The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(45)

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We were all in agreement then. Pontius Aquila could wait. Rescuing Sorcha was the first order of business for our merry band of renegades. There were dozens of arrangements to be made before we set out on our quest, not the least of which was procuring transport, but there was, at the very least, a real sense of purpose among us. Even Arviragus’s longtime guard—Junius was his name—had been converted to our cause and was bustling about like a man with newfound direction in life. A focused, palpable urgency had turned Arviragus’s prison cell and courtyard into a hive of activity. Most of it having to do with weapons. And war paint. The girls had collectively decided that if we were to take on a gang of so-called Amazons, we would do it in fearsome, Ludus Achillea style.

Back on the night of our oath taking, when Sorcha had first appeared to the new gladiatrices, she’d done it dressed in the full regalia of a Cantii warrior princess, complete with intricate designs painted on her face and limbs with woad—the bright blue skin paint the Cantii and other Celtic tribes wore into battle. My companions had taken inspiration from it and, to that end, most of them were inside that morning, crouched over braziers and experimenting, mixing pots of salves with pigments Leander had procured at the market—with Thalestris’s coins—to produce an equivalent shade of blue. They tested out the results on Quint, who was only too happy to sit there, captive and flirting.

I could hear the laughter even when I stepped outside for some air. It made my heart feel less like a knotted bruise throbbing on the inside of my chest every time I thought of Sorcha. I prayed almost constantly that Leander was right, and that the Morrigan—and Thalestris—would keep my sister alive at least until the night of the Huntress Moon.

Meriel was sitting alone out in the yard.

I figured she had enough permanent woad tattooed onto her skin that war paint wasn’t really a priority. I sat a ways off from her and went about sharpening my swords. After a while, I shifted on my haunches, still aching a bit from my wound, aware that Meriel had been staring silently since I’d come outside. I sighed inwardly and turned to stare back.

“Something on your mind, Meriel?” I asked, as pleasantly as I could.

She was silent for a long while, as if deciding whether it was worth telling me what that something was. But I’d never known Meriel to shy away from confrontations—real or imagined, large or small—so it wasn’t a surprise when she did open her mouth.

“I don’t like you, Fallon ferch Virico,” she said finally, speaking my full name with deliberate emphasis. She spoke in her native tongue, which I understood—barely—because of the similarities to my own, fogged as it was by the thick burr of a harsh northern accent.

I nodded. “I know. Back at the academy when Nyx and—”

“Hang Nyx.” Meriel glared at me bleakly. “I didn’t need Nyx to tell me how to feel. I didn’t like you before I was born.”

“That seems a bit extreme,” I said.

“My tribe are the Coritani.”

“Ah.”

That explained a lot. Everything, really. In truth, I’d always suspected as much, based on the tattoos and accent. The aggressively bad temper. And it was more than enough reason to hate me. There was a blood-deep feud between her tribe and mine, a grievance that had spanned tens and tens and tens of years before I was even a wisp on the wind . . . Long enough that most had forgotten the reason behind the thing, but not the thing itself. I’d grown up hating Meriel too, I suppose. In principle, anyway. When my driving passion in life had been to join my father’s royal war band, I’d always assumed that hers was one of the tribes I’d go into battle against when the time came.

When the time came . . .

It never did. For either of us. And now here we were.

“So. I didn’t like you before I met you.” She shrugged. “Making your acquaintance did nothing to alter that.”

I laughed. “Fair enough.”

“Now, Nyx, I like,” Meriel continued. “She’s a cold-hearted, poison-eyed bitch, and she’ll stab you in the neck at breakfast for a second bowl of porridge if she’s peckish. I like that. I understand it . . . But I don’t trust it.” She turned back to me, her expression serious. “I trust you.”

That surprised me. “You do?”

“What choice do I have?” She snorted. “You’re honest and honorable. All the things I’m not. I’d be a fool not to trust you.”

“Thank you. I think.”

She nodded her chin toward the cell house where the others were. “These girls . . . I’ve known most of them longer’n you. I don’t like most of them either. But we’re sworn to each other—to fight and die for each other—and Nyx never understood that. Porridge is one thing. Blood’s another and thicker even than that. We all swore a blood oath to look after our ludus-mates. And I know you’ll uphold that. You and your Lanista sister—damned if I’d known I was fighting for the great Cantii bitch-goddess Sorcha ferch Virico all those years at the academy! Lugh’s teeth. I might’ve killed her in her sleep before you were ever taken from home. And now look at me. Off to go save her precious neck. It’s an odd old world the gods have given us, Fallon, and that’s the truth of it.”

We laughed together, quietly, and then Meriel went back inside. I told her I’d follow, but I still wasn’t up to much company. Instead, I went and sat in a corner of the yard, hidden from the brightness of the high sun beneath one of the makeshift awnings, and started sharpening my swords again. If we didn’t leave soon, I’d sharpen them down to meat-skewers. I wished Cai was there to distract me, but he’d gone out into the city, incognito, to arrange for a ship. The thought had barely crossed my mind when I saw Junius issue a challenge through the iron grate of the outer courtyard door. It was Cai, dressed as a merchant, with a cowl drawn up around his face. Junius opened the door just enough to let him through, and as he was closing it, I saw Cai hesitate and turn back.