Page 143 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)
The legionnaires pressed toward the pavilion, marching in lockstep to the beat of a single drummer except for the man who walked at their head, a crimson cloak floating out behind him.
The legionnaires were similar in age to Killian himself, every one of them fit and hard, marked with scars that came with years of combat.
It was hard to see their faces beneath their helmets, but the bare skin around their elbows and knees varied in hue from pale as Lydia to dark brown, a visible reminder that the Senate stole children from every place it conquered.
And all of them bore the same marking on their breastplates as Agrippa had tattooed on his chest.
37.
These men were Thirty-Seventh legion, yet as they crossed the long stretch of pristine white sand to stop a short distance from the pavilion, Killian did not need Lydia’s slight shake of her head to know that the man at their head was not Marcus.
Not enough arrogance.
Vicious disappointment filled Killian’s stomach even though Agrippa had cautioned him that it was unlikely that Marcus would come himself. “He stays behind the lines,” Agrippa had said.
“Coward.”
Agrippa had only rolled his eyes. “His strength is the brain between his ears, not his sword arm. You’re a bit opposite in that regard.”
Killian pushed the remembered conversation from his head in favor of focusing on the man who led the force before him.
Removing his strange crested helmet, the leader tucked it under his arm and approached the table.
His blond hair clipped extremely short and his face clean-shaven.
His skin was golden—not from the sun but almost as though he’d been brushed in golden dust—and the eyes roving for any sign of threat were a turquoise blue.
He was good looking, but Killian sensed the threat beneath the polished surface—this man was dangerous.
“Welcome to Mudamora, Legatus,” Helene declared. “We are most grateful to stand on the threshold of a great alliance that will see the dark queen Rufina and her forces expelled from our borders, and our lands made green again by the grace of the great Celendor Empire.”
To the man’s credit, he didn’t so much as blink at Helene’s gross misinterpretation of this situation, only inclined his head.
“Well met, Your Majesty.” He spoke clear Mudamorian but with the same soft accent that Lydia had when she’d first arrived.
“It is my honor and privilege to accept your commitment to the governorship of the Empire. Under the Senate’s stewardship, all will soon be brought to rights. ”
“You are a blessing in our darkest hour, Legatus.” Helene smiled and fluttered her eyelashes.
“Centurion, Your Majesty,” the legionnaire answered. “The legatus sends his regrets that he was not able to take this momentous meeting in person, but his obligations are many.”
“I see.” Helene’s smile faltered, but she swiftly recovered and rose to her feet.
“What possible obligations could be greater than this?” High Lord Pitolt demanded.
The centurion gave a small smile. “Matters above my rank, I’m sure. But the legatus gave clear instructions as to my duties here even as he professed his deepest regrets for having to delegate the matter.”
Helene circled the table, and as she stepped toward the centurion, his men lowered their spears and stepped forward. Helene froze.
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” the centurion said, lifting a casual hand to wave back his men. “It appears they see you as a threat.”
It wasn’t Helene who concerned them, but Killian could sense the legionnaires’ agitation. They sensed something was wrong, sensed the threat, their eyes searching for the source. Killian didn’t fail to notice that it was to him their eyes moved most, despite the fact he wore no weapon.
Helene gave a nervous giggle. “They flatter me, for I’ve never lifted a weapon in my life.” She continued her progress around the table, stopping before the centurion. “I had hoped to meet the legatus. So that we might negotiate in person.”
“I’ve no doubt that your paths will cross in the future and that he’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance.
” The centurion’s voice was calm and steady, but Killian didn’t miss his fingers moving.
A silent signal to the men behind him, who all tensed.
The last line of their ranks pivoted as one, spears and attention on the beach.
They sense danger.
Killian silently cursed because the giants weren’t yet in position, and the other ship waiting in deeper waters was full of more men just as dangerous as these.
The centurion took a steel cylinder from one of his men and ex tracted a thick roll of paper.
“It is my understanding that negotiations are complete. The terms have been laid out here, in Cel and again in your language, and the legatus has already signed on behalf of the Senate. If you would sign, Your Majesty, and hand over the woman known as both Kitaryia Falorn and Lydia Valerius, we shall return to Revat and make ready to take next steps.”
“Yes, well, this is her.” Helene had lost all her color, her motion stiff as she gestured to Lydia. “Lydia goes willingly, as does her bodyguard. They both understand this agreement is for the good of Mudamora.”
One of the legionnaires said something in Cel, and the centurion gave a tight nod to Lydia.
“Your face is known to us, Domina. It is my understanding that your betrothal to the Dictator still stands, and you will be wed upon your return. So it would be best if your bodyguard remains here. We will do you the courtesy of keeping your… indiscretions in the West.”
“How kind of you.” Lydia’s voice was cool. “But before we take this step, tell me: How does Celendor aim to destroy the blight that plagues Mudamora?”
“That remains to be seen.” The man’s words were terse, his patience for this conversation fading as his instincts sensed the rising threat. “No doubt we will enlist experts in botany from the collegium to advise.”
“The blight is not a plant ,” Lydia retorted. “The blight is death itself. I was not aware that the collegium had experts on such things.”
The centurion eyed her for a moment, then said, “Having not seen the substance myself, it would be speaking out of turn for me to give an opinion on its nature.”
“Has Marcus seen it?”
His eyes moved from Lydia to again survey the surroundings. “You might reconsider your familiarity.”
“Oh, we’ve met.” Lydia’s head tilted. “I’m sure you’re aware.”
“I don’t know if he’s seen it. He does not hold me in close confidence, so to make assumptions would be a presumption.”
“And yet you stand here on his behalf, and”—Lydia gestured to the document—“he has signed an agreement that says, and I quote, ‘The Empire commits to invest significant resources into the eradication of the blight.’” She rested an elbow on the table, giving the centurion a small smile.
“Perhaps you might explain to me what that means before I surrender my life into your care.”
“Lydia, what are you doing?” Helene hissed. “You agreed to this.”
“I would like to hear the answer, Your Grace.” High Lord Pitolt’s eyes narrowed, for while he was an ambitious coward, he was no fool. “What resources? What is the Empire’s plan?”
The centurion gave an irritated shake of his head, his eyes going to Helene.
“We had an agreement, Your Grace. While elements of that agreement may take time to achieve, the surrender of Lydia Valerius is not one of them. She is the betrothed to the Dictator of Celendor, which means that you are withholding his property from him.”
Killian’s whole body stiffened, and the centurion’s eyes shot to him, civility disappearing in an instant.
“Your face and name are known to us, Killian Calorian, as is your reputation. Keep your ass on that chair and you might survive this. Get to your feet, and you breathe your last, am I understood?”
Killian didn’t answer.
The centurion’s mouth twisted, the pulse in his throat throbbing rapidly. “Your Majesty, please sign. We have a long journey and wish to depart.”
“Helene, do not sign.” High Lord Pitolt rose, resting his hands on the table. “I dislike this boy’s tone and find myself questioning his master’s true intent.”
Hurry, Killian silently begged Bercola, but there was no sign of motion in the water.
“It strikes me that you have not been negotiating in good faith,” the centurion snapped. “Do you wish Celendor to deliver you from the Queen of Derin and her blight, or do you wish us to leave you to fight on alone? To lose alone, for that is surely what is to occur?”
“I…” Helene took an unsteady step backward, colliding with the table. “What is happening here? I thought we had an agreement that this would be conducted peacefully?”
Killian caught sight of movement in the water. A stirring in the depths.
“I do not think your motivations here are peaceful,” the centurion said. “Either prove me wrong by signing or get on with whatever you have planned.”
“We haven’t planned anything.” Tears of fear ran down Helene’s face, and she reached up to touch the crown on her head. “If we could just sit and have a glass of wine and discuss this reasonably…”
The movement in the water drew closer to the Cel ship, and one of the centurion’s men spotted it. Said something in Cel.
A bead of sweat ran down the centurion’s golden cheek, and he slammed his helmet down on his head. Making ready to fight because one did not live and breathe war as these men did and not know when a fight was upon you.
Hurry, Bercola.
“Sign, you foolish woman!” the centurion barked at Helene, but his eyes were on Killian. “Or get on with it.”
“No.” Helene lifted her chin. “I don’t think I will.”
The centurion snarled what was undoubtedly profanity, then caught hold of Lydia’s wrist. He dragged her away from the table even as six spears were leveled at Killian’s throat. “That’s a lot of steel,” Killian said to them. “What are you so afraid of?”