Gilded Serpent, page 22
“Do you think they’d hesitate, if our roles were reversed?” Marcus asked. He had adjusted the cot so that it was standing upright and was in the process of stretching the wolfskin over the frame, brow furrowed with concentration. “You need to keep up your strength. The day after next, we need to make it twenty miles in about eight hours or they’ll be the ones eating us for dinner.”
As if she needed that reminder.
She picked up the plate and began slicing the meat into thin pieces, the process complicated by the fact her hands were still shaking. Taking several measured breaths, she concentrated on stilling them, flexing her fingers. Stretching them. But the shaking wouldn’t cease.
“Who taught you to cook?”
Her eyes flicked to Marcus, who was now dragging the cot to the opposite side of the shack from the fire, the wood scratching over the dirt floor. “This isn’t cooking. Cooking is an art involving carefully selected ingredients and perfected techniques. This is just taking a raw hunk of meat and”—she floundered for a descriptor—“making it not raw.”
“I believe that’s the definition of cooking.”
“Smart-ass,” she muttered. Her hands had finally steadied enough that she could slice without fear of losing a finger. “Polin taught me.”
“Not your mother?”
A laugh tore from her throat. “Definitely not. Though I suppose she knows how.” She laid the pieces of meat on the pan and sprinkled them with the bit of salt that had been remaining in the shack’s supplies. “No matter whether you’re born into the crew or join it or what your rank is, you have to take a turn doing every job on the ship. Teaches you to respect the work of your crewmates.”
Placing the pan on the stove, she folded up the one remaining blanket and sat on it. “My mum taught me how to negotiate. How to plot a course. How to keep the accounts. How to captain a crew.”
But she had older memories. One that was all sunlight and sea, her mother’s face above her, hands gently holding Teriana on the surface of the water. “Puff your chest out like your uncle Polin does when he’s courting,” her mother’s voice echoed in her head. “That’s it. That’s my girl. You’re floating!”
Her eyes burned as more visions played through her thoughts. Of her mother. Of Yedda and Polin. Of all the rest of her crew, most of whom had been with Teriana for her entire life. Of Magnius swimming watchfully nearby as she and Bait leapt off cliffs or explored sea caves. Memories on the Quincense or home in Taltuga with its white sand beaches and azure waves.
It felt like an eternity that she’d been away from them now, but while there had been days that their absence had made her feel like she was drowning in grief, she also knew there had been days when she’d barely thought of them at all. Guilt slapped her in the face, because maybe if she’d kept her heart and her mind where they were supposed to be, she wouldn’t be here right now. “Will Titus tell my crew I’m dead?”
“It would be in his best interest not to,” Marcus replied. “Your presence in our camp ensured their continued compliance. He won’t jeopardize that given he has no route back to Celendor if things go awry.”
And there would be no way for them to find out given that she’d dispatched Bait and Magnius to Taltuga, Gamdesh, and beyond. They’d be waiting, maybe Aunt Yedda sending her little trinkets and gifts only for Titus to toss them thoughtlessly into the fire.
“You’re burning dinner.”
“Shit!” Leaping to her feet, Teriana used her knife to flip over the smoking strips of meat, which were more than a little blackened on the bottom side. “Sorry. Not that you should be complaining. I’ve never eaten worse in my life than in your camp.”
Marcus laughed. “Don’t like porridge?”
Rolling her eyes, Teriana said, “Seems to me that Campus Lescendor has a real gap in their curriculum. Your men can build a castle with three twigs and a handful of mud, but they can’t even serve porridge without lumps in it.”
“A purposeful gap, I think.” He inspected the pelt with a critical eye before extracting a whetstone from his belt pouch and setting to work on his knife blade. “I don’t think they considered refining our palates in their best interest. Feeding a legion is expensive enough without filling it with fussy eaters.”
“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
The wind chose that moment to howl across the plains, sliding through the small gaps in the shack walls. Icier than it had been all day, it drew gooseflesh to Teriana’s skin, despite the heat of the stove. Sibern’s winters were fierce. Deadly. Storms that went on for days, piling up snow until it was deeper than a man was tall. Being outside today had bordered on torture, and this was only the beginning of it. “Don’t suppose you’ve read about making snowshoes.”
“I have. We don’t have the materials, so you might want to pray that it doesn’t snow.”
“I don’t think the Six can hear me.” And even if they could, why would they listen, given what she’d done? What she continued to do. Sighing, Teriana dumped the cooked meat onto a tin plate and set it on the ground between them. “Enjoy.”
Marcus sat, one leg crossed beneath him, one knee up, his elbow hooked around it. Picking up a piece of meat, he bit into it, eyes on the glowing fire. His hands were reddened and scraped from labor and the cold, knuckles raw and bleeding in a few places. He’d stripped off much of the clothing he’d made, but what remained was coated with blood, and a red smear bisected the scar on his face. His cheeks and chin were slightly rough with stubble, something she’d never seen on him before, as all the legionnaires were required to be clean-shaven. It made him look older than his nineteen years, and was not, she decided, unappealing. Quite the opposite.
He chose that moment to turn back to her, and her cheeks warmed at being caught staring. “Thank you,” he said. “For … frying dinner.”
Taking a bite to cover her embarrassment, Teriana chewed, then said, “Don’t get used to this domestic situation, Marcus. You need to hold up your end.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Domestic?”
Why had she chosen that word? Her cheeks burned hotter. “Aye, domestic. I’m not running twenty miles every day only to have to cook dinner while you kick your heels up next to the fire. Do you even know how to cook?” She shook her head and cast her eyes up to the ceiling. “Never mind, you’ve probably got six cookbooks committed to memory or some nonsense like that.”
He bit his bottom lip, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you on that count. Lescendor’s library didn’t have a section on cooking.” His eyes fixed on her face, firelight reflecting off them. “I’ll have to make it up to you in other ways.”
Her stomach flipped. “You’re never a disappointment.”
Marcus looked away, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Then he froze. “Do you hear that?”
“The wind?” There was most certainly a storm rolling in, the howl of the wind incessant as it hammered the sides of the shack.
“No,” Marcus muttered. “Listen.”
The wind shrieked, making the stove’s chimney moan and sparks fly. It eased for a heartbeat, and that was when she heard it.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“What is that?”
Marcus stood next to the wall, head down as he listened.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“What?” Teriana demanded, climbing to her feet. “What are they doing?”
He bent to touch the ground, his face growing pale. “They’re digging.”
41
LYDIA
Sitting in a chair in the library, Lydia stared up at the ceiling, reconciling herself to the fact that she was losing this battle. The ship with the remaining healers had arrived, and tomorrow, the purging of Mudaire would begin.
A purge she’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that she’d be part of.
Sighing, she set to the task of shelving books, having given up on finishing her organization. And as it was, soon this library—and all of Mudaire—would be burned. The loss of knowledge made her cringe, but there wasn’t the time or resources to remove all these books, and in order to prevent people from returning to the city—and inevitably falling victim to the blight—the King would have to see it destroyed.
The door opened, and Lena and Gwen walked in, the latter carrying a bowl and a crust of bread. “You missed dinner. Again.”
“Sorry.” Lydia put a book on a shelf. “I got caught up.”
“You do need to eat, you know.” Gwen set the food down on the table in front of Lydia. “Not going to save anyone if you waste away.”
Lydia dutifully spooned the thin soup into her mouth, which despite being poorly seasoned, sparked an appetite in her, and she found she was still hungry when she reached the bottom of the bowl, using the bread to catch the last few drops. Only then did she sit back in her chair. “We’re out of time.”
The other girls exchanged looks, then Lena said, “You tried, Lydia. That’s more than you can say about anyone else. Gods, all Quindor ever does is hole himself up in the sublevel with his pet blighter.”
Quindor was ostensibly studying the girl for signs the blight was evolving or moving toward an ultimate goal, but Lydia believed that Quindor kept Emmy alive to ease his conscience over all those who’d been put down on his orders. “Her name is Emmy.”
“Her name was Emmy,” Lena corrected. “It’s the Corrupter the Grand Master is spending all his hours with, and no one should forget that.”
“He’s well aware,” Lydia answered. “He can see she’s not alive.”
“If all he sees is a corpse, why does he lavish her with clothes and sweets and toys? Seems…” Lena trailed off, her brow furrowing. Then, abruptly, she bent over double and hurled the contents of her stomach onto the library floor.
“Are you all right?” Lydia asked as Gwen pulled the other girl’s hair back from her face.
“Must have eaten something bad,” Lena mumbled, not able to say more as she retched again, sweat beading on her brow.
Unease rose in Lydia’s chest, and reaching out a hand, she caught hold of her friend’s bare arm and pushed.
And recoiled in horror as the Corrupter’s talons dug in.
“What?” Gwen demanded, then her face lost all of its color. “No.”
But there was no denying it as Lena dropped to the floor, her face waxen and twisted with growing pain: she was infected with blight. And while this was the exact moment Lydia had been waiting for—to have the opportunity to try to help someone newly infected—never had she dreamed that the individual would be someone she cared for.
Worse, if it were discovered that one of the infected was within the temple, the soldiers were more likely to kill Lena than to allow Lydia the opportunity to try to save her. And neither she nor Gwen could stop them.
But there was someone who could.
“Run to the palace.” She shoved Gwen toward the door. “Tell the High Lady what has happened and bring her here. Tell no one else.”
Gwen hesitated, her desire to help Lena clearly warring with the fear of leaving her. “I won’t let them have her,” Lydia promised. “Not while she’s still alive—I swear it.”
Giving a tight nod, the other girl hurried out the door, slamming it behind her.
Lena was curled up on the floor, and Lydia swiftly retrieved her cloak, tucking it around the other girl. A touch of her skin against Lena’s could be enough to trigger her mark, so she pulled on a pair of gloves, the fabric protecting her until she was ready.
“If I die, you need to put me down.” Lena was shaking. “While Gwen’s gone. I don’t want her to see. And I sure as shit don’t want her to see me as a walking corpse.”
“Don’t think about that. I’m not giving up on you, so don’t you dare give up on yourself.” Unbuttoning her friend’s dress, Lydia’s stomach flipped at the black lines slowly snaking their way beneath Lena’s skin. They were rising on her torso toward her neck, and Lydia knew that when the blight reached her brain, Lena would succumb.
Lena clutched at her gloved hand, pain rising in her eyes. And if what Lydia had been told was true, it was going to get a thousand times worse. “It’s going to hurt, but you must try to stay quiet, understand? If they hear you, they’ll come.”
Warily, Lydia removed a glove and pressed her bare hand to one of the smaller branches of blight. Taking a deep breath, she pushed.
But instead of a steady flow of life from her to Lena, it felt like claws digging into her, wrenching life from her body so violently it was painful. Panic flooded through Lydia, and she jerked backward, landing on her bottom. Her braid flopped over her shoulder, and picking it up, she saw it had streaks of grey.
“Did it help?” Lena gasped. “I don’t feel better. I feel worse.”
“No,” Lydia breathed, eyeing her friend, the aura of mist around her unchanged. Which was impossible. Where had the life Lydia had given her gone to? It was almost … almost as though the blight had consumed it.
Lydia wracked her brain, trying to come up with a way to help her. But her mark was useless against this.
You have to try.
Swallowing hard, she said. “I’m going to attempt something.” Something she probably shouldn’t with only Lena in the room. “If … if my hair turns white, push me away.”
“Lydia…,” Lena whispered. “Maybe you shouldn’t…”
Ignoring her, Lydia pressed her hands to Lena’s chest, flooding her with life.
Again, it felt as though talons had latched onto her core, ripping her strength from her body, but Lydia only gritted her teeth and kept going. Her vision began to deteriorate as she aged, but not quickly enough that she failed to see that instead of driving the blight back, the life she was giving up seemed to be feeding it. Gasping, she tried to pull back, but the Corrupter’s talons wouldn’t let her go.
The blackness crawled up Lena’s neck, and Lydia could feel her heart beating faster and faster.
Then Lena shoved her away, soft sobs tearing from her lips. “Stop! You’re making it worse. It hurts.”
And Lydia was nearly drained. Her hands were gnarled, the braid hanging over her shoulder nearly white. And all she’d done was speed along the process.
Think. Think. Think.
What was the blight?
Poison, but not. It was … it was death. And Hegeria’s mark couldn’t cure death any more than it could reverse the passage of time.
Except is that entirely true? A thought teased at the back of her head, slowly shaping itself into something that resembled an idea.
“I’m going to try something,” she said. “As soon as Gwen and the High Lady return.”
Lena only stared at her, tears rolling down the sides of her cheeks. Then her eyes widened and she screamed.
They were out of time.
Lydia pressed her hands against Lena’s heart. But this time when the Corrupter’s talons sank in, she didn’t push.
She pulled.
42
MARCUS
“How deep are the posts set?” Teriana already had her knife in hand and was on her knees, ear against the ground.
Wracking his memory yielded nothing. “A couple feet, I’d guess. Which is nothing for these animals. They burrow their own dens—digging is what they do.”
“How long do we have?”
“That depends how long they’ve been at it.” Swearing, Marcus pressed his ear against the wall, attempting to determine precisely where the wolves were digging, but it was almost impossible over the sound of the wind. It was a tactic he’d used himself—using noise to disguise the work of legion sappers as they mined under a fortress wall in Bardeen.
But Marcus had no intention of being out-strategized by overgrown dogs. “Help me get this board off. We need to see where they’re digging.”
Together, they jammed their knives in between two planks, prying one of the boards away from the posts it was nailed to. Icy cold rushed in, and the wolves immediately attacked the openings.
“Oh, you think you’re coming in, do you?” Teriana shouted. Snatching up the frying pan, she slammed it against the muzzles of the wolves trying to force their heads inside, eliciting loud yelps of pain.
Dropping to his knees, Marcus peered through the gaps, trying to get a good visual of where the wolves were digging. But it was black as pitch outside, moon and stars obscured by clouds, and all he could make out were flashes of motion in the darkness. Swearing, he extracted a burning piece of wood from the stove and shoved it through a gap in the posts. Before the flames flickered out in the snow, his eyes found the mound of frozen earth the wolves had extracted from the tunnel, and as he watched, a wolf backed out of a hole, one of its pack mates swiftly taking its place.
“Here.” He marked a spot on the ground. “We need to start digging.”
Teriana lowered her frying pan, turning to stare at him. “What? You want us to help them get inside.”
“To lay a siege, one must also understand how one defends against a siege. Now start digging.”
It was backbreaking labor. They had only their weapons and tin cups to dig with, and within an hour, Marcus’s hands were screaming in pain, nails torn and skin bleeding.
“Stop and let me listen.” He pressed his ear to the ground, feeling the vibrations of the animals digging as much as he heard them. “Close.”
Teriana shoved her arm back into the hole, then yelped and recoiled. A second later, the pack bayed in excitement. Snatching up one of the tin cups, Marcus scraped it along the base of the stove, filling it with embers, which he dumped in the hole followed by the damp scraps of wool blanket left over from the clothing they’d made. A cloud of smoke billowed up, and he covered the opening with a plate to keep it inside.
The sounds of digging stopped.
Neither he nor Teriana spoke, both of them listening intently between the gusting howls of the wind. Moving the plate, Marcus dumped more fuel on the smoking flames below, which were already dying low.
