Gilded Serpent, page 39
“Are those mice?” she croaked.
A slight smile rose to his lips. “Yes. Yes, they are. Want one?”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but yes.” She shifted, trying to sit, but the motion sent slices of agony through her body, and she cried out.
“You’ve stiffened up,” he said. “It’ll ease. Let me help you.”
Clenching her teeth, she allowed him to pull her upright and rest her back against the wall.
“They take forever to catch, so eat the whole thing,” he said, handing her a crackling mouse. Then pulling one off the branch for himself, he winked at her and bit its head off.
“That,” she whispered, “is horrible.”
“It’s not,” he said, the mouse’s skull making awful crunching sounds as he chewed. “Though I’m partial to the tail.”
He bit off the crispy appendage, and Teriana gagged. “Stop.”
But for all it was disgusting in theory, the smell of cooked meat had her body singing a different tune. Holding the mouse up to her mouth, she bit into its side, wincing as its ribs cracked. Then drops of grease rolled over her tongue and she found herself taking a second bite. Then a third. “Give me another.”
They ate until the mice were gone, and then Marcus leaned against the wall next to her. “You’re incredible, you know.”
“Says the man who prepared mice for me for dinner.” She rested her head against his shoulder, exhausted and sore, but no longer hungry.
“Are you going to tell me how you did it?”
“I captured a giant hawk, and it flew us out of danger.”
He wrinkled his nose, then pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Deus ex machina. I’m disappointed.”
“Only because you missed the flight.” Closing her eyes, Teriana leaned into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The heart she’d fought so hard to keep beating. “Well,” she murmured. “It all started when you succumbed to a fit of dramatics and fatalism, and I decided that all decision-making needed to be taken out of your hands.…”
Marcus listened in silence as she explained how she’d done it, tensing when she got to the last bridge and the lines snapped. But when she was finished, he kissed her forehead and said, “We’re going to survive this.”
They were. She knew it.
If only making it out alive meant the end of their woe.
72
LYDIA
Their boots crunched in the deepening snow as they walked down the narrow trail, the towering Liratora Mountains no longer what captured her attention, but rather the towering wall that loomed to her left.
Killian had told her that it ran north and south to protect the only pass between Mudamora and Derin. The rows of jagged mountains did the rest. At least fifty feet high, the wall was made of grey blocks of stone, the seams tight and smooth enough that she doubted even Teriana could’ve scaled them without rope. The top held fortified guard posts every hundred feet or so, though the lack of motion or brazier smoke suggested that no one—friend or foe—kept watch. A suspicion that was confirmed as they reached the blackened fortress near the center of the pass.
The half-moon exterior wall of the fortress stood whole, but the gate leading into it was gone, the stone stained with soot from where it must have once stood. And running through it was a wide river of blight. Crouching behind dead brush, Killian stared at that gap, his jaw taut. Remembering, she thought. Remembering the last time he’d been here. When the wall had fallen and Rufina had invaded.
Remembering his defeat.
“You see any sign of life?” he asked softly, finally breaking the silence.
Lydia shook her head, having already used her mark to scan the surrounding territory. There was nothing alive. Even the forest around them was dead, leagues and leagues of barren trees as far as the eye could see. “But there could be someone beyond the wall or in the fortress and I wouldn’t be able to tell. Should we wait for darkness before we go in?”
“No.” Killian climbed to his feet. “Darkness is Derin’s advantage, not ours. We’ll go in now.”
Drawing his weapon, he motioned for her to follow, his gaze sweeping their surroundings as they crossed the clear cut between forest and the fortress wall. He held up a hand as he reached the opening, and she paused as he eased alongside the black flow, peering into the courtyard before venturing inward.
Lydia followed, the stench of blight filling her nose as she searched for any signs of life. But there was nothing but blackened stone, snow, and the endless howl of the wind. Her eyes skipped over the outbuildings, recognizing one as a smithy and another as a large stable, the ceilings of both collapsed. The fortress backed against the wall itself, the opening to the tunnel leading through looking like a gaping mouth, the bottom of the raised portcullis like teeth. And through it the blight flowed.
But Killian went neither through the tunnel nor into the fortress, instead going to the narrow steps that switchbacked their way to the top and taking them two at a time. Setting her pack against the wall, Lydia followed, eyes going east to Mudamora, all greys and whites. The main river of blight broke off into narrower branches that stretched as far as her eyes could see.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she took a moment to marvel at the thickness of the wall, wondering how long it had taken to build, then she went to the far edge to join Killian where he stood, hood back, the frigid wind tossing his hair. “The last time I stood here,” he said, “the Derin army filled this pass. An endless sea of blackness and flame.”
But now it was nothing but a carpet of white with a black stripe down the middle. The V-shaped pass sloped upward into Derin, the sides of the mountains that formed it holding nothing but snow, rocks, and a handful of spindly trees, all of them as dead as those on the Mudamorian side.
Was this what Derin looked like? she wondered. Barren and lifeless? “Are you so sure there is something out there?”
“Yes,” Killian said. “Look.”
She followed his pointed finger, narrowing her eyes against the glare. In the distance rose plumes of smoke.
* * *
They followed the black river up the pass, and she shivered with unease at how it seemed to be both still and moving, pushing east and yet moving west back into Derin, like two opposing rivers merged into one. A trail of footprints ran next to it, all of them headed into the mountains.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked, noting that Killian still held his sword in his gloved hand, eyes prowling over their surroundings.
“Not yet,” he answered. “First I need to see what we’re up against.”
Lydia continued to trudge up the pass, her breath growing increasingly labored as they climbed, her pack heavy. The air felt thin, her lungs as though she wasn’t getting enough in each breath. Glancing back, she saw that they were now far higher than the wall, Mudamora visible beyond.
As they reached the crest of the pass, Killian pulled her low, both of them staring into the valley below. The blight flowed into it, then split, each branch leading to one of eight virulently green mounds that seemed to pulse with life. Yet rather than being beautiful, there was something deeply unnatural about them. Something that reminded her of the way the corrupted glowed with such an excess of life as to be gluttonous and foul. A wrongness. Armed soldiers stood guard nearby, though they looked more bored than watchful.
“The source,” Killian muttered. “The corrupted tenders must be nearby.”
It was a struggle to look elsewhere, but Lydia shifted her attention to where the smoke rose—a town. And a large one at that. Even from this distance, she could make out countless figures moving between the rough wooden buildings, plumes rising from dozens of chimneys. Other than the road they were on, the only path leading into town came from a narrow ravine on the north side of the valley. As they watched, a laden cart pulled by a donkey appeared, trundling down the slope into town.
“Xenthier,” Killian muttered next to her. “It has to be.”
“What do we do now?” Lydia asked. “We can’t just walk into town.”
“Why not?” Killian gestured to the path in front of them, the snow trodden by dozens of footprints. “Let’s go.”
Terror pulsed through her veins, but next to her, Killian strode with total nonchalance. “Don’t look so worried,” he muttered as they approached the town. “You’ll give us away.”
Though it soon became clear that worried or not, no one in the town paid them much attention. Rough two-story buildings made out of wood lined the muddy streets, nearly half of them seeming to be taverns or tap houses, though with the scantily dressed men and women leaning out the upper windows calling out invitations to all who passed, Lydia guessed that just as many were brothels.
The people themselves had skins of every hue from as fair as Lydia’s own to skin as dark as any Maarin, though most wore the same style of clothing, the women in dark woolen dresses, the men in woolen trousers and coats, their cloaks trimmed with fur. The voices that filled the air used different languages and accents, and if not for the fact she knew they stood in the landlocked center of the continent, Lydia would have guessed they were in a trading port frequented by ships of a dozen different nations.
Two men rolled out of the front of one of the taverns, fists flying and mouths spewing curses, and Killian tugged her backward as a crowd formed, the watchers cheering the men on as they struggled. “Let’s see if we can find an inn of sorts.”
Turning down another street yielded rows of quieter buildings, and Killian led her toward one with a sign with gilded cursive writing that said, The Feisty Donkey. Pushing open the door revealed a smoky room with several long tables, the benches lining them filled with men and women. A handful glanced up, but then immediately turned back to the platters of food before them.
Approaching the bar, Killian said to the man filling cups of ale, “You have rooms?”
“Aye. It’s six coppers a night or a silver for the week. Paid up front.”
Killian dug into his pocket, and Lydia clenched her teeth, worried he’d pull out his usual handful of gold and silver, but when he opened his palm it held only a few copper coins. “How much for a meal?”
“Another copper.” The barkeep glanced at Lydia. “Each. Unless your lass there can sing or dance, then she can eat for free in exchange for an hour’s entertainment. Our other girl’s gotten too big with child.”
“She sounds like a cat being strangled when she sings and can barely walk two paces without tripping over her own cursed feet,” Killian answered. “You’d be paying me to shut her up.”
“Can she cook?”
“Nothing you want to eat. You’d lose half your patrons to the latrines from half-cooked meat if you put her in the kitchen.”
Both of them laughed, but instead of glaring, Lydia asked, “What about if he dances?” Leaning her elbow on the counter, she smiled up at Killian, whose face was filling with dismay. “If he loses the shirt, I assure you that you’ll have not an empty seat in the place.”
The barkeep looked him up and down. “Can he dance?”
“Oh yes. His mother made sure of it.”
“Then it’s the same deal. You can eat on the house in exchange.” He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Killian’s face. “I’ll throw in some ale as well.”
Killian’s cheeks had turned bright red, and without a word, he counted out the coins and pushed them toward the barkeep.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” the man said, then filled two cups and passed them over before retrieving a key with a number eight carved into it. “Second floor. You want water for washing, it’s another copper. You want it warm, another copper on that.”
“That’s bloody robbery.” Killian scowled, shoving the rest of his coins into his pocket.
“You want cheap, go next door and bed down with their fleas. Or take off your shirt and start dancing.”
Killian gave Lydia a baleful glare, but then he drank deeply from his filthy glass and said, “A bit of dirt never hurt anyone. Let’s go, love.”
Lydia followed him through the common room toward the narrow stairs, which creaked as they climbed. The hallway upstairs was lit by a single smoking lamp, but it was enough to make out the eight carved into the door they’d been assigned. Unlocking it, Killian stepped inside and glanced around before nodding at her to follow.
As she’d expected, it was small and sparsely furnished, the tiny window devoid of both glass and shutter, leaving a clear view for any in the building across the street. The single bed had a lumpy mattress stuffed with straw, but the blankets were surprisingly clean, as was the floor.
Which was good news for Killian, because she fully intended to make him sleep on it. “This useless lass is claiming the bed,” she said, tossing her pack on the blankets and then sitting down.
Killian only laughed, sliding off his own pack. “I’d say you got your revenge already.”
She scowled. “What is the plan, Killian?”
“You keep asking me that.”
“And you keep not answering.”
Shrugging, he pulled out the chair, twisting it backward, then sitting down to face her, chin resting on his forearms along the back of it. “I prefer to figure things out as I go.”
She knew that. Knew that he was reactionary, relying on his instincts and his mark to steer him down the right path. But that didn’t work for her. “For one, you need an alias. You’re too famous, and half the soldiers in this city will have fought against you. That … awfulness on your face isn’t going to fool anyone if you don’t go by something different.”
“I think it’s coming in rather nicely,” he answered, rubbing his scruffy chin. “And I’m curious to see just how long it will grow. Does it make me look wise?”
“It makes you look … look…” With his dark eyes regarding her like that, all clever retorts abandoned her lips. He was so good looking, it hurt. “No. You don’t look even a little bit wise.”
He sighed. “Fair enough. But I think it only fair to point out that your name is uncommon and your actions on the battlefield saving my life well known, so you also need a new name.” He reached over and pushed her fringe up to reveal her tattoo before dropping it again. “Gertrude. No … no, Gertie.”
“Absolutely not. You will not call me Gertie.”
Killian grinned, and the skin of her chest burned, the heat rising up her neck to her face until her cheeks were an inferno. And knowing that he’d only come up with something worse, she said, “Fine, but that means I get to pick yours.”
He shrugged. “Take your pick.”
Think of a name. Think of something awful that he’ll hate. “Bertie.”
Killian burst out laughing, the rich sound of it filling the room as she struggled not to sink to the floor in embarrassment. “Gertie and Bertie? You’re not very good at this, are you? How about … Tom?”
“Fine,” she mumbled. “Tom is fine. Who are we?”
“Married, obviously,” he said. “That should serve to deflect any unwanted advances from the ladies, especially if you keep glowering like that. As far as what our story is, I think I need to hear what the story is for all these other people before we come up with one of our own.”
Rising, Lydia went to the window and looked out, watching the comings and goings of all the people. This place was a little rough around the edges, but it was also decidedly … normal. Women with baskets full of laundry or goods walked through the streets. Men gossiped on the corners. Children wielding sticks ran through the puddles, shouting and laughing.
“It’s not what I expected.”
She jumped, having not heard Killian come up next to her. He rested a hand against the windowsill, leaning out, but his shoulder brushed against hers and she shivered. “Nor I,” she admitted, not sure precisely what she’d thought they’d encounter. “I thought all those living in Derin worshipped the Seventh.”
“So it is said.” Killian’s gaze remained on the people below. “Derin isn’t easily reached. The mountains defend its eastern borders from Mudamora. The deadlands of the south from Anukastre. The twisted seas and swamps make its western coast unassailable. And the north is frozen year-round, so that border is equally secure. In truth, no one knows what goes on within its borders. And yet…”
“There are people here from every nation.”
He gave a slow nod, his elbow grazing her upper arm.
“Why are they here?” she mused, watching a laughing pair of drunks walk arm in arm. “How are they here?”
“Good questions. But not our priority. We need to learn more about the corrupted tenders who created those mounds. Who they are and, more importantly, where they are.”
“And if Malahi’s with them.”
He gave a slight nod. “Ideally, we’d destroy those mounds, but getting Malahi out is our priority. They’ll pursue, and with their deimos tracking us overhead, it will take an act of the Six to reach Serlania alive. But first we need to find out where she is.”
* * *
They made their way back downstairs, finding the common room had filled as the dinner hour approached. Without hesitation, Killian led her to a table, squeezing into a spot between two men. Lydia sat in the narrow gap across from him, the elbows of the women to either side brushing against her. At Killian’s raised hand, one of the servingwomen approached, and he ordered, giving her a coin and a wink that made the woman smile and flush, despite being old enough to be his mother.
She returned moments later with two bowls of thick stew and a platter containing slices of still-warm bread smeared with golden butter, along with two glasses of ale. Lydia began spooning stew into her mouth, the bowl quickly disappearing, and then she used a slice of bread to mop up the last few drops. Using her sleeve to wipe away the prior user’s lip marks, she drank the ale, feeling her body warm a few moments later.
The room was loud enough that she couldn’t talk to Killian without shouting, so instead, she listened to the conversations of the people next to them.
