“Show some decency!” The words tore from her lips, and the legionnaires turned to regard her with cold eyes.
“Apologies, Domina,” the centurion finally said. “I’ll have him whipped as punishment for adding to your distress.”
Lydia’s eyes widened and she opened to mouth to argue, but her father caught hold of her shoulders, gently pushing her into the litter. “Today is not a good day for the markets, my dear. Spurius will escort you home and then rejoin me.”
“Peregrini violence grows worse by the day.” Lucius gave a grim shake of his head. “What state our fair city that law abiding citizens and those of the gentler persuasion cannot go out for fear of being accosted? It is unconscionable. We must show a firmer hand.”
“A matter for discussion,” her father answered, but then the litter rose, carrying Lydia away from the conversation.
“An unnecessary tragedy,” she said, looking up at Spurius where he walked within arm’s reach, his steady presence a comfort. “You did well in your attempts to avert it.”
“Not well enough.”
“Is the Twenty-Seventh to blame for the violence?” Spurius had been a centurion prior to his retirement; of a surety, he’d have his own opinions on the matter. “Is Lucius right to want to replace them?”
“They are not the cause, Domina. Only a consequence,” he replied, face revealing nothing. “But the Senate knows better what Celendrial’s future holds and what sort of legion it will need to keep its peace.”
Something was happening, Lydia thought; then her eyes landed on the graffiti of Lucius throwing babies onto spears.
Or perhaps it already had.
3
KILLIAN
The wall dividing Mudamora from Derin was sixty feet high, but it wasn’t the drop that concerned Killian. It was the bloody cold.
The wind buffeted him from side to side, ripping at his cloak as he descended, his gloved fingers growing more numb with each passing second. Gods, he wished he were back in the South. Or even on the coast, where at least he was in no danger of actually freezing his balls off. Anywhere but here.
“It’s still not moving,” Bercola shouted from above. “We’ll set you down now.”
Killian’s boots sank into the snow, no longer in Mudamora, but in the enemy kingdom of Derin. Forbidden ground, and yet here he was.
He pulled the snowshoes off his back, donned them, and then started toward the dark shape in the red-stained snow.
They are coming.
She wasn’t moving. Which was no damned surprise given that six arrows were embedded in her chest and her back was riddled with at least that many, but Killian still hesitated several paces back from her corpse, drawing his sword. Watching for any sign of motion.
Nothing. And yet he didn’t move.
There was rumor that those marked by the god of war felt no fear. That Killian felt no fear. But the dull throb of blood in his ears and the thundering beat of his heart belied that rumor. Killian knew fear. He just didn’t run from it.
The wind caught in the corrupted’s blond hair, strands of it whipping this way and that, her skin nearly as pale as the snow she rested upon. Her cheek had been scored by an arrow, a long bloody wound across an otherwise lovely face. A lovely face marked by the Seventh god. Marked to take lives. Marked for evil.
And yet she’d said that she was here to warn them.
Feeling the eyes of his men watching him from atop the wall and through the twin portcullises, Killian took a step closer, watching the corrupted for any sign of life.
Not listening to her was a mistake.
Shoving aside the thought, he took another step closer, about to nudge her with his blade when the wound on her cheek caught his attention.
Killian froze.
The deep cut had started bleeding again and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the edges were closing. Healing.
“Shit,” Killian muttered, and the corrupted’s eyes snapped open.
What she said stopped his blade a hairsbreadth from her neck.
“They’re coming,” she whispered. “From behind.”
“Rufina?” His voice was hoarse. “Who is she?”
“She’s queen. She’s one of his.”
“His?”
“The Corrupter.” The wound on her face had faded to a thin line. “I don’t want to be like this. I try to fight it, but it’s so hard. He stole me and now he won’t let me go.”
“Such is the downside of making a pact with a god.” There was no reneging. No changing your mind. Killian knew that better than most.
“You think I agreed to be like this?” Her laugh was pained and bitter. “He’s far more insidious than that.”
The arrows embedded in her body were rising, her healing flesh forcing them out of her body. She whispered, “His eye is on me. I can feel it.”
Killian lifted his head, giving his surroundings a quick scan, but there was only snow and rock. The whistle of wind.
A guttural growl.
His attention snapped down to see that the corrupted’s eyes had pooled black, bloody flames circling the irises. Then she attacked.
A blur of motion. Reaching white hands.
Killian was faster.
His blade sang through the air, slicing through flesh and bone, and the corrupted’s head landed with a soft thud in the blood-soaked snow. As the body toppled to join it, Killian turned and strode toward the gate.
“Send three riders on our fastest horses to the garrisons at Blackbriar, Harid, and Tarn,” he ordered. “Inform them the wall is in need of reinforcements, no delays. Tell them to bring their healers.”
“Reinforcements against what, sir? She’s dead.”
Killian turned back to the mountain range, the fiery orb of the setting sun casting long shadows through the empty pass. Nothing moved, but his skin crawled as though he were being watched. “I think we’re about to find out.”
4
LYDIA
Lydia sipped from a glass of well-watered wine, listening to the Bardenese musicians playing softly in the corner of the room while she attempted to calm her still rattled nerves by reading a book.
Within the hour, six of her father’s friends would descend on her home, along with their families, and the servants were still rushing about ensuring the night would be perfection. Every surface was laden with vases of flowers from the gardens, the mosaic floors were polished to a high shine, the pillows on the couches had been fluffed, and the marble sculptures resting in the wall niches were devoid of even a speck of dust.
Now that the sun was setting, the doors to the gardens were cast open, but the trees blocked the breeze from the sea, the air between the columns stagnant. Lydia had checked thrice to ensure all was in order, but in truth her duties wouldn’t truly begin until the guests arrived and the gossiping ensued.
Pressing her damp palms against the red-and-gold-striped upholstery, she smoothed the thin silk of her dress, admiring the brilliant green. High-waisted, it was ruched at the bodice to give volume to her bust, the singular shoulder strap a mesh of golden wire woven through with silk. On her feet were delicate sandals with thin leather straps that wrapped around her calves up to her knees. Her wrists and throat were encircled with emerald, her fingers gleaming with tiny bands of gold, the large black diamond she habitually wore gracing her right hand.