“Dying?” The word croaked its way out of Killian’s throat, shock making him ignore his gut’s warning that a reaction was precisely what the King wanted from him.
“Your father passed on. You didn’t know?”
My father is dead.
White-hot pain sliced through his gut, and he found himself searching the faces of the High Lords for answers, but with the exception of Dareena’s, all he found were blank expressions. And all hers contained was sympathy. “How?”
“Cyntha?” Serrick gestured to an older woman standing in the shadows of the room. She wore the white robes of a marked healer, the pale skin of her forehead tattooed with the half circle representing those trained at Hegeria’s temple in Mudaire, her long black braid laced with grey and upturned eyes creased at the corners.
“Heart,” the woman said impassively. “My fellows reached him too late, and not even a god-marked healer can bring back the dead.”
She had no reason to lie, but the words rang false. His father was not young, but he’d been as fit as a man half his age. If he’d been killed in combat, Killian would’ve accepted it, but this …
“It was the shock, we expect,” Serrick said, his fingers laced together, elbows resting on the table.
“Shock?”
“Yes. Shock.” The King’s face was full of sympathy. “To have his favored son—his god-marked child—fail so spectacularly and with such enormous consequences … Even the most stalwart of hearts can only bear so much. And yet that you be spared was his dying request. Here, you can read it for yourself.”
Riffling around on the table, the King plucked up a piece of paper and handed it to Killian. It was stained with a circle of wine, someone having carelessly set a glass atop the news that his father had passed. Killian read the brief message, which was from one of High Lord Calorian’s lieutenants:
I regret to inform you that High Lord Calorian succumbed to a weak heart this morning, the healers reaching him too late to save his life. His final words, which he asked me to relay to Your Royal Majesty, were a request that Your Grace have mercy upon his beloved youngest son, Killian, and not hold him to blame for the events at the wall. All men are fallible, High Lord Calorian said, even those marked by the Six, and he begged that Your Grace allow his son the opportunity to redeem himself on the battlefield.
Killian read and reread the words, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Then he lifted his face.
Serrick’s smile had disappeared. “We’ve no doubt Tremon has claimed High Lord Calorian’s soul. He was faithful, even if with you, it was a misguided faith.”
Killian clenched his teeth, it taking all his willpower to keep from wringing the man’s neck. The only person in the room capable of stopping him was Dareena, and she was on the far side of the table. Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, High Lady Falorn shifted, the boot that had been resting on her knee dropping to the floor in anticipation. Killian wouldn’t get the jump on her.
Serrick pressed his palms flat against the table. “Unfortunately, we cannot make decisions based on sentiment, Lord Calorian. Derin breached the wall because of your dereliction of duty, and—”
“Your Majesty,” Dareena interjected. “Derin’s attack from the rear was a plan months, if not longer, in the making. They had to have been sneaking soldiers in through Mudamora’s border with Anukastre and then traveling north, where they took over the Tarn garrison with no one the wiser. To punish Killian alone is unfair. Many had to have failed in their duties in order for such an attack to have been even possible.”
“But he is not just anyone,” the King responded. “He is one of the Marked Ones. And we must show our faith by punishing those on whom the gods have turned their backs.” He bowed his head for a long moment, then said, “At dawn tomorrow you, Lord Killian Calorian, will be—”
“Father.” Malahi’s voice rang clear as a bell across the chamber, and Killian’s heart skipped. “Is it not possible that the failing was not Lord Calorian’s, but ours?”
Serrick turned his head, eyes fixing on his daughter.
“The story of his marking, after all, is well known—it happened on the eve of the day he was supposed to be named the sworn sword of the Falorn princess.”
“What of it, Daughter?” Serrick’s voice was cold, but to her credit, Malahi didn’t flinch. And Killian said nothing. If Malahi had a plan to get him out of this, the last thing he intended to do was interfere.
“That event never transpired,” she continued, “but that does not negate Tremon’s intent. Perhaps Killian wasn’t marked to defend the kingdom, but rather to defend its heir?”
There were nods of agreement among the High Lords. Dareena said, “She makes a valid point, Your Majesty.”
The King’s eyes narrowed before smoothing into an expression of serene benevolence. “Derin invaded Mudamora because of this young man’s failings, Daughter. Is that the sort of sword you wish guarding your back?”
“I know all about Killian’s failings.” Malahi rested her delicate hands on the table, the expression in her amber eyes at odds with her smile. “Yet as you say, Father, it is ill luck to deny a dying man’s request. Worse luck still to execute one marked by the god of war while we are in the midst of one.”
Hacken cleared his throat, and Killian silently girded himself, certain his brother would take the opportunity to condemn him. Which perhaps, given what had happened to their father, he deserved. “The fact that he’s my brother aside, I’m inclined to agree with Malahi. As you yourself have said, Your Majesty, the Corrupter gains strength when we lose our faith. What is executing one of the Marked Ones out of a belief he is incapable but a demonstration of a lack of faith? As you wisely remind us, the Twelve must lead by example.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Lord Damashere agreed, eyeing the Princess. “Malahi is heir to the throne, and in these troubled times she needs the greatest protection we can provide her. Who better than a god-marked sworn sword?”
Nothing about this felt right. If the High Lords didn’t agree with Serrick, they were within their right to say so. Yet they were dancing around the issue as though they were … afraid.
Serrick said nothing, and tension sang through the room as everyone waited for his verdict.
“What say you to this proposition, Lord Calorian?” the King finally asked. “The plunge from commander to nursemaid is a punishment itself.”
Malahi’s gaze darkened with a brief flash of hate; then she blinked and it was gone. But it was enough to make Killian wonder whether she was doing this for his sake or her own. Or if her agenda went beyond that. Not that it really mattered.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked.
Serrick bared his teeth in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, Lord Calorian. If you don’t believe Malahi worth your time, I’m sure the headsman would be glad to offer you an alternative.”
10
LYDIA
Lydia chewed an orange segment without tasting the fruit, her mind all for the book hidden in a section of linguistic texts. Since her engagement to Lucius had been announced, she’d spent her time closeted in the library with Teriana’s book, it providing some small escape from the reality of her looming nuptials.
She lost herself in stories where the six gods stepped onto the mortal plane; where they marked individuals with gifts and powers beyond Lydia’s imagination; where evil was not a greedy-minded senator, but a dark god who desired chaos and destruction. Each of the gods had dominion over certain things. Hegeria had power over the human body and spirit; Lern over animals and creatures; Yara over the earth and all that grew on it; Gespurn over the elements; Madoria over the sea; Tremon over conflict and war. The Corrupter endlessly sought control over them all.
The gods’ power, she learned, came from the belief of their followers, without which they’d dwindle and cease to exist. And yet they rarely interfered directly, relying on those individuals they marked to do their works and foster the belief of the p
eople. Most of Treatise detailed the deeds of famous marked individuals, their faces rendered in detail by the artists who’d illuminated this edition. As she read, the gods became real to her, but what faith she gained was cold comfort. Even if the gods of the Dark Shores were real, they’d long since abandoned Celendor. She’d find no help from them.
There are as many paths as there are travelers.
What had Teriana meant by that?
“Lydia?”
She blinked, focusing on the young woman draped over the couch next to her and watching her expectantly. All the young women present were, and she realized a question had been posed to her. Perhaps more than once. “Pardon?”
Cordelia smiled and said, “I asked if you’d decided on your dresses for your wedding?”
The gorgeous blond was four years Lydia’s senior, and by virtue of being Senator Domitius’s eldest daughter and of her marriage to a rising star of the Senate, Cordelia was considered one of the most influential women in Celendrial. She was, in Lydia’s opinion, certainly the most meddlesome.
Averting her gaze, Lydia replied, “Lucius intends to select them.”
“Ugh!” Cordelia’s face scrunched up in horror. “He has garish taste. You must take over the task.”
The last thing Lydia wanted was to waste her time on dresses she had no interest in wearing, but she couldn’t very well say that. Especially not with Lucius sitting with the group of men only a dozen paces away, the glass in his hand shaking as he laughed at something another senator had said. “I have other matters that demand too much of my time, I’m afraid.” She waved a hand at one of the servants to refill the women’s glasses, hoping the topic of conversation would change.
“Such as?”
No such luck.
“My studies,” she said. “I’m writing a paper—”
Cordelia interrupted her with a very unladylike snort. “You are so delightfully self-involved.”
Lydia sat up straight, less for the insult and more for Cordelia’s tone. There was anger in it, but for the life of her, Lydia couldn’t understand what she’d done to provoke the young woman. “Excuse me?” she demanded, but Ulpia leaned in. “Let her be, Cordelia. Lydia is a scholar—she’s above things like dresses and wedding planning.”
It was difficult not to wince. Since the announcement of her engagement, Ulpia had been pestering Lydia with invitations and calling cards. But old habits died hard, and it seemed like Ulpia couldn’t help getting her barbs in when she could.
“Let’s talk about something different,” Ulpia said. “I heard that the Thirty-Seventh Legion will be taking a turn policing Celendrial. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I consider that a fortuitous turn of events.”
One of the other girls made an aggrieved noise. “How can you say such a thing, Ulpia? Might as well wish for a legion of wild dogs to maintain order.”
Ulpia laughed and waved a hand at the girl. “I’ve seen them up close, and rest assured, they are not dogs.” Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, “They’re all nineteen. Old enough to be men, unlike the Forty-First”—she named the younger legion camped outside the city—“but not old and weathered and sour like the Twenty-Seventh. Something fine to look at for the next two years, if you ask me.”
“The Senate won’t allow a legion like the Thirty-Seventh control over Celendrial,” Cordelia snapped. “Not with their reputation.”
Lydia was inclined to agree. The Thirty-Seventh was responsible for the conquest of Chersome, the southern island having been the last nation to hold out against the Empire’s might. Chersome had resisted hard and paid a steep price for it, for it was said the fires the Thirty-Seventh Legion had set still burned across the island nation.
“If they aren’t here to police the city,” Ulpia said, interrupting Lydia’s thoughts, “then why are they here? Hmm?”
“How should I know?” Cordelia sipped from her glass. “The better question is: What were you doing in a legion camp, Ulpia?”
Several of the girls covered their mouths and giggled, and Ulpia’s cheeks reddened. “I heard tours of their camp were possible and Vibius obliged my curiosity.”
“A camp full of stinking soldiers. Sounds delightful.” Cordelia shifted her weight, holding her glass out for a servant to refill. “Tell me, Ulpia. While you were on this tour, did you happen to get an introduction to the Thirty-Seventh’s legatus?”
It wasn’t precisely an unexpected question given the infamy of the legion’s young commander, but there was something about Cordelia’s tone that made Lydia turn to look at her. Something that made her think the question was more than idle curiosity.
“No, I didn’t meet him. But I’ve heard he’s a fine thing to look upon.” Ulpia flicked her hair over her shoulder; then her eyes turned sly. “Marital bed grown cool and you need a bit of soldier blood to heat it up again? How very like a Domitius to set her eyes on the man at the very top.”
It wasn’t like Cordelia to rise to any form of bait, but Lydia found the older girl’s blue-grey eyes decidedly frigid as she said, “I think it fair to point out that I wasn’t the one asking my husband for a tour of the legion’s camp.”
“Peace, peace,” Lydia murmured, but the words were hardly necessary, as a commotion from the group of men caught the attention of the young women around her.
“You can’t be serious?” a senator barked, rising to his feet. The man had long been a close associate of Lydia’s father, but he was staring at her father like he’d never seen him before. “Fourth sons as well? The cost will be incredible, never mind the damage it would do to the population.”
“Now, now.” Her father made soothing gestures, glancing quickly at Lucius, who remained silent. “Don’t be so swift to condemn the proposal. Cassius is not suggesting a blanket conscription policy as we have for second sons. This would be more … targeted.”
“What do you mean, targeted?” Cordelia’s husband asked.
“The boys would come from poorer families. From those who already struggle to feed all their children, and whose sons are unlikely to grow into contributing members of society,” Lucius answered. “We can turn those who would be a burden into assets.”
Several of the men’s faces darkened, and Lydia’s own stomach soured at how Lucius coldly reduced children to commodities. Cordelia shifted on the couch, and though her gaze was fixed on the glass in her hand, Lydia could tell she was listening intently.
“What Cassius means,” Lydia’s father said carefully, “is that we can provide those less fortunate boys with skills and opportunities that they would not otherwise have. At Campus Lescendor, they’d be given an education and provided with marketable skills.”
Lydia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. All her life, her father had fought against the legion conscriptions, had fought against war, but this … this was the exact opposite.
“Campus Lescendor raises soldiers, not farmers,” one of the men said flatly. “Something the Empire hardly needs more of. And you still have not addressed how it will be paid for.”
“It’s an investment that will repay itself within a generation, if not sooner,” Lucius replied, sipping at his wine. “Those schools you proposed the Empire build will no longer be necessary, and the Empire will no longer bear the burden of caring for young men who leech off society and contribute nothing in return. As to your other point, the Empire will always need its legions. Our footprint is large, and we never know when we might need an army of size.”
Cordelia’s husband’s eyes flicked to his wife, but the young woman only drank deeply from her glass, shifting so that she was right next to Lydia.
“Cassius’s passion for his proposal makes him careless in his phrasing.” Lydia’s father laughed, patting Lucius on the arm as though they were old friends. “Do not think of his proposal as a way to mass an enormous military machine, but as a way to improve opportunities for all our young people. Training more boys at Lescendor will allow us to release older legions
from duty earlier. Imagine the benefit of having thousands of men trained not just as soldiers but as physicians, engineers, craftsman, and administrators being introduced into society right at the age best suited for them to start families.”
“Precisely,” Lucius said with a smile.
“Liar,” Cordelia muttered, and Lydia was inclined to agree. She held her breath, waiting for the men to spit and scoff at Lucius’s proposal. Yet as her father continued to talk, spinning Lucius’s plan to appeal to their way of thinking, she realized what was happening and had to clench her teeth to keep her stomach from emptying itself on the floor.
“Didn’t you realize there would be a cost?” Cordelia asked under her breath. “Cassius hardly needs coin and he certainly doesn’t need a new wife. What he needs is someone to sway votes.”
There was no one in Celendrial more suited to that task than Lydia’s father. “He did it to protect me.” The words sounded strangled in her own ears.
“I know.” Cordelia’s voice was toneless. “All of this is for you. And I hope you remember that when Cassius begins stealing tens of thousands more boys from their families. And when he sends them off to die.”
Then Cordelia scratched meaningfully at her cheek, and a servant appeared at her elbow, bending low to whisper in her mistress’s ear. Sighing, Cordelia rose. “Excuse me.” She approached her husband, resting her hand on his elbow. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but we must retire early. Our eldest is ill, and he is asking for his father.”
It was an excuse, and everyone present knew it. A subtle way of the pair indicating that despite Lydia’s father’s endorsement, they would not support Lucius in the elections. But rather than appearing annoyed, Lucius only smiled at the young woman and said, “Nothing serious, I hope? We really do need to be mindful of the health of our heirs. Would you like me to send over my personal physician?”
Dark Skies Page 7
