Dark Shores Read online

  A serpentine shadow rose up from the depths, ending their conversation. “There they are,” her mum said. “Let’s see what Bait has found for us.”

  “Took your time, boy!” Tesya shouted once they broke the surface.

  Bait grinned from where he sat on the guardian’s back, gloved hands gripping Magnius’s rear dorsal spike. “Sorry, Captain, she was deeper than I thought.”

  “Broken up?”

  “Not too badly, though it looks like they went down quickly. Hold’s intact.”

  “And?”

  Bait shrugged. “Plenty of silks and fabrics; we can bring them up, but I doubt they can be salvaged.”

  Tesya swore and slammed her fist down on the rail.

  “And a chest full of these.” Bait stood up on the guardian’s broad back, and as they passed by the ship he revealed a handful of glittering green emeralds.

  Tesya hooted with delight, the watching crew echoing her. Teriana added her voice to the racket, but her relief at seeing Bait back above water far eclipsed her enthusiasm for the gemstones. As Magnius lazily circled the ship, Bait met her gaze and shot her a smile. Before she could smile back, a hand shoved her shoulders, sending her toppling off the railing. Teriana managed one shocked shriek of laughter before plunging under the surface of the water.

  Rising on a swell, she heard her mum shout, “Ready the equipment, my friends; we’ve got a cargo to bring up!”; then Bait’s hand was reaching toward her, pulling her onto Magnius’s back. The guardian’s skin was cold and rough against hers, but Bait’s hand was warm.

  “What took you so long?” she asked once she was settled. “Was starting to worry.”

  Bait frowned. “I can take care of myself, Teriana.”

  “Aye. Only … you were down there an awfully long time.”

  “Didn’t seem long.” He scratched his head. “Something about the ship didn’t seem right.”

  “How so?”

  “Something about the way she sank…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Bait!” They both looked up to see Tesya leaning over the railing. “Did you see any sign of the captain? Big man, black beard?”

  “Aye, Captain. I saw him.”

  “Well, then be a good lad and retrieve the rings on his fingers. Likely you’ll need to cut them off.”

  The Quincense’s diver grimaced.

  “If you bring him up, I’ll do it,” Teriana whispered, keeping her face lowered so her mum wouldn’t hear.

  “I can do it myself.”

  “He’s dead,” Tesya shouted. “He’s beyond caring if his fingers are attached or not.”

  Refusing to meet Teriana’s gaze, Bait said, “It’s not that, Captain. I was a mind to take them while I was down there, but before I could get to it, Magnius ate him.”

  Tesya swore. “We’d be as rich as kings if we could find a way to attach a sack to the old man’s rear end.” Leaning over the railing even farther, she pointed a finger at the guardian. “It’s a wonder you still keep up to the ship with the way your eyes are always searching for your next meal, you gluttonous overgrown sea snake.”

  Bait and Teriana howled with laughter right up to the point when Magnius rolled, spilling them both into the water. Magnius’s black eyes rarely showed much in the way of emotion, but Teriana swore the guardian gave her a look of indignation before diving into the depths.

  Bait looked ready to follow him when the lookout bells clanged a warning. “White sails two points off the starboard bow!”

  And then a heartbeat later, the lookout added, “She flies the Celendorian dragon.”

  8

  MARCUS

  Marcus brushed an invisible fleck of dust off his armor, half-listening to the thousands of men readying themselves throughout the camp. After three months of languishing outside of Celendrial, today they would vote in the elections. And if all went according to plan, Lucius Cassius would become consul.

  “Ready?” Servius came into the tent, helmet in one hand.

  Marcus cracked his neck, then nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “I’ve got your horse outside,” Servius said. “Made sure he was given a good brushing, then I took him down to the ocean and scrubbed him within an inch of his life. Bugger is as clean as a whistle. Still a bit damp, but he’ll be dry by the time we get to the gates.”

  “I thought you were avoiding the ocean?” Marcus asked, fighting to keep a smile off his face. Servius’s phobia of sea creatures had only increased since the rumor had passed through the camp that there was a monster living in the Celendrial harbor.

  “Oh, well.” Servius rolled his wide shoulders so that his armor settled more comfortably. “I figured any sea monster worth its salt would prefer your horse to me. And besides, you’re the first of us that the people will see—can’t have you riding a grubby steed. Would make us look bad.”

  “Thank you for safeguarding my image.” Marcus clapped a hand against his friend’s shoulder and stepped out of the tent. He doubted anyone would notice the cleanliness of his horse, but they would certainly notice a legatus who sneezed every two strides. He idly wondered how many times over the years Servius and Felix had helped hide his illnesses. Without them, he wouldn’t have made it through the first year of basic.

  Taking the reins, he swung into the saddle and started through camp. In the distance, Felix was on horseback, shouting instructions to the men. They were already in march formation, but at the sight of Marcus shoulders squared and lines straightened. He scanned the ranks, noting with pride that they showed no sign of having lost their edge in their months of leisure. They looked as sharp and ready as ever. He trotted his horse to the front of their line, each century saluting him in unison as he passed, the sounds of fists striking armored chests echoing across the hills.

  The line of men stretched down the Via Metelli, but it wasn’t long before he could see the Thirty-Seventh’s gleaming dragon standard marking the front. “All is in order?” he asked Servius, who, despite sitting a horse about as well as a sack of potatoes, had managed to make it there ahead of him.

  “Yes, sir. Ready to show that blasted piss hole of a city what a real legion looks like.”

  Marcus lifted a hand to get the attention of the line. “Let’s have some music, shall we?” he shouted. “Something triumphant.” Wheeling his horse around, he started at a fast walk down the road. Drums and horns blared to life behind him, but they seemed loud only until the rhythmic beat of the marching legion drowned them out.

  Though he’d never admit it aloud, Celendrial did need a taste of what it felt like to be marched on. The city deserved to feel the force of what it had created.

  It seemed to take an eternity to reach the Forum, even once they entered the city. Marcus refused to look to either side, fixating on the never-ending streets rather than the never-ending sets of unwelcoming eyes. He could feel their judgment thick upon his skin, and he wanted to scream, “These are your sons! Sons you served up to the Senate.” Only there was no point. They had all washed themselves clean of the children they had given up—thanks to Chersome, there was no pride in claiming a son belonging to the Thirty-Seventh.

  When Marcus reached the great Forum square, he and his officers trotted to the far side to stand before the rostrum, stairs arching up both sides toward the marble poll. Golden tubes exited the small structure, leading to massive cisterns labeled with the candidates’ names. The structure was designed so that it was impossible to see where an individual vote went but allowed anyone to see who was in the lead. Marcus glanced surreptitiously at the cisterns: it appeared Cassius was in second place behind an Optimate named Basilius, though the votes were close. If the Thirty-Seventh all voted for Cassius, he would win. Whether that was a good thing or a bad Marcus wasn’t sure.

  The legion syphoned into the Forum, arranging themselves into neat rows until the square was full of young men. Seeing they were all settled, Marcus held up one hand, silencing the music
. Then he dismounted and strode toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the silent Forum. An official standing at the base handed him a token, and he walked swiftly up the steps and into the little building. It had an open roof, the sunlight bright on the list of six names cast in stone across the raised table. Beneath each name was a hole where the voter was to drop his token.

  Marcus stared at the names. Were these other men better or worse than Cassius? Better for the Empire, maybe, but not for him. Not for his legion. His stomach felt in ropes and the token grew slick with sweat from his palm. He tried to imagine a circumstance where he was voting without the pressure of blackmail to guide his choice. Would he vote for Cassius then? Or a circumstance where he wasn’t a soldier—just a common citizen. Who would he vote for?

  Tapping the token against the table, Marcus took a deep breath. What-ifs didn’t matter; what mattered was what was. Holding up the sweaty token, he dropped it into the hole. It clattered down the tube and into the cistern below.

  When he came out, his attention went immediately to the steps of the Curia, its towering columns running the length of the Forum. They’d been empty before, but now they held a dozen toga-clad patricians, Cassius among them.

  “Well, that wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it would be,” Servius said, coming up behind him. His friend had already voted, clearly not lingering on the decision as Marcus had. “This is going to take forever.”

  “Keep it orderly,” Marcus replied absently, starting across the Forum toward the senators.

  The senators were broken into two groups, one surrounding Cassius and one surrounding Basilius. Only one woman was present, a willowy girl with porcelain skin and black hair that was braided into a coronet around her head. Judging from the way Senator Valerius hovered next to her, this was the foster daughter Cassius was marrying in exchange for Valerius’s support.

  “Legatus,” Cassius said as he approached. Marcus nodded in greeting. Basilius’s shoulders jerked as he realized that Marcus and Cassius were acquainted, the implications dawning on him.

  “Lydia, darling,” Cassius said. “This is Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh Legion. Legatus, Lydia is my intended, and I’m sure you know her father, Senator Valerius.”

  “Senator,” Marcus said, inclining his head. “Domina.” He didn’t bother congratulating her on the forthcoming nuptials. The way she recoiled from Cassius’s greasy grip on her skinny arm was telling. Her father appeared deeply unwell, his skin sallow and dripping sweat despite the servants vigorously fanning the party.

  The girl, whose slanted eyes had a peculiar luster—like shards of quartz—turned her head to regard him. “It appears your legion favors Lucius, Legatus. Though I suppose that’s unsurprising given that he favors the legions.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Cassius’s face darken but he answered anyway. “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. “The sort who desires to save the world? Or to save himself?”

  “That’s enough, Lydia,” Senator Valerius said, taking his foster daughter by the arm. “Perhaps we might go inside out of the heat. Excuse us.”

  “Apologies,” Cassius said, taking a glass beaded with condensation from a servant. “She’s yet to realize that her company would be more desirable if she kept silent.” His eyes never left the cistern or the legionnaires efficiently filing up and down the steps.

  Marcus said nothing, the girl the least of his concerns. Even from here, he could see Cassius’s cistern slowly filling, with no change in those of the other candidates. Within a half hour, Cassius was in the lead, and half the legion had yet to vote. The polls closed at sunset, and by then Cassius would unofficially be consul.

  Basilius and his friends knew it, too. Marcus watched them whisper angrily to one another; then Basilius was walking toward him. “Fool of a boy,” the senator barked. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Marcus stared back at him, silent.

  “You’re barely more than a child, and you come home thinking you can do this … this…” Basilius waved a hand at the cisterns. “You know nothing of anything but killing, you ignorant—” He broke off, pressing a hand to his chest, head shaking rapidly. “There will be a reckoning for this, mark my words.” Basilius and his friends stormed back into the building.

  “Some people handle defeat poorly,” Cassius remarked, a faint smile crawling across his face. “But you don’t know much about defeat, do you?”

  “Or about much of anything, apparently,” Marcus replied, keeping his voice light. The senator’s words troubled him—it was as if the man had heard every doubt that had run through his mind while holding that blasted token.

  “Ignore him,” Cassius snapped. “He’s an old doddering fool.”

  Marcus watched the procession until the last of his men had trooped through to vote, the horns blasting to indicate the polls had closed. He wanted to be away from this conversation, from this place. “It’s finished,” he said a little too quickly. “We’ll excuse ourselves from the city and return to camp. Consul,” he added, with a slight incline of his head. For better or worse, Cassius was in power now.

  Cassius licked his lips. “Indeed. Send them back, but I want you to stay. We’ve business to discuss.”

  Marcus kept his face still, but his stomach twisted. “With the Senate?”

  “No,” Cassius replied. “You and I. Attend me at my villa within the hour.” Not waiting for a response, he strolled into the Senate, leaving Marcus alone on the steps.

  * * *

  Marcus found Cassius in his home, once again sprawled across a divan. “I see your promptness is improving, Legatus.” The soon-to-be consul chuckled. “I’ll have you trained yet.”

  A statement that implied that Cassius had further use of him. Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Why am I here? I gave you what you wanted.”

  “Unfortunately, your manners still need work.” Cassius shook his head. “I suppose blood isn’t everything.”

  “Or anything at all.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Heaving himself to his feet, Cassius gestured to the far door. “If you’d come with me, I think now is an appropriate time to discuss how I might reward you and your men for your solidarity.”

  “Keep your money. Just have the Senate send us back to the field. Preferably somewhere far from here.”

  “I thought you might say something like that, Legatus. And as your reward, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”

  Curiosity piqued despite himself, Marcus followed Cassius into the next room. In its center was a large table covered with maps and parchment. The senator poured two glasses of yellow wine, handing one to Marcus. “What would you say if I offered you the opportunity to lead an army on the most ambitious mission undertaken in the history of the Celendor Empire?”

  Marcus’s fingers twitched, and though he rarely drank, he took a large mouthful of wine. “I’m listening.”

  Cassius gestured to a large map dominating the table. Heedlessly setting his cup on a pile of parchment, Marcus took in the totality of the Empire, which was wrought in exquisite detail. The writing was in the Trader’s Tongue spoken by the Maarin—a language of which he only knew a few phrases, not having had much contact with the Maarin, despite his travels. “How did you come by this?” Marcus asked. “Any Maarin captain would rather lose a hand than give up a map.”

  “Let’s just say the captain in question lost more than his hand.”

  Marcus felt his eyes drawn away from the map until they came to rest on Cassius’s face. The senator wore a cruel smile as he said, “Legatus, it is long past time the Maarin were brought to heel.”

  War with the Maarin? The seafaring race was the only nation of people not under the dominion of the Empire, and the Senate had never shown any inclinati
on to change that relationship. For one, the Maarin had no known lands for the Empire to claim, and two, the Senate made a tidy profit off of a tax the Maarin paid as the price for their uncontested liberty. For the Senate, above all else, was ruled by profit, and the Maarin were consummate business people. Starting a war with them would cost everyone money, and trying to make them sail under Cel command would, in Marcus’s opinion, be far more headache than it was worth. And given the general goodwill the plebs held toward the Maarin, causing them trouble for no reason other than to put a leash on them smacked of political suicide. “To what end would the Senate consider such a move?”

  “To the end of the world.” Reaching out with one hand, Cassius unfolded the map, smoothing it flat against the table. “Behold, the Dark Shores of Reath.”

  Marcus sucked in a deep breath.

  The world had suddenly become a lot larger.

  Two continents, one in the north and one in the south, plus several large islands, dominated the unfolded half of the map. He scanned the unfamiliar names, his mind racing. “Are they inhabited?”

  “Indeed. The crew we captured were reticent about providing details, but the maps and ledgers pulled from the hidden compartments on their ship provided a wealth of information. It will be no easy conquest, but well worth it in the end.”

  Marcus’s heart skipped, the chance to go to a place he’d never seen—never heard of—before more alluring than all the riches or girls in the Empire. Except there were two large and wet problems that his mind couldn’t get past. “These are to scale?”

  “They are.”

  Marcus shook his head. “What you suggest is impossible, then. Even if the Maarin can show us a way across the Endless Seas, it would take months over open water. Half my army would be dead from starvation or disease by the time we got there. The rest would be in no condition to fight.”

  “I’m not suggesting you sail directly across.”

  Marcus’s brows rose. “Xenthier?”

  Xenthier could transport both man and beast from one place to the next in a matter of moments, and it had been integral to the success of Celendor’s conquests since the dawn of the Empire. Marcus could move his whole legion a thousand miles in a matter of hours, men and supplies transported between provinces as easily as game pieces on a board. There were dozens of mapped veins of xenthier crystal crisscrossing the Empire, all heavily fortified, the Senate using them for its own purposes, traders and travelers paying heavy tolls for the privilege. But the paths only flowed in one direction, like arteries, so consuls regularly sent men through unmapped stems with the promise of riches if they returned with answers as to where the xenthier had landed them. It was entirely possible one of them had made it to the Dark Shores. But none had ever found a route back.