“Is there something particular you’re looking for?” the young healer asked.
“No.” She trailed her fingers along the spines. “I find the books calming.”
Which was true. The smell of leather and paper and ink filled her nose, and her body and mind immediately abandoned the tension she’d been holding since she’d left the Royal Army’s camp. Since she’d left Killian standing in the mud and the snow.
This is where I’m meant to be.
15MARCUS
Ignoring the protests of the men on guard duty, Marcus left camp, heading through the darkness and rain toward the glow of Aracam. It was his men on guard at the city’s gates, and he ignored their mutters about escorts and dangers as he stepped through the narrow door to the left of the closed portcullis.
Like most large cities, Aracam never really slept, music and laughter spilling out of alehouses and inns and brothels. Voices spoke in a mixture of Cel and Arinoquian, a good portion of the patrons legion men on their night off, though he recognized several of Ereni’s soldiers stumbling down the street, arm in arm. Devoid of regalia and cloaked by darkness and rain, no one recognized him, and therefore no one paid him any mind, which was to his liking.
He strode through the narrow streets toward the center of the city, keeping his head down as he passed a patrol made up of Titus’s men. They grunted greetings, their attention more for the shadows between buildings than him.
Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating the towers of the god circle, and the rain intensified, clinking off his armor and overflowing the gutters that funneled water to the sea. It drove anyone loitering on the streets inside, and soon it felt as though he were alone in the ancient city with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.
Reaching the circle, Marcus walked around the perimeter, checking the doors on each, but finding all of them locked. On the Seventh god’s temple—made of glossy black stone—he noted there was no door, only a solid base, and he circled it, trailing his fingers against the slick surface, his skin turning numb with cold.
Shivering, he went to the platform at the center of the circle where Urcon had been executed and climbed the steps. Rain had long since washed away the blood, but as he blinked, Marcus saw the axe descending on the man’s neck. The spray of crimson. The severed head in Ereni’s hand.
A puppet tyrant.
The moment he’d come face-to-face with Urcon, he’d known it was impossible the ancient man was working alone. His body had been incredibly frail and his mind plagued with dementia, but what had troubled Marcus more was that the man was ill-cared for. Filthy and dressed in torn clothing, they’d found him alone in the royal bedchambers surrounded by plates of moldering food and buckets of his own waste, seemingly unaware that Aracam had fallen.
Marcus’s first assumption had been that Urcon’s underlings had merely carried on as they’d been doing when their master had begun to fail, using his name for authority and keeping his condition a secret lest they lose their power. But with Teriana’s confession, he now suspected there had been only one puppet master: Ashok.
With Urcon dead, the creature had lost its power, and Marcus had no doubt that it was not best pleased. Would it seek revenge? Or would it seek to regain the power it had lost?
Sitting on the edge of the platform, Marcus leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the dark towers. Lightning flickered every few seconds, illuminating the faces that had been carved into them; each time they appeared to be in a slightly different position. The effect was unnerving.
“I’m not here to fight you,” he said softly, goose bumps rising to his skin with the sense they were watching him. “But I can’t go back. I won’t.”
The familiar clack of steel tread against stone stole his attention from the towers as a lone legionnaire approached him from behind, and a mixture of emotion filled him. Marcus turned, opening his mouth to speak and then stopped short when he saw that the individual was Servius.
“You look disappointed,” his big friend said, rising the platform steps.
Marcus shrugged. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was.” The wood creaked as Servius sat. “But then you decided to go on one of your brooding solo walkabouts, and someone had to track you down. Felix didn’t think you would want it to be him. He right about that?”
Marcus didn’t respond, because he wasn’t entirely certain of the answer.
“Men guarding the command tent said you got into it with Teriana and stomped off,” Servius continued. “There anyone you aren’t quarreling with?”
“You?”
“Nope. After that shit you pulled today with the clans, we are most definitely quarreling. And will remain so until you apologize. Sir.”
“I don’t see why you’re complaining,” Marcus growled. “You wanted more coin for supplies. I got it for you.”
Servius crossed his arms.
“You knowing wouldn’t have changed how things went.”
“The words you are looking for are: ‘I’m sorry for being a deceptive prick and scaring the shit out of you, Servius. It will never happen again.’”
“I’m not saying that.”
Servius lifted his shoulders. “That’s your choice.”
Lightning fractured the sky, and a heartbeat later, thunder boomed. Sheets of rain fell, slapping him in the face. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
“‘I’m sorry for being—’”
“Don’t push your luck.”
They sat in the rain for a few minutes, then Servius said, “Don’t suppose I could convince you to brood somewhere dry? Preferably a place with food, drink, and pretty girls? I know a brothel—”
“I’m not interested in brothels.”
“Then I guess your argument with Teriana wasn’t that serious.”
“It was serious,” Marcus muttered. “She’s been holding back information. Important information.”
“And this was a revelation to you?” Servius let out a loud laugh, his shoulders shaking. “Allow me to remind you that we are her enemy, Marcus. Well, maybe not us, specifically, but certainly Cassius and the Senate. And whether we want to
