The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(70)

“Refuge?” the scarred one asked.

“I cannot go back to Rome,” he said. “Nor back to the lands that were once mine. And I do not wish to wander the wide world as an outcast for the rest of whatever borrowed life my gods and this brave girl”—he gestured to me without looking—“have granted me.”

My heart cracked a little in my chest.

Areto and the scarred woman glanced at each other.

“Rather,” Arviragus continued, “I will pledge myself as hostage in exchange for any of your warriors who wish to join Fallon and Sorcha’s cause. Among my people, there is no greater nor more honored tradition than that of hostage exchange. We foster our young as guests among the tribes to ensure mutual peace.” He nodded to Kallista and the others. “I am not young, but Caesar himself will tell you I make a decent, mostly well-mannered guest. And if one of your girls does not return home, you may take my life as forfeit.”

The two women turned inward and walked away from us, conversing in low tones, and Sorcha put a hand on Arviragus’s shoulder.

“This is madness,” she said.

I stepped up beside her. “She’s right, Arviragus—listen to her!” I said. “I’ll find another way. We’ll find another way.”

“I don’t think there is one, bright little thing,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Sorcha shook her head adamantly. “You’ve only just escaped one confinement—one death sentence—and you would commit yourself to another?”

“There’s a reason I lived through that, Sorcha,” he said. “With you and Fallon as my only friends, my only comfort. I do this willingly, and I believe this is why the Morrigan let me live as long as she has. You need these girls, and I need somewhere out of the way to live out the rest of my days. Maybe I can help these women see that not all men are to be hated and reviled. Or maybe they can teach me a thing or two. Whatever the outcome, at least the sea air might do me some good, and I can get a bit of exercise fixing a leaky hut roof or two. And the honey mead here is excellent.”

“One year.”

I turned to see that Areto and the scarred woman had returned.

“One year,” the woman repeated. She turned her piercing gaze on Sorcha and me. “If these young ones do not return to us here in one year, he will die. Slowly. Painfully. With fire and steel and—”

“Understood!” I snapped, not wishing to hear a detailed recipe of my dear friend’s demise should I fail to keep safe the girls I was about to lead into extreme harm’s way.

Arviragus just rolled his eyes and winked at me.

“Then we have a bargain,” he said.

He unsheathed his dagger and drew it across his palm. A thin line of blood welled up, and Areto did the same. They clasped hands, and I saw there was a gleam of respect—and maybe the tiniest spark of intrigue—in her gaze. I could hardly blame her. Arviragus was nothing if not intriguing.

My childhood hero. My friend.

I owed him more than I could ever repay, and I would miss him deeply.

Again.

? ? ?

The sun was still behind us as we left the Amazon oppidum and began the trek down the twisting trail back to the bay where—I silently, fervently hoped—Charon and his boat waited. Sorcha was pale from the whole ordeal, and I saw her jaw clench as she stumbled on a stone in the pathway. But when I put a hand out to steady her, she gave me a look that told me—rather pointedly—she would be just fine, thank you, and didn’t require her little sister’s help. I grinned to myself and felt my heart lifting, beating light and strong and free like the wings of a bird in my chest. For the first time in many days, I felt as if everything would turn out all right.

Behind us, Elka started singing quietly—a song of her Varini tribe we’d all heard her sing back at the ludus whenever she cleaned weapons or pulled duty sweeping in the stables or sometimes even when she practiced in the yard. We all knew the words, even though they weren’t ours, and one by one Elka’s ludus sisters picked up the tune and began singing with her. Even the Amazon girls were nodding in time with the cantering tune and smiling and chattering with each other in Greek as we threaded our way down through the hills.

We’d reached the lower slopes of the hills where the path cut a channel through a ragged-walled ravine and the trees arched overhead, forming a green tunnel with their canopy. I was still keeping a discreet eye on Sorcha when Leander caught up with us, throwing an arm around both of our shoulders—something he never would have dared do back at the ludus—his grin outshining the sun. I’d told Sorcha the night before how it had, in fact, been the kitchen boy who’d been largely responsible for leading us to her in the first place, and so her only reaction was to shake her head at him indulgently.

“I hear I owe you a debt of thanks, Leander,” she said.

He nodded at her, dark eyes gleaming with delight.

“Yes, domina!” he said. “But think nothing of it. I knew it would all turn out.” He waved his hands airily. “We’re heroes, after all, are we not—”

There was a noise—a hiss followed by a wet snapping sound like a green tree branch breaking—and Leander abruptly stopped talking. His body stiffened and jerked, chest thrust forward, and the glistening red tip of a spear blade appeared as if by some evil magic, sticking out of the center of his tunic.