“It’s okay, Thrace. It’s okay.”
The empress frowned. “You have to stop calling me that.” She looked up at her. “Thrace is dead.”
CHAPTER 16
THE VILLAGE
It was perpetually twilight. The jungle’s canopy blocked what little sunlight managed to penetrate the rain clouds. A hazy mist shrouded their surroundings and intensified the deeper they pressed into the jungle. Exotic plants with stalks the size of men’s legs towered overhead. Huge leaves adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant flowers of purple, yellow, and red surrounded the party. It all left Hadrian feeling small, shrunken to the size of an insect or crawling across the floor of a giant’s forest.
Rain constantly plagued them. Water danced on a million leaves, sounding like thunder. When actual thunder cracked, it was the voice of a god. Everything was wet. Clothes stuck to their skin and hung like weights. Boots squished audibly with every step. Their hands were wrinkled like those of old men.
Royce rode on the back of a gunguan, what the Vintu called the pack ponies. He was awake but weak. A day had passed since the attack, because Wesley had insisted on burying Staul. Their new captain had proclaimed he would not allow the beasts to have a taste of any of his crew, and he insisted on a deep grave. No one had complained about the strenuous work of cutting through the thick mat of roots. Hadrian doubted Wesley really cared about the fate of Staul’s carcass, but the work granted Royce time to rest, kept the crew busy, and affirmed Wesley’s commitment to them. Hadrian thought once again about the similarities between the midshipman and his famous brother.
Royce traveled wrapped in his cloak with the weight of the rain collapsing the hood around his head—not a good sign for Thranic and Bernie. Until then, Royce had played the part of the good little sailor, but with the reemergence of the hood, and the loss of his white kerchief, Hadrian knew that role had ended. They had not spoken much since the attack. Not surprisingly, Royce was in no mood for idle discussion. Hadrian guessed that by now his friend had imagined killing Thranic a dozen times, with a few Bernies thrown in here and there for variety. Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning—only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.
Thranic, Defoe, and Levy traveled at the end of the train and Hadrian often caught them whispering. They wisely kept their distance, avoiding attention. Wesley led the party along with Dilladrum, who made a point of not taking sides or venturing anything remotely resembling an opinion. Dilladrum remained jolly as always and focused his attention on the Vintu.
Hadrian was most surprised with Derning. When Royce had been most vulnerable, his shipboard nemesis had come to his aid rather than taking advantage. Hadrian would have bet money that on the subject of Royce’s guilt, Derning would have sided with Thranic. Wyatt had never had the chance to find out his reason for volunteering, but now more than ever Hadrian was convinced Derning was not part of Thranic’s band. There was no doubt that Antun Bulard was a member of Thranic’s troop, but the old man lacked the ruthlessness of the others. He was merely a resource. After showing an interest, Hadrian became Bulard’s new best friend.
“Look! Look there.” Bulard pointed to a brilliant flower blooming overhead. The old man took to walking beside Hadrian, sharing his sense of discovery along the way. “Gorgeous, simply gorgeous. Have you ever seen the like? I daresay I haven’t. Still, that isn’t saying much, now is it?”
Bulard reminded Hadrian of a long-haired cat, with his usually billowing robe and fluffy white hair deflated in the rain, leaving a remarkably thin body. He held up a withered hand to protect his eyes as he searched the trees.
“Another one of those wonderful long-beaked birds,” the historian said. “I love the way they hover.”
Hadrian smiled at him. “It’s not that you don’t mind the rain that amazes me. It’s that you don’t seem to notice it at all.”