Gilded Serpent, page 13
“What a mess,” Lena said. “Who did this?”
“Me,” Lydia admitted. “I was organizing.”
“An obvious priority in a city overrun by possessed corpses.”
Sighing, Lydia moved stacks of books off chairs so they could sit. “I’m hoping to find some clue to how we might combat the blight. Maybe it has happened before. If not here, then somewhere else. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for, only that the sum of healer knowledge resides within these walls.”
“The library at the temple in Revat is bigger,” Gwen mumbled, wrapping her thick blond braid around her hand. When both Lydia and Lena turned to stare, her pale, freckled skin turned pink. “What? Sonia told me it was so.”
Shoving aside her piqued curiosity, Lydia said, “Be that as it may, we can hardly venture to Gamdesh to visit a library. And I suspect if I ask to send a letter requesting the Gamdeshian healers search for me, that it would be denied. The King seems to have little interest in other nations knowing the full extent of Mudamora’s plight.”
“Malahi always said his pride would be our downfall.” As soon as she said the words, Lena sucked in a breath and glanced at Lydia. “What happened to her … It wasn’t your fault any more than it was his.”
His. Killian. Because he’d sworn to protect Malahi but had left the Queen to come after her.
“Malahi made her bed,” Lena added. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her, but she caused it.”
And yet if Malahi were alive, how different would things be? She’d be Queen, not Serrick, and their differences aside, Lydia knew that the other girl would have shown more empathy for the people. Would have listened to any possible solution that saw them saved. As much as it hurt to admit, the kingdom would likely have been better off if Killian had stayed by her side. “Were you there?” she asked softly. “When Rufina took her?”
Lena gave a reluctant nod. “Not that we did much good. We were riding as hard as we dared back to Mudaire, her at the center of the group. But it was so dark.” She bit her bottom lip. “We never saw Rufina coming. Never heard her coming.”
The soldiers that escorted Lydia and Quindor back to Mudaire had known a few of the details of what had happened, but Lydia kept silent, waiting for her friend to continue.
“The deimos just dropped from the sky,” Lena whispered. “Rufina caught Malahi around the waist and dragged her off the horse. High Lord Calorian was closest to her. He caught hold of Malahi’s ankle, but the deimos knocked him off. And then the rest of us were trying to get arrows out. To shoot Rufina without hitting Malahi. But…”
But it was a difficult shot. And none of them were good archers.
Killian would’ve saved her.
She shoved away the thought.
“Malahi screamed the entire time.” Lena’s eyes were distant, her face tight with remembered horror. “But there was nothing we could do.”
Silence hung like a pall.
“Did they find her?” As she asked the question, it struck Lydia that the King had shown no signs of grief when she’d met him today. It was possible he was enough of a politician that he could hide his sorrow over the death of his only child, but that rationale fell flat in Lydia’s mind. Especially given how often she’d seen senators back in Celendor spin the loss of a child to their advantage. To her, it felt almost like he was acting as though she’d never existed.
“No.” Lena closed her eyes, her grief for the fallen queen real, and Gwen wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “Though the High Lady has a shifter in her employ who is still searching.”
Even if she were a desiccated corpse, Malahi’s clothing and jewelry were enough to identify her. And while disposing of a body where no one would find it wouldn’t have been a challenge for Rufina, it struck Lydia as more the enemy queen’s style to have dropped the body in the middle of the army camp if for no other reason than to make a point.
“Her father’s men aren’t looking anymore.” Gwen’s voice was rough. “It’s too dangerous for small groups to remain out west, what with the blight. So wherever she is, only chance will ever see her found.”
Malahi had blackmailed her. Tried to turn her into a murderer. And yet Lydia wouldn’t have wished this fate upon anyone, much less a girl who above all things had desired the best for her people. “The gods have her in their care, now.”
Both Lena and Gwen made the sign of the Six against their chests, then Gwen picked up one of the books, flipping through it before tossing the volume back on the table. “So what’s the plan, oh Marked One.”
Rolling her eyes at the honorific, Lydia said, “I want you to find me people who are infected but not yet turned.”
“And then we’re to bring you to them? And if you don’t cure them and they become blighters, we’re just going to walk away?”
“Correct.”
“That seems … not smart.”
Lydia sighed. “There’s no helping it. Families won’t bring me the sick if they hear that we kill my failed experiments.”
“But they’re already dead,” Lena said. “Right? The blighters aren’t alive, that’s what we were told.”
Her tension had worked its way into a headache, and Lydia rubbed at the muscles of her neck, trying to relax them. “Only a healer can tell they are dead,” she explained. “To anyone else, they appeared wholly cured and themselves.”
Lena made a face. “I preferred when they looked dead. Made it a lot easier to kill them when they were a horde of monsters.”
“That’s probably why the blight evolved. Before, the blighters were a cudgel.” She swallowed hard. “Now they are a blade in the night.”
“Then I suppose we’d better get out there.” Lena looked down at her Falorn livery. “Probably better to wear something else.”
High Lady Falorn was beloved by the people, but given the current resentment toward the Marked, Lydia was inclined to agree. “Be careful,” she said. “And be back before dark.”
As soon as they departed, she got back to work on her organization of the library, piling mis-shelved books in front of their appropriate sections, stopping only when titles of interest caught her eye. There was so much information—an incredible wealth of knowledge, but the dearth of material on the Seventh god or the corrupted surprised her. They were mentioned in passing only, usually in reference to the impossibility of returning the life one of the corrupted had taken from a victim, as a healer could not reverse the passage of time or its impact on the body. Of the blight, or anything like it, there was nothing.
Hours later, a knock sounded on the door to the library. It opened, and High Lady Falorn stepped inside.
Lydia stood, her back and knees cracking loudly. Dareena laughed. “Gets worse with age, but I suppose you are already familiar with the sensation.”
“Deeply familiar,” Lydia answered. “But advancing age is better than the alternative.”
“The Six know, succumbing to old age likely isn’t something someone like me has to look forward to,” the High Lady answered, motioning for her to sit back down. “Dying young is a hazard of Tremon’s mark.”
It was impossible not to stiffen, and Dareena’s expression softened.
“The greatest danger to Killian is Killian,” the High Lady said. “But I suspect you know that.”
Lydia did; but knowing that she wouldn’t be there to put him back together made her ill. “Did you have any luck with the King?”
“Quindor and I both pressed Serrick to move the Royal Army to Abenharrow, but he refuses. He sees Mudaire as the front lines of our ongoing war with the Corrupter, and he believes this is where Mudamora’s military might must focus its efforts. He’s going to increase the number of patrols hunting for blighters.”
“There’s no point in having more patrols. Not without more healers to identify the infected.”
“Which is why he’s recalled all who remain, though it will take time for them to reach Mudaire.”
As though Lydia needed more pressure. Once additional healers arrived and the patrols to hunt the infected increased in earnest, she’d lose her chance to try to treat those in the early stage of infection, because Lydia had no doubt in her mind that they’d kill them, too. “He’s a fool.”
Dareena made a face. “Others are warning him that if we don’t keep the blighters in check, they’ll grow enough in numbers to be a real threat. Which isn’t faulty advice. Serrick’s between a rock and a hard place.”
“Who is giving this advice?” Lydia asked the question despite having a good idea who it must be.
“Cyntha.”
“How is she any more equipped to give advice about the army than I am?” Lydia demanded. “She’s a healer, not a soldier.”
“She’s both. Or was, at any rate.” Rotating her chair around, Dareena straddled it, chin resting on the back. “She was born to a minor noble family in Axbridge and grew up in the company of my brother, which allowed her to receive the best military training there was to be had. After she was marked, Cyntha only did cursory training at the temple before returning to be Derrek’s personal healer and bodyguard. They were … close.”
“So you know her well?”
Dareena shook her head, green eyes distant. “My brother was fifteen years older than I was. Our father passed when I was only four, and after he was crowned king, Derrek spent most of his time in Mudaire, Cyntha with him. They parted ways on poor terms after he was married, and I only saw her a handful of times until she joined Serrick’s household. She’s … a hard woman. But not without reason.”
Lydia was curious to know the reason, but asking the High Lady for gossip that likely pertained to her deceased brother seemed rude, so she held her tongue.
“Either way, Serrick heeds her advice, so unless you can offer him a compelling alternative to putting all of his resources to hunting the blighters, that’s what he will do.”
Lena and Gwen chose that moment to appear in the doorway, and though they’d been gone for only a few hours, relief that they were safe flooded through Lydia. Relief that was tempered by Lena giving a slow shake of her head and Gwen muttering, “This is going to be harder than we thought.”
Dareena rose to her feet. “I need to get back to the palace.” She gave Gwen a gentle slap on the shoulder. “The right path is rarely the easy one. Keep at it and keep safe.” Then she left the library.
“We’ll keep at it,” Gwen said. “The longer we’re out among them, the more they’ll come to trust us. We just need to be careful to make sure that no one catches us coming and going from here. It might be easier—”
“No,” Lydia interrupted. “It’s too dangerous at night. I don’t want you out there.”
“Fine.” Her friend shrugged. “But it will take longer.”
“I’m not risking you more than I already am. Not unless we’re really desperate.”
Lena huffed out a breath, a slightly wild smile on her face. “You mean it can get worse than this?”
It can always get worse. “You two should go get something to eat before it’s all gone.”
“You coming with?”
She was exhausted. Frustrated. Afraid. “No, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
“I’ll bring something back for you,” Gwen said.
They parted ways on the stairs, Lydia heading to her room and her friends heading to the main level to eat. Once behind closed doors, Lydia pulled off her robes and tossed them aside, then went to the tiny mirror nailed to the wall. Removing her spectacles, she peered at her reflection, noting the shadows beneath her eyes. The gauntness of her cheeks.
It was more than exhaustion, because when she’d been working with Killian in the sewer tunnels, she’d gone with even less sleep. But then she’d been fueled by the sense she was accomplishing something. That she’d been doing good. And she’d had Killian at her side.
At the thought of him, she bit her bottom lip, wondering when he’d arrive in Rotahn. If he’d thought of her since they’d parted ways at Alder’s Ford. Closing her eyes, she pulled up the memory of his face as she’d ridden away and knew in her heart that he had. That the connection between them wasn’t something to be erased by distance. Or even time.
Gods, but she missed him. Missed him in such a painful, visceral way, it was as though a part of her body had been cut out. A part of her heart. With him, she felt more herself—the best version of herself—though she hadn’t realized it until he was gone. Killian would understand why she was fighting to save the blighters rather than kill them, and she couldn’t help but think that her chances of finding a solution would be greater if he were here. He wouldn’t abandon his people, no matter how much it cost him—it wasn’t in his nature.
The cold air bit at her bare skin, her thin shift not enough to keep her warm, so she went to her bed, curling on her side beneath the thick blanket. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to drift, building an alternative version of reality where things were as she wanted them to be. She imagined the familiar tread of his boots coming down the hall. The firm knock of his fist against the door. How his tall, broad-shouldered frame would fill the entrance, smelling faintly of horses and soap, leather and steel.
What would he say?
A jest? Her mouth curved upward as she envisioned the gleam of wit in his dark eyes and the crooked smile he always gave when something amused him. The sound of his laugh, deep and rich, filling her with warmth.
No … He wouldn’t make jokes or laugh in such a moment. Casting aside the flawed dream, she started it from the beginning, imagining again his footfalls. The knock. Rising to the door to find him there, dressed in his usual dark coat and trousers, the expensive fabric likely torn in an elbow or knee.
He wouldn’t say anything. He didn’t need to any more than she did, because they always understood each other. She bit her bottom lip, imagining how he’d push back the dark locks of his hair the way he always did when he was nervous. And when he finally spoke, the deep timbre of his voice would be rough, everything he felt playing across his face for her to see.
I missed you.
Though it was her imagination speaking, it felt real, and her heart flipped, her mind drawing them a step closer together. Though he might protest otherwise, he was a gentleman through and through, and despite how little she wore, his eyes would never stray from her face.
Except she wanted them to.
Her lips parted as she envisioned his gaze running over the length of her body, desire darkening his eyes. How it would feel if he reached out and pushed the straps of her shift off her shoulders, the fabric ghosting down her body and leaving her naked before him. Of her fumbling with buttons and buckles, weapons clattering against the floor as she cast them aside.
Her fingers twisted the fabric of the blanket as she imagined his hands, calloused from use, touching her. Of his skin, hot where hers was cool, pressing against her. What would it feel like when he finally kissed her? What would he taste like?
Her toes curled, an aching need building in her belly as her mind offered her a glimpse of them together. Of falling into this very bed, of his weight pressing down against her, their fingers interlaced.
Her breathing grew more ragged as she descended into the dream, her imagination delivering where reality had failed, going further and further until a gasp tore from her lips and she rolled onto her back, finally allowing the fantasy to slip away.
And then sleep took her.
Along with the nightmare.
She was running through the sewers, her bare feet splashing in the frigid filth, the sounds of pursuit echoing through the tunnels. Her chest was tight, her side cramping, but no matter how she twisted and turned through the maze, the steps of her pursuer only drew closer.
Racing around a corner, she slid to a stop, a bricked wall barring her way. Blight oozed between the cracks of the crumbling mortar like tar, dripping down to form a stream, its rank stench assaulting her nostrils. She stared at the blight, some trick of her eye making it appear to be flowing in two directions, though that was impossible.
Then she heard the scuff of a boot against stone, and a laugh filled the air, hauntingly familiar.
Heart in her throat, Lydia turned, her gaze captured by a set of eyes that appeared like black pits rimmed with flame. But that wasn’t what sent terror rippling through her.
It was that the face staring back at her was her own.
25
MARCUS
Mud splashed up his legs as he walked through camp to where Servius had gathered the men involved in the brawl, all of them stripped down to their undergarments in preparation for the inevitable punishment. At the sight of him, they straightened their line and saluted.
“I take it no one has offered an explanation.”
“No, sir.” Servius glowered at the men, who all had their eyes fixed on the mud. Blackened eyes, broken noses, bruised sides, and split knuckles all abounded, and three of them had arms in splints, which meant they had at least six weeks before they could rejoin their lines. Motioning to one of the men in his escort, he murmured, loud enough for the men to hear, “Tell Racker I have need of him.”
The brawlers all shifted uneasily, no doubt wondering what he had in store for them if the surgeon was required. It was three lashes for brawling. Refusing to answer a superior increased the punishment to five lashes. But all of them knew that, so threatening them with it was unlikely to yield results. That they were being so deeply reticent meant that whatever had caused the fight was something that they really didn’t want him to know.
Which meant he needed to use a more creative method to get the information out of them.
“I was deeply disappointed to hear of the events that transpired at the mess tent yesterday,” he said, circling the group. “The Empire holds its legions to a standard of conduct, with laws and protocols which must be abided to ensure strength and unity and order. Yet it is no secret that I hold our legion to a higher standard still, because we are the Thirty-Seventh!” He shouted the last, and all the men slammed their fists to their chests in salute, hollering, “Yes, sir!”
