The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(52)

By the time the sun rose my dream had faded to a tangled, uneasy jumble, and I stood at the railing, staring out at the sea as it turned from deep cobalt to shimmering turquoise and the sky brightened to gold.

“Fallon?” Cai put a hand on my back, between my shoulders, and I felt my muscles tense at his touch. He must have felt it too. “What’s wrong?”

I took a breath and turned a smile on him.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just . . . tired. I didn’t sleep much.”

I wasn’t about to blame Cai for my nightmare. Unlike Kassandra, I wasn’t about to start believing that my bad dream had been brought on by anything more than the stresses of the last few days. And Neferet’s potent soporific. I steadfastly avoided comparing it to the visitation I received from Arviragus in my prison cell. That hadn’t been real either, but it had been meaningful . . . in the end. Not this. Not Cai. I refused to believe that he would plot with Aeddan in such a way.

“And how was your night?” I asked. “What did I miss?”

He grinned ruefully and held up his hand, palm up. “Callouses,” he said. “Rowing’s worse than swordplay for them.” The skin of his fingers was blistered in places, raw in others, and I winced on his behalf. “Quint’s overjoyed, because it gave him the chance to go beg Elka to bind his wounds.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Really.”

“Didn’t work.” Cai shook his head. “She sloughed him off on Ajani, who’s presently taking pity on the poor lad and slathering him in one of her salves.”

I laughed—only a little with relief—and turned back to lean on the rail, looking around at a vast expanse of nothing. No land anywhere. We were through, out on the Mare Nostrum, and clear of Rome and Aquila’s hunters.

“It was worth the callouses,” Cai said, grinning at my expression.

“We did it,” I said, only half believing what my eyes told me. “We’re beyond Aquila’s reach.”

Cai nodded. “For now,” he said. “Charon’s men might be slavers—”

“And pirates and miscreants and ruthless whenever it serves them to be—”

“But they’re good.”

They were. And so was Cai.

If I’d been on that galley for any other reason, I could have blissfully lost myself to the warm, fragrant breeze, the splendor of the sea and sky, and the fact that we were the only ship in sight. However Charon and his men had done it, he’d been true to his word. They’d gotten us down the river, past the port of Ostia, and out onto the open sea.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Charon was, after all, a master of stealth and secrets, and he was motivated. He’d once told me that he’d been hopelessly in love with my sister for years. I hadn’t forgotten, and I’d shamelessly used those old affections when we’d plotted our escape. Cai knew it. And he hadn’t objected to the blatant manipulation when I’d suggested he reach out to the slave trader for help in securing transportation.

“I hope you’re never taken captive again,” Cai said. “I’m pretty sure this little adventure will tax Charon’s goodwill to the limit, and I don’t know where I’d find another boat.”

“But you would.” I grinned. “Somehow.”

Cai nodded, but I could see his thoughts had drifted elsewhere. His gaze was distant, focused somewhere toward the horizon where the hills of Rome had long since vanished behind us. I sensed somehow, without even asking, that he was thinking about his argument with Kass, and I felt my stomach clench a bit. I wondered if he’d regretted leaving her behind . . .

“Cai?”

“Hmn?” He blinked and looked back at me.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, realizing what a strange question that might have been, under the circumstances.

He smiled at me. “Are you here, now, with me?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Then everything is absolutely perfect.”

He kissed me, and left me to go scrounge us something to eat. I rose and stretched and put Kassandra out of my mind. What Cai had said was true—as long as we were together, everything was fine. As I stretched, I felt the pull of the healing skin around my injury, but I no longer experienced any sharp pain with it. That was a relief. I needed to be in fighting trim for what lay ahead of us. Whatever that might be. The wound on my forearm—the one from Aquila’s demon-forged silver feather—still tingled a bit when I thought about it, but I tried very hard not to think about it. My strength had not left me, and my fingers still clenched into a tight strong fist at my command. I raised that fist in front of my face and stared at my pale-skinned knuckles for a long moment. When I released my grip my fingers opened wide like the wings of a bird.

“He has no hold on me,” I whispered to myself as I shook the blood back into my fingertips. “My strength is the Morrigan’s strength. She will not forsake me.”

The sails had been raised and the oars shipped once we’d reached the open sea. They snapped and billowed above my head. There was a water barrel on deck, and I went to quench my thirst, passing Arviragus, who stood at the railing on that side of the ship, staring out at the horizon and lost in thought. I noticed his complexion, already pale from years of imprisonment in his sunless cell, was tinged with a slightly greenish cast. But there was also a new, sharp glint in his eyes, and the way he lifted his head to the freshening wind and gulped at it—like a long-kenneled dog let loose on the hunt for the first time—made me offer a silent prayer of gratitude to the Morrigan for leading me to him in my delirium. He was free again. And whatever else happened, that, in itself, was a gift I’d never expected to be able to give.