“Spare a copper?” the child said, her voice high-pitched and sweet. “A crust of bread?”
Instinct had Lydia reaching for her saddlebags to retrieve the girl something to eat, but Quindor caught hold of her wrist. “Look,” he said. “Allow Hegeria’s mark to show you the truth.”
Lydia turned her head back to the child, seeing that the girl’s dark eyes were fixed on her. Her skin was pale, but her face bore none of the black veins of blight that marred the flesh of the infected who’d attacked the night of Malahi’s ball. Neither was she a mindless thing like those that had pursued them through the tunnels beneath the palace, intent on nothing but slaughter. There was intelligence in this girl’s eyes. Thought.
“Look,” Quindor repeated.
Lydia stared back into the eyes of the child, her skin turning to ice. All living creatures glowed with an ethereal mist of life that only those marked by Hegeria could see. Quindor and the soldiers, as well as the horses, radiated it, but the girl standing before them had no more life in her than the stones beneath her feet. A walking corpse.
“The blight is evolving,” Quindor said, then he nodded at the guard. “Put it down.”
“No!” Lydia protested, but the Grand Master grabbed the reins of her horse to keep her from intervening as the soldier pulled his sword.
The girl’s eyes widened with fear, and she turned and sprinted toward an alley. But the soldier’s horse was faster. A flash of a blade. A gush of blood.
A child’s head rolling across the snow.
“Burn it.” Quindor’s voice was toneless.
Another of the soldiers dismounted to pour oil over the corpse, including the head, and then touched his torch to it. Flames burst bright.
Nausea rose in Lydia’s stomach, her skin simultaneously hot and cold, but Quindor’s words tore her eyes from the sight.
“The war isn’t over,” he said. “It has only just begun. And this”—he gestured at the inferno—“is a battle Hegeria’s Marked must fight.” His gaze fixed on hers. “That’s why you are here.”
They dismounted in the middle of the city’s god circle, and several of the soldiers took the reins of the horses to bring them to the stables at the palace, the only place secure enough to protect them from slaughter.
The doors to the temple opened as they approached, heavily armed soldiers in the company of two young healers inspecting their party before they were allowed to enter.
“Welcome back, Grand Master,” both of the young healers said, inclining their heads respectfully, and Quindor smiled affectionately at both as he led Lydia inside.
The last time she’d been here was to deliver Gwen into the temple’s care, and the scene was much changed. Instead of the foyer being filled with rows of cots, it was empty of everything except for soldiers, all of the men wearing coats marked with Hegeria’s half-moon. What windows the main level had once possessed had been bricked over. The temple was now a fortress.
“Do the blighters try to get inside?” she asked, heart beating a rapid staccato as she remembered the waves of them tumbling through the trapdoor into the palace tunnels, their endless pursuit.
“Not yet,” the young healer answered. “But Hegeria’s Marked alone see them for what they are, so it’s in their best interest to kill us. We think they’re waiting for an opportune moment.”
“Shush now,” Quindor said. “I’d hear a proper report, not inflated rumors. Come, Lydia. I’ll show you to your quarters and after you’ve had a chance to settle, we will discuss the matter of the infected.”
The blight is evolving. Quindor’s words echoed through her thoughts as she followed him to a curved staircase, leading her upward. They climbed to the fifth floor before turning down a hallway, which circled the tower.
“The dormitories,” he said, then led her past a dozen closed doors before stopping before one marked with a 37. “This will be your room. You are responsible for keeping it clean and for your own laundry. Attend me in my office in an hour so that we might discuss your role.”
“Yes, Grand Master,” she answered, but Quindor was already swiftly retreating up the corridor, so she went inside.
It was small—more cell than room, in her opinion, with a narrow cot against the wall, a rickety wardrobe against the other, as well as a wash table on which a basin filled with water sat. The grey stone of the floor was softened only by the presence of a threadbare carpet, but the blankets on the bed appeared soft and warm. A set of folded white garments sat on the blankets, and Lydia picked them up. A thick robe. A white cotton shift. A woven belt. And on the floor, three pairs of black boots of various sizes.
Lydia methodically stripped off her dirty clothing, leaving it in a pile. Goose bumps rose on her skin as she crossed the frigid floor to stand naked in front of the wash table. There was a mirror on the wall—nothing more than a polished piece of metal—and Lydia stared at her reflection. Her hair was tangled and filthy, her skin marked with dirt. And beneath the filth, her cheeks were hollow, her eyes shadowed and sunken from exhaustion and fear and grief. But what drew her eye was the half-moon that Quindor himself had tattooed onto her forehead during the journey back from Alder’s Ford. This was the first time she’d seen it, and she traced a fingernail over the design, reminded, briefly, of how the Empire marked the men in its legions.
And thought of the legions pulled Teriana into the forefront of her mind. Her best friend, who was the prisoner of the young man who’d tried to murder Lydia on Lucius Cassius’s orders. Please watch over her, she prayed to the Six. Don’t let him hurt her.
Pouring water into the basin, she picked up the cloth and bar of soap sitting next to it and began to scrub her face,
