Teriana sat on one of the benches, deep in conversation with Quintus and Miki. Throwing back her head, she laughed at something the former had said, pulling off his helmet and running a hand across his shorn hair until he playfully batted her arm away. She was entirely at ease with both of them despite the fact that they were two of the more deadly members of the Thirty-Seventh, Quintus in particular. He was trained as an assassin, used for selective strikes against key members of the enemy or for kills the Senate wanted attributed to someone other than the legions. He was very good at his job.
Or had been.
Quintus had cracked toward the end of the Chersome campaign. He hadn’t been alone in that, but he had been the only one to do so in the middle of the command tent in front of Marcus and half his officers, screaming that he couldn’t do it anymore, that he couldn’t be a murderer anymore.
Gibzen had pushed Marcus to have Quintus discharged, arguing that he was too dangerous and unpredictable to be allowed to remain. Marcus had been inclined to agree, had been about to sign the paperwork, when Miki had forced his way into the command tent. The redheaded Sibernese soldier was typically devoid of temper, but he’d gotten right up in Marcus’s face. Quit using him as your own personal butcher! he’d shouted. Quit using him to do your dirty work, and he’ll be fine. Just don’t send him away. I’ll keep him together. I’ll hold him together. Just don’t send him away.
Then he’d wept.
And Marcus had ripped up the paperwork.
“I assume you have coin on you so I can negotiate with them for something for us to eat?” Teriana’s voice pulled Marcus from his thoughts, and he focused on the Maarin girl, whose arms were now crossed, all laughter gone from her face.
Ereni and several of her people had filtered in as well. Marcus stood between them and his men, the tension in the room thick enough to cut. Anxiety from the Arinoquians at having strange men bearing arms in their midst, and his men, knowing they inspired such emotions, looking like they’d rather be out in the deluge. He cast his eyes over the Arinoquians, noting how lean they were despite being next to abundant seas, the proof of which he’d seen in the size of the catch they’d hauled in from their boats. With what they could hunt and forage for in the jungle, they should’ve been able to trade for what they needed, but Marcus knew hunger when he saw it. “Negotiate, please,” he said to Teriana, then turned to one of his men and murmured, “Collect a day’s worth of grain ration from the men. And all the booze they have on them.”
The man blinked. “No one has—”
Marcus fixed him with a stare, the soldier coloring before he saluted sharply and left the building.
Teriana had her bargaining face on, her voice taking on the rhythmic lilt it did when she was negotiating. Already he was recognizing Arinoquian words: things like fish and fruit. Silver. Friend. Language had always come easy to him, and he spoke every major language of the Empire fluently. So he easily recognized it when Teriana said, “We have a deal, then?” She turned to Marcus after Ereni nodded. “They’ll provide three meals of fish, fruit, and tubers.”
“Whatever you negotiated in silver,” he said. “Or this.” The soldier had already returned with a large sack, along with several small bottles of spirits. Taking the sack, Marcus set it on the table and gestured at Ereni to look. The ration was mixed grains straight from the fertile fields of Celendor proper, and Marcus had a great deal of it sitting back at camp. Silver or grain. He waited to see what they would choose, because it would tell him much about just how hungry these people were.
The imperatrix pointed at the grain, her hands marked with scars that had gone silver with age. Hungry.
Marcus nodded, then extracted a heavy gold coin from his belt pouch. Pushing it across the table, he said in Arinoquian, “My men are terrible cooks.”
The imperatrix smiled the first genuine smile he’d seen from her and nodded.
* * *
They feasted on grilled fish and roasted tubers, the Arinoquians bringing in trays of sliced fruits at the end, his men stuffing their faces with a greediness that bordered on embarrassing, though the townsfolk seemed pleased with it. Marcus handed over the rum he’d pilfered from his men, and in exchange they’d received some sort of spirit the Arinoquians distilled themselves that was strong enough to make Marcus’s eyes water.
With Teriana at his elbow translating, he bombarded the Arinoquians with questions about what sort of fish they caught, the weather, what sort of creatures lived in the jungle, whether any were poisonous, all the while watching as spirits lifted, more people entering the common room to satisfy their curiosity. Soon there were children running between legs, laughter filling the air, and judging from giggles coming from outside, at least one of the women in the town had taken a shine to one of his men.
The only individual frowning was Teriana.
“You’re manipulating them. Do you think I don’t see that?” she muttered. “Pretending to be their friends so that they’ll lower their guard and you can strike.”
“You’re acting like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and stab them in the back,” he growled, drinking some of the potent spirit despite having ignored his cup all night.
“I didn’t say it would be tomorrow.”
Draining his cup, he set it down. It was late, all the children having been dispatched to bed, even the pair who’d been running about wearing Quintus’s and Miki’s helmets, whacking each other in the head with sticks. Resting his elbows on the table, he caught the attention of Ereni. “I think it is time we discussed Urcon.”
Teriana tonelessly translated, everyone crammed into the room growing silent. “Tell me his story.”
Ereni’s words were stilted at first, but gradually her tongue loosened as she described the rise of Urcon. The Arinoquians had come to these shores almost a generation ago, leaving behind their inhospitable homeland, which Teriana said was an island nation south of the continent. “Ice and rock and not much else,” she muttered. “I wouldn’t want to live there, either.”
After driving those native to these lands inland, they’d established themselves and then broken back into their clans. Urcon was the leader of one of those clans—a charismatic man and gifted warrior who, having had a taste of the power of the clans united into one, desired more of the same. With an army of his men, he set to forcing the other clans to accept him as ruler, to bend their knees and tithe to him as though he were a king.
At first, they resisted, but Ereni said, “We’d come to these shores for a chance to stop fighting, to live in a place where our people could thrive. So we gave him what he wanted, believing he’d let us live in peace.”
But that wasn’t how it went. Instead, Urcon demanded more from them, stripping away wealth, burning and destroying the homes of those who attempted to resist, killing those who fought back. And with the money he took, he was able to build himself a mercenary army that no one could stand against. It was then he began taking the youths of those towns and villages who couldn’t afford to pay. Youths who were never seen again. So once again, the clans picked up their swords and began to fight back.
“And no one knows what happens to those taken?” Marcus asked, persisting with the question despite having been told by Flacre that it was a mystery.
“No,” Teriana said; then she hesitated, listening to Ereni. “They don’t know.”
She wasn’t translating the whole of the story. Marcus knew she was constantly filtering the information he received, but in this moment he wasn’t willing to let it slide. “They know something. Tell me.”
Teriana sucked her cheeks in, and he watched her gaze darken as she debated whether or not to concede. “There are … rumors. Rumors that Urcon worships the Seventh god. Rumors that the children are … sacrifices.”
Marcus’s brow furrowed, his skin turning cold as he remembered the shrine in Flacre’s village. How the featureless face had seemed to look at him, its eyes burning. “What would he stand to gain from such behavio
r?”
Giving a discomforted shrug, Teriana said, “I don’t know.”
“Speculate.”
Her face darkened. “I don’t know, Marcus, all right? I haven’t made a habit of spending time with those who bend the knee to the Seventh.”
Turning back to Ereni, he asked, “Why don’t the other gods intervene?”
One of the young Arinoquians in the room spit and said something that was undoubtedly a curse. Ereni barked a reprimand at him, and he left the room with a scowl on his face.
“It’s not the gods’ way to intervene,” Teriana said. “Only to hold men and women accountable for how they lived their lives when they come to the end of them.”
She was lying. There was more to it; Marcus knew it. He’d seen Gespurn and Madoria rise from air and water and go to battle over his fleet. There was no chance that they and the rest would idly watch events like these pass them by without acting. But he wasn’t going to pick a fight with Teriana about her deception in front of these people and burn away all the goodwill he’d earned.
Ereni said something more. Teriana made a face and then said, “She wants to know why someone like you who knows no gods shows so much curiosity about them.”
Answering the question with his men listening was dangerous ground, but Marcus found himself doing it anyway. “It’s true that I was raised to believe that the idea of gods was lies and myth, but since coming to the West I’ve seen things that make continued disbelief seem … recklessly ignorant.”
Picking up his cup, which someone had refilled, he swirled the contents before setting it back down. “In truth, I find certain appeal to the idea that in this world where so much injustice reigns that in our final hours there is someone—or something—that holds us to account.”
For once, Teriana said nothing, and when Marcus turned his head, for the first time since they’d met, the ocean waves of the eyes gazing into his own were a tranquil blue.
* * *
Ereni allowed them to remain in the common room for the night, Marcus and Teriana taking the small adjoining chamber while his men rotated between taking watch shifts and sleeping in the main hall.
Teriana had said nothing to him since his conversation with Ereni had ended, and even once they were alone she’d done nothing but pull a thin blanket up over her shoulders and turn away from him.
Exhausted from carrying her, and the potent alcohol burning in his blood, Marcus turned down the lamp. Sleep came quickly.
As did the dream.
It was always the same. Him, walking alone across the Chersome plains, his breath misting in the cold air. Ahead, a village situated next to a copse of pines, buildings and trees smoldering, the smoke rising into the grey sky. A gust of wind hit him in the face, carrying with it a stench that he swore would linger in his nose for as long as he lived. A sickening combination of burnt pork and charred hair, the iron tang of seared blood, and something … something that his basest instincts recognized as human.
He did not want to go into the village, but his feet dragged him closer. The wind blew again, and he shivered, reaching for a weapon only to discover it wasn’t there. And it didn’t matter. What good was steel against the dead?
Then he was in the village, the small homes blackened where they were not glowing red. And all around him lay bodies. Men and women. Children. Babies who hadn’t seen a year of life. All of them dead. All of them burned, though the fire did not erase the other violence that had been leveled upon them.
As one, they stood. Like marionette dolls, the strings attached to their spines lifting them straight. They turned on him, arms pointing in accusation.
“I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. It wasn’t the plan.”
They didn’t hear. They didn’t care.
The corpses converged on him, and their number swelled to thousands upon thousands. They hemmed him in, burnt hands clutching and pulling at him, eyes nothing but empty holes and mouths open in silent screams.
“I’m sorry!” he shouted, trying to fight them back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Marcus, wake up!”
He froze, feeling his attacker pinned beneath him in the darkness.
“It’s me. Teriana. You were having a dream, so I woke you up.”
His skin was icy. “A dream.” The dream.
“Aye.”
He inhaled and exhaled, calming himself easily only because he’d had a great deal of practice. It was then he noticed that she was near to naked beneath him, having stripped down sometime in the night. Only a linen camisole was stretched tight over her full breasts, whatever undergarments she wore leaving her legs bare where they were twined with his. He had her wrists pinned to the blanket, and he could feel her pulse rapid against his palms. And the entirely inappropriate thought that he should kiss her crossed his mind.
Instead, he asked, “Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
She shifted, her leg moving and their hips pressing together in a way that made him ache. Before his body could betray him entirely, he sat up, pulling her with him. Her braids swung, brushing against his chest, the tiny ornaments cold against his skin. He held her steady, her shoulders warm and sleek beneath his hands, waiting for her to push him away. To tell him to get off of her.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse, and he swallowed, wishing for a glass of water. “Sometimes I have dreams.”
“What about?”
He could only just see her outline in the darkness, but her breath was hot against his cheek, her lips only inches away. “Chersome.” The truth came out without thought.
Teriana was quiet for a long moment; then she placed both hands against his chest, pushing him back and climbing to her feet. He watched as she crossed the room to her pallet, hesitating next to it.
“Good to know your victims plague your dreams,” she said, and the hate was back in her voice. “Next time, I won’t wake you.”
31
TERIANA
Teriana awoke with a start, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling for several moments before remembering where she was. And whom she was with. Opening her mouth to deliver a few sarcastic remarks at Marcus’s expense, she rolled over.
He was gone.
Disappointment filled her, and she shoved the feeling aside, replacing it with annoyance. He’s your enemy, she reminded herself. He’s a manipulative bastard, a liar, and a killer. Yet the reminder did little to chase away the memory of his bare skin against hers, the heat that had throbbed low in her belly as his hips had pressed down, holding her against the floor. How for that brief moment her traitorous body had wanted to wrap her legs around him, to peel away those few scraps of clothing between them and let what would happen, happen.
It’s lust, nothing more, she told herself. He’s good to look at and you aren’t blind, that’s all. It still troubled her that, of all the men she’d known, it would be he who’d inspire those feelings. What did it say about her that she’d wanted the hands of a murderer on her skin, to taste the lips of a man who’d taken thousands of children from their homes, broken up thousands of families? Her stomach soured, but she relished the sensation, because it was appropriate.
The door opened, and Quintus leaned in. “Wakey, wakey,” he said with a grin. “It’s a beautiful morning.”
“It’s not,” she said, pulling her clothes on. “It’s horrible. And my feet hurt.”
Her whole damned body hurt.
“I brought you something to eat,” he said. “Maybe that will help change your outlook.”
“If it’s gruel, I’m going to throw it right back at you.”
His grin only grew. “You’d make a bad soldier.”
“My heart is broken.”
“Fortunately for you, Miki’s been making friends and he secured us a few of these.” He pulled his arm out from behind his back and handed her a banana.
“I can see why you love him,” she said, peeling back the yellow skin and ta
king a bite.
“It’s the hair, actually,” he replied with a smirk. “Always had a weakness for redheads. And for freckles.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “Though the Six knows what he sees in an ugly golden bastard like you.”
Quintus laughed. “I take it back. You’d make an excellent soldier with a mouth like yours.”
Bowing deeply, she finished her banana and asked, “Where’s our darling supreme commander?”
“Outside with everyone else. We’re waiting on you.”
Lovely.
Every muscle in her body screaming, Teriana walked slowly after the soldier, feeling the scabs on her feet tug and pull with each step, despite the salve she’d smeared on them the night before.
Marcus’s back was to her, for which she was profoundly grateful, because her cheeks warmed at the sight of him.
“Dawn, Teriana,” he said, turning around. “We rise at dawn. Get used to it, because I grow weary of waiting around for you.”
“Kiss my ass,” she muttered in Mudamorian.
“I tried that route, and it didn’t work,” he said, and when she gaped at him added, “Your crewmember Jax taught me that particular phrase. Now let’s go.”
He moved to lift her, but Teriana caught sight of a symbol carved into the door of one of the buildings—a symbol she’d been desperate to see—and she pushed him back. “I need to see their…,” she searched for a suitable Cel term, “herbarius before we go.”
“Talk to one of the medics.”
Planting her hands on her hips, Teriana stared him down. “Your medics have much experience treating female conditions?”
Color rose in his cheeks, and he looked away. “Be quick about it.”
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