Dark Shores Page 2

  Teriana and Lydia had met five years ago while the Maarin were negotiating a new trade agreement with the Senate. As Triumvir, Teriana’s mother had been one of the captains doing the negotiating and had been invited to Senator Valerius’s home for dinner, Tesya dragging Teriana along to do “some learning.” Lydia had been in attendance, looking like a raven among a flock of yellow ducklings, nearly as out of place as Teriana. Which was saying something, given Teriana’s skin was black as night, her multitude of waist-length braids decorated with gold and priceless gemstones, and her arms corded with muscle from laboring on the Quincense. Still, Teriana had assumed Lydia was just another Cel girl who’d only speak when spoken to. Pretty as one of the flower arrangements, but just about as interesting.

  How wrong she’d been.

  One of Valerius’s fellow senators—a man notable only because he was even more of a condescending bigot than the typical patrician—had insisted on speaking in Trader’s Tongue, which might have been commendable had he not clearly stated that it was “so as not to listen to the Maarin abuse the Cel language.” It had been everything Teriana could do not to laugh as he butchered the conversation, Tesya grinding her boot heel into her daughter’s toe after a particularly egregious mistake regarding the size of the man’s property holdings. Then Lydia had stood.

  “Senator,” she said. “With respect, you just told the captain that you are possessed of a very large”—she coughed delicately—“member.” Then she gave him an innocent smile. “I correct you only because I’ve been told time and again that accuracy is of the utmost importance in these negotiations.”

  It was then, despite the two of them having nothing in common, that Teriana had known that this girl was a twin to her soul, their friendship ordained by the gods themselves. And so it had been ever since.

  Coming up behind Lydia, Teriana leaned over her friend’s shoulder, amused that she was so lost in the piece she was translating that she didn’t even notice she was being watched.

  “You spelled chicken wrong,” Teriana said loudly. “And your Bardeen grammar is shit.”

  “It’s not—” Lydia sat up straight and then twisted in her chair, a grin blossoming on her face even as her spectacles slid down her nose. “Teriana!”

  They went down in a heap of arms and legs, hugging and shrieking in complete disregard of Senator Valerius’s request. “I wasn’t expecting you,” Lydia said, bracing a skinny arm on the floor and adjusting the silk of her dress.

  “There’s a lot of that going around.” Teriana pulled off her boots, tossing them aside before crossing her legs. “Your father keeps poor company tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  Teriana described the two men, and Lydia made a face. “The younger is my father’s nephew, Vibius.”

  Her father’s nephew—not her cousin. Another reminder that despite having been adopted by the senator when she was a babe, Lydia was not a true Valerius and never would be. Pulling off one of Lydia’s rings to examine the gemstone, Teriana considered asking her friend once again whether she remembered anything about her life before being taken in by the senator. Except Teriana knew the answer: Lydia’s mother had been found dead from a knife wound in front of the Valerius manor, a squalling child clutched in her cold arms. Too young to do more than babble. Too young to remember where she’d come from. “Who was the other man?”

  Lydia took her ring back, twisting it round her finger a few times before saying, “Lucius Cassius.”

  Teriana lifted both eyebrows. It was well known that Lucius Cassius had been born to a minor branch of his patrician family, but due to a series of accidents and illnesses, had managed to inherit the family’s wealth and seat in the Senate when his cousin, or whoever it had been, had died. Now he was considered a powerful member of the Senate, but his politics were quite at odds to those of Lydia’s foster father, which made his presence here strange. And not in a good way. He was the sort of man who everyone agreed had a rotten reputation, though no one could give specifics as to why. Like a bad stench from an unknown source.

  “Elections,” Lydia said, by way of explanation, then hauled Teriana to her feet. “Let’s go out into the gardens. It’s cold in here.”

  It wasn’t, but Teriana didn’t argue, following Lydia back downstairs.

  Where they came face-to-face with Lydia’s father. And his nephew.

  The young man looked Teriana up and down, swaying on his feet, then cast a disparaging glare at Lydia, who shrank.

  Her reaction had Teriana reaching for a knife. Only Lydia’s hand closing on her wrist kept Teriana from poking a few holes in the bastard and his unearned sense of superiority.

  “As if you aren’t embarrassment enough, you have to fraternize with a sailor,” the nephew said to Lydia, and then to Senator Valerius, “You indulge her.”

  The senator’s normally warm expression was icy. “And I’ll continue to indulge her while it is within my power to do so.” He nodded once at Lydia, who dragged Teriana around the corner and out into the gardens.

  “That pompous prick,” Teriana snarled. “He better watch his back, because I’m of a mind to cut off his—”

  Lydia held up a hand, silencing Teriana’s diatribe. “While that’s a delightful visual, I really need you to curb your tongue in his presence.”

  Teriana stared at her. “Not like you to be a shrinking violet.”

  “Yes, well.” Lydia passed a weary hand over her face, then said, “He’s my father’s heir.”

  Understanding smacked Teriana in the face as she recalled Senator Valerius’s shaking hand and sallow skin. I’ll continue to indulge her while it is in my power to do so. He was sick. Maybe even dying. And Celendor’s laws were not favorable to women at the best of times. At the worst of times, they were downright ugly. The worst she’d encountered across all of Reath. “You’ll be his property when he inherits.”

  Her friend’s face scrunched up in the way it did when she was trying not to cry.

  Teriana’s throat felt thick, her words sticking. “Any way around that?”

  “If I were to be married.”

  Which wasn’t getting around it at all—it only meant she’d become another man’s property. Still, there were better men than Vibius. Teriana said, “Surely there would be men falling over themselves to gain a connection with your family?”

  “Perhaps they would be if everyone didn’t know my father was ill. It would be a short-lived union.”

  “What about someone who isn’t a patrician?” Teriana persisted. There were only a few hundred patrician families, but there were countless wealthy plebeians dying to gain a connection to the influential houses. “A financial incentive might—”

  “Enough, Teriana. This conversation makes me feel like a broodmare. Let’s discuss something else.” Lydia made a small gesture, and a servant appeared out of nowhere carrying a tray with wine and fresh fruit. “Tell me of your travels. Where have you been? What have you seen? How is your family? How is Bait?”

  It was easier to let her change the subject. To regale Lydia with tales of the high seas, of her crew’s hijinks in various ports and the pranks she and Bait played during idle moments. Happy stories. Funny stories. Anything but the hopelessness of her best friend’s situation. And Teriana’s helplessness to do anything about it.

  Retreating to Lydia’s rooms, they guzzled more wine and Teriana tried on half of Lydia’s silken dresses. They were all a good six inches too long and not cut for Teriana’s muscular frame, both of the girls laughing hysterically when Teriana tried to make up the height difference in a pair of high-heeled shoes. Moving to the balcony, they sat on a divan, Lydia weaving Teriana’s bejeweled braids into a coronet on her head, switching from language to language as they spoke, because Lydia liked the practice. Eventually, they curled up nose to nose in Lydia’s massive bed. Surrounded by too many cushions and just the right amount of darkness, Teriana finally asked, “Are you afraid?”

  The only sound was the hum of insec
ts outside the window and the faint crash of waves from the ocean below. Then Lydia whispered, “Yes. I think the day after my father passes, Vibius will sell me to the highest bidder. And if no one will pay, he’ll have me killed.”

  Teriana’s heart beat staccato in her chest, fear for her friend’s life turning the wine in her stomach sour. Senator Valerius might last a year, but unless he secured Lydia a husband, her fate was certain. There had to be another way out. A place Lydia could escape to outside the Empire’s reach. A place only a Maarin ship could take her.

  East must not meet West.

  The only thing curtailing the spread of the Empire’s dominion was the Endless Seas and the Senate’s ignorance of anything on the other side worth conquering. Madoria was the most benevolent of the Six, but keeping the two halfs of Reath unaware of each other was one of her most stringent commandments. Breaking it might see Teriana’s soul forsaken to the underworld.

  And yet …

  In her mind’s eye, she imagined her friend, everything about her screaming that she’d been born in the West, from a nation that held to the gods as firmly as the Maarin did themselves. That Lydia belonged to the Six as much as Teriana did.

  Which meant …

  Before she could lose her nerve, Teriana said, “What if you left? What if you ran away?”

  A choking laugh. “To where? There is nowhere the Senate doesn’t control. Nowhere that its legions couldn’t find me.”

  “There is.”

  Silence.

  “Where?”

  Teriana’s heart was racing, sweat pooling beneath her breasts. Because this was forbidden. Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden. “Across the Endless Seas.”

  “What do you mean?” her friend asked. “There’s nothing but water.”

  “There’s a whole other world.”

  Teriana heard Lydia’s breath catch. To the Empire, what lay beyond the Endless Seas was nothing more than speculation and myth, the seas too expansive and treacherous for their ships to test the theory that there might be more. Not that they hadn’t tried.

  Lydia whispered, “Do you mean the Dark Shores? They exist?”

  To say yes was more than Teriana could stomach, so she nodded. And then, praying she wouldn’t have cause to regret it, she said, “If you decide you want to leave or if you’re ever in desperate need to reach me, this is how it’s done.”

  3

  MARCUS

  Marcus stretched one leg in front of him and eyed the cards in his hand. He did not remember Celendrial being this hot. The Thirty-Seventh Legion had been back for little more than a week after seven years abroad, and he was ready to be gone again. Judging from the look of his friends, he wasn’t alone. It was only just past dawn and Servius and Felix were both stripped to the waist and sweating profusely.

  Felix threw his cards on the table. “I’m out.”

  “Me too.” Servius leaned back, staring up at the sun. “I never thought I’d miss the snow, but damned if I don’t.”

  “Go for a swim,” Marcus told him, pulling the coins off the table into an already-bulging purse.

  “Not a chance.” Servius grimaced. “Celendrial’s waters are full of beasties.”

  “Just take a slower swimmer with you,” Marcus said, shifting again on his stool. This idleness was enough to drive him mad.

  “No, I’ll have none of that. Would rather sweat.”

  “Shame.” Felix waved a hand in front of his nose. “You stink. I’m surprised the combined stench of your sweat and farts hasn’t seared off my nose hairs.”

  “You’d look better if they had, you golden-skinned shit,” Servius retorted, but Marcus had already tuned them out. His mind was for other things—namely, why the Senate had called them back. It was true that Chersome had been subdued, yet their departure felt premature. The island contained more violence and unrest than all the other provinces combined. There was no better place for the Thirty-Seventh. And given that it was about as far away from Celendrial as one could get, there was no better place for him.

  A small voice from behind him broke his reverie. “I’m looking for the Thirty-Seventh Legion.”

  Marcus turned to find a young servant standing a few paces away. He held a rolled sheaf of parchment, his sandaled feet shifting nervously in the dirt.

  “The Thirty-Seventh?” asked Servius. “What reason do you think to find them here?”

  The boy’s gaze flicked anxiously between them, not hearing the sarcasm in Servius’s voice. The number was everywhere. Wrought in gold on the dragon standard wedged in the ground a few paces away. Emblazoned on countless banners flapping in the wind. Tattooed large and black on the chests of all the 4,118 young men lounging around the camp. The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again, the parchment shaking in his hands.

  Servius laughed, the sound making the child cringe.

  “Shut your mouth, Servius,” Marcus said. The boy wasn’t stupid; he was terrified. And rightly so. Judging from the curved blue tattoos across his forehead, he was from Chersome. The Thirty-Seventh had decimated his country and forced his countrymen into indentured servitude. Whoever had chosen him to deliver this message either was exceedingly ignorant or had a malicious sense of humor. “We are the Thirty-Seventh,” Marcus said, rising to his feet.

  The boy took a step back.

  “Who is your message for?”

  The parchment crumpled under the servant’s grip. “Legatus Marcus. Legionnaire number one five one nine.”

  “You’ve found him.” Marcus held out a hand for the message, but the boy clutched it to his chest.

  “I’m supposed to ask for proof.” His chin trembled.

  “You disrespectful little—” Servius was on his feet in an instant, reaching for the boy.

  Marcus swung an arm, catching his friend in the face and knocking him back. “Sit. Down.”

  Servius sat.

  Taking hold of the neck of his tunic, Marcus tugged it down. Turning around to reveal the number tattooed across his back, he asked, “Is this satisfactory proof?”

  The only response he got was stifled sobs. Sighing, he pulled the tunic back into place. Moving slowly toward the kneeling boy, he extracted the sweaty parchment from his grip. “Go tell your master that you’ve done your duty.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet and bolted through the camp.

  “Rude little shit,” Servius mumbled through the rag he held to his face. “Marcus, I think you broke my nose.”

  Marcus ignored him. Walking a few paces from his friends, he unrolled the parchment, taking in the few, precisely written lines.

  “They going to let us into the city?” Felix asked.

  “No.” Marcus reread the message, then tucked the parchment away. “They’ll not give this legion leave to enter Celendrial at will.”

  “’S not fair,” Servius said through his rag. “They let the Forty-First in.”

  “The Forty-First’s different,” Felix answered. “It’s like letting a legion of kittens loose in the streets.”

  “I can purr.”

  Marcus sidestepped the spray of blood and spit from Servius’s demonstration and made his way toward his tent. Inside, he stripped off his sweaty clothes and motioned for his man to bring him a clean tunic. Pulling the fabric over his head, he again cursed the heat of Celendrial as the wool glued to his back. Amarin, his Sibalese manservant, was strapping on Marcus’s armor when his friends decided to follow him in.

  “Social call?” Felix asked, one eyebrow rising.

  Marcus grunted a negative at his second-in-command. “Been summoned.”

  “Senate?”

  “No.” Picking up his gladius, he belted it on while his red cloak was fastened to his shoulders, the thread of the golden dragon emblazoned on it gleaming. “But by a senator.”

  A slow smile worked its way onto Felix’s face. “Answers, then? A mission.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You got the itch?”

  “I’ve always got th
e itch.” Servius laughed, scratching his ass. They both ignored him.

  Marcus did have the itch, as Felix called it. The feeling he got before a battle or a mission assignment. Or when something meaningful was about to happen. Except something didn’t feel right. Why had they been recalled? Why, given their reputation, had the Senate left them to languish outside their precious capital? Why had he been called, not to stand before the Senate, but to meet with one man? And what did it say about this man that he would send a Chersomian to deliver his message? This was more than an itch; it was like trying to sleep in a hair shirt.

  “You going to tell us who?”

  “The man whose name is on everyone’s lips this morning.” Marcus picked up his red and gold crested helmet and shoved it on his head. “Lucius Cassius.”

  4

  TERIANA

  Dawn was in the distant past by the time Teriana made it back to the harbor.

  Sweat soaked into the back of her blouse as she dodged between the Cel sailors working on the wharves, then scuttled up the gangplank, eyes searching the deck for her mother, who, thank the Six, was nowhere in sight.

  “Couldn’t pry yourself out of the feather bed?” Aunt Yedda asked from where she sat drinking from a steaming cup, her light brown skin, courtesy of a Mudamorian father, striking against the yellow of her blouse. Other than the grey in her braids, time didn’t seem to touch her. Ripples like gentle waves crossed the serene blue of Yedda’s gaze, reflecting her mood in shades of the sea, as did the eyes of every individual with any amount of Maarin blood. The Cel scholars at their fancy colleges believed Maarin eyes similar to a chameleon’s skin, but her people knew it was Madoria marking them as her own.

  “Sorry. We stayed up late talking.”

  “How is Lydia?”

  Teriana made a face. The truth was a conversation she didn’t want anyone to overhear, and most of the crew were moving around on the deck, eyes sleepy but hands deftly performing the tasks required before they could set sail. Her head hurt from all the wine she’d guzzled the night prior, and her mind waffled back and forth between being convinced that it was the booze that had made her tell Lydia about the West and knowing it was a real, desperate need on her friend’s part that had made Teriana tell. Because once she had started talking, it had been like the floodgates had opened, secret after secret passing from her lips to Lydia’s ears until they’d both fallen asleep in the wee hours.