The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(71)

Sorcha cried out, and I grappled at Leander to keep him standing.

He turned to me, his expression one of surprise, rather than pain or horror. But when he opened his mouth to say something, all that came out was a gout of bright blood. Then he pitched forward onto his face on the path, the fishing spear sticking obscenely upright from the middle of his back. Sorcha fell to her knees beside him, and I looked up to see Thalestris standing high above on the cliff’s edge, a black silhouette against the pale blue sky.

She stood for a moment, staring back at me.

I screamed her name, sending a startled flock of swallows flapping into the air as she turned, deliberate and unhurried, and vanished back into the wilderness of the Corsican hills.

? ? ?

We buried Leander beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient olive tree with all the rites due a fallen warrior.

I stared down at the trench dug in the earth that would be his resting place, a far cry from the ludus kitchen alcove, and whispered a prayer for the Morrigan to guide his soul’s flight. As Cai and Quint lifted the last, largest stone and placed it carefully over Leander’s grave, I looked around to see that most of the Achillea girls were red-eyed with weeping. The irony of that—of Leander finally getting all the gladiatrix attention he’d ever craved—wasn’t lost on me. I hoped that his shade had lingered long enough to see, and smile.

“Annoying little wretch,” Ajani muttered, glaring down at the grave.

“He was fond of you too,” I said, wiping at the fugitive tear that had escaped my lashes and slipped down my cheek.

Kallista and the other young Amazons had gone into the hills hunting for Thalestris, only to return with unbloodied weapons. I knew before they went that the search for their murderous sister would prove fruitless. In the same way I knew that Thalestris could just as easily have chosen me or Sorcha as her target with that spear throw.

She’d chosen Leander. A punishment for him, a fulfillment of her promise.

And a message for us. We hadn’t seen the last of her.

I could tell from the look on Sorcha’s face as we stepped together back out onto the path to continue on our way that she was thinking the same thing.

“I will avenge his death, little sister,” she said, at last, without looking at me. “Thalestris will pay in blood for her betrayals. For all of her betrayals. And so will Nyx.”

I felt a sudden fierce swell of vindication at the sparks of Sorcha’s old fire I saw kindling to life. “I was hoping you would say that.”

Sorcha glanced at me sideways. “And why is that?” she asked warily.

“Because . . .”

I picked up my pace, like a hound on the hunt that had finally caught the scent of the quarry. The trees opened up before us, and in the distance far below, the sparkling blue bowl of the bay shimmered into view—along with the ship, still anchored there, that would take us all home.

“Don’t tell me . . .” Sorcha said. “It’s all part of your clever plan.”





XIV




OUR SHIP BOUNDED over the waves, the breath of the wind god, Zephyrus, filling our sails and speeding us on our way. There was an air of anticipation among the girls, even if there was a pall of uncertainty too. I could hardly blame them—the closer we sailed to Rome, the more I was beginning to worry that I hadn’t really thought my clever plan of retaking the ludus all the way through to its logical conclusion. For one thing, even though her spirit seemed on the mend, to say that Sorcha had been less than convinced of her part in the scheme would be putting it lightly.

When we’d first gathered to discuss our options, I began by telling her what we were up against. When she heard everything that had passed at the ludus since her abduction, Sorcha was aghast. Furious. Disgusted and enraged by Pontius Aquila’s machinations.

“Rebellion.” Sorcha’s lip curled as she said the word. “Within the walls of my ludus. What a load of horse manure.”

“A lie, and a foul one,” Charon agreed. “But it’s one that resonates deeply. We all know that, and we all know why.”

“Aye. Thanks be to Spartacus the Interminably Unforgotten,” Sorcha snorted in disdain.

At which point, Elka had sighed gustily.

“Will someone please enlighten me?” she asked. “What does any of this—what do any of us—have to do with this Spartacus fellow? His name keeps getting bandied around, and I can’t quite figure out why.”

Cai turned to her. “It’s been only a few years since Spartacus, the legionnaire-turned-slave-turned-gladiator, fomented an uprising that led to a war that directly threatened the heartland of Italia,” he explained. “Some even thought he and his followers were bent on taking the city of Rome itself. The plebs haven’t forgotten, and the patricians haven’t forgiven. Talk of gladiators and rebellion in the same sentence makes people . . . excitable.”

“Nervous,” Quint added.

Charon nodded grimly, his gaze fixed on Sorcha’s face.

“And now Aquila has laid the groundwork for the story of a gladiatrix rebellion at the ludus to become the official interpretation,” I mused. “We will be branded as criminals and traitors to the Republic. We will be hunted down mercilessly and crucified. Unless we stop him first.”

“Stop him how?” Sorcha leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.