Kil—err, the captain isn’t impressive in his skill, but no matter how good he is with a sword, surely that doesn’t rival the power to control a storm?”
Bercola’s colorless eyes regarded the steam rising from her cup for a long time. Then she said, “You are correct that a sword is nothing compared to a storm, but you are incorrect to presume that weapons and martial prowess are the limits of Tremon’s Marked Ones.”
Outside, the deimos screamed, the steady thump of their wings audible even through the walls, but Lydia paid them no mind, her attention all for the giantess.
“We look to the Six for protection,” Bercola continued, “and in this there are none we look to more than Tremon’s Marked. Theirs are both the most miraculous of achievements and the most catastrophic of failures, for there is no power on Reath that rivals that of a leader of men.”
44
KILLIAN
Hammer and chisel in hand, Killian chipped away at the mortar surrounding the block of stone, channeling his irritation into his construction project.
The corridors of the palace were heavy with the cloying scent of the countless tropical flowers Hacken had brought with him, Malahi’s rooms filled with candies and chocolates and expensive wine, much to the delight of her ladies, whom he flirted with outrageously. But Hacken was no fool. True to his word, he’d brought a small fortune’s worth of food and supplies, all of which had been carefully distributed throughout the city by the soldiers Hacken had brought—all of it touted as gifts from Princess Malahi Rowenes.
Not that the people in the city didn’t know exactly where—and whom—all the goods had come from. The Calorian banner hung above the palace, its white horse galloping next to the Rowenes scorpion, and the lone ship in the harbor flew the same.
It drove Killian mad that Malahi and Hacken were playing at politics, courting the favor of starving people in order to further themselves. But that wasn’t what had his temper in a fire. It was the way Hacken had put his hands on Lydia that morning. It had nothing to do with her being pretty and everything to do with Hacken abusing his power. He’d done it because he could. Because he was a High Lord and above consequences.
Killian slammed his hammer against the chisel and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch as the block came loose. Bracing his heel against it, he shoved the block into the next room, eyeing the wall for a few moments to make sure it wouldn’t all come toppling down on him.
To top off his day, three wagons’ worth of injured soldiers had returned to Mudaire from the front lines. Men who’d lost limbs or been incapacitated in a way that couldn’t be mended by a healer’s touch and thus were of no use to Serrick on the battlefield. They’d been bandaged and loaded into wagons, and when Killian had met the caravan at the city gates half of them were near death from infection. Some of them were dead, the flies of war swarming thick as the wagons had trundled through the city streets toward Hegeria’s temple, civilians stopping in their tracks to watch them pass.
They should have been easy pickings for the deimos and other fell beasts that roamed the night, but the wounded soldiers had made the entire journey to Mudaire unmolested, and if it all hadn’t made Killian sick to his stomach he might have applauded Rufina’s strategy. She’d break the hearts and minds of every person in Mudaire, so when she finally reached the city walls there’d be no fight left within them.
He was about to start loosening another block when his skin prickled with the sense he was being watched. Dropping the chisel, Killian retrieved his sword and scanned the empty ballroom. The exits were all secured, the drapes pulled shut across the expansive windows and doors leading to the balcony. Lifting the blade, he walked toward one of the curtains and was about to draw it back when a knock sounded on the door.
“It’s Hacken.”
Scowling, Killian dropped the curtain and started toward the entrance. He lifted up the beam he’d recently installed and cracked the door open. “What?”
His brother stood in the hallway, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand. “It’s three in the morning, Killian, and it sounds like you’re trying to pull the palace down on our heads. Since sleeping through it wasn’t an option, I decided to keep you company.”