Lifting her head, she said, “I’m not stupid, you know. For one, drunks don’t win at cards. Two, I’m not foolish enough to sacrifice my wits in a camp full of soldiers.”
“Only pretending to enjoy their company, then?” He shifted sideways so that Amarin could pass, the man setting a basin of water on the ground next to Teriana.
“Thank you.” She smiled at the servant before shifting her gaze back to Marcus. “Who said I was pretending? They’re fine company, and I was happy enough to spend an evening with them.”
It was just him she hated.
Stepping to the other side of the curtain, he held out an arm, and Amarin unbuckled the straps, carefully setting the pieces aside for cleaning. Teriana had turned up the lamp, and when she stood he could see her outline clearly through the sheet. She lifted her arms over her head, pulling off her shirt, then hopped on one foot and then the other as she tugged off her trousers. As the splash of water filled his ears, he realized he was staring and jerked his gaze away from the curtain.
Amarin had an amused smile on his face. “Don’t even think of saying it,” Marcus growled, jerking off his own tunic and throwing it in a pile on the floor.
“Saying what?” Teriana demanded.
“You might turn down the lamp, miss.” Amarin’s smile widened further as Marcus waved his hands, trying to get to him to stop speaking. “Lamp oil is precious.”
The light dimmed.
Amarin handed him a washcloth and Marcus threw it back at him. “I don’t think so.”
The other man wrinkled his nose and set the cloth next to a basin of water. “You might want to reconsider, sir.” Then he gathered up the pieces of armor and departed.
All Marcus wanted to do was collapse on his bedroll and sleep, but instead he found himself scrubbing away the sweat accumulated during the day before putting his weapons in easy reach and lying down. Moments after he did, the lamplight winked out, leaving him in the dark with only the ambient sounds of the camp, the drone of insects, and the soft sound of Teriana crying.
Guilt was an old friend, but it raged against him with a vengeance. This is your fault, it whispered. She’s crying because of you. You brought her here. You tore her away from her family.
She’s alive because of me, he reminded the guilt. As are they.
But the reminders did nothing to silence the emotion. Or to silence Teriana’s tears.
“Sending them to that island was the best option I had for protecting them for you,” he said.
Teriana didn’t respond, but her snuffles quieted. She was listening.
“If they’d remained, they would have done so as prisoners within this camp, and there would’ve been little I could do to make those conditions ideal. They’d have been used as a resource, for translating and whatever else, which would mean they’d be constantly in danger—from my men and from Urcon’s. On that island, they are apart from all of this. Your crew is as safe as it can be.”
Wind rustled the canvas of the tent, and some of his men laughed uproariously in the distance.
“You could’ve let me say good-bye.”
He could’ve. He probably should’ve. “I made the decision before anyone had the chance to question whether the Quincense and her crew might have a better purpose than sitting on a white sand beach in the middle of nowhere.”
Silence.
“It’s only for a short time,” he said.
“While you use me to get everything you want.”
If she only knew.
“You’ve already given me everything I wanted,” he said, knowing he was treading a fine line.
“But—”
“The rest of what you have to do to free your people? That is for Cassius. Not for me. But for the sake of your people, I’ll help you get it done.” Rolling over, he glared at the darkness, hating how even on the far side of the world Cassius had him under his thumb. “Get some rest, Teriana. Dawn will come early.”
Soon after, her breathing quieted into the slow rhythm of sleep, likely more as a result of the rum Gibzen had given her than any comfort from Marcus’s words. And as the minutes passed and sleep didn’t come, it made him consider sending Amarin to find him a bottle. Only that was a slippery slope that he didn’t care to set himself upon. He didn’t like being drunk, didn’t like the way booze loosened his tongue and sense of self-control. He had too much to lose, and what relief he might gain for losing himself in the bottle for a night wasn’t worth the potential price.
Sighing, Marcus rose to his feet, pulling a tunic over his head. Carrying his weapons and sandals out into the command tent, he silently donned them and stepped out into the night.
The guards encircling the tent quietly saluted him as he passed, and he strode through the neat lines of tents. The camp was split between the two legions, and though the halves were identical, he could have closed his eyes and spun around like a top and still been able to point to the half containing the Thirty-Seventh. If nothing else, the smell of alcohol would’ve given them away.
Reaching the gate, he said, “I’m going to the village.”
“A moment, sir, and we’ll organize an escort,” the soldier in command of the watch said, but Marcus shook his head.
“Don’t need one. I won’t be long.”
The young man—one of the Forty-First—opened his mouth to argue, but a long look from Marcus kept any argument from passing his lips. The gate was cracked to allow him to pass, Marcus snaking one of the burning torches as he strode through. Of a surety, one of them would already be running to rat him out to Felix, but he’d still have some time alone. Time to breathe.
A path to the village had been cleared, and Marcus walked swiftly through the darkness, listening to the drone of insects, the calls of birds and monkeys in the trees, and the crash of the ocean against the distant beach. The air smelled of moisture and dirt and trees, clean in comparison to the camp. He’d been to places with the same sounds. Same smells. Yet there was something different here. A charge of energy, and a sense of … watchfulness that made his skin prickle.
He reached the outskirts of the village, nodding to the guards who had been posted, four of Flacre’s and four from the legion. The legionnaires were Thirty-Seventh, so not an eyebrow rose at the sight of him. As much as they didn’t like his midnight wanderings, his men were used to them.
The village itself was quiet, the people in their homes, though Marcus doubted they were enough at ease with his army’s presence to sleep. He meandered between the pilings holding up the buildings until he reached the open space in the center, the perimeter dominated by seven stone shrines. Each of them was unique, bearing detailed carvings of male and female likenesses, the eyes seeming to shift and move as he circled the clearing. The shrine made of black stone he approached last, a strange desire to touch the slick rock coming over him even as he studied the carving, which was little more than a suggestion of a face, the eyes dark pits.
Reaching out, Marcus hesitated, his fingers suddenly chilled to the bone. The sensation grew, the cold beginning to burn as though his hand had pressed against a block of ice too long.
It hurt, but he couldn’t draw back.
A dull glow filled the carving’s eyes, and they shifted, seeing him.
Then a hand closed on his wrist, pulling him back.
Reaching for the blade at his waist, Marcus froze at the sight of Flacre, a fussing baby in the man’s arms. The old Arinoquian pointed at the black shrine and gave a warning shake of his head.
Pulse still roaring in his ears, Marcus said, “Why do you have it then? Why not destroy it?” He pantomimed breaking the rock, but the man only shook his head. Rocking the child, he gestured to each of the shrines, then pressed his hand to his chest. Then over the child’s chest. Then, reaching out, the man pressed his hand over Marcus’s thundering heart.
“Get your hands off of him!”
Felix’s voice split the night, and the baby, who had fallen asleep, began to howl.
Expression more amused than anything, the old man hugged the baby tight and said one word. “Protective.” Marcus smiled and nodded, repeating the word. Committing it to memory.
Flacre inclined his head, then walked away, murmuring soothing sounds to the child as he disappeared into the darkness.
Felix stood with his arms crossed between two of the shrines. “We’ve talked about this,” he said.
“I know. I know.” Casting an upward glance at the night sky, Marcus watched the way the stars sparkled. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“She snore?”
Laughing, Marcus shook his head. “No worse than you.”
“I only snore when I sleep on my back.”
“You always sleep on your back.”
Felix shrugged. “Want to walk?”
They strode through the village and down to the beach, where Marcus’s men had begun construction of a pier capable of servicing their fleet. Sandals clacking against the cut stone, he and Felix walked to the end of it and sat, legs dangling off the edge and elbows together as they stared out to sea. “How are they doing?”
Felix always had a better sense of the morale of the men than Marcus did, because he was one of them in a way Marcus had never been able to manage. Even before he’d been put in command, he’d always felt apart. Like he didn’t quite fit in with the camaraderie of all the other boys. It had been a relief in more ways than one when the commanders at Lescendor had marked him as a future officer and he’d been able to spend more time in the library studying the history of the Empire’s wars. Learning strategy. Mastering tactics. Hunting victory.
“Some better than others. The idle time in Celendrial took its toll, and that voyage…” Felix shook his head. “Not sure if it was better or worse for those in the hold who couldn’t see what was happening. As it is, the sailors did their fair share of talking before we got everyone off-loaded. Servius needs to get his hands on more drink or we’re going to have trouble in the ranks.”
“We’ll have trouble if we’re attacked and a third of our men are drunk.”
“We’ll have just as much trouble if that third is losing their minds from exhaustion.” Felix exhaled a long breath. “Most can’t sleep, and when they do, they have dreams. The drink is the only thing that helps them.”
Dreams. Of the things they’d seen. Of the things they’d done. Of the things they feared being done to them.
“It’s not your fault,” Felix said.
Marcus didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. They’d been assigned as bunkmates when they’d first arrived at Lescendor, but they’d been best friends since the first time Felix had dragged Marcus off the ground where he’d collapsed during the first day of training. He still remembered seven-year-old Felix’s voice in his ear: Get up. You have to get up. There is no quitting here, only dying. Or the first time Marcus had had one of his attacks and Felix had hidden him rather than asking for help from the medics, instinctively knowing it was Marcus’s only chance at survival. That if his weakness were discovered, he’d be purged.
“It’s your job to keep the Thirty-Seventh alive,” Felix said softly. “And against every odd, you’ve done it. And it’s my job to keep you alive. But to do that, I need you to quit taking these risks, understand? We need you.”
Marcus felt his friend’s elbow bump his, and he knew that he should turn. To acknowledge what Felix had said. To reassure him. But the words wouldn’t come. “We should get back,” he said. “With the dawn, we need to start showing this Urcon that we are here to stay.”
Felix grinned. “And the Thirty-Seventh doesn’t fall back.”
They would never go back.
29
TERIANA
Teriana awoke to the rhythmic inhale and exhale of someone breathing hard. She blinked at the white canvas over her head, only barely illuminated by the coming dawn, and groaned, her head throbbing with a hangover. Mornings were not her favored time on the best of days, and another few hours—or six—of sleep would not have hurt. But clearly that was not on Marcus’s agenda.
Marcus.
Despite the rum she’d consumed last night, Teriana had tossed and turned for a long time after their conversation through the sheet, turning his words over in her head. In Celendrial, while he’d bandaged her hands, he’d spun pretty words about his interests being aligned with hers when it came to protecting her people from Cassius, but she’d brushed them off as him trying to manipulate his way into her good graces. Same with him allowing her to deliver the bodies of her fallen people to the sea. How could she think otherwise when the contract she’d signed with him had demanded so much—a whole half of the world on a silver platter? That he’d been willing to give the Maarin their freedom was like tossing her bread crumbs. A paltry cost for what he’d gain.
But what he’d said … You’ve already given me everything I wanted. The rest of what you have to do to free your people? That is for Cassius. Not for me. But for the sake of your people, I’ll help you get it done.
A soft thud caught her attention, and Marcus’s breathing again took on a slightly strained rhythm.
“By the Six!” she snarled. “What are you doing?”
Rolling on her side, Teriana jerked up the sheet hanging between them and found herself face-to-face with a pair of grey eyes. Or were they blue? Doesn’t matter. They’re his.
Marcus was frozen in the lower half of a push-up, his face turned in her direction. “Exercises.”
He resumed pushing up and down, muscles moving back and forth beneath his stupid Cel skin. Rolling onto his back, he started doing sit-ups, and she watched because she knew it would annoy him, then said, “You look like an idiot,” and dropped the sheet back in place.
“Fitness is important.”
She rolled her eyes, annoyed that she was already hot when the sun wasn’t yet up in the sky. “Well, when you’re done flailing about, maybe you could take a walk. I need some privacy.”
“Latrine pits are at the rear of camp.”
Because the Six forbid she have a damned moment alone. Cheeks burning, she pulled on her boots and made her way through the empty command tent, passing Amarin as she went. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you like your breakfast here or will you queue with the men?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she muttered; then her eyes latched on a stack of blank paper before dancing to the pencils littered across the table.
“I think Marcus wants you for something,” she said, and when the man started toward the rear of the tent she snatched up some paper and a pencil, shoving them into her pocket before pushing outside and taking a deep breath of fresh air.
Two men fell in behind her as she made her way toward the rear of the camp, and remembering Yedda’s advice, she asked, “What did you two do wrong to get the job of following me to the shitter?”
They both laughed. “Nearly came to blows us fighting over the job,” one said. “And as for the other, I think Servius has something rigged so you don’t have all the little boys in the Forty-First deciding they need to take a piss at the same time as you.”
“He’s a good one, that Servius,” she said, relieved that she wouldn’t have to do her business in view of a few thousand men every day and storing the slight against the other legion’s maturity in her back pocket for later consideration. If there was conflict between them that went beyond what was between Marcus and Titus, maybe she could use it to her advantage. “And since we’re going to be thick as thieves, what do you call yourselves?”
“Quintus,” he replied. “That’s Miki.” The other legionnaire grinned, the corner of one of his eyes twisted up by a fresh set of stitches. Even without his name it was obvious Miki wasn’t Cel by birth. What
hair he had was concealed by a helmet, but his eyebrows were a shocking shade of red and his pale skin was more freckle than not. Likely from Sibern, the great barren wastelands to the north of Celendor proper.
Quintus, on the other hand, was as Cel as Marcus or Felix, with the ubiquitous golden skin, fair hair, and light eyes. Yet there was something familiar about him. “I’ve met you before,” she said. “You’re the sewing-circle soldier.”
Miki burst into laughter, the spear he held in one hand shaking. “Oh, that’s good. You’re never going to live that one down.”
Quintus sighed. “Thanks for that, Teriana. The whole rutting legion is going to be dropping off their mending in front of my tent.”
“Will finally give that needle of yours a purpose,” Miki said, and they devolved into a banter that grew more off-color as it progressed.
They reached the latrines, which true to their word had a roofless structure off to one side with her name carved into the door, along with the warning that trespassers would find themselves digging ditches for the next year.
Lydia will die laughing when she hears about this—
The blood rushed from Teriana’s face on the heels of the thought, fury at herself rising in its place. Fury at allowing herself to forget even for a minute that the other girl was the reason Teriana was standing here at all. Stepping inside, she closed the door and pushed the rudimentary latch into place. It took her a matter of moments to do what she’d come for, but despite the stench clinging to the air around the pits, she lingered in the tiny closed-off area, extracting the pieces of paper and the pencil she’d stolen from the command tent. Writing swiftly, first in Gamdeshian and then in Katamarcan, she detailed the situation as best she could, describing what she knew about Marcus’s intentions, as well as the greater threat of the Empire. She pleaded for assistance—for herself, for her people, and for the people of Arinoquia, requesting that resources be sent to drive back the Cel threat. Finishing, she wrote her titles and signed her name with as much flourish as was possible with a dull pencil.
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