“Why?” The word caught in her throat, and Silvara coughed to clear it. “He didn’t tell me anything that will help.”
“But now we know he will.” Carina crossed the tent, taking Silvara’s hands. “We can exploit his sentiment for his mother—a Bardenese woman forced into indenture to a Cel patrician—and try to turn his allegiance. Which may be easier than anticipated given the bad blood between him and the Thirty-Seventh’s legatus. Getting him to admit that by provoking his jealousy was a clever bit of work.”
Calling it clever would imply that she’d been following a plan, but nearly everything that she’d asked had been instinctual. Questions fueled by a morbid curiosity and fascination with the legions that she had no intention of admitting to Carina. Just as she had no intention of admitting to the woman that she was drawn to Agrippa for reasons that had nothing to do with the information he might provide. There was something…compelling about him. A defiance that spoke to her soul.
“I dislike this, Carina,” Agnes said abruptly. “They are children and you’re exploiting them. Empire boy he might be, but that Agrippa has a good heart and is genuine in his interest toward Silvara.”
“Do you think that good heart will stop him from sticking his blade into our people’s backs if he’s given the order?” Carina snapped. “This is war and he is our enemy.”
Silvara’s chest tightened at the reminder even as she wondered if, given the order, he would slaughter her people. Because the boy she’d spent the past hours with seemed far removed from the faceless legionnaires she saw as her enemy. Of course he would fight, she snarled at herself. He doesn’t have a choice but to follow orders.
“It’s not Agrippa I worry for.” Agnes stared the rebel leader down, the intensity in her gaze reminding Silvara that the old woman had once been a warrior of some renown. “It’s Silvara. And what it will do to her to follow through on this.”
“She’s the best weapon we have!” Carina paced back and forth across the tent before sliding to a stop. “Do you think I wouldn’t do it myself if such a thing were possible? Do you think I wouldn’t spare her if I could? But I can’t. I’m old and ugly and invisible to them, whereas she is young and beautiful and something they’re willing to sacrifice for in order to possess.”
Possess. It was impossible not to cringe, and Carina saw the motion. “Hecktor went out to meet with the rest of our people in the woods today,” she said. “They sent signals to your father in Hydrilla. Told him that you’ve joined the cause and that you’ve made strides. It will give your brother and him hope to know you’re involved. To know that someone who loves them is fighting to save their lives.”
Agnes opened her mouth, but Silvara cut her off. “Both of you quit speaking over my head. I said I’ll get the information we need out of him, and I will.”
And without another word, she picked up her satchel of belongings and strode out, weaving her way through the maze to her own tiny tent. Though calling it such was an offense to the word, for it was nothing more than a ragged piece of greased brown fabric draped between two other tents, barely big enough for her to sleep stretched out.
Ducking inside, she weighted down the bottom edges with rocks, then unpacked her possessions, which she had to carry with her always or they’d certainly be stolen. In her haste, she’d neglected to take any coals from the laundry tent fire for her brazier and she shivered as the wind slipped in through the cracks, biting at her skin. Laying one of her blankets on the dirt, she lowered herself to the ground, tucking her cloak and the other blanket around her, and rested her head on her arm.
Spirits help her, but she was tired of being cold.
Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to drift. To remember the feeling of her back pressed against Agrippa’s chest, the heat of his hand where it had gripped her own. What it had been like to thrust that wicked sharp blade forward with fierce intent. That was who she wanted to be: Someone not to be trifled with.
Someone who left her mark.
Then the canvas rustled, wind gusting over her and carrying with it the scent of soap.
“You scampered off without saying goodnight,” Agnes whispered, faint light illuminating her wrinkled brown face. “And you forgot your coals.”
The old woman set the tin brazier on the ground near Silvara’s feet and held her hands over them, her brow furrowed. Shivering, Silvara asked, “Do you want to stay here tonight, Agnes? The wind is truly bitter.”
Agnes snorted. “Your coastal blood is showing, girl. This ain’t cold—you haven’t felt cold yet. But I suppose it would save me a trip back.”
Shifting to make space, Silvara sighed as Agnes curled up at her back, her presence a comfort, as it had been nearly all her life. “You think what I’m doing with Agrippa is wrong, don’t you?”
“Does it feel right?”
She bit the insides of her cheeks. “I don’t know.” Yet because it was Agnes and she knew the woman would keep her confidence, she whispered, “Logically, I know he’s my enemy but…”
“But it doesn’t feel that way?”
She jerked her chin up and down. “I’m an idiot. He’s one of the men who has my family trapped and starving in Hydrilla and I should hate him. I should want to kill him.”
But instead of wanting to turn around and stab him in the chest with his own weapon, she’d wanted to kiss him.
“You’re not an idiot, love.” Agnes sighed. “Agrippa, the boy, isn’t your enemy. But Agrippa, the primus of the Thirty-Seventh, most definitely is. The trouble is that you only know the boy, and he is pretty and charming and kind enough that it seems impossible that he’s capable of the dark stories Carina fills your ears with. And harder still is the fact that you must exploit the boy you know to strike the primus you don’t. This is a cruel task you’ve been set to, Silvara. And anyone who doesn’t understand that is either a fool or is devoid of heart.”
As always, Agnes’s words unraveled the tangle in her head, helped her understand her troubles even if she did not solve them. “I want to fight the Empire. I want to liberate Bardeen. I want to save my family. But…but not like this. I want to do it with steel in my hand.”
“You’ve a good heart, girl.” Agnes smoothed her hair. “But you don’t always get to pick your battleground. Sometimes it picks you.”
10
Agrippa
“The rebels were aggressive in their signaling to the fortress yesterday,” Felix said, pointing to the map he held showing the surrounding terrain. “The code breakers are working on deciphering the signals but catching a handful of them would yield information more quickly. The smoke came from here and here,” he tapped the map, “but they seem uninclined to use the same location twice. So eyes on the skies.”
“Yes, sir,” Agrippa answered, the instructions sinking in despite his mind being elsewhere. Elsewhere being on Silvara. His mind was not easily tempted away from the memory of her body pressed against his, the scent of her in his nose, and her lips so achingly close. If not for Carmo and his lackeys, his night might have turned out a great deal better than it had. But instead, he and his friends had been forced to lead the bastards on a merry chase through the woods, all of them shivering and cold by the time shifts changed on the wall and there were Thirty-Seventh on duty to sneak them in. “We’ll see who we can rustle up for the questioners.”
Saluting, he rejoined his patrol, silently leading them out the camp gates and down the slope.
“Hostile on the horizon,” Yaro barked.
Agrippa jumped, his eyes jerking from the tree line to where his second was pointing.
Silvara, buckets in hand, was heading to the river.
“Looks less threatening than she did last night, but I’d still advise approaching with caution,” Yaro said, his smirk growing even wider as Agrippa glowered at him.
His friend hadn’t told anyone about catching Silvara dressed in Agrippa’s gear, but that hadn’t stopped him from making at least a dozen veiled references befo
re they’d finished breaking their fast. “Says the man who approaches with so much caution that the girls never see him.”
Everyone laughed, Yaro groaning and clutching his heart, but before his friend could come up with a retort, Agrippa moved ahead. Stepping onto the bridge, he crossed the river, noticing that Silvara was studiously ignoring him, and then hopped over the railing to land with a thud next to her.
“Good morning,” he said. “Apologies for my swift departure last night.”
“I’ll forgive you if you promise not to let it become a regular occurrence.”
He snagged the buckets from her hands, filling them with river water. “That would imply me seeing you will be a regular occurrence.”
Silvara shrugged, examining the fingernails on one hand. “Unless you aren’t up for it. Seems you’ve created a circumstance where hiding behind those walls,” she gestured to the legion camp, “might be the safer choice.”
“Retreat!” Yaro shouted from where he stood on the bridge above, but Agrippa only set down a bucket to flip him the finger before carrying the water up the bank.
“Fortunately for you, I’ve a reputation for being a risk-taker. Not for hiding behind walls.”
“I’ll decide whether that’s my good fortune or not.”
His friends laughed, and Yaro shouted, “We love you, Silvara!”
“Do I get the chance to prove it?” Pulling off his helmet, he gestured to his face. “Not sure if it was the leaves or Agnes’s spit, but I’m already looking much more myself. Surely that’s worth something?”
“Pretty Empire boys are trouble.” She crossed her arms, looking up at him with a cool expression that was both ruined and improved by the fact that she was clearly fighting a smile. So he leaned down, and said in her ear, “Then it is my good fortune that you seem to like trouble.”
“Maybe.” She pulled the buckets from his grip. “I’ll give you one more chance to impress me. Be at the laundresses’ tent just after dark. And don’t be late.”
He watched her stagger back to the camp, water sloshing from her buckets, unwilling to tarnish her exit by offering to help. Then he turned to find his patrol grinning like cats with cream, only Gibzen appearing unamused. Which was typical.
The only thing that amused Gibzen was killing. The other soldier was alarmingly devoid of most human qualities, and he never showed much interest in speaking to those outside the legion. Even within the legion, his relationships with the other men were superficial at best—not one called him a friend—though he was social enough when in the mood. Agrippa kept him close because Gibzen was a topnotch fighter and did his job, as well as because Gibzen had long been one of Marcus’s most loyal enforcers. But Agrippa didn’t much like him, which was all to say he didn’t much care if Gibzen was annoyed by his behavior. “Shall we carry on?”
They headed toward the forest, and Agrippa unslung his longbow from one shoulder in case they came across game. It wasn’t a weapon included in their training at Lescendor, but after seeing it used in Sibal, Agrippa had begged Marcus’s servant Amarin to show him how to use one. Rumor had it that Amarin had been a warrior of some renown in his younger years, and a rebel at that, though the man refused to speak about his past. Either way, Agrippa had been taken with the beauty and range of the weapon, and Marcus turned a blind eye to his use of non-regulation gear. Likely because more often than not, Agrippa brought back meat for the legion to eat.
Heading down the trail on their assigned route, Agrippa grimaced at the sight of some of Carmo’s boys striding their way, though the primus wasn’t among the patrol because of his broken wrist.
“Anything?” he asked as they crossed paths, but the Twenty-Ninth men only shook their heads. “Silent as a grave.”
Which probably meant they’d been sleeping rather than patrolling, a theory supported by the fact that all of them were covered in dirt, but Agrippa said nothing, only nodded and carried on.
They headed north, spread out and moving on silent feet, all of them watchful. One eye to the ground for traps and another in the trees for archers. But the only sounds were the howl of wind and chittering of small creatures living in the ancient forest. As always, it felt as though the trees were watching them like strange sentinels, as though the forest had eyes and they were not friendly to the intrusion.
A faint whiff of smoke caught Agrippa’s attention, and he turned into the wind even as he lifted a hand, his men stopping.
Quintus’s fingers moved, using the simple language instilled in them at Lescendor to silently communicate. Signal smoke?
The rebels used it to communicate with the fortress, but they typically did so from farther afield, wise that patrols would be on them immediately. Not only was this too close, it was too windy for signals. It didn’t feel right.
Shaking his head, Agrippa motioned for them to spread their ranks and move in quiet. Hesitating, he added a few more gestures: Take prisoners. If they caught someone of use, it would mean accolades for all involved.
In total silence they crept forward, brown cloaks allowing them to blend into the forest, the cloud cover keeping the sun from glinting off their weapons as they circled the fire. He could see the smoke now, great gusting clouds of it, the smell making his skin prickle though he wasn’t sure why.
He lifted a hand to signal extreme caution. Gesturing for Quintus and Miki to keep to his heel, he crouched low, moving up the gentle incline and dropping to his belly when he reached the top. He peered over the edge into the hollow below.
Judging by the piles of charred wood and ash, it had been the size of a bonfire, but with no one tending to it, it now burned low. His eyes skipped through the hollow, hunting for signs of life, but there was no one. The rest of his men circled the space, wary of ambush, but whistles and bird calls all confirmed it was clear.
And yet Agrippa’s skin still crawled with apprehension as he stood, slowly picking his way down into the hollow while Yaro and Gibzen approached from the opposite side. This close, his eyes picked up propaganda messages written in soot on the boulders that jutted from the ground, all in Bardenese, all screaming defiance against the Empire. A familiar picture, and yet…
The smell.
There was something wrong about the smoke, something that caught and tugged at a piece of knowledge just out of reach.
Redwood. The fire was burning redwood.
“It’s a trap!” he shouted right as he saw Gibzen reach for Yaro to pull him back.
But it was too late.
Branches snapped and Yaro dropped. A heartbeat later, his screams filled Agrippa’s ears.
Orders poured from his lips as he circled the clearing, moving as fast as he could, knowing more traps might be set beneath the leaves. Gibzen was already at the edge of the pit, and when he lifted his face, his expression told Agrippa all he needed to know.
Dropping to his knees, he looked down.
Yaro was impaled on half a dozen stakes, his armor the only reason he was still alive. But with one of them jutting through his upper thigh, he wouldn’t be alive for long.
“Help me,” his friend pleaded. “Get me out.”
“We’ll get you out.” Agrippa held out a hand to Gibzen. “Lower me down.”
There was barely enough room for him to squeeze between stakes, and he wrenched those around Yaro up to give himself space, forcing emotion from his head. Forcing himself to remain calm even as the young man who’d stood at his side since they were seven bled to death in front of him.
“It hurts, it hurts.”
“Don’t whine.” It took all his control to keep his voice calm. “You’ve cut yourself worse shaving.”
Gibzen jumped down next to him, silently following his orders to pull up stakes even as Agrippa examined where they’d punctured Yaro’s flesh. One through the bicep. One into his shoulder. One through his calf. All survivable, if not for the one through his thigh.
Years of training told him what to do. Years of experience told him it wou
ldn’t be enough.
“Need to leave that one in for Racker,” he said, tying a tourniquet tight and then pulling his knife and cutting the stake, clenching his teeth as Yaro moaned. “Hang on, my friend, this will sting a bit.”
Then he nodded at Gibzen.
Together, they lifted, pulling him loose from the stakes even as Yaro screamed and, finally, passed out from the pain. Miki and Quintus caught hold of him, hauling him up onto the edge of the pit.
“Stretcher?” Quintus asked as Agrippa swiftly bandaged the worst of the other injuries, trying to stem the flow of blood.
“No time. We’ll have to carry him.”
Habit had commands for the rest of his men rolling off his lips, but his mind was for Yaro. For the fact that he was dying and that it hadn’t been the Bardenese who’d set this trap. How it had been fucking Carmo’s men, which meant it had been retaliation.
Which meant if Yaro died, his blood was on Agrippa’s hands.
They moved as fast as they could through the trees, Yaro balanced between the four of them, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. He roused halfway back to camp, moaning and weeping.
“We’re almost back,” Agrippa said between gasping breaths. “We’ll get you to Racker. He’ll set you to rights.”
Liar.
It seemed a lifetime before the cookfires of the camp appeared in the distance, his muscles screaming from exertion, his mouth dry from the endless stream of words he used to keep Yaro calm. “Someone go ahead. Get Racker and,” he gasped, “Marcus.”
Feet thudded against the earth as one of his men sprinted toward camp.
“Almost there, Yaro,” he said, seeing his friend had gone deadly pale. Knowing the end was near. “Almost there.”
Across the bridge.
Through the clear-cut.
The gates swung open, and his eyes latched on Racker’s tall form, two more Thirty-Seventh medics on his heels carrying a stretcher. Felix and Marcus were coming from the opposite direction at a near run.
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