Gilded Serpent, page 4
“Yes, the cuff link.” Quindor rose the stairs, his boots making soft pats against the stone. “She said much the same to me when first we brought her here. Truth twisted to a poison in the ears of all who’d listen. How many did she tell it to before we caught her? How many now see Lord Calorian as having failed in his duty to protect the kingdom and its people? How many have lost faith in Tremon as a result?”
A terrifying question, but all Lydia could think of was how much it would hurt Killian to hear it. How he’d blame himself as much and more than anyone else who heard it.
“The blight itself has ceased its spread, but we have no notion of how many of the infected were able to flee during the evacuation. Even now, dozens, perhaps more, of them could be spreading their poisonous words throughout the kingdom—throughout all of Reath!—with no one the wiser. They must be stopped, and Hegeria’s Marked are the only ones capable of doing so.”
There was logic in his words, but each time Lydia blinked, she remembered Emmy in the sewer tunnels the first night she and Killian had started healing the orphans. How the girl had rallied from her illness beneath Lydia’s hands. How the first thing she’d done when she’d recovered was fling her arms around Killian’s neck, her faith in him absolute. It was hard to believe that girl was gone, but Lydia’s mark didn’t lie.
“If the blighters are so dangerous, why are you keeping Emmy alive? Why not just”—she remembered his words from before—“put her down?”
“Because it will allow us to see if the blight continues to evolve,” the Grand Master replied as they reached the top of the stairs, the main level full of soldiers, as well as dozens of young healers in white robes and cloaks. “And because she reminds me both of the evil we face and of the goodness we have lost. Something you should keep in mind, because tomorrow morning, it’s time you joined the hunt.”
7
KILLIAN
“You look like shit.”
Killian didn’t answer, only poked at the fire with a stick as High Lady Dareena Falorn sat on the ground next to him. Since the battle had ended, they’d both been charged with chasing down what remained of the Derin army, but he’d had little chance to talk to the woman who’d been responsible for most of his training. Who, more than any other, had stood as his mentor. And who had saved his ass, arriving at Alder’s Ford with her army right as his lines were being overrun by Rufina’s forces.
“Sonia tells me you aren’t sleeping.”
“Didn’t realize you two had met.” His voice was raspy, and he coughed to clear it, melted snowflakes dripping down the sides of his face.
“I hired all of Malahi’s former guards, since you seem content to abandon them,” Dareena answered. “But Sonia has chosen to remain as your lieutenant.”
“If she wants to keep the job, she needs to mind her own business.”
“She’s worried about you, so perhaps don’t be an ass.” Dareena held her hands over the fire. “She thought I might be able to talk you into seeing sense. I told her that would be hard given that you’re devoid of the quality, but she’s a persistent one. Am I to assume this is about the girl?”
“Which one?” He gave a violent poke at the fire, sending sparks flying and thinking of Bercola. “I seem to be in the habit of getting the girls I’m supposed to protect killed.”
“Lydia,” Dareena said, “isn’t dead.”
“It’s a matter of time.” Killian flung the stick aside, wishing he had something to drink, but supplies in the Royal Army camp were lacking. “There are fewer than a hundred healers left in all of Mudamora, and you know as well as I do that Serrick has no compunction against using them hard.”
“Then why didn’t you stop them from taking her?”
The smoke shifted to blow into his eyes, and he closed them against the sting. As he did, a vision of Lydia on horseback filled them. Of her mouth forming the words I choose this, then of her turning her back and riding away. “She asked me not to.”
“Then she has chosen her fate.”
“She didn’t have a choice,” he snapped. “She knew what it would mean for me to fight her free, and she sacrificed herself to keep me from doing it. To protect me.”
“You always did have a way with the ladies.”
Anger flushed through him, and he rounded on her. “You think this is something to jest about, Dareena? Something to make light of? I—” He broke off, but he couldn’t silence the words within his own head. I love her.
The High Lady of House Falorn regarded him with steady green eyes, strands of midnight hair framing her pale face. She wore her armor, snow piling in little peaks on her silvered shoulders, sword resting across her lap. Marked by Tremon as surely as he was himself. The one person who should understand.
“Do you truly believe that the only reason Lydia went with Quindor was to protect you?” she asked. “Hegeria chose to mark her, Killian. And the gods’ choices are not at random. Has it occurred to you that this might be the fate she wants?”
He looked away, unable to stop images of Lydia healing orphan children in the sewers beneath Mudaire from crossing through his mind. Her unwillingness to let any of them suffer while she had the strength to save them. Hegeria had chosen well when she’d chosen Lydia, but it was the men in power around her whom Killian feared.
“She was marked to serve the followers of the Six,” Dareena said softly. “As were you. And I know it grieves you that her path is not at your side, but that doesn’t mean you stop walking. Serrick has put you in a position where you can truly make a difference to Mudamora. Don’t squander it.”
Before he could answer, a group of armed soldiers approached the fire, their ranks parting to reveal King Serrick himself. It was the first time Killian had seen the man since he’d offered Killian the opportunity to follow in his father’s footsteps and command the Royal Army. It had been his dream since he was a child, but he wished it were under the rule of a different king.
Or queen.
Dareena rose, and Killian joined her, bowing low.
“You’ve both served Mudamora well,” Serrick said. “The Derin army is little more than corpses on the ground, and those who remain alive flee back across the wall. The war is won.”
It doesn’t feel won.
Clearing his throat, Killian said, “I’d like to take five hundred men and press into Derin territory, Your Grace. For Rufina to have brought so many men across the Liratoras suggests they have a xenthier stem at their disposal, and we need to secure it lest she bring more men to make another attempt.”
“With thirty thousand dead, I think not even that witch capable of rallying another host so soon,” Serrick answered. “And we’ve more pressing concerns.”
How anything could be more pressing, Killian didn’t know. “Your Grace—”
“Anukastre has taken advantage of our distraction, and their raiders successfully stole a great deal of gold from one of our mines,” Serrick interrupted. “Five hundred men you will have, but it will be to lead south to put an end to the raiders.”
Killian stared at him. “You want me to protect your gold mines?” Gold mines that sat along the southern border between Mudamora and Anukastre, which meant they were about as far from Mudaire—and Lydia—as one could get.
“Mudamora’s gold mines,” Serrick answered, his face devoid of expression. “And it is gold that the kingdom sorely needs to rebuild. Unlike the remaining rabble of the Derin army, the Anuk are a true threat, which means I must send my strongest to meet them with force.”
“But—”
“The gods chose me to rule this kingdom, Lord Calorian. And to lead its marked. Select your forces and do it quickly, because at dawn, you ride for the Rowenes stronghold of Rotahn.”
8
MARCUS
Sitting on a stool back in his tent, Marcus stared blindly at the three remaining chests of coins he had in his possession. Two silver. One gold.
The silver would all go to paying the men their next round of wages, the pittance they received for endlessly risking their lives in the name of the Empire. It was in his power to withhold the coin, if needed for other purposes, but he’d never done so and wouldn’t now.
“Sir?”
He turned his head to see one of his men step inside, paper grasped in his hand. “Yes?”
“Racker sent a count,” the young man answered, approaching to hand Marcus the papers. “And a letter arrived for you, origins unknown.”
Nodding, Marcus waited until the soldier had retreated out of the tent, then unfolded the first scrap of paper, recognizing the Thirty-Seventh’s head surgeon’s precise scrawl.
Two hundred thirty-three.
His chest hollowed, but he shoved away the grief in favor of retrieving a piece of paper in his own hand that sat waiting on the table. He added the number to it, then finalized the mathematics.
It was a start. In truth, a start greater than he’d hoped possible, but only if this gambit worked.
Marcus took several gulps of water from the cup sitting next to him, about to rise, when his gaze fell on the other letter that had arrived. Specifically, on the purple seal stamped in the shape of a flower.
Picking it up, he cracked the wax and unfolded the thick paper, a separate scrap falling loose onto the table as he did. The letter was written in Trader’s Tongue, or Mudamorian, as he’d come to know it—the language spread across all of Reath by virtue of the Maarin’s use of it. He spoke it well enough, but reading it was another matter, and he sorely wished Teriana was here. For more reasons than just his need for a translator.
Greetings to Marcus, Commander of the Armies of the Celendor Empire,
We have recently learned of your arrival on the shores of Arinoquia and of your desire to facilitate trade between the nations of the West and your homeland. It is our sincerest wish to come to a peaceable and mutually profitable arrangement between our nations. We are desirous of meeting you face-to-face to discuss terms—a meeting we look to with great anticipation.
Her Royal Majesty, Queen Erdene of Katamarca
He’d hoped for this. Katamarca was not a military power, but they were the breadbasket of the Southern Continent. An alliance with them would be advantageous on many levels. Then his eyes went to the letter’s postscript.
Please find enclosed a token of our goodwill.
Frowning, he picked up the scrap of paper that had been included with the letter, turning it over. It was written in an unfamiliar language, which he surmised was Katamarcan. But he didn’t need to understand what was written to recognize the handwriting. Or the name signed at the bottom.
Teriana, of the Quincense
His stomach hollowed, his fingers feeling the texture of the paper, which was identical to that the legions used. And written in pencil, rather than ink. Supplies taken from his own command tent, which meant it was pointless to hope it predated her capture by Cassius.
What did it say?
Nothing good. For what better way to earn the goodwill of a foreign power than to reveal a traitor in its midst.
What did you expect? a bitter voice whispered inside his head. She’s not here of her own volition. You know she wants you to fail, to be forced into a retreat to Celendor. You know you two are enemies.
Yet knowing all these things did nothing to ease the pain that replaced the hollowness in his stomach. Even if she’d sent this note when they’d first arrived in Arinoquia, before they’d become involved, she’d still never confessed to having done so. Had been content with allowing the move she’d put in motion to play out.
You can’t trust her.
“Do you have time to talk?”
Felix’s voice filled his ears, and Marcus lifted his head to find his second-in-command standing at the entrance to his tent.
“About what?” The words came out sharper than he intended, and Felix grimaced before moving farther inside.
“You need to get some sleep.”
“Noted. Is there something else you need?”
Silence stretched between them, the tension strange and unfamiliar. While he and Felix had fought many times over many things over the years, it had never been like this. Then again, no matter how hard they’d butted heads, he’d never had cause to question his best friend’s loyalty.
“Yeah, I…” Felix’s brow furrowed. “Are things all right with us?” Then he gave a violent shake of his head. “Don’t answer that. I know you’re angry at me for advising you to proceed with the battle rather than to negotiate with enemy demands.”
“You advised me to allow them to cut Teriana up and send me the pieces rather than to pursue a different strategy.”
“Yeah.” Felix rocked on his heels. The tips of his ears, just visible through hair that needed to be cut, were bright red. “I’m not going to lie and say that I think what you did was right. That false retreat nearly resulted in us being crushed between two armies, and while we still would’ve won, a lot of our brothers would’ve died. It was only luck that you got back in time, and you know what Wex says about luck.”
Wex was commandant of Campus Lescendor and Marcus’s mentor. He was also famous for saying that a good commander should never rely on luck, because luck always ran out when you needed it most.
“You chose Teriana over your own brothers, and everyone knows it, Marcus. They know you gambled with their lives to save a girl.”
It was the truth, though he hadn’t realized how high the stakes were when he’d thrown the dice. Yet even if he had, Marcus knew his decision would’ve been the same. “Your point?”
“The men are letting it slide because you pulled a victory out of your ass, the way you always do. But you can’t put her ahead of them again. You just … can’t.”
Marcus didn’t answer, only stared Felix down, refusing to bend. Are you a traitor?
“I don’t like her,” Felix continued, his gaze fixing on the table between them. “I think she’s a smart-ass who believes she can say and do whatever she wants because you have her back.”
True, except that Teriana would say and do whatever she wanted even if she stood alone.
“But that doesn’t mean I want anything bad to happen to her. I know she didn’t ask to be put in this position and is just doing what she needs to do to survive.”
Felix was trying to cover his tracks. What other purpose could he have for saying all of this? For trying to make it seem he wouldn’t have been delighted if Teriana had died at Ashok’s hands? And then trying to cast the blame on Marcus for the mercenary army nearly catching them unaware, despite his actions having put them in that position in the first place. Anger coiled in Marcus’s stomach, but he kept it in check, because he could not act without proof.
Felix sighed heavily. “It feels like you’ve forgotten that she’s fighting for the other side. I hope you keep in mind that having you wrapped around her little finger is to her advantage, not ours.”
Marcus’s hand tightened, and Teriana’s note crumbled where he gripped it. “Noted. Anything else?”
“No.” Felix’s jaw worked back and forth. “Everything you asked for has been done or is being done. We’re watching the clans to make sure they aren’t thinking of moving against us or one another, but thus far, it appears as though they’re content to wait for their payout.”
“Good. You may go.”
“Sir.” Felix saluted sharply, then turned to leave. But then he hesitated. “I can’t watch your back if you keep pushing me away.”
“Then it’s a good thing I can watch my own.”
Felix flinched, but said nothing else, only strode out of the tent, leaving Marcus alone.
You can’t trust anyone.
The thought settled heavily on his mind, weighing him down more than exhaustion. Amarin chose that moment to enter the tent, puttering about and putting things back in their places. Busywork, and having lived with him for eight years, Marcus knew his servant was about to start mothering him.
Sure enough, Amarin said, “Your armor needs repairs. I’ll have it done now so you’ll have it back when you need it.”
Teriana’s note still gripped in his fist, Marcus stood and allowed the older man to remove his armor, which was sporting several dents.
“There’s wash water in the back.” Amarin gathered up all the pieces, frowning at one of the dents. “When should I wake you?”
“Three hours,” Marcus answered, his own voice distant in his ears. He went into the rear tent, his eyes flicking to Teriana’s bedroll. Her stack of belongings.
Strained muscles moving stiffly, he pulled off his clothes, tossing them in a corner, and glanced down at his body. He was covered in livid purple bruises and his ribs throbbed, but it was his throat, which had been nearly crushed, that hurt worst of all. It ached when he spoke. When he swallowed. When he breathed.
Ignoring the wash water, he lay down on the side that hurt less, staring at the knuckles on his bruised hand, which had been split in the fight and were now crusted with scabs.
And his head. His head felt like it was being crushed between the hands of a giant, every beat of his heart thunder in his ears.
Just go to sleep.
Except everything hurt and his mind kept flipping from problem to problem, refusing to settle. Refusing to give him any peace.
Reaching across to Teriana’s belongings, he retrieved a small silk sachet sitting on top. A ship had arrived today from the island where the Quincense was anchored, and they’d had a parcel of clothing that her aunt Yedda had sent. Pressing the sachet to his nose, he inhaled cedar and orange blossoms and sea. Scents he associated with Teriana.
But the reminder of her only made him feel worse.
Could he trust her? Or was Felix right that she was only manipulating his emotions to achieve her own ends? Was any of what he believed was between them real?
Tossing the sachet back on the pile of her clothes, he squeezed his eyes shut, running through the myriad of exercises he’d been taught to fall asleep, even in the worst of conditions.
