Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores)

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Pulling off his cloak, he wrapped it around her shoulders and tugged the hood over her head. “You’re freezing.”

  “I’m fine.” Her teeth were chattering so hard, he was shocked she hadn’t cracked one. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” His eyes moved to the empty brazier. “You need a fire.”

  “Nothing to burn.” She hunched over, wrapping his cloak more tightly around her tiny body. “I used it last night.”

  He could go out into the forest to get her something, but he’d have to go a fair distance to find anything not redwood and he was afraid that even with his cloak, she’d succumb before he returned. Which left him only one option.

  Removing his weapons and gear and setting them aside, he pulled her toward him.

  But she resisted, and through chattering teeth, said, “You’ve done enough. I can take care of myself.”

  No, you can’t. The words rose to his tongue, but he bit down on them as he considered how that would feel. To not just feel helpless but to be told that you were. “Do you know what they teach us at Lescendor that makes a legion so deadly?”

  “To fight.” Her eyes met his, burning with the heat of anger, though he didn’t think it was at him. “To kill.”

  “Yes, but warriors of every nation are taught those things. What makes the Empire different is that it teaches us to work together.” He waited for the idea to sink in, her brow furrowing. “We rely on one another to survive. Not just in a fight but in life.” An ache filled his chest and he swallowed hard. “Nearly all my life, Yaro was at my side, whether it was in a fight or sitting at a table or when we were trying to sleep without freezing our asses off. He took care of me, and I—” His voice broke, grief rolling over him. “I know you and Agnes took care of each other, and I know what it must feel like now that she’s gone.”

  Tears rolled down Silvara’s cheeks. “I miss her. She only stayed here because of me and now she’s dead.” Instinctively, he pulled her against his chest, holding her tight as she cried. “It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not. If anyone is to blame, it’s Hostus. He knew the legion followers would suffer here but allowed them to come for the sake of entertaining his men. And then entertained himself by making it impossible for them to survive.” Untangling the blankets, he lifted her onto his lap, then wrapped everything around both of them before catching her hands in his to warm her frigid fingers. Her breath was rapid against his throat, her forehead resting against his jaw as she pressed herself against him for warmth.

  “We thought you’d leave when it got cold. That you’d go back to Melitene for the winter. Or the coast.”

  We aren’t leaving until it’s over. “It’s not yet cold in Grypus’s pavilion, so he sees no reason.”

  “The noise makes it worse.” She shivered. “All anyone wants is respite but it’s ceaseless. Why are they doing it?”

  Because the battle has already begun, even if Hydrilla doesn’t know it yet, he thought, but it was a lie that flowed from his lips. “We’re trying to intimidate them. Wear them down and get them to surrender.”

  “Do you think they will?”

  No. “Time will tell.”

  “Clever, but cruel. Another reason to despise Hostus.”

  He snorted softly. “Hostus couldn’t come up with a clever tactic if it bit him on the ass.”

  Silvara looked up at him, surprise in her dark eyes. “But he’s famous. The Twenty-Ninth is one of the most venerable legions in service, everyone says so. That’s why Grypus had them brought to Bardeen.”

  Anger twisted through Agrippa’s stomach, because Grypus had said it was the Thirty-Seventh that he wanted, which meant the Senate knew who was behind all the Twenty-Ninth’s victories. But what did that matter if the rest of the Empire believed Hostus was Celendor’s champion? “The only thing Hostus is good at is taking credit for Marcus’s ideas,” he snapped. “If the Twenty-Ninth had come without us, Hydrilla might actually have had a chance.”

  Silvara went still in his arms, and he immediately regretted his tone, for it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know. “I’m sorry. It’s only that reputation is one of the few things we can aspire to, and to have it stolen by those undeserving…” He shook his head. “It’s maddening.”

  She didn’t answer, only leaned against him, her shivers finally easing. “You need rest,” he said.

  “So do you.”

  He did. He was painfully tired, and there was no respite in his future. All he wanted to do was curl around her and let the world slip away, but the intimacy of the act wasn’t lost on him. For while he’d been with many girls, not once had he trusted one of them enough to sleep next to her. Not once had he wanted to.

  You can’t, he told himself. You’ve already gone too far with this.

  But then her arm slid around his neck, her fingers gripping him tightly as she burrowed against his chest, and logic abandoned him. Letting go of her with one arm, he lowered himself to the ground, pulling her with him. She sighed, her body shifting so that her back was against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, and his arms wrapped around her. Fitting together more perfectly than he’d thought possible.

  He made sure his weapons were in easy reach, then tucked the blankets more tightly around them. Silvara was already asleep, though she clutched his hand tightly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said into her ear, her hair soft against his lips. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  Stay awake, he told himself. Stay on guard.

  But the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him, his eyes growing heavier until he could fight it no more. And then sleep took him.

  24

  Silvara

  She slept like the dead.

  Which she probably would have been if Agrippa hadn’t come. One of the many frozen corpses the legions dragged out of the camp to bury in the woods. Instead, she woke up warm in his arms, the steady beat of his heart filling her ear where it was pressed against his chest and the smell of soap and leather and steel filling her nose.

  Saved by one of the very men who would see your family dead, an ugly voice whispered inside her head.

  Silvara squeezed her eyes shut, remembering Agnes’s words: that the primus of the Thirty-Seventh was her enemy, not Agrippa. She’d thought she’d understood the woman’s wisdom, but now she wasn’t so sure. Was it possible to love one and hate the other?

  Was it possible to liberate one from the other?

  She eased up on one elbow, the coming dawn giving her enough light to see Agrippa’s face. He was still asleep, and with his eyes closed, she noticed how long his lashes were. The bruises from his fight with Carmo were fading, but he still had purple marks on his golden-brown skin and a red scrape across one high cheekbone. A faint dusting of stubble marked his square jaw, and she fought the urge to touch the dimple in his chin, which always deepened when he smiled.

  Which she abruptly realized he was doing. Not only awake but struggling not to laugh. “Admiring the view?” he asked. “I’ve been told it’s very good.”

  Making an aggrieved noise, she kicked him in the shins, but then curled back down in his arms, soaking in the heat of him. “You have a high opinion of yourself.”

  “I’m only trying to make myself feel better,” he murmured, stroking her spine, the sensation making her toes curl in her boots. “It’s rare that I’m not the prettiest person in the room.”

  A laugh escaped her lips even as her cheeks warmed, her focus all for the feel of his hand running up and down her back, wondering where he’d touch next. Wondering what it would feel like against her bare skin. Wondering how he’d react to her touch if she were to run her nails over the muscles lining his body. Muscles made hard by a life of labor.

  By a life of violence.

  The thought snapped reason back into her skull, and she asked, “How will you get into camp without anyone noti
cing?”

  “I won’t.” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed to clear it. “My friends will cover for me, then swing through to get me on their way out on patrol. When you know the system, it’s easy enough to manipulate it.”

  She supposed that was true, except that Carina and Hecktor and the others had spent months trying to get in, with no success. But that thought faded away in favor of another concern. “What will happen if you get caught?”

  “I won’t.”

  She lifted her face, but found him not looking at her, but at the tent walls. “Agrippa?”

  “I…” He shook his head. “Depends on what I’m accused of doing. If it’s just sneaking out of camp when I’m not supposed to be, it’ll be extra duties. Maybe have my wages garnished.”

  “And if they find out you were with me?”

  His jaw worked back and forth, then he looked down. “Depends how serious they think it is. If they learn I’ve seen you as often as I have…” He trailed off. “Don’t worry about it, Silvara. I won’t get caught.”

  Her skin chilled. “Tell me. I need to know.”

  Silence.

  “It’s not just breaking a rule, it’s breaking a law.” He sighed. “Ten lashes and probably a demotion, given that Marcus specifically told me not to see you.”

  Ten lashes for seeing her. “He’d do that to you?”

  “It’s the law, Silvara. And it’s Marcus’s duty to uphold it, which he does. And not only that, he lives by the rules, which is more than I can say for most legion commanders.”

  A sudden wave of hatred for his commander rolled through her. “It’s cruel.”

  “It’s the way it is.” He sat upright, reaching for his discarded armor and pulling it on with practiced efficiency. “If I was in his position, I’d do the same.”

  “Would you?” she demanded. “Because I don’t believe that.”

  Instead of answering, he straightened abruptly, listening for a heartbeat before lifting his fingers to his lips and whistling once. A moment later, there was a cough outside her tent and Quintus ducked inside. “Morning,” he said, handing Agrippa a tin cup filled with gruel. Then his gaze flicked to her, and he held out a green oval. “Morning, Silvara.”

  “Good morning,” she murmured, taking the object even as heat rose to her cheeks. “What is this?”

  “No idea,” Quintus answered. “But Grypus got a case of them, so they must be good.”

  “Papaya,” Agrippa said around a mouthful of food. “It’s fruit. From Atlia.”

  She’d heard the name of the other province, but had no concept of where it was, having never seen a map of the Empire. As if hearing her thoughts, Agrippa pulled out a knife, swiftly drawing a map in the dirt. “We’re here in Bardeen.” He stuck the tip of his knife in the dirt and dragged it west then north, listing names as he went. “Sibal. Phera. Celendor. Celendrial.” He looked at her as he named the capital city of the Empire. “And then this island here is Atlia.”

  A world away, but the Senate controlled the xenthier, so it was nothing for them to transport fruits across the continent to satisfy the proconsul’s tastes. “Thank you.”

  “When you get demoted for doing dumb shit,” Quintus said, “maybe Marcus will allow you to be a cartographer.”

  Silvara’s stomach soured, but Agrippa only shoved his friend backwards out of the tent before shifting on his knees to face her. “I’ll be back tonight.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s too risky.”

  He gave her a long look, then leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Keep your head down today. Tempers will be running high with no one getting much sleep.” Then he disappeared out the front of the tent.

  Pulling her blanket back up over her shoulders, Silvara retrieved her tiny knife and peeled the skin off the fruit, a strange but wonderful scent filling her nose. Slicing a piece, she took a bite, closing her eyes as sweetness filled her mouth. But rather than savoring each morsel, she found anger building in her chest. That Agrippa had to live this way, very nearly a slave to the Senate and under the control of a young commander who seemed to care nothing for what Agrippa did for him. Who’d had him whipped for standing up to that awful creature Carmo. Who’d have him whipped nearly to death for having the audacity to care about someone who wasn’t part of the legion.

  “You think you are untouchable,” she muttered. “But you aren’t.”

  Shoving her things into her bag, she strode through the camp to the laundresses’ tent and ducked inside, Agnes’s absence making her chest hurt.

  But she intended to make the old woman proud.

  Seeing her, Carina said, “You look well satisfied. Be careful you don’t get a legion bastard put in your belly.”

  Ignoring the comment, Silvara said, “I need to talk to you. I have information of worth.”

  Carina’s eyebrows rose. Setting aside the laundry, she said, “Let’s see if we can find wood to burn. I’m tired of cold wash water.”

  Both of them pulled up the hoods of their cloaks against the wind as they walked into the forest. The ground was stripped of brush and undergrowth, leaving nothing but dirt and endless snow.

  “Well?” Carina demanded. “What did you learn?”

  “They’re planning an attack,” Silvara said. “Specifically, the Thirty-Seventh’s legatus. He’s the mind behind the strategy. And not just this one, but all of them. Hostus is apparently useless as a commander, so he claims Marcus’s ideas as his own.”

  “An interesting fact, but I fail to see how it will help us.”

  “Perhaps instead consider how it would hinder the legions if they lost him.” Biting down on the insides of her cheeks, Silvara looked sideways at the older woman even as she considered what Agrippa had told her last night about reputation. “We know Hostus is volatile and vainglorious. That he doesn’t hesitate to murder when it strikes his fancy. How well do you think he’d take it if he learned Marcus was planning to take credit for conquering Hydrilla?”

  “But we have no reason to believe that’s the case.”

  Silvara lifted one shoulder. “Whether it’s the truth matters far less than whether Hostus believes it. And if he murders the Thirty-Seventh’s legatus, the tensions between the two legions are destined to boil over.”

  Carina smiled. “And if they’re too busy fighting one another, they won’t spare a thought for Hydrilla.”

  Silvara nodded. “Do you think you can get the information into Hostus’s ear?”

  Carina gave a slow nod. “I’ve a girl in the pleasure tents who owes me a favor. Might be that she heard a rumor…”

  “And a bored legion is more gossipy than a brothel,” Silvara said, repeating words told to her by Agrippa himself. Word of Marcus’s schemes would rise right to the top, and if she was lucky, kill the legions’ plans to take Hydrilla and Agrippa’s rival all in one blow.

  25

  Marcus

  “Hostus wants to see you.”

  Marcus looked up to see Carmo standing at the front of his tent, and a second later, the stench of stale sweat wafted over him. Agrippa’s shaming clearly had been an ineffective motivator for the man to change his habits. His clothing was stained and the bandages wrapping his splinted wrist were brown with filth. But that concerned Marcus far less than the feral gleam in the primus’s eyes. “What about?”

  “Rumors swirl that you overreach, sir. Might be that a reminder of your place is in order.”

  Marcus’s blood chilled, but he kept any reaction from his face. “Fine. Wait outside.”

  Carmo shrugged, then exited the tent.

  “Disgusting creature. Filthy inside and out,” Amarin muttered, then he met Marcus’s gaze. “Something is amiss.”

  Marcus gave a slow nod, his skin crawling with trepidation because while Hostus’s temper could be set off by the tiniest of infractions, his gut told him he wasn’t going to get off so easily.

  “Let me fetch Felix and Agrippa,” his servant said. “Don’t go in there alone.”


  Marcus silently weighed the older man’s words, then shook his head. “No.” Retrieving his belt from where it rested on a stool, he extracted a tiny key from the pouch and handed it to Amarin. “If something happens, give the documents to Agrippa.”

  “Felix is your second,” Amarin said softly. “Your successor.”

  “No,” Marcus answered. “He isn’t. This isn’t a job for the best fighter or even the best strategist, it’s for the best politician. And though he’s spent the past four years pretending otherwise, there is no one in this camp who knows how to play the game better than Agrippa. Support him and do what you can to convince Felix to do the same.”

  “Don’t do this, Marcus.” Amarin clutched at him, eyes frantic. “It doesn’t need to go this way. The Thirty-Seventh will follow you if you ask, will fight the Twenty-Ninth if they have to.”

  The fear in him wanted to listen to the man’s advice, but Marcus swallowed it down. “I swore an oath to lead my legion to the best of my abilities, Amarin. And I won’t lead them to mutiny, which is what the Senate will call it. Treason. Their fist will fall heavily upon us. If me falling is what it takes to spare them that fate, then I’ll do it.”

  “There are other options,” Amarin pleaded, fingers digging into Marcus’s shoulders. “Send Quintus after Hostus. Or go to Grypus. Or…or run.”

  “The Thirty-Seventh has never had a deserter.” Marcus pried the man’s fingers from him. “And I won’t be the first.”

  Ignoring his armor and weapons, he pulled his cloak over his shoulders. “Don’t start planning my funeral yet, my friend. Because I don’t intend to go down without a fight.”

  Stepping out into the howling wind, he said to the men guarding his tent, “Stay here.” And when they opened their mouths to argue, he gave them flat stares that silenced all protests. Then he motioned to Carmo to start walking.

  Neither of them said a word, but as they approached the command tent, Marcus noted that the men standing guard had widened the perimeter. And that all around, the Twenty-Ninth lurked, their eyes filled with murder.