Gilded Serpent, page 61
Killian.
Lydia’s eyes burned, because Rufina was going to use her against him. And she knew it would work. Knew that if the Queen of Derin did to her what she’d done to Malahi that he’d agree to whatever she demanded of him.
And maybe at first it would be little things. Things that cost him nothing to concede. But well she knew how small concessions led to bigger ones, and how long until Killian stood at the front of Rufina’s army as it marched across Mudamora?
It would destroy him.
Tears flooded down her cheeks, her chest so tight that she could barely breathe. Her plan had been to remain to rescue him, but because of that traitorous bastard Agrippa, she’d be damning Killian to something worse than death. And it had been for nothing. Malahi was still a prisoner, and given the terror she’d shown toward Rufina, how much longer would she hold out against the corrupted queen’s torture?
You have to get them out.
But how? The corrupted guard stood only a few paces away, watching her with interest.
Kill her.
The corrupted was stronger than she was. Faster than she was. Probably far more skilled at combat than she was. How could Lydia possibly get around her?
Even the odds, the voice whispered. You know how.
Her mind recoiled at the thought. But her heart lurched, recognizing hope where before there had been none.
You could make yourself strong enough to save him.
You came back from it before. You could do it again.
You wouldn’t be killing anyone who didn’t deserve it.
Lydia’s pulse throbbed in her throat, a desire that she’d buried deep rising like a dark tide, washing over her. Claiming her. Freeing her.
“Might I have some water?” she asked softly. Piteously. “I’m so very thirsty.”
The corrupted eyed her for a moment, then shrugged and went to a table off to the side holding glasses and a pitcher. She returned swiftly with a wineglass filled with crimson liquid. “Rufina’s not one for water.”
“Thank you.” Lydia waited for the corrupted to bend over her, holding out the wineglass.
Closer.
She closed her fingers over the glass and gave the woman a weak smile. Then Lydia jerked her hand up, smashing the glass into the woman’s face.
The corrupted shrieked, clawing at her eyes, but Lydia was on her in a heartbeat, twisting behind to clamp a hand over her mouth, her legs and other arm wrapped around the woman’s body. She could feel the excess of life spilling from the woman. Life stolen from what were probably innocent people.
But this creature was not innocent.
And neither was she.
Digging in her fingers, Lydia pulled.
109
MARCUS
He urged the horse through the rear of the Valerius property, heading toward the back gate where the commandant was waiting.
You did the right thing, he silently told himself. To have kept things going would’ve been the worst thing you’ve ever done.
If only it felt that way.
But he couldn’t think about that now. Not when Cassius and Hostus had their sights set on killing him. Not when the Thirty-Seventh remained under Titus’s control. Not when the Maarin remained as prisoners of the Empire.
Wex stepped out of the shadows, and Marcus’s stomach clenched when he saw his father and sister were with him. Cordelia had a cloth pressed against her ribs and her face was pale.
“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” he said to her. “You need to see a physician.”
“It’s not so bad that it can’t wait. And you didn’t say good-bye.”
She stepped toward his horse, but feeling Wex’s eyes on him, Marcus drew the animal back. “Good-bye.”
Her jaw tightened, but she gave a nod before retreating into the garden.
Wex stepped forward, handing Marcus a piece of paper with Lescendor’s seal on it before stuffing supplies into the horse’s saddlebags. “My name should get you through any resistance you meet, though your own should do well enough.”
His father held up a heavy purse. “Gold, in case other measures fail.”
Marcus took it without answering, shoving it into his saddlebags.
“Cassius will anticipate that you’ll head to the Bardeen stem to return to your men in the Dark Shores.” Wex rocked on his heels. “He’ll have Hostus send men to Bardeen to stop you, and if they succeed, it’s over. They’ll claim to be returning you to Celendrial on some farce of a reason, but we both know they’ll leave you in a shallow grave. The same if they catch you along the way.”
“They won’t catch me.”
Wex was quiet for a heartbeat, then he said, “You won’t be able to outrun him forever.”
Maybe not, but Marcus intended to try.
“If you’d give us a moment, Commandant,” his father said. “I wish to speak to my son alone.”
Wex leveled him with a long stare, then finally said, “There’s a reason we take them young, Senator. A reason we cut them off from their families. A reason we force them to forget. You are a liability they can’t afford.”
“You overstep, Commandant.”
“No, I don’t. These boys are mine to protect the moment they walk through the gates of Lescendor. And while I might not be privy to the details, I expect that it is because of you that much of this has come to pass, Domitius. Why else is your wife cleaning blood off your floor and your son dragging bodies down to the water to be fed to the sea? The peregrini curse Marcus’s name in the streets for raising Cassius to power, but I think if the truth were known, it would be the Domitius name they’d drag through the mud. And that maybe you’d deserve it.”
“Wex,” Marcus said softly. “It’s fine. Go ensure everyone is safe.”
“Just because you were born to them doesn’t make them your family,” Wex said. “Look to those who guard your back, not those who throw you to the wolves. Look to the Thirty-Seventh.” And without another word, he retreated into the garden.
The horse frisked beneath Marcus, sensing his apprehension as he waited for his father to speak.
Senator Domitius was silent for a long time, and then he said, “I should never have given you up to Lescendor. It is the greatest mistake of my life, and I will die regretting it.”
Staring at the black sea, Marcus allowed the words to sink into his soul. For most of his life, he’d dreamed of hearing them, but now that they’d been said, he found they changed nothing. Taking a deep breath, he dug his heels into the horse’s sides.
And he didn’t look back.
He rode at reckless speed, the horse sliding on the trail and nearly sending them both plunging to their deaths a dozen times, but Marcus couldn’t afford caution. Not with Hostus hunting at his heels.
He hit the beach and pushed the animal into a gallop, heading north, where he’d go around the outskirts of the city and head inland.
A hard two-day ride would take him to a genesis stem that led directly into the heart of Bardeen, only an hour’s gallop from Hydrilla and the stem that would take him back across the world. But Hostus would have contingencies in place in case his men failed in their assassination, and watching the road to that xenthier stem would be one of them. Which meant not only did Marcus need to come up with a different route to Hydrilla, that route needed to get him there faster than Hostus. And it needed to be one the other legatus would never predict.
Giving the horse its head, Marcus sank into his memories, drawing up a map of the Empire marked with the countless xenthier stems, the paths zigzagging across the continent.
And with that map in his mind, he plotted a route only a madman would dare take.
* * *
Dawn was glowing in the East when he reached the town of Alsium, his horse’s flanks drenched with sweat. He’d paused along the way only long enough to rid himself of the bloodstained formal attire and to don his armor, his red-and-gold cloak hanging over his mount’s hindquarters, the helmet signaling his rank heavy on his head.
The men on watch at the town gates saluted as he passed, and he trotted through the quiet streets, heading toward the fortress.
The gate was closed, but a man with a 13 stamped on his breastplate stepped out, yawning as he asked, “Number, rank, name, and the nature of your business?”
“37–1519,” he answered. “Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh. Passage to Timia.”
The legionnaire blinked once, then he peered at Marcus’s breastplate as though to confirm he was of the legion he claimed. A thousand questions formed in the man’s eyes, but his training did its duty. “Yes, sir. Open the gate!”
There was a scuffle of motion inside, then the gates swung open, revealing a large space, at the center of which stood a glittering stem of xenthier. Twelve more men of the Thirteenth encircled it, backs as straight as the spears they held, but they stepped aside as he approached.
Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to one of them, knowing he’d need a fresh mount once he reached Timia. Then, ignoring the prickle of fear creeping up his spine, he reached a hand out toward the stem.
White light flashed across his vision, then he was stumbling across sand instead of earth, in broad daylight rather than dawn.
“Welcome to Timia, sir,” a man with a 21 on his breastplate said.
“I need a horse.” Marcus shook his head to clear it. “A fast one, as my business is urgent.”
Mounted on the fresh animal, he galloped down the road, groves of fruit trees on either side, heading inland. It took less than an hour for the fortress to appear, and those manning the gates were infinitely more watchful than those back in Celendor. “37–1519!” he called in answer to their query. “Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh Legion. My business is in Denastres.”
The gate swung open, revealing a scene made different only by the smells in the air. Handing off his horse, Marcus passed those guarding the stem, took a deep breath, then reached out to touch it.
White light. Then rain splattered against his forehead as he staggered, a wash of dizziness hitting him.
He’d known this would happen.
Traveling through stems in swift succession was avoided because it caused unpleasant physical symptoms that could leave a man debilitated for days.
But that was a risk he needed to take.
“Welcome to Denastres, sir.”
Lightning crackled, and Marcus lifted his face to watch the storm overhead, a fierce wind driving sleet into his face. “I need a horse. Faster the better.”
He rode through the wildness of the storm, his horse splattering through rivers of mud. But he kept the pace until the fortress appeared.
“Welcome to Faul.”
“Welcome to Sibal.”
“Welcome to Atlia.”
“Welcome to Bardeen, sir.” Marcus barely heard the words. Falling to his knees, he heaved up the contents of his stomach, the ground around him lurching and swaying.
“You all right, sir?” The legionnaire dropped to one knee, hand resting on Marcus’s shoulder. “You need a medic?”
“No.” Marcus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s just been a long day.” Less than a day since he’d left Teriana in Celendrial.
It already felt like a lifetime.
“I need to get inland.” He climbed to his feet, though it was only the older man’s grip that kept him from falling over sideways. “Urgent business.”
“That’s a dangerous journey, sir. You’ll need an escort.”
Marcus shrugged the man off, knowing if he stopped even for a moment that he’d pass out. And that it would cost him everything.
Might cost her everything.
“Horse.” He coughed, his chest aching. “Now.”
110
KILLIAN
They’d dragged him down into the dungeons beneath Rufina’s palace, the air stinking of moisture and rot and waste, and thrown him into one of the cells with the chains on his ankles and wrists still firmly in place.
If they’d left him alone, he might have had a chance of extricating himself with the pick he’d hidden in the heel of his boot, but instead, the three soldiers remained, their eyes never moving from him despite the shrieks and cries of those locked in the surrounding cells.
Even then, he might have gotten free, except all three of them were corrupted.
Not that Killian didn’t intend to try. He had to.
He should’ve known that Lydia had given up too easily with the way she’d marched down the trail at Baird’s side, never once looking back. Should’ve known that she’d risk herself to save him. It was who she was.
And who she was, was Kitaryia Falorn.
Which was impossible. And yet … not.
While King Derrek Falorn’s body had been discovered in his rooms, drained of life by one of the corrupted, the bodies of his wife and daughter had never been found, the blood splatter found on the balcony suggesting the worst. And Killian’s own father had searched for them for months, for years, never finding a whisper of a rumor that either survived.
But they had. Or at least, Kitaryia had. On the far side of the world, hidden away in the heart of the Celendor Empire. Until chance or fate or some act of the gods had brought her back.
Grinding his teeth, Killian again assessed his options for escape, but he’d not gotten himself into this expecting to have to extricate himself right away. Or at all. But thanks to that traitor Agrippa, dying was not an option. Not with Malahi and Lydia both prisoners.
Think.
The moans of the other prisoners were abruptly drowned out by the sounds of running feet, and a second later, someone shouted, “Has Calorian escaped?”
“No,” one of the corrupted, a short man with a greasy mustache, answered. “He hasn’t moved since we tossed him in there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the corrupted snapped. “Come see for yourself.”
A soldier appeared in front of Killian’s cell, peering in at him. But instead of relief filling his gaze, the man swore. “Shit! It wasn’t him.”
“Wasn’t him that did what?”
“Someone’s taken the Rowenes girl. Her guards are dead. We’re searching the palace, but…”
Killian’s shoulders started to shake, and though he knew it was probably better to stay silent, no amount of control could contain the laughter that spilled from his lips. Especially as realization of who the culprits were dawned on their faces.
All of them were staring at him, then the mustached corrupted said, “Someone needs to tell the Queen.”
Taking hold of the bars, Killian leaned against them and smiled. “Which one of you lucky bastards will be the one to tell her that her own general just stole her prize out from under her very nose while all of you guarded the decoy?”
All of them gaped at him, their dismay palpable.
Stepping back, Killian laughed even as his focus turned entirely to Lydia. To what might happen if he didn’t get to her soon. “That’s what I thought.”
111
MARCUS
Bardeen was a pot that had already boiled over, and as he galloped down the muddy road to Hydrilla, passing patrol after patrol, Marcus saw endless signs of the violence that had come as a result. Violence that, once upon a time, he had predicted would come.
Bodies of Bardenese rebels left where they’d fallen and turned a grotesque purplish black, blood in pools around them. And Marcus knew that the only reason there wasn’t legion dead surrounding them was because the legions buried their own.
It took him close to a day to make the journey to Hydrilla, the fortress city that he and the Thirty-Seventh had defeated what felt like a lifetime ago. His eyes took in the familiar ramparts, the echoes of catapults and drums and screams filling his ears, and an old guilt bit at his stomach.
But it wasn’t to the fortress he went, but rather to the ground that had once held the camp the Thirty-Seventh had shared with the Twenty-Ninth. To the worn path leading to a bridge that had once stretched across a violent river of water. But now the ground beneath was nothing but rocks and mud, the river rerouted by a thick dike.
Sturdy walls made of Bardenese redwoods surrounded the spot where the river had flown over its falls, mounds of dirt still piled outside from the excavation. And at the base of the hole they’d dug was the xenthier that would take him back to Arinioquia.
That would take him back to the Thirty-Seventh.
He was so close.
Dismounting, he abandoned the exhausted horse, walking on wobbling knees toward the men posted outside the gate. They saluted, their eyebrows rising at the sight of the number on his chest.
“This stem has been mapped,” he said to them. “It leads across to the Dark Shores where the Thirty-Seventh and Forty-First have established themselves. I wish to inspect the stem’s position, for it will soon be supplying us.”
“Yes, sir,” the centurion said, fumbling with the lock, which was already rusting from the damp.
And that was when Marcus heard a commotion in the distance. His head, as well as those of the soldiers before him, turned, eyes going immediately to the group of men sprinting in their direction, weapons in hand. On their breastplates, he could just make out a 29.
“What’s this all about?” the centurion muttered.
“Not my concern.” Marcus stepped into his line of sight. “Now get the lock open.”
Frowning, the man twisted hard on the key, the lock popping open with an audible click.
“Stop him!”
Shouts from the Twenty-Ninth men filtered up to them, and the centurion’s eyes widened. “Apologies, sir, but perhaps—”
Marcus shoved the man out of the way. Shouts of alarm filled his ears, but he ignored them, pushing open the gate and then slamming it shut. Catching hold of a piece of lumber, he braced it against the gate, knowing he was buying himself only seconds.
Ahead, a dark pit loomed, ropes anchored to posts dangling into its depths. He raced toward it even as wood splintered behind him.
