Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “Not yet. Though I do intend to have strong words with the legatus of the Twenty-Seventh. The policing of our fair city is a position of privilege, but his men appear to be treating it as an opportunity for leisure.”

  Her father gave a slow nod. “Policing Celendrial requires a certain temperament of men. A legion that has seen combat, but not endured the trauma of heavy casualties. A legion with experience dealing with the peregrini. And one with an appropriate reputation. The Twenty-Seventh is a good fit.”

  Unlike the other two legions currently camped outside the city, Lydia thought, though it would explain the as yet unexplained presence of the Thirty-Seventh and Forty-First.

  “As always, Valerius, your counsel is good,” Lucius answered. “Perhaps I let my emotions get in the way of my good sense. In my heart, I know that it was the peregrini’s relentless abuse of my character that drove my late wife to her grave, so the sight of these baseless criticisms sparks anger in my blood. Makes me desire to take action.”

  He pumped his fist in the air as though he might personally hunt down the perpetrators, and Lydia had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing at the very idea of it.

  Then a shout cut the air, driving away her amusement.

  “Thieves!” A tall man raced across the Forum in their direction. His pale freckled complexion and the cut of his red hair suggested he was from Sibern Province, though he wore Cel garments.

  “You give me back my son, you Cel vermin!” He jerked the knife belted at his waist free, lifting the blade. “You give him back or I’ll kill you both!”

  “Take cover, Domina!” Spurius pushed Lydia into the litter with such force that she rolled out the other side, landing on her knees in a soapy puddle.

  Heart in her throat, she peered through the curtains, seeing both her father and Cassius had their backs against the litter, while Spurius had his weapon out, moving to intercept the attacker.

  At the sight of the retired legionnaire, the Sibernese man slid to a halt, his eyes wild.

  “Put the knife down.” Spurius’s voice was calm, and he cautiously set his own weapon on the ground. “We can all still part ways peacefully.”

  “Peacefully?” The Sibernese man screamed the word, sweat and tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. “You golden-skinned demons don’t know the meaning of the word! You stole my boy away! Stole his freedom and his life!”

  His speach was garbled with grief, but Lydia understood—as would anyone in the Empire. His child had been taken as part of the child tithes to the legions. Gone to Campus Lescendor where he’d be forged into a weapon and then used to enforce the Senate’s authority.

  “It is not theft.” Lucius’s voice was frigid. “It is the law. All must abide. I myself gave up my second son and I bore my grief with honor, not by groveling like a woman in the middle of the Forum.”

  Spurius’s jaw tightened, and he held up a hand, trying to silence Lucius.

  But the damage was done.

  “You stole him!” The grieving father lifted his knife. “And once you demons have beaten all that he is out of his veins, you will send him to slaughter his own people!”

  The legionnaires guarding the Forum sprinted their direction, gladius blades gleaming in the sun, their expressions grim. Lydia clenched her teeth, not wanting to watch but unable to look away.

  “Calm yourself, man,” Spurius said, and Lydia knew he saw the other soldiers coming. Knew that he had only moments to diffuse the situation. “That is not the way of it. You may yet see him again, but not if you carry forward with this ill-thought plan.”

  “He will no longer be my son!” The man lunged, his eyes bright and fixed on Lucius and her father, and Lydia screamed.

  And then a blade sliced through the air.

  Lydia clapped a hand over her mouth, watching the Sibernese man’s head roll across the stones, coming to rest against the steps to the Curia. The legionnaire who’d decapitated him frowned, then bent to wipe his weapon on the dead man’s tunic.

  “Blasted fools!” Cassius shouted at them. “While you sat on your laurels, we were nearly killed!”

  “Apologies, Senator,” one of them—a centurion, judging from his armor—said. “We came as soon as we saw his weapon.”

  “Spare me your excuses! The Twenty-Seventh is done in Celendrial—time you were sent somewhere that will sharpen you back into the weapons we trained you to be!”

  Spittle flew from Lucius’s mouth, but Lydia’s father placed a calming hand on his shoulder before addressing the soldier who’d murdered the poor man. “You need not have killed him. It was poorly done.”

  “Apologies, Senator,” the man answered, but to Lydia, he didn’t seem at all repentant. Likely because he knew the punishment for allowing harm to befall two senators would have been far worse than harsh words.

  Rising on weak knees, Lydia held on to the side of the litter for balance, then circled around to the front. Blood pooled around the dead man, streams of it trailing away, following the straight lines between paving stones. One of the legionnaires picked up the dead man’s feet, dragging him across the Forum, leaving red streaks across the stone, while another caught hold of the head by the hair, tossing it after his comrade. “You forgot a part!”

  “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 si
gn 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.

  Her black hair had been styled in ringlets by the servants at the very last minute. It was the fashion, but her hair was not suited to it. Already it was losing its curl, her locks fighting their way toward their natural poker-straight state. Lydia glared at a limp curl in frustration, but there was no time to do anything about it.

  The thud of sandals against tile filled the air, and Lydia’s father entered the room with one hand behind his back. He looked healthier than he had earlier, no longer dripping with sweat from the pain of his illness. Even still, Lydia gestured to the servant with the fan to put more vigor into his motions, the crimson plumage sending gusts of air across the room.

  “I trust the jeweler I had dispatched to the house departed with fewer wares,” her father said, perching on the couch next to her, arm still behind his back. “It was the least I could do after what you endured today.”

  Lydia’s jaw tightened at mention of the tragedy in the Forum. “I’m afraid I was a disappointment to them.”

  “I sent you the finest jeweler in Celendrial, yet within his chests you were unable to find a single hair ornament you liked?”

  “Not one worthy of Teriana’s hair. It needs to be something special.”

  She expected her father to make some jest about her grasping for an excuse to have her accounts increased, but instead he sighed, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Perhaps you might consider spending more time with your other friends.”

  He meant the daughters of his fellow senators, though it had been years since Lydia had thought of any of them as friends. When they’d all been children, no one had cared much about her questionable heritage. That had changed when her friends began to heed the deeply classist nature of patrician society, where friendship had little to do with affection and everything to do with the advantages the relationship might bring. And while a relationship with her father’s name was of enormous value to anyone in the Empire, Lydia’s less than perfect pedigree ensured that she’d marry far below her current station, if she married at all. And none of her friends saw any advantage in fostering a relationship with the future wife of a wealthy plebian, and even less a spinster. “I prefer Teriana’s company.”

  “It is improper how much you favor her.”

  Lydia sat up straight with such violence that the wine in her glass sloshed over the rim. “How so? She is my friend.”

  “A friendship that is itself improper. The daughters of senators don’t fraternize with the lower classes. It looks ill.”

  “Lower classes?” Lydia stared at him, horrified to hear such words coming from his mouth. “You speak as though she were some pleb sweeping the streets. Her mother is both captain and owner of her own ship—one of the most influential Maarin ships there is.” Never mind that Teriana and her family were richer and more educated than half the Senate.

  “Don’t play the fool, Lydia. You know well what I mean.”

  “I do not.” A lie, because she did. But if he intended to espouse these views, then Lydia would be damned if she’d let him hide behind innuendo. “Explain yourself.”

  Her father gestured angrily at the musicians and servants, all of them promptly exiting the room, leaving him and Lydia alone. Then he rounded on her. “As you like. Teriana is not patrician. And she is not Cel.”

  Rising to her full height, Lydia stared him down. “Neither. Am. I.”

 
; And no amount of pretense would make it otherwise. Not when every blasted person in Celendrial knew Senator Valerius had found her clutched in her dead mother’s arms outside the gates to this very home. Had taken her in and, being the man he was, had given her not just a home but his home, adopting her as his daughter.

  His eyes clouded. “It’s different.”

  “How?” Lydia was shaking, barely in control of her anger. “How is it different?”

  “Because I make it so! My name! My power! My influence!” her father shouted. “And when I am gone, you will lose all of it unless you are wed to someone willing to provide the same. Because rest assured, Vibius will not allow you to remain in this house.”

  Lydia knew that her father’s nephew despised her, though she didn’t understand the intensity of his hate. She was careful never to cross him, yet Vibius’s animosity toward her had grown with an alarming ferocity over the last year to the point Lydia was afraid to be alone with him. “It’s uncharacteristic of you to speak this way, Father. I don’t care for it.”

  Tension thickened the space between them, not vanquished until her father conceded with an exhaled breath of defeat.

  “I’m sorry, my dear girl.” He rested his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, an unfamiliar fruit, which was what he’d been hiding behind his back, now abandoned on a cushion. “My fear makes me speak to you in a way I should not. Please sit.”

  Lydia didn’t move.

  “Lydia, you are nearly eighteen years old and it was past time you were wed. For there to be a chance of a man with a good name taking you for a wife, you must perform the part of a patrician girl to perfection, which is perhaps something I should’ve been training you to do all along.” He sighed. “Instead, I raised you within the framework of my own beliefs and notions, which are not shared by most. Created an unsustainable world for you, never thinking that there would be a moment in which you’d have to step outside of it. And yet that moment is now staring me in the face. The moment when I’ll no longer be able to protect you.”

  Terminal. The physicians’ prognosis echoed through her thoughts. Terminal. “Yet you wish me to cut ties with the only other person in the world who cares for me?”