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  Her father was silent for a long moment, as though he was considering his words. Then he spoke. “I know Teriana is like a sister to you, but know also that her mother is not warm to your friendship. Why else does the Quincense avoid the most profitable harbor on Reath like it is infested with plague? The Maarin keep to themselves, for reasons they keep to themselves, and to have a girl of Teriana’s importance doing otherwise looks ill upon her. It may be the case that she has come to realize that fact, which is why you’ve not heard from her in so long.”

  It had been six months since she’d seen Teriana. A whole half a year without so much as a letter. Was it possible that Teriana, too, had decided Lydia not worth her time and trouble?

  “I have some prospects in mind for you, Lydia, but it would help if you made an effort to increase your desirability. Foster relationships with other patrician girls, for if they look upon you with favor, so shall their fathers and brothers and husbands. Which will make you an asset.”

  An asset—as though she were a commodity to be used rather than a person with her own thoughts and hopes and dreams …

  “Why can’t you just arrange for me to leave Celendrial? Surely Vibius would be happy enough to see the back of me and would leave me to my own devices?”

  Silence fell across the room, making the overheated air feel thick and unbreathable.

  “Perhaps he might have,” her father finally answered, staring at the tiles. “But I’m afraid I erred in my ambition for your future.”

  “How so?” This was the first she’d heard of it.

  “A little over a year ago, I began to make discreet inquiries into whether Cel law might be changed in your favor. Whether there was a chance of creating a circumstance where you could be freed from my name upon my death and for you to inherit a portion of the Valerius fortune. Not the majority of it, of course, but enough to set you up for life.”

  Lydia pressed a hand to her chest, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing.

  “It became clear quite quickly that such a thing was too revolutionary—that there would be no chance of pushing it through. So I let the idea go. I know not how, but Vibius became aware of my inquiries, as did some of his fellows. They took it as me attempting to disinherit him in your favor.” Her father shook his head. “He was incensed, of course, and despite my protests that my inquiries were not of that nature, he took my actions quite to heart. So whereas before he might have allowed you to remain part of his household in some fashion, now I fear he will make an example of you in order to ease the embarrassment he endured.”

  Vibius’s hate of her made so much sense now. In trying to secure her future, her father might well have destroyed it.

  “Marriage is your only option, Lydia. Please do what you can to assist me in making the best match possible.”

  She was trapped.

  Giving him a stiff nod, she gestured to the discarded fruit, needing to change the subject. “What is that?”

  Passing a weary hand over his face, her father picked up the green and red oval thing. “It’s called a mango. They’re native to Timia Province and ship poorly, but with the newly discovered xenthier path delivering, we can have them—and other Timian goods—in Celendrial in less than a day’s time.” He handed her the fruit. “I thought you might wish to try one.”

  “I see you beat me to it, Uncle.”

  Lydia whipped her head around in time to watch Vibius enter the room, his wife, Ulpia, teetering along behind him. In one hand, he held one of the fruits, which he bounced up and down before tossing it at one of the servants who’d just entered, nearly hitting the poor man in the face.

  “Ran across Gaius Domitius lugging a crate of the things about like some sort of pleb merchantman—he told me the xenthier’s been secured and trade is flowing. That’s where his father is—their holdings in Timia—but no doubt you knew that.” Vibius tapped his temple while at the same time gesturing for Lydia to move. “Always the first to know, aren’t you, Uncle.”

  Her father eyed him coolly. “I’m glad I still have the capacity to impress you, Vibius.”

  Able to transport man or beast countless miles in a heartbeat, the xenthier paths were much studied but little understood. Crisscrossing the Empire, they were veins of crystal that ran through the earth, the genesis and terminus the only portions visible above ground. Anything that touched the genesis was instantly delivered to the terminus, though a reverse trip was impossible; the crystal flowed in only one direction. Countless routes had been mapped, but there were still many xenthier stems where the destination or origin was unknown. Path-hunters frequently ventured through unmapped genesis stems, because if they returned to Celendrial with proof of where the path went, the Senate rewarded them with a fortune worth of gold. Most who ventured onto the unmapped paths were never seen again.

  Lydia joined Ulpia on another couch, smiling at the girl who had the misfortune of being married to Vibius, kissing both her cheeks. Then she held up the fruit. “Would you like to try it?”

  Ulpia beamed, her blond hair in perfect ringlets that framed her round, golden-skinned face. “Of course! I do so love exotic things.”

  Lydia rather doubted that was the case but allowed one of the servants to pluck the fruit from her hand, one ear for Ulpia’s chatter, the other for the conversation between her father and Vibius, an effort made more difficult by the return of the Bardenese musicians.

  “It’s where the coin is, Uncle,” Vibius said, accepting a glass of wine and drinking deeply. “Now that the legions aren’t muddying up so many of the xenthier paths, we can turn them to their true purpose—commerce! Where once we transported armies a thousand miles in a heartbeat, now we transport mangos!”

  The feel of Ulpia toying with the bracelet on her wrist stole Lydia’s attention from the conversation. “You wear green so well!” the other girl said. “That shade always makes my complexion sallow and every woman I know complains of the same. You’re so fortunate.”

  Lydia gritted her teeth at the veiled barb and smiled. “You flatter me. Is that a new necklace?”

  More guests entered, her father’s fellow senators and their families. Greetings and pleasantries filled the air, Lydia’s cheeks growing sticky from the kisses of lacquered lips. Despite the servants vigorously waving fans, the heat of the room grew stifling, not even a whiff of a breeze flowing through the doors. The air became heavy with the scent of perfume and sweat and wine, made worse by the waft of cooking food coming down the corridor from the kitchens. A familiar scene, but tonight it was more suffocating than usual.

  “Try it, Uncle.” Vibius’s voice cut through the noise. “It’s from Cassius’s vineyards. At the rate he’s going, he’ll run the Atlians out of business.”

  Lydia twisted on her elbow to see Vibius pushing a glass into her father’s hand. Rising, she swiftly crossed the room. “The physicians said no wine.”

  Vibius made a face. “It’s well watered, Lydia. Calm your nerves.”

  “They said no amount of wine.” Lydia clenched her fingers, trying to curb the desire to snatch the glass out of her father’s hand.

  “It’s true,” her father said, setting aside the glass. “It seems my final days are to be so devoid of pleasure that I’ll soon be begging for the end.”

  Clapping a hand to his chest, Vibius staggered sideways as though he’d been struck a great blow. “Do you hear him, my friends? Are those not words to break the heart?” Then he lifted his own glass. “I say defy the bastards! Pleasure unto the end!” Then he drained his wine to the roaring approval of the other guests.

  “Father,” Lydia tried to interject, but no one was listening to her.

  “Physicians are such miserly sorts,” Senator Basilius said, casting his eyes skyward. “They’d have us eating lettuce leaves and dry bread with only water to wash it down if they had their way. What sense is there to living a hundred years if it means living like that?”

  “Hear, hear!” several of the men shouted, lif
ting their own cups.

  “Perhaps Vibius speaks some sense for once.” Her father retrieved the wine and lifted it in toast. “Pleasure unto the end!”

  Lydia ground her teeth as he took a sip, reaching out to try to take the glass lest he drink the rest, but Vibius got in her way.

  “You’re a blasted mother hen, Lydia!” He flapped his arms, making noises like an angry chicken. Laughter filled the room. “Quit pecking at him.”

  Her father waved a hand at Vibius. “Enough. Let her be. She acts out of love. Unlike you.”

  Everyone laughed, no one seeming uncomfortable with the fact that it was the truth.

  “Lydia knows it’s all in jest.” Vibius’s arm slipped around her waist, fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “Don’t you, Cousin?”

  “Of course,” she murmured, concern filling her as her father took another sip. But short of knocking it out of his hand, what could she do?

  “Go back to your flock, little hen.” Vibius patted at her hip, pushing her in the direction of the other women. “You can all cluck at one another.”

  He was drunk and performing for the other guests, but Lydia’s cheeks still burned as she retreated, helplessness souring the wine in her own stomach. What would it be like to live with Vibius without her father to intervene when he got out of hand? Just how badly would he treat her as punishment for her father’s inquiries?

  Was marriage the better option?

  “Lydia, is this comedic?”

  She lifted her head to find Ulpia holding her book up for all to see. “Pardon?”

  “Is it funny? I do adore a good comedy.”

  It was a linguistics text. “I’m afraid not.”

  Ulpia scrunched her face in a parody of disappointment mirrored by the other girls around her. “Do you have anything comedic in that library? You could read for us.”

  That was the last thing Lydia wanted to do. Already her skin was flushed hot, her heart beating too rapidly in her chest, stomach twisting with humiliation and anger and distress. “I’m afraid I have nothing that would suit.”

  “Of a surety, that will be one of the first things I remedy,” Ulpia said, and laughter spilled out of the lips of the other young women in earshot. Laughter that was like pokers in Lydia’s ears, because that was her library. Hers and her father’s. And Ulpia would take it. Change it. Fill it with nonsense and then likely never even step inside. A room visited by servants to keep the dust in check, nothing more.

  Fury burned in her chest, and Lydia snapped, “Perhaps refrain from making plans to redecorate my father’s house until he’s actually dead.”

  Ulpia’s eyes widened and she pressed a hand to her glossy lips. “It was a jest, Lydia. Truly, you mistake me. Vibius and I wish nothing more than for Uncle to overcome his illness.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Peace, peace,” several of the other young women murmured, and Lydia leaned back into a cushion, allowing the conversation to carry on without her.

  The noise in the room ratcheted up, dancers wearing cheap silk and plumes of feathers swaying between the couches, bare feet moving to the rhythm of pipes the Bardenese women played. Lydia could barely hear herself think, but she saw the way the other girls pressed together, mouths next to one another’s ears as they gossiped.

  Then above the cacophony, she heard: “Are you well, Valerius?”

  Lydia turned in time to see her father double over, clutching his stomach in pain, but though she lunged to try to catch him, her fingers only grazed the fabric of his clothes as her father slumped to the floor.

  5

  KILLIAN

  As the sun set, the first drumbeats rippled down the pass.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  There was no music to it, only a steady, familiar rhythm. The beat of men on the march.

  A glow appeared on the horizon, as though the sun had reversed its cycle around the world, rising up like fire. Only Killian knew the light was a flame of a different sort. Torches. Thousands of them marching closer with every passing second.

  The wall was thick with soldiers, the reinforcements from Blackbriar and Harid having arrived, and those from Tarn due within the hour. The men huddled next to smoking braziers, trying to keep warm in the howling wind that froze exposed skin in a matter of minutes, their heavy fur cloaks making them appear more animal than human.

  There was no conversation. No banter. Only whispered words and Killian’s occasional order, punctuated by the snap and pop of the wood burning beneath the vats of boiling water.

  Ten thousand men. That’s what the corrupted woman had said was coming. To bring such a host through these mountains was impossible, and yet there was no denying the numbers as they poured over the lip of the pass, a tide of darkness and fire flowing toward the ancient wall.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Lifting his spyglass, Killian panned the approaching enemy, their faces barely visible beneath heavy hoods, glistening steel held in their hands and, where it was not, wooden poles bearing a black banner emblazoned with a burning red circle.

  The sign of the Seventh.

  “The Six protect us,” several of his men muttered, but they held their positions, hands concealed against the wind until it was time to fight.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  A horn sounded, long and mournful, and the enemy host stopped just out of range of longbowmen.

  “Archers,” Killian shouted, marking the flashes of motion among the masses of enemy. Corrupted. “Target those who move too quickly. We don’t want them up here with us.”

  “There are thousands of them,” Bercola muttered. “We’re outnumbered ten to one.”

  “The wall puts the odds in our favor,” Killian replied. Even with ten thousand men, this enemy force couldn’t win. The Derin army had no siege equipment and was exposed to the frigid wind surging down from the mountain peaks.

  And yet Killian’s skin crawled like he was covered with spiders, his gaze drawn over his shoulder to the courtyard below. The fortress was protected by a half circle of curtain wall, thirty feet tall and six feet thick, with a gate made of steel-banded oak held shut by a beam that required two men to lift. The stables and outbuildings were made of equally sturdy construction as the fortress, soldiers moving among them as they prepared their defenses, the three white-robed healers standing at the ready. But his gaze drifted beyond them, past the clear-cut at the base of the fortress’s wall to the dark expanses of forest behind them. To the kingdom they defended.

  The horn sounded again, tearing his attention back to the enemy host as they hammered their weapons against their shields, the noise deafening.

  Then abruptly the thunder ceased.

  The army parted, a lone figure carrying the standard of the Seventh striding down the path they’d formed. The individual moved with the awful grace of one of the corrupted, the soldiers cringing away with fear that was obvious even from this distance.

  Lifting his spyglass, Killian focused on the woman, the snug leather she wore making it no question it was a she, his eyes fixing on the black mask rendering her face featureless. Rufina, instinct told him, and Killian handed off his spyglass in favor of his bow, pulling an arrow and nocking it without taking his attention from the enemy queen. They fight out of fear, a voice whispered in his head. Kill her and this ends here.

  Narrowing his gaze, Killian tracked Rufina’s progress to the front of her host, torchlight illuminating her long black hair, which gusted sideways with the wind. You’ll only get one chance, he warned himself, aiming at her heart. Only one chance to catch her unaware. One chance to kill her.

  Rufina stopped, planting her standard deep in the snow. Far out of range of most men.

  But Killian wasn’t most men.

  He shot the arrow, the twang of his bow loud in the silence.

  It was impossible to see the trajectory in the darkness, and
Killian held his breath, waiting to see if his aim was true.

  Yet it was impossible not to see Rufina’s hand move with sudden speed, stopping his arrow inches from her breast. Lifting the arrow, she regarded it, head tilting to one side in amusement that radiated across the distance. Like it was nothing more than a child’s toy.

  Several of his men made the sign of the Six against their chest even as Killian shot three more arrows in swift succession, but Rufina snatched them all from the air, her shoulders shaking with laughter that caught on the wind, filling Killian’s ears. The ears of his soldiers.

  Then she shouted, “One thousand gold coins to the one who brings me Killian Calorian’s head.” Her host shifted restlessly around her, and she laughed again. “Five thousand to the one who brings him to me alive.”

  Shit.

  Killian’s heart hammered against his ribs. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. Then he felt something shift. “Here they come.”

  Rufina snatched hold of her standard and lifted it into the air. With a roar, the enemy army charged past their queen, tripping and stumbling over one another in the deep snow, those who fell crushed beneath the snowshoes of the thousands who followed. An inky tide crossing the white snow.

  “Steady!” Killian bellowed over the noise, watching the approach. Waiting for the right moment. “Shoot!”

  The air filled with the twang of longbows, and a heartbeat later the front ranks of the enemy fell, screams echoing up to the top of the wall.

  “Shoot!”

  Volley after volley, and then the enemy hit the wall, grappling hooks launching upward, indiscriminately catching against flesh and rock, men screaming as the ropes dragged them down even as the enemy began to climb those that held true.

  The Mudamorian soldiers drew their blades, cutting through ropes, dozens of enemy dropping to their deaths on the ranks clustered below even as more of Killian’s men poured the vats of boiling water down on their heads.

  Screams.