Not if it makes you want to get an inch closer to me. “Civil war matters more than my hygiene, your Imperial Majesty. How may I be of service?”
“You mean beyond catching the Empire’s top fugitive?” Marcus’s sarcasm is undercut by the hatred in his piss-yellow eyes.
“I was close to catching him,” I say. “But you called me back. I suggest you tell me what you need so that I can return to the hunt.”
I see his blow coming but still lose my breath when it lands on my jaw. A hot rush of blood fills my mouth. I make myself swallow it.
“Don’t cross me.” Marcus’s spit lands on my face. “You are my Blood Shrike. The sword that executes my will.” He takes a sheet of parchment and slams it down on a table beside us.
“Ten Gens,” he says. “All Illustrian. Four have banded together with Gens Rufia. They propose an Illustrian candidate to replace me as Emperor. The other five offer their own Paters for the throne. All have sent assassins after me. I want a public execution and their heads on pikes in front of the palace by tomorrow morning. Understood?”
“Do you have proof—”
“He doesn’t need proof.” The Commandant, lurking silently near the door beside Harper, cuts me off. “These Gens have attacked the imperial house, as well as Gens Veturia. They openly call for the Emperor to be ousted. They are traitors.”
“Are you an oath-breaker, too?” Marcus says to me. “Shall I toss you off Cardium Rock and shame your name for five generations, Shrike? I hear the Rock thirsts for the blood of traitors. For the more it drinks, the stronger the Empire grows.”
Cardium Rock is a cliff near the palace with a pit of bones at its base. It’s used to execute only one kind of criminal: traitors to the throne.
I make myself examine the list of names. Some of these Gens are as powerful as Gens Aquilla. A few even more so. “Your Majesty, perhaps we can try to negotiate—”
Marcus closes the space between us. And though my mouth still bleeds from his last attack, I hold my ground. I will not let him cow me. I force myself to look up into his eyes, only to suppress a shudder at what I see within: a controlled sort of madness, a rage that needs only the smallest spark to ignite into a conflagration.
“Your father tried to negotiate.” Marcus crowds me until my back is against a wall. The Commandant watches, bored. Harper looks away. “His unending blathering only gave the traitorous Gens time to find more allies, to attempt more assassinations. Do not speak to me of negotiation. I didn’t survive the hell of Blackcliff to negotiate. I didn’t go through those bleeding Trials so I could negotiate. I didn’t kill—”
He stops. A powerful and unexpected grief suffuses his body, as if another person deep within is attempting to get out. A tendril of fear unfurls in my belly. This is, perhaps, more terrifying than anything I’ve seen from Marcus yet. Because it makes him human.
“I will hold the throne, Blood Shrike,” he says quietly. “I’ve given up too much not to. Keep your vow to me, and I will bring order to this Empire. Betray me, and watch it burn.”
The Empire must come first—above your desires, your friendships, your wants. My father spoke so adamantly when I last saw him. I know what he’d say now. We are Aquilla, daughter. Loyal to the end.
I must do Marcus’s bidding. I must stop this civil war. Or the Empire will crumble under the weight of Illustrian greed.
I bow my head to Marcus. “Consider it done, your Majesty.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Laia
Laia,
The Soul Catcher tells me I do not have enough time to get Darin out of Kauf if I remain with Afya’s caravan. I’ll move twice as fast if I go ahead on my own, and by the time you reach Kauf, I’ll have found a way to break Darin out. We—or he, at least—will await you in the cave I told Afya about.
In case it doesn’t go as planned, use the map of Kauf that I drew and make a plan of your own in the time you have. If I fail, you must succeed—for your brother and for your people.
Whatever happens, remember what you told me: There is hope in life.
I hope I see you again.
—EV
Seven sentences.
Seven bleeding sentences after weeks of traveling together, of saving each other, of fighting and surviving. Seven sentences and then he disappears like smoke in a north wind.
Even now, four weeks after he’s gone, my anger flares and fury reddens my gaze. Forget that Elias did not say goodbye—he did not even give me a chance to object to his decision.
Instead he left a note. A pathetically short note.
I find that my jaw is tight, my hands in a white-knuckled grip on the bow I hold. Keenan sighs beside me, his arms crossed as he leans against a tree in the clearing we’ve taken over. He knows me by now. He knows what I’m thinking about that’s making me so angry.
“Focus, Laia.”
I try to push Elias from my mind and do as Keenan asks. I sight my target—an old bucket hanging from a scarlet-leafed maple—and let my arrow fly.
It misses.
Beyond the clearing, the Tribal wagons creak as the wind howls around them, an eerie sound that frosts my blood. Deep autumn already. And winter soon. Winter means snow. Snow means blocked mountain passes. And blocked passes mean not reaching Kauf, Darin, or Elias until spring.
“Stop worrying.” Keenan pulls my right arm taut as I draw the bowstring again. Warmth emanates from him, beating back the icy air. His touch on my bow arm sends a tingle all the way up my neck, and I’m certain he must notice it. He clears his throat, his strong hand holding mine steady. “Keep your shoulders back.”
“We shouldn’t have stopped so early.” My muscles burn, but at least I haven’t dropped the bow after ten minutes, like I did the first few times. We stand just outside the circle of wagons, making best use of the last scraps of daylight before the sun sinks into the forests to our west.
“It’s not even dark yet,” I add. “We could have crossed the river.” I look west, beyond the forest, to a square tower—a Martial garrison. “I’d like to put the river between us and them, anyway.” I put down the bow. “I’m going to talk to Afya—”
“I wouldn’t.” Izzi sticks her tongue out of the corner her mouth as she draws back her own bowstring a few yards away from me. “She’s in a mood.” Izzi’s target is an old boot atop a low-hanging branch. She’s graduated to using actual arrows. I’m still using blunted sticks so as not to accidentally murder anyone unfortunate enough to get in my way.
“She doesn’t like being so deep in the Empire. Or being within sight of the Forest.” Gibran, lounging on a tree stump near Izzi, nods at the northeastern horizon, where low green hills stretch, thick with old-growth trees. The Forest of Dusk is the sentinel on Marinn’s western border—one so effective that in five hundred years of Martial expansion, even the Empire hasn’t been able to penetrate it.
“You’ll see,” Gibran goes on. “When we cross the east branch north of here, she’ll be even grumpier than normal. Very superstitious, my sister.”
“Are you afraid of the Forest, Gibran?” Izzi surveys the distant trees curiously. “Have you ever gotten close?”
“Once,” Gibran says, and his ever-present humor fades. “All I remember is wanting to leave.”
“Gibran! Izzi!” Afya calls from across the camp. “Firewood!”
Gibran groans and flops his head back. As he and Izzi are the youngest in the caravan, Afya assigns them—and usually me—the most menial tasks: gathering firewood, doing the dishes, scrubbing the laundry.
“She might as well put bleeding slaves’ cuffs on us,” Gibran grumbles. Then a sly look crosses his face.
“Hit that shot”—Gibran flashes his lightning smile at Izzi, and a blush rises in her cheeks—“and I’ll gather firewood for a week. Miss, and it’s on you.”