Gilded Serpent, page 43
Baird watched Sly warily as he retreated back to his table, then muttered, “I can’t stand that bastard.”
“Nor I,” Agrippa said. “But he’s got better control than most of his wretched kind, and his fondness for dice ensures he’s always in need of coin.”
“I’ve never seen one of them do that.” Killian hoped the admission wouldn’t out him as not, as he’d claimed, from Derin, but Agrippa only shrugged. “Rufina forbids it. But even one of the corrupted needs to earn a living somehow.”
The inhabitants of Derin continued to be not at all what Killian expected. “Thank you.”
Agrippa laughed. “Don’t thank me just yet—the Liratoras are far worse than cracked bones.” Then he picked up the bottle of whiskey and filled all three of their cups. “But enough morose chatter. It’s time to celebrate!”
77
LYDIA
Resting on the shifting vines, Lydia struggled to catch her breath, her eyes on the ribbons of blight streaming into the ground from the woman’s fingers. Dragging life from the earth in order to feed the strange parasitic plant she’d become.
Was there a way to extract her? To separate person from plant? Shoving aside vines, Lydia examined the places where they grew into the woman’s body. She could cut her free, then attempt to operate to remove them from the inside of the woman’s body.
Taking a firm grip on her knife, Lydia sawed at a smaller one, cringing as clear liquid spilled on her and trying not to focus on how the woman shifted and moaned, the process obviously painful. But her mark told her the woman’s life was strong, so she persevered, moving on to the woman’s hands. Twisted vines protruded from her fingertips, digging into the earth like blackened roots, and Lydia’s attempts to pull them up yielded no results.
So she started sawing at them with her blade.
Blight spilled from the severed roots, filling the air with its stink and coating her hands, but she didn’t allow herself to stop. Not even when the woman started quivering, the whole mound shaking around them as though caught in a storm breeze.
“It’s okay,” Lydia whispered. “I’ll get you out. I’ll help you.”
Yet as she said the words, the life in the woman began to fade, growing less radiant by the second.
Cutting her free of the blight was going to kill her.
Lydia froze, indecision holding her in place. If she carried on, the woman would die. But if she didn’t, the blight would only continue to spread.
What if she didn’t choose it?
What if this was forced upon her?
What if she’d stop, if given the chance?
Malahi had once said, What is one life in comparison to thousands? when she’d sent Lydia to murder her father.
Lydia had chosen to spare that one life, and gods, but she’d had cause to regret it.
Do it! Don’t be such a coward!
But her whole body was trembling, tears running down her cheeks.
This woman is a murderer! She is killing hundreds! Thousands!
Clenching her teeth, Lydia dragged the blade across the remaining roots. Then she held her breath, hoping and praying that the woman would survive. That she’d open her eyes and take a breath.
But as she watched, the woman began to wither like a cut flower, the light from the mound slowly fading as they both died.
Panic flooded Lydia’s veins, because there was no way the guards weren’t going to notice that one of the mounds had gone dark. Scrambling backward, she extricated herself from the tangle of dead vines, only barely reaching one of the living mounds when she heard shouts of dismay from behind her. Casting a backward glance, she saw the guards had approached the dead mound, panic on their faces.
Run.
Keeping low, Lydia raced toward the town, heart hammering as she joined the masses in the streets. Weaving through them, she slipped in the side door of the inn and paused, hearing Baird’s booming laugh.
And Killian’s.
Peering around the corner, she saw him clicking glasses with Baird and Agrippa, piles of cards and coins littering the table, a half dozen pretty girls squeezed into the benches around them.
Stomach tightening, Lydia spun away and climbed the stairs to their room. Inside, she flung off her cloak and used the water in the basin to clean off the sticky clear liquid she’d gotten covered in while hacking at the vines, angry accusations rising and falling on her lips. That she’d been out searching those awful mounds for Malahi while he’d been carousing. That she’d been trying to save a corrupted tender while he’d been flirting with pretty girls. Over and over, she rehearsed exactly what she was going to say to him when he finally dragged his sorry ass up to the room, her script growing more elaborate and scathing with each revision.
Then she heard a thump in the hallway and a muttered oath, then male laughter. A second later, the handle of the door jiggled.
“Gertrude?” Not Killian’s voice, but Agrippa’s.
Concerned, she crossed to the door, unlatched it, and heaved it open. To find Killian slumped between Agrippa and Baird, all three of them grinning wildly.
“Are you drunk?” she demanded, crossing her arms.
Killian squinted at her, his eyes swollen and bruised, pieces of bloodstained cloth shoved up his broken nose. “No.”
Agrippa and Baird both laughed, dragging him in and tossing him on the bed. “In case he forgets,” the former said, “could you remind him that we leave tomorrow? Dawn seems a bit aggressive, all things considered, so let’s say midday.”
Leave?
Trusting Killian would have answers, she only nodded, shutting and locking the door behind them. Then she strode over to the bed and snapped, “You’d better have a good explanation for why you’re jaw-droppingly drunk, because from my standpoint, it appears one of your more shortsighted plans. And that’s saying something.”
Killian didn’t answer.
And when she leaned down to peer at him in the dim light, she realized he had already fallen asleep.
“I don’t think so,” she snapped. And going to retrieve the washbasin, she tossed the icy contents on his face.
Shouting in alarm, he fell off the side of the bed, then staggered to his feet, trying to extract his sword. But instead, he tripped and fell, landing hard on his ass. Glowering up at her, he said, “What was that for?”
“For being stupid,” she said, resting her hands on her hips. “And for falling asleep while I was talking to you. And because I was crawling inside those awful plant mounds while you were … carousing and having fun.”
“Oh, yes,” he snapped back, dragging himself upward onto the bed. “Because getting beaten half to death by a giant is such a delight. And I was doing things, too, so…” Then he frowned. “You were supposed to be in this room.”
“I was looking for any sign of Malahi.”
Killian scrubbed a hand through his hair. “She’s not in Deadground. Rufina has her in her fortress. A place called Helatha.”
“Right.” Lydia swallowed, and not wanting to feel as though what she’d endured was in vain, she said, “As we suspected, the mounds are causing the blight. But they aren’t just plants … the corrupted tenders are inside them. From what I can tell, they are stealing the life from the earth, and it’s turning them into sort of a plant-human hybrid.”
Killian stared at her. “Pardon?”
Hissing out a frustrated breath, she pushed a glass of water into his hand, then sat on the bed next to him, explaining what she’d seen. “I … I tried to cut her free,” she admitted. “She died. I left the rest of them alone.”
Murderer.
“Ideally, we’d dispatch the others.” He rubbed at his temples, seemingly unaware of the guilt twisting through her. “But with one of the tenders dead, they are bound to increase the guards around the remainder. I don’t want to do anything that jeopardizes us getting into Derin and finding Malahi.”
Relief flooded through her, because the thought of killing the rest had made her stomach twist. “Did you figure out how to manage that?”
“Yes, I got a job.” Flopping back down on the bed, he sighed. “As hired muscle for Agrippa and Baird’s business—they escort people through the Liratoras for a steep price. Apparently picking a fight with me was an audition of sorts.”
“But you can’t…,” she started to say, and only then realized that he was using his left arm. And a quick assessment of him using her mark revealed that his ribs were no longer fractured. “Who healed you?”
“A corrupted named Sly.” Groaning, Killian rolled across the bed to the half that wasn’t soaked with wash water. “Agrippa paid for it with some of his own life. Literally. Apparently the corrupted can act as a conduit and take life from one person to give to another. Agrippa’s not bad, once you get to know him. The girls around here sure like him.”
“He’s from Celendor.”
Killian turned his head. “What?”
“His heritage is mixed, but there is no mistaking that golden hue to his skin. Or his name,” she said. “And he’s also carrying the style of blade favored by the Empire’s legions, so I bet if you get his shirt off, you’ll find he’s got a legion number tattooed on his chest. That said, he’s fluent in Mudamorian and has no accent, so I’d say that however he got here, it was some time ago. Do you think it’s too risky to ask him?”
Killian didn’t answer, and when she looked up, she saw his eyes were closed. And a second later, he started to snore.
Sighing, she rose and pulled off his boots, tossing them aside. Unbuckling his sword belt, she leaned the weapon next to the bed and then pulled the blanket over him. Courtesy of his broken nose, he was snoring loudly now, and retrieving the lamp, she looked over his remaining injuries, it requiring all of her self-control not to erase them.
Instead, she brushed back his hair from his face, her heart tightening at the silky feel of it against her fingers.
But he was sworn to Malahi.
Part of her wanted to soothe the hurt in her heart with the knowledge he hadn’t chosen this path, but she knew that wasn’t the entire truth. He might not love the Queen, but he was dedicated to her. And would remain so for the rest of his life.
Her eyes burning, Lydia put another few pieces of wood on the fire to keep the room warm through the night. Wet or not, she looked longingly at the vacant space on the bed next to Killian, but instead ensconced herself on a chair, the other blanket pulled around her. Then she stared at the flames until sleep and exhaustion finally took her.
78
TERIANA
Her belly full of thick stew and fresh bread, Teriana pressed her nose against the glass of the window of their room, watching the revelers below. There had to be two hundred of them, all singing and dancing, the contents of their steaming cups probably doing as much to keep them warm as the large bonfire at the center of the square. “Let’s go down.”
“It’s safer to stay up here.”
“But going down there will be far more entertaining.” Crossing the room, she sat on Marcus’s lap, pushing him back against the chair. “And I’m still not entirely convinced that you know how to have fun. This would be a grand opportunity to prove it.”
“And if I say no?”
She kissed him until she was certain that distraction had taken hold, then she whispered, “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Legatus.”
Quick as she could, Teriana jumped up, and catching hold of her new coat, she bolted for the door.
“Teriana!”
She laughed as she heard him scramble to his feet and out the door, fumbling to lock it behind him, then his boots were thumping down the hallway. She paused halfway down the stairs, laughing harder when he nearly tripped over his own feet in surprise at finding her.
Pressed together in the narrow staircase, she silenced him with kisses, then said, “We’ve cheated death a dozen times to reach this place, Marcus. And in too short a time, we’ll be back in the lion’s den. What is wrong with taking one night to breathe?”
She could feel his lifetime of discipline warring with her rather excellent argument, but when his grip around her waist tightened, Teriana smiled, knowing she’d won. “Let’s go.”
Catching his hand in hers, she dragged him down the rest of the stairs, shouting, “Happy Winter Festival!” to the innkeeper as she passed. The door swung open at her touch, and she gasped as icy air slapped her in the face. Keeping a firm grip on Marcus’s hand, she wove her way into the throng, grinning when a woman pushed steaming cups into their hands, the drink hot and sweet and fortified with enough kick that it lit a fire in her belly.
Whether it was the booze or the festival or the nature of the people themselves, no one treated them as if they didn’t belong. The men plied Marcus with drinks and conversation, hammering him on the back when he coughed after drinking the clear liquor the Sibernese preferred. The women pulled Teriana into dances around the fire, long chains of people laughing and twirling to the musician’s music, the beat growing faster with every song.
Children shrieked and laughed as they chased one another through the throngs of their elders, thrilled to be allowed to play at the late hour, and even more thrilled for the seemingly endless supply of candy pushed into their hands.
Then the music slowed, a man with a stringed instrument the only player, and a young Sibernese woman with hair the color of flame stepped onto the platform. The men finally gave up their conversation and drinking, joining the women, wrapping their arms around their lovers and swaying to the music. Teriana stood at the edge, so entranced by the woman’s voice that she jumped when arms wrapped around her.
“Sorry,” Marcus said, his breath warm against her ear. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She smiled, leaning back against him and feeling the sharp line of his jaw against her temple. “Are you glad I convinced you to come out?”
“Yes. Though I’m going to have the worst hangover of my life tomorrow.” He caught her hands in his, holding her tighter. Then he said, “Look up.”
Tilting her face back, Teriana gasped, watching as swirls of colors danced across the sky, more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen. A more perfect moment than any she’d ever experienced, and she wished that she could freeze time. Make it last forever.
But it wouldn’t.
Grief rose in her chest, and knowing she was on the verge of being overwhelmed, she said, “Let’s go try the games.”
Holding his hand, she led him to the booths set up with games of chance and skill, the prizes for winning ranging from toys to furs to jars of sweets. Spying a ring toss, she made her way over, her mood improving as she examined the rows of colored bottles with necks of varying sizes. “How much is it to try?”
“Copper for three tosses, miss.”
Teriana fished one of the coins she’d exchanged a hair ornament for out of her pocket and handed it over, and the man gave her three rings of yarn wrapped around iron beads to give them weight. She pushed them into Marcus’s hands. “Try to win.”
Brow furrowed, he eyed the bottles and tossed the rings, his scowl increasing each time he missed. “This is rigged.”
“You just don’t like to lose!” she laughed.
The man running the game smiled at her and handed her the rings. “Perhaps the lass will have more luck.”
Grinning, she threw the rings, groaning each time she missed. But on her third toss, the ring slipped over the neck of a bottle and she shrieked, dancing in a circle. The man handed her a doll with bright red hair, and she passed it to a girl who ran past, the child’s face widening with delight. “Let’s play another!”
“They’re all rigged,” Marcus grumbled, glaring at the bottles as though they’d personally insulted him. “What’s the point?”
“The point is that it’s fun.”
“How is losing a game you have no chance of winning any fun?”
She considered pointing out that she had just won, but instead said, “Sometimes it feels like you know everything except how to live.”
Marcus was quiet, then he looked away. “I never felt there was much point.”
Why? she wanted to ask, because she knew it wasn’t a trait that could be wholly blamed on the legions. Not given most young men in the Thirty-Seventh lived and laughed as well as any civilian. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his. “Do you still feel that way?”
The silence stretched for long enough that she thought he wouldn’t answer. And then he said, “No, I don’t.”
79
KILLIAN
He had never been so hungover in his entire life.
“I’m never having a drink again,” he groaned, rolling into the pillow to block the sunlight and then yelping as his broken nose protested, forcing him to instead pull the blanket over his head.
“An admirable goal.” Lydia’s voice was tart. And as he peered out from under the blanket, he saw she was packing their bags. “We’re to meet Agrippa and Baird prior to midday, and assuming you didn’t lose all our money gambling, we need supplies.”
He opened his mouth to say that he always came out ahead when gambling, thought better of it, and instead pulled a handful of silver from one of his pockets. “Here.”
“Get up, Tom.” Her expression was cool. “Some breakfast will make you feel better.”
The thought of eating did not make him feel better. “Can’t you—”
“I am not healing your hangover, so don’t even think of asking.”
Groaning, he dragged himself off the bed, wondering where she’d slept. If it had been next to him. The thought of it appealed to him more than it should have, but then he caught sight of the blanket draped over a chair near the fire, and disappointment flickered through him.
Guzzling down a few glasses of water, he asked, “Am I recalling correctly that you told me last night Agrippa is Cel?”
“I’m surprised you remember.”
He scratched at his beard. “Did you also tell me to take his shirt off?” He remembered her saying something to that nature, but why he’d want to do so, Killian had no notion.
