“You’re a Spore!” comes the accusation.
“I’m not,” I say, my heart sinking. “You know what Spores smell like. You see the sparks when they move. You’ve seen their Spore swords that have minds of their own. I have none of those things. But I share their beliefs.” The grief of defeat in my voice is unavoidable. Never have I wanted to be an Adelphoi so badly. How long do I have to share their faith before I’m accepted and transformed into one of them?
I wish the spectators could smell me, whether as a stench or as cinnamon. I wish I sparked like Erik did in the cage. I wish the Adelphoi sword wouldn’t burn me.
But I’ve done too much damage.
“We know who you are!” a woman yells from over my head somewhere. “Spore or not, you’re the guy on the Outside who sold the fake cure. You lied to us and doomed us to life here!”
Will my past sins never leave me?
Voices rise in a cacophony. Most are angry. Some people are moving from the back rows of the Arena to the front. As close to the mysterious bags as they can get.
“I’ve only ever wanted to save lives!” My shouted plea is lost amid their rage. I close my eyes as it builds and am transported back to the Macella Quarter when the people attacked Stranna. I know once the anger takes root, it spreads and grows, and there’s no stopping it.
The tirones around the edge of the Arena draw their swords, even though the crowd remains in the stands. For now. One tiro eyes the gate.
I’d flee too.
“This cure isn’t like that,” I say, though my voice is unheard. I have to say the words, even if no one will listen. No Adelphoi is willing to say them. And though they won’t change the tide of the crowd, maybe one person—a tiro or a noxior or a parent missing their child—will take it to heart.
“It’s warm,” I blurt, thinking of the wheat field.
Some shush others, curiosity winning out, and the voices die down a little.
“It feels like the sun. No injection, no ImagiSerum, no LifeSuPod, no pills. The disease is in our minds . . . but the cure is there too. God has not left us without a way out.” It’s like Mom’s and Nole’s words are coming out of my mouth. “He is the way—”
Something strikes my cheek with such impact my vision goes black. When it returns, I see a man leaning over the wall to my right, a rock the size of a baseball in his hand. He reaches his other hand into the bag on the edge of the Arena and pulls out another rock. A few others come to his side and do the same.
The bags are filled with . . . rocks?
That’s not what I expected. A chill sweeps over my body.
Now I understand. The bags. Luc’s words about a traitor. The crowd’s curious whispering. My body laid out in full vulnerability.
They’re going to stone me.
The crowd presses against the edge of the Arena’s seating barrier gathering their stones. This is going to get ugly fast. Those who don’t join the rush do nothing to help me. They sit mute, watching. Resigned.
A form drops from the sky like a plummeting meteorite. Luc is here. He lands in the sand and straightens in an all-black Roman toga. No weapon at his side. No blood on his hands. Unafraid and in power. He’s never looked so strong or commanding.
Most of the standing crowd stops cheering. I search for those who seem to remain silent, keeping away from the bags. Anyone who might still hear me.
“You started without me?” Luc says amiably.
There is laughter, like murder is nothing more than an inconsequential game of Uno. He creates a long straight sword from nightmist. It’s not tapered like a gladius but is instead the type a Roman leader might wear. A spatha.
He paces around me in a circle, dragging the sword in the sand, sliding stones aside as he goes. “So tell me. What is his crime?”
“He’s a Spore!”
“He lied about cures!”
“He wants to kill our Emperor!”
After a full circle, Luc surveys the ground. Then starts again, a yard farther than the first circle. He’s making a bull’s-eye. And I’m in the middle.
“All of those are correct.” He completes the second circle. “I’ve just come from the stronghold of the Spores, where they are holding your children. We were unable to breach it.”
Hisses from the audience.
“Those Spores could be doing anything to your children,” he declares. “They are the worst kind of people, and he”—Luc points his spatha at me—“supports them. What kind of person wants to keep children hostage?”
He’s stoking the fire, and anger rages. Nightmist roils off the crowd like a waterfall, cascading down to the sand and sending all manner of unformed venom toward me.
“Let’s remove this poison from our city. And once we’ve done that, let’s take up arms together and get our children back!” He thrusts the spatha into the air to the eruption of cheers and stomping.
A stone flies my way, followed by ten more. I can see which ones will hit their mark as they arc through the air. One strikes my hip. Another my midsection, and for a moment I can’t breathe. Luc steps back and watches, spatha sheathed and arms crossed.
I struggle against my bonds. I twist my right wrist in the looser leather strap. It hardly gives, but it’s the only one that will allow me any hope of escape.
A stone smashes the knuckles on my other hand. I roar, tugging harder. Twisting, yanking. Thinking of the martyr Nole so admired. Stephen or something. I don’t want to be Stephen.
I’m not brave enough.
Finally, my right hand slips out of the leather. I swing my body over and hunch as best I can to protect my core, while picking at the bond on my left hand. I have a bit of leverage now. Stones pelt my body from every angle. Spine, knee, shoulder, head.
