He looked away, unable to stop images of Lydia healing orphan children in the sewers beneath Mudaire from crossing through his mind. Her unwillingness to let any of them suffer while she had the strength to save them. Hegeria had chosen well when she’d chosen Lydia, but it was the men in power around her whom Killian feared.
“She was marked to serve the followers of the Six,” Dareena said softly. “As were you. And I know it grieves you that her path is not at your side, but that doesn’t mean you stop walking. Serrick has put you in a position where you can truly make a difference to Mudamora. Don’t squander it.”
Before he could answer, a group of armed soldiers approached the fire, their ranks parting to reveal King Serrick himself. It was the first time Killian had seen the man since he’d offered Killian the opportunity to follow in his father’s footsteps and command the Royal Army. It had been his dream since he was a child, but he wished it were under the rule of a different king.
Or queen.
Dareena rose, and Killian joined her, bowing low.
“You’ve both served Mudamora well,” Serrick said. “The Derin army is little more than corpses on the ground, and those who remain alive flee back across the wall. The war is won.”
It doesn’t feel won.
Clearing his throat, Killian said, “I’d like to take five hundred men and press into Derin territory, Your Grace. For Rufina to have brought so many men across the Liratoras suggests they have a xenthier stem at their disposal, and we need to secure it lest she bring more men to make another attempt.”
“With thirty thousand dead, I think not even that witch capable of rallying another host so soon,” Serrick answered. “And we’ve more pressing concerns.”
How anything could be more pressing, Killian didn’t know. “Your Grace—”
“Anukastre has taken advantage of our distraction, and their raiders successfully stole a great deal of gold from one of our mines,” Serrick interrupted. “Five hundred men you will have, but it will be to lead south to put an end to the raiders.”
Killian stared at him. “You want me to protect your gold mines?” Gold mines that sat along the southern border between Mudamora and Anukastre, which meant they were about as far from Mudaire—and Lydia—as one could get.
“Mudamora’s gold mines,” Serrick answered, his face devoid of expression. “And it is gold that the kingdom sorely needs to rebuild. Unlike the remaining rabble of the Derin army, the Anuk are a true threat, which means I must send my strongest to meet them with force.”
“But—”
“The gods chose me to rule this kingdom, Lord Calorian. And to lead its marked. Select your forces and do it quickly, because at dawn, you ride for the Rowenes stronghold of Rotahn.”
8MARCUS
Sitting on a stool back in his tent, Marcus stared blindly at the three remaining chests of coins he had in his possession. Two silver. One gold.
The silver would all go to paying the men their next round of wages, the pittance they received for endlessly risking their lives in the name of the Empire. It was in his power to withhold the coin, if needed for other purposes, but he’d never done so and wouldn’t now.
“Sir?”
He turned his head to see one of his men step inside, paper grasped in his hand. “Yes?”
“Racker sent a count,” the young man answered, approaching to hand Marcus the papers. “And a letter arrived for you, origins unknown.”
Nodding, Marcus waited until the soldier had retreated out of the tent, then unfolded the first scrap of paper, recognizing the Thirty-Seventh’s head surgeon’s precise scrawl.
Two hundred thirty-three.
His chest hollowed, but he shoved away the grief in favor of retrieving a piece of paper in his own hand that sat waiting on the table. He added the number to it, then finalized the mathematics.
It was a start. In truth, a start greater than he’d hoped possible, but only if this gambit worked.
Marcus took several gulps of water from the cup sitting next to him, about to rise, when his gaze fell on the other letter that had arrived. Specifically, on the purple seal stamped in the shape of a flower.
Picking it up, he cracked the wax and unfolded the thick paper, a separate scrap falling loose onto the table as he did. The letter was written in Trader’s Tongue, or Mudamorian, as he’d come to know it—the language spread across all of Reath by virtue of the Maarin’s use of it. He spoke it well enough, but reading it was another matter, and he sorely wished Teriana was here. For more reasons than just his need for a translator.
Greetings to Marcus, Commander of the Armies of the Celendor Empire,
We have recently learned of your arrival on the shores of Arinoquia and of your desire to facilitate trade between the nations of the West and your homeland. It is our sincerest wish to come to a peaceable and mutually profitable arrangement between our nations. We are desirous of meeting you face-to-face to discuss terms—a meeting we look to with great anticipation.
Her Royal Majesty, Queen Erdene of Katamarca
He’d hoped for this. Katamarca was not a military power, but they were the breadbasket of the Southern Continent. An alliance with them would be advantageous on many levels. Then his eyes went to the letter’s postscript.
Please find enclosed a token of our goodwill.
Frowning, he picked up the scrap of paper that had been included with the letter, turning it over. It was written in an unfamiliar language, which he surmised was Katamarcan. But he didn’t need to understand what was written to recognize the handwriting. Or the name signed at the bottom.
Teriana, of the Quincense
His stomach hollowed, his fingers feeling the texture of the paper, which was identical to that the legions used. And written in pencil, rather than ink. Supplies
