The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(85)

“After Massilia,” Cai had informed me, “we’ll be traveling overland until we reach the north coast of Gaul in another month, plus a few days maybe.”

I knew from my own travels in Charon’s slave galley that, from there, it would be less than a day’s journey across the waters my people had never thought to give a name but that the Romans called Mare Britannicum. We would sail past the sacred white cliffs, up the River Dwr . . . home.

Sorcha, I thought, in her heart, hadn’t ever really forgiven herself for not returning home. To me and to our father. For living a life that, as much as it was unexpected and unasked for and so completely beyond what she’d grown up anticipating as her fate, had suited her . . . at the expense of others. In much the same way Charon had. I knew that. And I forgave both of them.

The same way I forgave myself for taking so long to return.

And now that I’d decided I would, I’d be lying to say that there wasn’t a flutter of excitement in my belly at the prospect of breathing in the green and gold scents of the forests I’d grown up in. Regardless of the reason I was going back . . . I really was going back. The blood sang in my veins at the notion, in discord with the constant hiss of worry in the back of my mind at what I would find when I finally got there. I stalked back and forth on the wharf, scanning the ships in the Great Harbor impatiently, wondering which one Cleopatra had commissioned for our use. Cai perched on a bollard, watching me pace like one of the caged lions trained to fight the bestiarii in the Circus Maximus. “Caesar used to speak of Prydain to us sometimes,” he said. “Back when we were on campaign in Hispania.”

“You pronounced it right,” I said over my shoulder. “Caesar never could quite manage it.”

“Well, even if he called it Britannia, it was still fascinating to hear him speak of it,” Cai said. “There was always a sense of . . . I don’t know . . . wonder in his voice. A sense that the land, even though he’d been there and seen it with his own eyes, felt the ground under his feet and breathed its air . . . I always got the impression that the place remained a mystery to him. I think he felt—although I’m sure he never would have spoken such a thing aloud—that the island was unconquerable. Or perhaps ‘unknowable’ is a better way of putting it.”

I recalled the last conversation I’d had with Caesar—with Caesar’s shade—in the temple of Sekhemet. Maybe it hadn’t been my imagination. Maybe he really had felt that way. A shiver traced up my spine. Then I thought of the pearl-studded breastplate I would wear on my—hopefully triumphant—return to defeat one of Caesar’s enemies on the soil of my tribe and smiled a little. Somehow, I suspected he would appreciate the irony.

“I have to admit,” Cai continued, shaking his head a little, “charging headlong into a place that mighty Caesar found intimidating is, well . . . what’s the Cantii word for ‘terrifying’?”

“Cai . . .” I stopped my pacing and walked over to stand before him. Even though every word hurt, I still looked at him and said, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to come with me. Prydain might be my destiny, but that doesn’t mean it has to be yours. It is a place beyond the ends of your world. And I will understand if you do not want to do this thing.”

I’d learned from my experience with Elka that I needed to give him a choice—not an ultimatum—but I still found myself holding my breath, wondering if there was a chance he would choose to stay . . .

He looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Do you want me to come with you?”

I nodded. “With all of my heart.”

He kissed me and said, “Then it will take the strength of one of your terrifying Cantii gods to tear me from your side.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, “Don’t give them any ideas.”



* * *



—

We’d taken five day to prepare. Most of the girls had gone into the city to purchase things they thought they might need on the journey with money Cleopatra gave them for the purpose. Unsurprisingly, most of those things were weapons and armor. There was a focused purposefulness to our preparations that had made those five days seem less like an eternity, but now that the day had finally come, I was almost leaping out of my skin with impatience.

I tried not to let it show as I stood before Cleopatra one last time. But as anxious as I was to leave, I couldn’t help but feel a strange hesitation. Almost as though we were leaving her behind, alone and vulnerable. I knew that wasn’t true. Cleopatra had whole armies at her disposal and more wealth than almost any other ruler in the world. She had Ptolemy, her son. She didn’t need us. Me . . .

She was wise enough to know that and to know what I needed too.

In that moment? Apparently, a dagger pointed at my heart.

“Look at this blade,” she said, drawing from her belt the dagger that she’d used to kill the Dis rider on the way to Cosa. It was the finest of Aegyptian craftsmanship—a perfect blend of decorative and deadly. She smiled at me and placed the tip of the blade against my breastbone. “It’s just like you, Fallon. It’s beautiful. Meticulously crafted and sharpened, honed to a keen edge . . . and it doesn’t quite know what to do with itself unless it’s trying to stab something.”