Maybe not, but Marcus intended to try.
“If you’d give us a moment, Commandant,” his father said. “I wish to speak to my son alone.”
Wex leveled him with a long stare, then finally said, “There’s a reason we take them young, Senator. A reason we cut them off from their families. A reason we force them to forget. You are a liability they can’t afford.”
“You overstep, Commandant.”
“No, I don’t. These boys are mine to protect the moment they walk through the gates of Lescendor. And while I might not be privy to the details, I expect that it is because of you that much of this has come to pass, Domitius. Why else is your wife cleaning blood off your floor and your son dragging bodies down to the water to be fed to the sea? The peregrini curse Marcus’s name in the streets for raising Cassius to power, but I think if the truth were known, it would be the Domitius name they’d drag through the mud. And that maybe you’d deserve it.”
“Wex,” Marcus said softly. “It’s fine. Go ensure everyone is safe.”
“Just because you were born to them doesn’t make them your family,” Wex said. “Look to those who guard your back, not those who throw you to the wolves. Look to the Thirty-Seventh.” And without another word, he retreated into the garden.
The horse frisked beneath Marcus, sensing his apprehension as he waited for his father to speak.
Senator Domitius was silent for a long time, and then he said, “I should never have given you up to Lescendor. It is the greatest mistake of my life, and I will die regretting it.”
Staring at the black sea, Marcus allowed the words to sink into his soul. For most of his life, he’d dreamed of hearing them, but now that they’d been said, he found they changed nothing. Taking a deep breath, he dug his heels into the horse’s sides.
And he didn’t look back.
He rode at reckless speed, the horse sliding on the trail and nearly sending them both plunging to their deaths a dozen times, but Marcus couldn’t afford caution. Not with Hostus hunting at his heels.
He hit the beach and pushed the animal into a gallop, heading north, where he’d go around the outskirts of the city and head inland.
A hard two-day ride would take him to a genesis stem that led directly into the heart of Bardeen, only an hour’s gallop from Hydrilla and the stem that would take him back across the world. But Hostus would have contingencies in place in case his men failed in their assassination, and watching the road to that xenthier stem would be one of them. Which meant not only did Marcus need to come up with a different route to Hydrilla, that route needed to get him there faster than Hostus. And it needed to be one the other legatus would never predict.
Giving the horse its head, Marcus sank into his memories, drawing up a map of the Empire marked with the countless xenthier stems, the paths zigzagging across the continent.
And with that map in his mind, he plotted a route only a madman would dare take.
Dawn was glowing in the East when he reached the town of Alsium, his horse’s flanks drenched with sweat. He’d paused along the way only long enough to rid himself of the bloodstained formal attire and to don his armor, his red-and-gold cloak hanging over his mount’s hindquarters, the helmet signaling his rank heavy on his head.
The men on watch at the town gates saluted as he passed, and he trotted through the quiet streets, heading toward the fortress.
The gate was closed, but a man with a 13 stamped on his breastplate stepped out, yawning as he asked, “Number, rank, name, and the nature of your business?”
“37–1519,” he answered. “Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh. Passage to Timia.”
The legionnaire blinked once, then he peered at Marcus’s breastplate as though to confirm he was of the legion he claimed. A thousand questions formed in the man’s eyes, but his training did its duty. “Yes, sir. Open the gate!”
There was a scuffle of motion inside, then the gates swung open, revealing a large space, at the center of which stood a glittering stem of xenthier. Twelve more men of the Thirteenth encircled it, backs as straight as the spears they held, but they stepped aside as he approached.
Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to one of them, knowing he’d need a fresh mount once he reached Timia. Then, ignoring the prickle of fear creeping up his spine, he reached a hand out toward the stem.
White light flashed across his vision, then he was stumbling across sand instead of earth, in broad daylight rather than dawn.
“Welcome to Timia, sir,” a man with a 21 on his breastplate said.
“I need a horse.” Marcus shook his head to clear it. “A fast one, as my business is urgent.”
Mounted on the fresh animal, he galloped down the road, groves of fruit trees on either side, heading inland. It took less than an hour for the fortress to appear, and those manning the gates were infinitely more watchful than those back in Celendor. “37–1519!” he called in answer to their query. “Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh Legion. My business is in Denastres.”
The gate swung open, revealing a scene made different only by the smells in the air. Handing off his horse, Marcus passed those guarding the stem, took a deep breath, then reached out to touch it.
White light. Then rain splattered against his forehead as he staggered, a wash of dizziness hitting him.
He’d known this would happen.
Traveling through stems in swift succession was avoided because it caused unpleasant physical symptoms that could leave a man debilitated for days.
But that was a risk he needed to take.
“Welcome to Denastres, sir.”
Lightning crackled, and Marcus lifted his face to watch the storm overhead, a fierce wind driving sleet into his face. “I need a horse. Faster the better.”
He rode through the
