“Please.” There was more than desperation in her voice; there was fear. And it was driving her closer. “Rufina has ten thousand men with her, and that is a mere fraction of her host.”
Who in the bloody underworld is Rufina?
“No closer.” His heart hammered in his chest, the endless darkness of her eyes making him want to pull his sword. Or run. “I’ve given you fair warning.”
“I know her plans.” The corrupted was walking toward them now, movements smooth and predatory. “Let me through the gates and I can help you stop her.”
“Why would one of the corrupted want to help me of all people?”
“Because if she’s victorious, I’ll never be free of this curse.”
She was only thirty feet away. Killian’s gut told him to hear her out, but logic said otherwise. His hand went to the pommel of his sword. “I don’t trust you. I know what you’re capable of.”
Twenty feet. “I might be a monster,” she said. “But I’m not a liar.”
Fifteen. She was corrupted, and the King’s command was to kill them on sight. But to do so didn’t feel right. “Stop.”
She kept coming. And Killian had his orders.
“Shoot!”
He saw the six shafts protruding from her chest almost before he heard the bows twang. Surprise blossomed across her face, and she stumbled forward, each step punctuated by another bowshot.
Her eyes fixed on his. “I am not a liar,” she whispered, then fell face first into the snow.
No one spoke. Not a word.
You should’ve heard her out.
Killian’s voice rasped as he said, “Get me on the other side of the wall.”
You’ve made a mistake.
“But sir, she’s—”
Something is wrong.
“Dead.” Because of him. “Now open the gods-damned gates.”
They stared at him, unmoving. Every one of them were veteran soldiers. Most had seen war countless times. Against Gendorn and Anukastre. Some, with darker skin like his own, had likely fought in the Giant Wars, which had taken place when Killian was still toddling around with a toy sword. But that woman, that thing lying bleeding in the snow, terrified them. “Get me a rope.”
Something was coming.
2
LYDIA
The litter swayed from side to side, the motion, along with the oppressive heat, causing Lydia’s eyelids to hang heavy, the cushion beneath her elbow inviting her to rest her head. Outside, the voices of the citizens filling Celendrial’s streets faded to a dull drone, and her mind grew sluggish as sleep beckoned.
Adjusting the angle of her book so that the light shining through the curtains illuminated the script, Lydia read, wishing she were in her library with its doors open to the cool sea breeze.
But she cared more for her father’s well-being than she did for her own comfort, and left to his own devices, he’d have insisted on walking the distance between their home and the Curia, never mind the consequences to his health.
Her eyes flicked to where he sat across from her, a letter held in one hand and several more scattered on the cushions between them, his distraction allowing her to examine his features.
Unlike her own, Senator Appius Valerius’s skin was the golden hue ubiquitous to those with Cel heritage. But in recent months that gold had turned puffy and jaundiced, and over breakfast she’d noticed that the whites of his grey eyes had yellowed as well.
An affliction of the liver, the physicians had said while giving her bottles of tonics with which to dose him.
Terminal, they’d said once they’d believed her out of earshot.
“Ease your mind,” her father murmured, not taking his eyes from the page. “I’m quite fine.”
As though easing her mind were possible. Her foster father was her only family, and even if they’d been bound by blood, she didn’t think it possible to love him more.
Desperate for distraction, Lydia twitched open the curtain, taking in the comings and goings of the city through the narrow gap in the fabric. They were heading to the heart of Celendrial, the men carrying the litter keeping to the shadow of the aqueduct high above them, her father’s guards striding to either side. As they walked beneath a place where the system branched, the litter bearer closest to her lifted his face to the sky, opening his mouth to catch the water streaming from a crack in the masonry.
When he lowered his head, his eyes widened as he caught her watching. “Apologies.”
Lydia smiled and waved her hand to dispel his embarrassment. And her own. “It’s a wonder the aqueducts haven’t run dry in this heat. What misery should we have to rely on the river Savio.”
“As you say, Domina,” the litter bearer replied, but instead of turning his attention back to the street, he eyed her brazenly. She tried to ignore the unwelcome scrutiny, knowing it was her appearance that provoked his curiosity. With her black hair, upturned green eyes, and ivory complexion, she was obviously not Cel, which made her rights to the honorific questionable at best.
“Do not gape at your betters, you idiot,” the man next to him snapped, kicking him in the ankle. No mean feat given the weight they carried, but Lydia pretended not to notice the exchange, directing her gaze to the Great Library.
It contained the largest collection of literature on Reath: works from every province, on every subject, and in every language, living or dead. Lydia lived and breathed the place. Her greatest wish was to join the ranks of scholars studying in its hallowed halls, for her days to be filled with the smell of parchment and ink, her most precious dream of all for her work to be considered for inclusion into the collection.
Never mind that she’d been inside only three times in her entire life.
Women weren’t precisely forbidden from the library, but their presence was strongly discouraged and the idea of one being allowed to study would likely render those who controlled the institution either mute with horror or consumed by laughter at the audacity of such a thought. Lydia dreamed about it anyway.
They rounded a corner, the towering arch of the entrance to the Forum coming into view. But it wasn’t the glittering gold of the dragon sculpture perched on top of it that caught Lydia’s attention, but rather raucous male laughter.
Two men with buckets full of soapy water were engaged with trying to wash some graffiti from the walls, and the passersby were all pointing and laughing at the subject matter. Opening the curtain farther, Lydia pushed her spectacles up her nose and squinted against the bright sun.
The crudely drawn image was of a naked man tossing male infants onto a sea of spears, the enormous phallus that the artist had given the man the subject of the passersby’s comedy rather than the serious nature of the scene. Unsurprisingly, the man pictured was Senator Lucius Cassius. Even without his name scrawled messily above, Lydia would’ve known that much.
The curtain snapped shut, blocking her view of the scene.
“Blasted plebeians and their crude drawings,” her father muttered, settling back down among the cushions. “What are you on the hunt for in the markets that can’t be brought to you at the house?”
“Something for Teriana, I think.”
“Oh? Have you heard from her then?”