steam and the astringent stink of lye soap. She was hanging on to the pole that spanned across the tops of the huge wooden tubs, her tunic tucked up in her belt and her legs boiled-lobster red as she stamped her feet up and down in a soup of hot gray water full of dirty linens.

She didn’t notice me walk through the door. I skipped a formal greeting and went straight for trying to drown her in the tub.

I used my shoulder to hit her from behind square in the middle of her back, and she fell face-first into the water. I tumbled in after, reaching for her neck so I could hold her head under, but she thrashed and flailed, slipping out of my grasp. I grabbed a length of sodden linen and slapped it hard across her torso, knocking her over. She fell back, cursing and sputtering. I saw her eyes go wide behind the curtain of her dark, dripping hair as she realized who it was that had attacked her.

“You deranged bitch!” she screamed at me. “What in Hades are you trying to prove?”

“That if you want to get rid of me so badly,” I shouted, “you’ll have to do it yourself!”

She retched out laundry water and clambered to her feet. “What are you talking about, you lunatic?”

“I know now why you convinced me to go to that house last night,” I said. “Did you also nail that poor bird to my door just so we could have something to bond over?”

“I told you I had nothing to do with that.”

“I know all about Pontius Aquila—”

“You don’t know anything,” she sneered. “Aquila is deluded if he thinks you worthy of his collection. You’re nothing but a naive little barbarian who got lucky in a fight. You don’t deserve to call yourself a gladiatrix. You never will.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“You don’t belong with us!” she screeched.

Her eyes were red and streaming, and I didn’t know whether it was from tears or the acrid wash water, but the raw agony in her voice brought me up short. I stepped back, sloshing through drifts of clinging laundry, to steady myself on the edge of the tub. My burst of rage was spent, and all that was left was the ghost of mandrake wine and a deep weariness.

“She’s not your sister,” she said, her voice ragged. “Not anymore. She’s mine!”

I grew still. “What are you talking about?”

“Achillea.” She scrubbed a hand over her eyes. “Before you came, I was her favorite. I’ve always been her favorite, because I’ve always been the best. Now it doesn’t matter how well I fight. Now she barely even looks at me when I’m in the arena. Because of you. Victrix. The Fury Killer. Everyone thinks you’re so perfect. At least Pontius Aquila respects my skills.”