The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(90)
The celebration was a small one compared to those back home, but slowly the lantern bearers came together, and I saw the flicker of flames grow as piles of driftwood gathered for the bonfires were lit. Torches, lanterns, fires, and stars, they all blurred as the tears spilled down my cheeks at the thought of my own folk making merry, defenseless and unsuspecting . . .
“I thought we still had time. A day or two, at least . . .”
We’d pushed the horses and our own bodies at a punishing pace to get here—to get to this place. And now I stood here, on the wrong side of a narrow strip of sea. And on the morrow, Pontius Aquila and his Sons of Dis would, in all likelihood, attack my home and kill my folk, unsuspecting as they lay asleep in the fields after a night of celebration. While the war band I was bringing to help was stuck crossing that narrow strip of sea. My stomach turned, and I felt as if I might be sick.
I could feel the whole caravan, all of my friends, gathering at my back. They knew as well as I did what the lights in the field meant. A hand descended on my shoulder, and I turned to see Elka standing at my side.
“What was it you told Charon when we were on our way to Corsica to rescue Sorcha?” she asked.
I blinked at her, not remembering what I’d said, or even that I’d told her.
“‘Even if we’re too late for rescue,’” she said, quoting my own words back to me, “‘we’ll still be right on time for revenge.’ Ja?”
Gratia stepped up beside her. “Elka’s right. There’s nothing we can do now if we’re late. Not from here. So we make the best of the situation when we get there. And in the meantime?” She nodded at where the town revelers had begun to dance and sing to the music of pipes and handheld drums. “I say we join the party.”
Elka grinned savagely. “Feasting before fighting. Best idea I’ve heard in a long time.”
“That’s because feasting involves food,” Ajani said.
The whole of our company laughed at that. I wanted to scream.
“Fallon,” Cai said softly into my ear. “You’ve been racing toward the moment when you will face your enemy. But tonight you must decide how you will face them. Show these girls that you’re not afraid of what you will find on the other side of the water.”
He was right, of course. They all were.
There was nothing I could do in that moment but hope, by the grace of the Morrigan, that Aquila’s mercenaries had been delayed. Even if they hadn’t, I had to trust that the royal war band of the Cantii were still made of the iron and fire I’d known as a girl and could hold their own. At least until we got there. In the meantime, Gratia had a point: after months of grueling travel halfway across the world, I owed my own war band a celebration.
* * *
—
It didn’t take us very long to ready ourselves for the feast. It wasn’t as if we’d brought trunks full of the finery Cleopatra’s army of dressers had bestowed upon us back in Alexandria. We made do with decorating ourselves from pots of woad war paint and taking each other’s hair down and weaving simple circlets of wildflowers to wear. But when it came to leaving our weapons behind—as was customary during the rites of Litha—our Amazon contingent balked. Kallista and her fierce sisters would rather sever a limb than walk into a crowd of strangers weaponless.
“All right,” I sighed. “You can bring your fire chains—in a ceremonial capacity only.”
The rest of us piled our blades together, leaving them with Kronos—who’d declined to come with us, saying he didn’t dance and would rather spend a quiet night guarding the wagons instead. Then we set out from beneath the canopy of the forest and into the fields to join the folk of the town. The Amazon fire chains painted patterns of flame in the purple dusk air as they led our company down toward the bonfires, heralding our arrival with the kind of showy spectacle the gladiatrices of the Ludus Achillea were used to presenting. The people of Gesoriacum might have been startled at our sudden appearance, but they soon welcomed us and drew us into their dancing. Later, we shared what food and drink we had left over from our journey.
That was the sacred way of Litha.
I even managed to forget for a while—with Cai’s help—my fears about reaching our ultimate destination. Cai took my hand and drew me beyond the circle of firelight. Once we were far enough away from the crowd, he stopped and turned to face me. His mouth bent into a slow smile as he reached into the leather scrip that hung from the belt at his waist and drew forth a circle of iron. My old slave collar. The night I’d finally agreed to have the cursed thing removed, I’d given it to Cai as a promise—that one day, when I was finally able to buy my freedom from Caesar on my own terms, I would come to him. As an equal.
“There’s no longer a contract for you to buy,” Cai said. “And you’re about to reclaim your royal birthright . . .”
“And you’ve waited long enough for us to truly be together,” I said.
“I would wait for you until the stars went dim and the sun and moon drowned themselves in the ocean never to rise again, Fallon ferch Virico,” he said. “But there’s a man on the other side of the sea whose blessing I’m going to need . . .”
“You’ll need to prove your worth in battle, you know.” I grinned at him. “And you’ll need a chieftain’s torc.” I plucked the slave collar from his grasp and held it up between us. “The first torc a warrior of my tribe ever wears is always one that has been forged from a battle-damaged blade. It symbolizes turning something broken into something beautiful. Something new . . .”