had given her in lieu of rescue. Her blood turned to liquid fire, and with a shriek Lydia threw the volume across the room.
Where it landed, open, at Vibius’s feet.
“You stupid little sow,” her father’s nephew snarled. “Bad enough that you tried to steal what is rightfully mine, now you try to destroy it all out of spite!”
“It’s not yours. It was a gift from a friend,” Lydia blurted out, then bit down on her tongue.
But rather than angering him, her words pulled a malicious grin onto his face, his gaze fixing briefly on the open page. “Not mine yet. But soon.”
Stepping over the book, he strode toward her, a miasma of sweat and wine preceding him. Fear drove Lydia back a step, her hip smacking against the corner of her desk. But the pain was nothing compared to the way her skin crawled as he took hold of her chin, his palm warm and greasy.
“Have you enjoyed it, Lydia?” he whispered. “Have you enjoyed living on top of the hill with all that wealth and power have to offer you? Have you enjoyed living beyond your breeding?”
Lydia’s pulse roared in her ears, but she said nothing, only jerked her chin out of his grip and glared down at him.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed it,” he said, laughing. “Because it will make my taking it away all the more enjoyable.” He looked her up and down. “How well do you think you’ll enjoy serving where you were once served? For what labor do you suggest I use you?”
“You’ll use me for nothing,” Lydia replied, and though it disgusted her to do so, she lifted the wrist bearing her betrothal bracelet.
Vibius cackled. “Oh, it’s armor now, is it?” His voice lifted into a high-pitched pantomime of her own. “‘I will not marry him! I’d rather die than be wed to that loathsome man!’”
Goading him was foolish. But for years Lydia’s submissiveness had earned her no respite from his taunts, and her pride would bear it no longer. “What I want matters little, Vibius. And while you seem more than willing to take advantage of my father’s benevolence, I think you’ll find Lucius Cassius far less tolerant of your poor behavior.” Then she leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Or is your head so far up his ass that you’ve been deafened to his reputation?”
Vibius’s face purpled. “Valerius is not your father.” Before she could react, he slapped her sunburned cheek with a resounding crack.
Lydia rocked back on her heels, cupping one hand against her face more from shock than the pain. Never in her life had she been struck. Never … “Get out. Get out, or I’ll call the guards.”
Vibius smirked, but rather than holding his ground, he turned and strode from the room.
Lydia’s weak legs finally betrayed her, and she dropped to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. When she finally opened them, they focused of their own accord on the book that still rested on the floor, pages bent. The volume was beautifully illuminated, which normally mattered less to her than the words on the page. But not in this case.
Because on the exposed page was an illustration of a woman dressed in strange armor, her dark hair twisted into a knot atop her head, a few pieces falling loose to frame her pale face. She held a sword in one hand, her expression defiant.
Crawling on her hands and knees, Lydia picked up the volume, smoothing the bent page. “‘High Lady Dareena Falorn,’” she muttered, tracing a finger under the words. “‘Marked by Tremon, the god of war.’”
Lydia stared for a long time at the woman. Then she flipped to the beginning and began to read.
9
KILLIAN
It had been a fortnight since the wall had fallen. A fortnight since the Derin army carrying the banners of the Seventh god had invaded Mudamora. A fortnight since that army had unleashed all manner of creatures to terrorize the countryside.
And the majority of that time Killian had spent pacing the halls of his family’s home in Mudaire waiting to hear the King’s judgement.
“Would you care to break your fast in the dining room or in here, my lord?” Garrem asked. The man had been High Lord Calorian’s manservant for longer than Killian had been alive, his dusky skin creased and sagging, the two tufts of white above his ears all that remained of his hair. Old enough that the only work he should be doing was shouting at youngsters from his doorstep,