And then I realise that Iro very well may.
He thinks he’s lost track of his Will, not that I’ve taken it. He thinks that when my chariot disintegrates as it’s about to, he’s going to get that Will back. A gamble—he’d have to self-imbue virtually as the Will returned to him—but a logical one.
It’s a split second. Barely time for the thought to cross my mind as Iro’s stone wheel bears down on me.
I drop the chain from around my waist, calculate, and leap.
Iro’s eyes are wide, a frozen moment in time as he passes amidst the dust and rattling and screaming stone. From the corner of my vision I see him start to correct, to swerve, to avoid what would now be a pointless sacrifice by smashing into my newly driver-less green chariot. Then the shock of the landing jars my teeth as I skid along in a cloud of sand that takes him from view. Iro’s extra Will in my body, and the slower pace of the corner, allowing me to decelerate in a relatively controlled slide. In the back of my mind, I desperately keep my connection to Aequa’s chariot. Keep moving her forward, even through all of this.
There’s a screeching from outside my choking, blinding cloud. A rending of wood and stone. A scream. More violent dust and I see a glimpse, barely a shadow, of Iro’s blue chariot flipping end over end. Empty.
The pulses in my mind tell me Aequa’s past and Indol is getting farther back, losing momentum.
The brown haze clears just enough for me to watch the seventh golden dolphin tip as Aequa crosses the finish line.
XXX
WHILE MY FATHER OFTEN INSTILLED IN ME THE IMPORtance of appearances, it was Ellanher who first explained to me that showmanship in victory mattered more than at any other moment.
“They may remember the facts of a result, darling,” the muscled, playful organiser of the fights at the Letens Theatre told me one night, not long after I had started. “But they will always judge you on the how. On the after. You have to make thembelieve, my dear boy, whenever they see you step out onto that stage. Because it is faith that makes us cheer, and a triumph forgotten is no different to defeat.” A philosopher at times, that woman.
Right now I want to exult, to celebrate the improbability of this success. And I want to sprint and check that Iro and Marcellus and Felix are alright. And I want to collapse to the ground and cover my head, ignore the world and try to figure out what in the gods’ graves just happened out there.
But everyone is watching. The senators. Tertius Ericius. Tertius Decimus.
So I act as if Aequa passing the finish line is the most normal thing in the world. As if it were not only what I expected, but the only possible result. I have to make them see that this isn’t some miraculous victory. This is the natural order of things. Inevitability in action.
I’m still holding Iro’s Will; as the Septimii rush through the settling dust to tend to him, and the impossible thrill of the victory fades, I spot his ashen-faced father among the concerned. I ignore the inward twisting of what I have to do. This is Caten; even in victory, showing mercy to the wolves only invites later trouble. And while I hope Iro is alright, his father brought this upon himself.
I focus on the Will I’m using. Iro originally imbued my chariot, now destroyed; normally that Will would have reverted to him, but I have no doubt that hasn’t happened. Can I even release it? There’s no way to distinguish his Will from the rest flooding my body. No obvious partition between his and mine.
I’m thirty feet from the crowd around Iro’s prone form. Twenty. Those not urgently working on the injured boy are looking up. Watching me.
I brace myself, and stop self-imbuing.
It’s all I can do not to break stride as the Will strengthening my body vanishes, leaving me only with the strain and aching muscles of what I just went through. I quickly self-imbue again, barely avoiding an embarrassing stumble as Tertius Decimus finally looks up to see my approach.
The strength that floods through me is less intense than before. By the time I reach the edge of the small crowd, I’m confident I am no longer using his son’s Will to supplement my own.
There’s a heavy silence. I can’t see Iro properly behind the people crowded around him. They’re murmuring to one another in anxious, hushed tones. I see bandages being applied. Blood mixed with dust caked on the hands of a couple of men as they work urgently. There’s no motion from Iro’s limbs, one of which is splayed at an unnatural angle.
Vek.
Tertius Decimus meets me before I can get any closer. Stands in my way. Face flushed. Expression as dark as any I have ever seen.
I tamp down my instinct to say that I am sorry. To say that I genuinely, truly hope Iro is alright. Both are true. Neither will help.
We stare at each other for several seconds.
“It seems you are to remain Domitor. Congratulations, Telimus.” He eventually speaks. Civilly enough, no doubt for the benefit of those around us, but I can almost hear his teeth grinding.
“Pardon, Tertius?” I hold his gaze. No doubt what I’m after. A slight intake of breath from a few of those closer, even if most are pretending not to listen. I hate to push, but this exchange is important. Will be relayed a thousand times before the end of the day, if I know Caten.
Tertius Decimus, somehow, turns a deeper shade of red. “My apologies. Congratulations, Catenicus.” He says the word as if it’s poison. Perhaps it is, for him. The name I got for my role in the event in which his only daughter died.
It doesn’t make it reasonable, but part of me understands, I think. Even sympathises. I’m an intrusive, offensive reminder of what he’s lost. In some ways, I suppose I am his Hierarchy.
More concerned movement over by Iro. They’re lifting him with cautious care.
