But the look of misery on Teriana’s face dashed those hopes to pieces.
Resting her chin on her knees, Teriana said, “If it were my ship, I would, but my mum refuses to even consider the idea. It’s forbidden for us to take passengers, and she’s … rigid.”
Lydia remembered what her father had told her yesterday: her mother is not warm to your friendship. “I know she is.” Pressing her fingers to her forehead to try to steady her chaos of emotion, Lydia was rewarded with a jolt of pain as her sunburned skin rebelled from the touch. “I know it’s not your decision.”
“I’m sorry—”
Lydia held up a hand to forestall her friend, giving her head a weary shake. She didn’t want to hear Teriana’s apologies. Poking the package sitting on the sand, she said, “Did you bring me a gift to soften the blow?”
Instead of answering, Teriana furrowed her brow and slowly pulled the wax covering off the thick tome before passing it to Lydia.
“Treatise of the Seven.” Lydia traced a finger over the embossed cover, the leather warm beneath her hands. “The seven what?”
“The Seven Harem Girls.” Teriana’s voice sounded strange, and as Lydia watched, her friend swallowed hard and shook her head. “The Seven Gods of the West—the Dark Shores.”
Even now, mention of gods and the Dark Shores rang like forbidden fiction in Lydia’s ears. Like something to be denied. Something that should be denied, given the punishment associated with such beliefs. “I’ll be in all sorts of trouble if I’m caught with this.”
“So you don’t want it?” Teriana reached for the book, but Lydia hugged it to her chest, unwilling to let it go without at least reading it cover to cover. “I didn’t say that. Almost no one reads Trader’s Tongue, anyway. I could tell them it was a cookbook and they wouldn’t know the difference.”
Which wasn’t entirely the case. Her father read the language well enough, but it would be easy to hide the book from him.
Teriana rolled her eyes and flopped back on the sand, one hand held above her eyes to block the sun. “The Six preserve me from crazy Cel girls and scholars. Do you even know how to cook?”
“Of course I don’t.” Lydia flipped through the pages, eyes dancing over the illustrations of people of many different races, all wearing unfamiliar clothing. “What about the seventh god?”
“The Corrupter.” Teriana’s voice was uncharacteristically toneless. “Only a select few invoke his name, and they aren’t the sort you’d care to cross paths with.”
Teriana’s discomfort was palpable, and out of the corner of her eye Lydia could see her friend’s fingers twitching as though she’d like nothing better than to rip the book out of her hands and toss it in the sea. Which made her ask, “Why are you giving me this?”
Silence sat heavily between them; then finally Teriana muttered, “You said you needed help.”
And you promised me last night that you’d give it.
Resentment flooded through Lydia’s core, her knuckles whitening where she gripped the cover of the book. “And your suggestion is that I ask your gods for it?” Because that was not the sort of help Lydia needed. Not unless Teriana was proposing Lydia escape marriage by getting herself tossed in prison.
“There are as many paths as there are travelers,” Teriana said. “You must find the right one.”
“What does that mean?” It was a struggle not to shout the words. A struggle to keep her anger in check. Because it would’ve been better for Teriana to have not come to the beach at all than to come and try to placate Lydia with this … this nonsense.
But before she could say as much, Bait approached, his clothes and skin damp. “Captain wants to sail with the next tide.”
“I need to go,” Teriana said, and it seemed to Lydia that she was looking anywhere but at her.
“I think this is yours.” Bait held out the betrothal bracelet she’d tossed in the water, the sight of it pulling a scowl onto Lydia’s face. She’d thrown it away thinking she had a way out, but leaving it behind now would cause her more problems later, so she shoved it back on her wrist.
Teriana pulled Lydia to her feet, then embraced her tightly. “I’m sorry. I wish—”
“It’s fine.” Lydia wished she could force away the ugly emotions rising in her chest. Teriana could walk away from all of this. Could go back to her life as it had always been. It wasn’t fair. “Vibius is apparently thrilled about the union, so even after my father passes, I’ll be of value to Lucius. I’m sure he’ll treat me well enough.”
“Right,” Teriana muttered, her jaw working from side to side as though she might say more. But when Bait took her arm, Lydia noticed that Teriana didn’t resist as he drew her away, leading her down to the boat, where they pushed it into the water.
Lydia stood on the beach, watching. Waiting. Hoping.
But her best friend never looked back.
* * *
Climbing the curved iron staircase leading to a small balcony off the library, Lydia slipped inside, adjusting her salt-stained dress with one hand, the other maintaining a death grip on the book Teriana had given her.
The stupid book and useless advice that her best friend had given her in lieu of rescue. Her blood turned to liquid fire, and with a shriek Lydia threw the volume across the room.
Where it landed, open, at Vibius’s feet.
“You stupid little sow,” her father’s nephew snarled. “Bad enough that you tried to steal what is rightfully mine, now you try to destroy it all out of spite!”
“It’s not yours. It was a gift from a friend,” Lydia blurted out, then bit down on her tongue.
But rather than angering him, her words pulled a malicious grin onto his face, his gaze fixing briefly on the open page. “Not mine yet. But soon.”
Stepping over the book, he strode toward her, a miasma of sweat and wine preceding him. Fear drove Lydia back a step, her hip smacking against the corner of her desk. But the pain was nothing compared to the way her skin crawled as he took hold of her chin, his palm warm and greasy.
“Have you enjoyed it, Lydia?” he whispered. “Have you enjoyed living on top of the hill with all that wealth and power have to offer you? Have you enjoyed living beyond your breeding?”
Lydia’s pulse roared in her ears, but she said nothing, only jerked her chin out of his grip and glared down at him.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed it,” he said, laughing. “Because it will make my taking it away all the more enjoyable.” He looked her up and down. “How well do you think you’ll enjoy serving where you were once served? For what labor do you suggest I use you?”
“You’ll use me for nothing,” Lydia replied, and though it disgusted her to do so, she lifted the wrist bearing her betrothal bracelet.
Vibius cackled. “Oh, it’s armor now, is it?” His voice lifted into a high-pitched pantomime of her own. “‘I will not marry him! I’d rather die than be wed to that loathsome man!’”
Goading him was foolish. But for years Lydia’s submissiveness had earned her no respite from his taunts, and her pride would bear it no longer. “What I want matters little, Vibius. And while you seem more than willing to take advantage of my father’s benevolence, I think you’ll find Lucius Cassius far less tolerant of your poor behavior.” Then she leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Or is your head so far up his ass that you’ve been deafened to his reputation?”
Vibius’s face purpled. “Valerius is not your father.” Before she could react, he slapped her sunburned cheek with a resounding crack.
Lydia rocked back on her heels, cupping one hand against her face more from shock than the pain. Never in her life had she been struck. Never … “Get out. Get out, or I’ll call the guards.”
Vibius smirked, but rather than holding his ground, he turned and strode from the room.
Lydia’s weak legs finally betrayed her, and she dropped to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. When she finally opened them, they focused of their own accord on the book tha
t still rested on the floor, pages bent. The volume was beautifully illuminated, which normally mattered less to her than the words on the page. But not in this case.
Because on the exposed page was an illustration of a woman dressed in strange armor, her dark hair twisted into a knot atop her head, a few pieces falling loose to frame her pale face. She held a sword in one hand, her expression defiant.
Crawling on her hands and knees, Lydia picked up the volume, smoothing the bent page. “‘High Lady Dareena Falorn,’” she muttered, tracing a finger under the words. “‘Marked by Tremon, the god of war.’”
Lydia stared for a long time at the woman. Then she flipped to the beginning and began to read.
9
KILLIAN
It had been a fortnight since the wall had fallen. A fortnight since the Derin army carrying the banners of the Seventh god had invaded Mudamora. A fortnight since that army had unleashed all manner of creatures to terrorize the countryside.
And the majority of that time Killian had spent pacing the halls of his family’s home in Mudaire waiting to hear the King’s judgement.
“Would you care to break your fast in the dining room or in here, my lord?” Garrem asked. The man had been High Lord Calorian’s manservant for longer than Killian had been alive, his dusky skin creased and sagging, the two tufts of white above his ears all that remained of his hair. Old enough that the only work he should be doing was shouting at youngsters from his doorstep, but the last time Killian had suggested he retire, Garrem had smacked him upside the head and told him to mind his own business.
“Not hungry,” Killian muttered, striding for the hundredth time past the long row of bookshelves in the library. Not because he had any interest in reading, but because the room had the best view of the city.
Bercola, on the other hand, was ensconced in a large chair in the corner, face buried in a book. “I am,” she said. “And you’ll eat even if I have to force the food down your throat, you damned fool.”
“Breakfast in here, then,” Garrem replied. “Your tea, my lord.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the manservant set a steaming cup on the table, despite knowing that Killian despised the gods-damned stuff. “I haven’t run off yet, Garrem,” he said. “And I don’t intend to, so feel free to ease up on your watchdog duties.”
“As you say, my lord.” Garrem proceeded to putter about the library, straightening books and organizing coasters and doing countless other unnecessary tasks. The man typically followed High Lord Calorian everywhere he went; that he’d instead returned to Mudaire with Killian meant that he’d been instructed to keep him in line.
Snapping the curtain shut, Killian strode past the steaming tea in the direction of the sideboard. Pouring a splash of whiskey into a cup, he stared at the amber liquid, the smell turning his stomach as he remembered his father’s parting words: You’ve been my greatest disappointment.
“Breakfast is served.”
Killian jumped. Setting aside the whiskey, he turned to find Garrem standing next to a tray of food, none of it appealing.
“This just came for you, my lord.” The manservant held out a letter sealed with red wax, the insignia that of the striking scorpion of House Rowenes. The King’s seal.
“There are soldiers waiting downstairs,” Garrem continued as Killian read the few lines summoning him to attend the King and the rest of the Council of Twelve. “They say they are here to escort you to the palace.”
Bercola had risen, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. She had a blade in her hand. “I’ll hold them off,” she said. “You get on a horse and run.”
“No.”
“Killian, you know what this means.”
He should never have abandoned the wall. He should’ve died there. Clasping her shoulder, he said, “It’s been an honor.” Then without another word, he went down the stairs to meet his escort.
* * *
The council chambers were on the main floor of the palace, windowless, with the one entrance flanked by a dozen armored guards.
A dribble of sweat ran between Killian’s shoulder blades as he waited, staring at the striking scorpion of House Rowenes gilded onto the door. It was a new addition. And a strange one. In this chamber all the great houses were supposed to be equals. A humbling reminder that a majority vote could pull the crown from the King’s head as easily as it had placed it there.
For King Serrick to put his crest here smacked of something beyond a lack of humility—it suggested he believed his rule untouchable.
The door opened, and Killian waited for his titles to be announced before stepping inside. The room was dominated by a massive circular table inlaid with a map of Mudamora, surrounded by twelve high-backed chairs, each bearing the crest of one of the twelve houses. Killian’s gaze went immediately to that bearing the galloping white horse of House Calorian. His eldest brother, Hacken, sat in their father’s place between Houses Damashere and Falorn. The lord of the former sat ramrod straight, wineglass clutched in a white-knuckled hand, while the lady of the latter had her chair pushed back, muddy riding boots propped on the table, glass balanced on one knee. The same chair her brother had sat in while he was king. Before he’d been murdered and his family had disappeared. She looked relaxed, but Killian knew Dareena well enough to recognize unease when he saw it.
Killian took in the expressions of all the High Lords before his eyes landed on a face he hadn’t seen in well over a year: Princess Malahi. The blond Rowenes heir was beautiful, with skin the color of desert sand and eyes a rich amber hue. But she was not, he thought, the sort of girl one kissed in dark corners. At least not without paying a steep price for the privilege. And given she stood to inherit the largest gold mines on the continent, the Rowenes heir couldn’t be bought.
A soft voice from behind made Killian’s skin prickle. “Young Lord Calorian. It has been some time since we saw you last.”
Killian turned. King Serrick Rowenes stood behind him, hands clasped at the small of his back. The ruler of Mudamora was a short, fragile man, his dark blond hair braided in a single plait down his back, his skin the light brown typical of those from the arid region near the border with Anukastre. He wore heavy red robes, the collar embroidered with the symbols of each of the six gods, and the scorpion of his house was picked out in gold across his chest. His pale amber eyes had always possessed an intensity greater than his physical stature, but now they burned with a fervor that caused Killian’s skin to crawl.
“Your Majesty,” he said, taking a long step back so he’d have room to bow.
Serrick inclined his head. “Marked One.”
Killian despised that particular honorific, which was thankfully considered old-fashioned and rarely used. But the King was known to be deeply pious, and he held to the old traditions in more ways than one. In the early days of his reign, he’d once again made it law that anyone marked by one of the Six dedicate their life to serving the realm. All Killian had ever wanted was to be a soldier, so the law was no burden to him, but more than once he’d wondered what, precisely, would happen if he decided he no longer wanted to fight.
“You are here, Marked One, so that we might determine your fate,” the King continued, stepping around Killian and moving toward the Rowenes seat, where he gingerly perched. “But before we begin, let us give tribute to the Six, for their strength is the strength of our belief. Lord Damashere, would you please lead us in our prayer. Lord Calorian, would you stand next to me to lend the strength of your mark to our circle? And you, Malahi, join us as well.”
Reluctantly, Killian moved next to the King’s seat, noticing that the Princess appeared equally unhappy about the request as her father took her hand. Then he grasped Killian’s. The man’s skin was cold and unyielding and felt as dry as old paper. Like holding the hand of a corpse, and just about as appealing.
High Lord Damashere began, “By the grace of the Six does Mudamora remain mighty, and by the belief of its people do the Six remain s
trong. Let us acknowledge each so that they might be strengthened by our faith.” He proceeded to run through each of the Six, his voice clipped and toneless.
The words came easily to Killian’s lips. His own mother was known for her piety, and he’d spoken this prayer before every meal in his family home in the South. But there the words were warming and unifying. Not like … this. The air teemed with tension, the prayer forced and unwelcome despite everyone here being faithful followers of the Six.
Casting his eyes left, Killian frowned. Serrick’s head was bowed, but his lips did not stir as he listened to Damashere speak. Beyond, Malahi’s head was also bowed, but as Killian watched, her jaw clenched.
Something here isn’t right.
“And let us put our thoughts to our ruler, King Serrick Rowenes, his reign ordained by the gods themselves.”
Killian faltered; this was not part of the prayer he knew. Yet everyone around him parroted Damashere. Unbidden, the image of the scorpion emblazoned on the council room door rose in his mind.
“Our king alone possesses the strength to lead the faithful followers of the Six away from the dark temptations of corruptions by guiding the hands of those the gods have marked.”
Disgust flared through Killian like wildfire, and with a muttered oath he jerked his hand out of Serrick’s grip. Malahi had done the same, and she clutched her palm to her chest.
The King’s eyes fixed upon him. “You, Killian Calorian, were marked by Tremon to protect Mudamora. Yet in our darkest hour, you failed, suffering a defeat that could well cost everyone in Mudamora their souls. That you were defeated tells us that Tremon has turned his back on you. That the Six have turned their backs on you. And to show our faith, we fear we must do the same.”
A dull roar filled Killian’s ears. The King’s words were eerily reminiscent of those his father had spoken. And of the fears lurking in his own heart.
“This is difficult, of course. We have known you since you were a child, and your family has served our kingdom well. Harder still to deny the request of a dying man we once counted a dear friend. But even your father would’ve seen the necessity of our decision if he’d lived to see the results of your failure.”
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