Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Malahi returned his smile, though hers was all teeth. “Let’s hope the gods think otherwise.”

  12

  LYDIA

  If Lucius wins, it will be because of you.

  The veracity of that fact haunted Lydia as days turned into weeks. Not once did she look to the book Teriana had given her, allowing it to languish in its hiding space in the library, unwilling to tempt herself with the thought of escape.

  Instead, she turned to trying to undermine Lucius’s campaign, digging deep into the facts and figures behind his proposed policies and hounding her father at every turn with how damaging it would be for Lucius to take power.

  “Do you think I don’t know all of this, Lydia?” her father had shouted at her after a dinner she’d spent berating him with facts. “It’s too late to counter him! What’s done cannot be undone, so for once, would you curb your tongue!”

  Except she knew that wasn’t the reason: It was his ailing health. It was Vibius, lurking in the wings and waiting to inherit. It was her tenuous future. For it seemed her father would allow the Empire to burn itself to the ground as long as the man doing the burning protected her.

  For that reason, despite all of her efforts, all of her pleas, her father remained Lucius’s stalwart supporter as Election Day came to Celendrial.

  It was dreadfully hot, even in the shade, but Lydia waved away the sweating glass of wine a servant offered in favor of keeping her arms crossed under her breasts and a glare on her face. For hours now, she’d had to stand beneath the portico of the Curia, the shadows of the twenty-four towering columns that held up the roof showing the passage of time like sundials. All because it provided the best view of the Forum, and all because Lucius apparently wished to watch every last citizen cast their vote.

  The only thing that made it endurable was that Lucius was losing.

  Not by a large margin, but if things continued as they had, Basilius would win. Which was as it should be. Basilius was a good man and, until recently, had been one of her father’s closest friends. Though no longer. Not with Senator Valerius standing in Lucius’s camp, his face drawn and sweating as he listened to the other man wax superior.

  As though sensing her scrutiny, Lucius turned his head. “Lydia, darling. Join us. Regale us with conversation.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “Lydia, please,” her father said, his voice cajoling. It only fueled her temper.

  Pointedly eyeing the cisterns filled with tokens, she said, “It seems you’ll be using the wine you imported from Atlia to drown your sorrows rather than to toast your victory, Lucius. How fortunate that you ordered so much of it. I understand the sting of loss lingers far longer than the glow of victory.”

  There were several snorts of laughter from Basilius’s camp, who lingered nearby, but rather than frowning, Lucius only smiled. “The polls are not closed, darling. You might yet come to thank me for my foresight in the matter of libations.”

  “I applaud your optimism.”

  “Not optimism, my love. Pragmatism. You aren’t my first wife, after all. I’ve learned to keep my cellars stocked.”

  Before Lydia could retort, Lucius’s head shifted as something caught his attention. A heartbeat later, she heard it. A rhythmic beat, growing louder with every passing moment.

  “What is that?” someone demanded.

  No one spoke; then Spurius, her father’s guard, said, “It’s marching men.” His head cocked as he listened. “A whole legion, by the sound of it.”

  No one spoke, all eyes going to the entrance to the Forum. The noise grew louder, thousands of feet striking the ground in unison, the crash of drums and blaring of horns barely audible over the thunder. Lydia’s skin turned cold despite the heat, some instinct deep in her core recognizing the threat of that noise.

  A legionnaire on a white horse was the first to enter the Forum, crimson cloak with Celendor’s dragon picked out in gold falling over his mount’s hindquarters. His face was partially concealed by a helmet, which bore the red crest marking him as an officer, but she didn’t need to see his face to know who he was. The 37 stamped on the steel over his chest answered that question.

  This was Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh Legion.

  “Who gave them leave to enter the city?” Basilius demanded.

  Her father coughed, drinking deeply from his glass before he said, “They don’t need leave on Election Day. They’re citizens, and they are of age now. It’s their right to vote.”

  The Thirty-Seventh Legion had the right to vote, but more important—and what Lydia was certain everyone was thinking—was that in having been recalled to Celendrial, the legion had been given the opportunity to vote.

  Two more officers on horses entered behind the infamous legatus, and then the legion itself poured into the Forum, the tread of their feet making Lydia want to cover her ears. Making her, in some base and primal way, want to run for her life. Which was utter lunacy given that these young men were blades of the Empire. And yet as her eyes passed over their ranks, steel and hard muscle, scars and grim faces, she could well imagine the terror these men instilled in those they fought against.

  The officers reined in their horses in front of the rostrum, faces expressionless as they watched the legion fill the Forum with neat rows until it was at capacity. Then the legatus lifted his arm and silence fell across the enormous space. Music silenced. Feet stilled. No one even seemed to breathe, not even the senators standing beneath the portico, who were masters and commanders of these men.

  The legatus dismounted and pulled off his helmet, revealing a face that was as attractive as was rumored. The legions were made up of young men from every province of the Empire, but his golden skin was that of someone with Cel heritage. His fair hair was shorn nearly down to the scalp, his cheekbones high, and his mouth set in an unsmiling line. He strode toward the steps, the steel tread of his sandals making sharp clacks that echoed over the Forum. Taking a token, he ascended the platform and entered the voting pavilion.

  The sharp smell of male sweat filled Lydia’s nose as Lucius and the rest stepped out onto the steps of the Curia, her father tugging her along by her elbow. There they stood, she and everyone else watching. Waiting for the legatus of the Empire’s most notorious legion to exit.

  Seconds passed.

  Minutes.

  “Perhaps no one explained the process,” someone joked from behind her. No one laughed. Not about the young man in question.

  The names of all the commanders of Celendor’s legions were much discussed, famous by virtue of the Empire’s dependence on their martial prowess.

  None living were more famous than him.

  He’d been the subject of extensive conversation even prior to his graduation, a child prodigy who’d scored higher than anyone else in Campus Lescendor’s history. That fame had grown after his legion had taken the field. Campaign after campaign. Victory after victory. But that fame had turned to infamy after the conquest of Chersome. A gifted mind turned to a dark purpose, Lydia had once heard her father say, and her fingers turned icy as it dawned on her that it was these men who had set the island nation on fire.

  Legatus Marcus emerged, his eyes immediately going to the senators standing on the Curia steps. He said something to the enormous officer who’d voted after him, an Atlian, judging from his brown skin, who shrugged once before barking an order at the waiting legion. Then the legatus walked around the ranks of his men, crossing the Forum toward the watching senators.

  “Legatus,” Lucius said as he drew close. The familiarity in his voice made Lydia’s stomach drop. They knew each other. Knew each other, and … Her eyes flicked to the cisterns. Perhaps only twenty soldiers had voted—not enough to move the mark—but as she watched, the tokens in Lucius’s cistern shifted. And she knew.

  “Lydia, darling,” Lucius said, and she cringed as his hand closed around her elbow, drawing her against him. “This is Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh Legion. Legatus, L
ydia is my intended, and I’m sure you know of her father, Senator Valerius.”

  “Senator,” the legatus said, inclining his head to Lydia’s father. Then his gaze turned on her. “Domina.”

  His voice was cool. Polished. The product of officer training at Campus Lescendor. But all the manners in the world would not make up for what he had done. What he was doing even as they spoke.

  “It appears your legion favors Lucius, Legatus,” she said. “Though I suppose that’s unsurprising given that he favors the legions.”

  The young man’s blue-grey eyes seemed to measure her words, and then he said, “In my experience, men vote for the individual they perceive will act in their best interest. Only a few vote for the good of society, altruism being a rare quality.”

  “Which sort of man are you, Legatus?” she asked, not caring when Lucius’s grip tightened painfully on her arm. “The sort who desires to save the world? Or to save himself?”

  Something shifted in the soldier’s gaze, but before he could respond, Lydia’s father hauled on her arm, pulling her out of Lucius’s grip. “That’s enough, Lydia. Perhaps we might go inside out of the heat. Excuse us.”

  “I am not overheated,” she hissed, trying to extract herself from her father’s grip but afraid if she pulled too hard he might topple over.

  “Your temper certainly is.”

  “And what of your temper, Father? Don’t you see what’s happening out there? They’re all voting for him.”

  Dropping Lydia’s arm, her father wiped sweat from his brow before resting a hand against a column. “It’s their right, Lydia.”

  “I know it’s their right.” Her words came out louder than she intended, and the men conversing in the cool hallways frowned. “But they’re all voting for him. Something about this is off. Why are they here at all? He’s tricked them or forced them. Lied to them. He’s—”

  “Mind your tongue.” Her father’s voice was flat, a sure sign he was angry. “In the space of minutes, you insulted the future consul as well as the legatus of the blasted Thirty-Seventh Legion. Did you stop to consider there might be consequences to that?”

  “I hardly think the legatus is going to order his men to burn me alive on the steps to the Curia,” she replied, her tone withering.

  But her father only gave her a weary shake of his head. “You will stand here and remain silent,” he said. “Or you will be sent home.”

  Scowling, she gave a sharp nod, though she knew it would take all her willpower to keep her tongue in check.

  A veritable crowd of senators and their hangers-on had grown in the shade of the building, all of them drawn by the sound of the marching soldiers and the rumor that the most infamous legion in service was turning the tide of the election. There had long been speculation as to why the Thirty-Seventh had been recalled from Chersome. No one seemed to know exactly who had arranged for them to return to Celendrial, but the answer to that question seemed abundantly obvious.

  Now speculation turned to what Lucius would do with his apparent alliance with Legatus Marcus, what it meant for his policies and plans. Such alliances between influential commanders and consuls had occurred in the past, but they were typically tied to a military campaign. Except there was nowhere left to conquer. No one left to subdue. Which begged the question of what the legatus had to gain from putting Lucius in power.

  In numb silence, Lydia listened to a dozen or more theories, but as the sun began to set in the west she eased back outside, keeping to the shadow of a column as she watched the lines of legionnaires efficiently trooping through the voting pavilion, Lucius’s cistern filling while those of the other candidates remained unchanged. No other voters entered the Forum, not with this legion’s ranks filling it, and with the polls closing at sundown, any citizen in the city who’d yet to vote would have lost the opportunity. Lucius had won the consulship. Lucius now controlled the Empire.

  And the two men who’d orchestrated it stood together, elbow to elbow.

  A simmering fury filled Lydia as she watched them, a slow smirk forming on Lucius’s face, while the legatus’s remained cold and impassive as any statue. The last legionnaire voted right as the burning edge of the sun disappeared from sight, and a horn blasted, signaling the polls had closed.

  “It’s finished,” the legatus said. “We’ll excuse ourselves from the city and return to camp. Consul.” He inclined his head, the movement rigid, as though he’d had to force himself to do it. As though, improbable as it might be, the young man wasn’t entirely happy about the outcome.

  “Indeed,” Lucius said, wiping sweat from his head with one hand, then drying it on his clothing. “Send them back, but I want you to stay. We’ve business to discuss.”

  The legatus’s hands flexed, the tendons standing out against his golden skin. “With the Senate?”

  “No,” Lucius replied. “You and I. Attend me at my villa within the hour.”

  Lydia circled around the column so that Lucius wouldn’t see her as he ambled inside, but her attention went immediately back to Marcus. He stood stock-still, staring out over his men but not even seeming to see them. It wasn’t until the big Atlian officer whistled, the sound cutting through the silence of the Forum, that the legatus jerked out of his thoughts. He strode down the steps, pushing his helmet on his head before mounting the waiting horse.

  “Back to camp,” he ordered, voice carrying across the lines of men.

  Except he wasn’t going back to camp. He was going to meet Lucius alone, and on the assumption that whatever they planned to discuss related to why this legion had helped put Lucius in power, Lydia intended to hear every word.

  13

  KILLIAN

  It had only taken days in his role as captain of Princess Malahi’s bodyguard before Killian began questioning his decision not to take the King up on an engagement with the headsman.

  Malahi’s plan was ambitious—to convince the High Lords that Serrick’s rule was not favored by the Six and to vote to put her on the throne in his place, using her hand in marriage as the prize. And it was an incentive that none of them would ignore. Even without the crown in play, Rowenes was the wealthiest of the twelve houses courtesy of large gold mines on the western edges of their territory. To marry the future High Lady Rowenes would mean eventually gaining access to all that wealth, and the High Lords of the land were nothing if not predictable in their greed. That it would be the easiest route for one of them to take the throne only sweetened the pot.

  But the plan had moved beyond ambitious when Serrick announced to the Council of Twelve his intention to conscript all men of fighting age to the Royal Army. With the exception of Damashere and Keshmorn, whose lands had fallen to Rufina’s armies, every one of the High Lords had abruptly discovered that their presence was sorely required back on their lands, all of them fleeing on ships hours before the law was enacted, limiting Malahi’s ability to win them over to her plan. Nothing short of an act of the gods would drive those cowards of men to step foot in Mudaire—not when it meant Serrick subsequently dragging them to the front lines with him to fight.

  Especially given it was a fight Mudamora was losing.

  Rufina’s army was moving east from the Liratora Mountains like a dark tide, driving Mudamora’s Royal Army slowly backward. Refugees fled in droves toward the safety of Mudaire’s walls. Though that safety was relative. Fell things had crossed the mountains with the Seventh’s armies beyond even the corrupted. Strange creatures prowled the land and skies, hunting in the darkness, and stories came with the refugees of farms and villages found empty of life and drenched in blood, half-consumed corpses left abandoned for the crows. Fields and forests were crisscrossed with blight, the smell of rot riding the wind all the way to the coast.

  Already the city struggled beneath the burden of feeding its people, and with those with means fleeing south in droves, soon merchant ships would have no incentive to transport food and supplies to Mudaire, because there would be no one left in the go
ds-damned city able to pay for them. And with escape on foot bordering on suicidal given the creatures that prowled the night, Mudaire was more prison than city. It was a matter of weeks before famine set in, and that was only if the inevitable surge of disease didn’t kill everyone first.

  But instead of using his gods-damned-given mark to protect his people, Killian was currently dragging a drunk palace guard down the hallway by his ankles, the useless bastard snoring as his head slid across the plush carpet. Reaching the top of the stairs, Killian balanced the man on the edge, then gave him a nudge with one booted foot.

  The guard rolled down the carpeted steps and landed with a thud at the bottom. Swaying, he sat up, eyes fixing on Killian. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

  “You’re fired.” Killian bounced a silver coin off the man’s forehead. “This should cover a night’s worth of entertainment before you march off to the front lines. Enjoy.”

  Turning on his heel, he started back toward Malahi’s suite only to find Bercola standing behind him, the giantess’s head nearly brushing the ceiling. “That wasn’t very nice, Killian,” she said, cocking one brow.

  “Drunks bounce,” he replied flatly.

  “You’d know.”

  He glared at the giantess who’d watched his back since he was a child. “I fight better drunk than any of this lot does stone-cold sober.” Then he skirted around her and strode down the hall.

  She only fell into step with him. “You’re supposed to be the captain of the Princess’s guard, but currently, you’re captain of nothing. That one was the last.”

  “She’s better off with nothing than the lot her father assigned to guard her. Useless conscription dodgers and cowards. Not a one of them would put himself between Malahi and an angry kitten.”

  And cowardice was the least of their sins. Killian had dug into the backgrounds of the men Serrick had selected to protect his daughter, and far too many had dark pasts full of violence and worse. A handful had clean records, but Killian swiftly determined that that was only because they’d never been caught, which made them doubly dangerous. The looks in their eyes—the way they looked at Malahi … He’d fired the lot of them the moment Serrick had marched off to take command of the Royal Army.