Page 124 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

MARCUS

You don’t lose, the voice whispered. Remind her of that!

Instead, Marcus gave his head a sharp shake, watching Teriana stride out of the throne room, not once looking back.

His gaze moved to the hair ornament sitting on the table before him, the gold glittering in the lamplight. Though there was no sound in the room, he swore he could hear the sea. Smell it. Taste it.

Reaching out, he touched the ornament, and Teriana’s voice echoed through his thoughts.

Hostus murdered my mother. Stabbed her right in front of me.

Guilt flooded over the top of his walls, choking him until he could barely breathe, and Marcus jerked his hand away from the ornament, the emotion receding.

Yet despite the misery the guilt delivered upon him, he felt the strangest compulsion to invite it back.

To feel it, because feeling nothing no longer brought the relief it once had.

The fists began their pounding on the walls again, a vicious hammering that made his head ache. That made him reach out.

Tentatively, he picked up the tiny ship, a shudder running through him as he heard Teriana say, We’ve always been destined to stand on opposite sides of the battlefield, and that time has come.

His hand trembled, the grief that consumed him a thousand times worse than when she’d left because he’d been so long without it.

The ornament dropped to the table with a metallic thud, Marcus sucking in mouthfuls of air until the numbness returned.

“Sir?”

He lifted his head to see Gibzen approaching, eyes narrowed as he asked, “Everything all right?”

“Fine.”

“What did she want?”

Marcus’s lips parted to tell his primus why Teriana had been here, but then he shook his head. “Nothing that is your concern.”

“You sure about that, sir? Because she’s caused us problems in the past.”

Gibzen’s eyes fell on the ornament, and Marcus snatched it up, almost sick to his stomach as emotion swelled over his walls.

“You’d better give that to me,” his primus said, holding out his hand. “It’s no good to you.”

“No.”

Gibzen’s hand latched onto Marcus’s wrist, squeezing. “Let it go.”

He didn’t want to let it go, because if he did, the hurt would go with it. And he needed that pain.

But the other man’s grip was implacable, stronger than it should have been, and Marcus’s fingers opened.

The ornament bounced on the table. Gibzen snatched it up and tucked it away. “You’ll feel better without it.”

He did feel better. Mostly because as soon as Gibzen picked up the ornament, every emotion faded until he felt nothing at all.

“Messenger arrived from Celendrial.” Gibzen placed a package on the table. Then set another one next to it, the folded paper sealed with black wax. “And another fell from the sky.”

“Shifter?” Marcus touched the black wax, a shiver running over him.

“I didn’t see it, but the men say it was some sort of ugly flying horse. Apparently the thing had fangs like a wildcat.”

Marcus opened the official letter first, noting Cassius’s familiar cursive.

Marcus,

Congratulations on the taking of Revat. I have commissioned a new statue of you to grace the Forum in celebration of your victory, to be put in a place of honor.

However it has come to my attention that you did not uphold your end of the deal we made before you set sail on this grand adventure, and you know how I feel about loose ends.

Rectify your error, else the consequences will be as they have always been.

Marcus’s stomach tightened because the words could only refer to one thing: Cassius had somehow learned that Lydia yet lived.

Without Marcus’s explanation of what had occurred, Cassius no doubt believed that Marcus had somehow arranged for her escape, and the Dictator would exact a toll for the perceived betrayal.

I understand that the dust has barely settled on Revat, but the cost of your efforts runs high.

To ensure the continued funding for the flow of resources your legions need, I request that you secure the gold mines of Rotahn, in Mudamora.

It is my understanding that they are the largest of their kind on all of Reath (the Maarin are so forthcoming!) and having them in our control will ensure you and yours do not go without.

Cura ut valeas,

Cassius

Marcus was not well. He was not well at all.

He read the message a second time, then cracked the black wax on the other, leaning back after he read the offer.

“Trouble?”

“Orders. And an offer of alliance from the Queen of Derin.” Marcus held the papers to the candle, then tossed them into the bowl to burn. “The Dictator wants control of Rotahn’s gold mines. And his betrothed returned to him. To secure both, we look north to Mudamora.”