The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(95)

“I’ve never lost a vessel in a crossing before,” the captain told me.

“Never lose one again,” I told him back.

“The gods look kindly on you, lady,” he said. “You rescued my boys.”

“I think they were looking kindly on all of us today,” I said.

I kept quiet about whatever god it might have been that sent the storm in the first place. I needed all the goodwill I could get. Then I gave him all of the money I had left from what Cleopatra had given me for our journey and asked him to share some of it out between the barge lads. Once the chariots were ready, we shouldered the rest of our gear in traveling packs and set off, following the road inland that ran beside the River Dwr.

“We should leave the main road,” I told them. “There’s a cart track that leads west, away from the river and into the forest. It comes out the other end just a stone’s throw from the walls of the town, in a place called the Forgotten Vale—a long clearing hidden away and surrounded by woods. It should make a good staging area for us, and it’s on the opposite side of Durovernum from the main gates. No one goes there.”

Almost no one, I thought. It was the place where Mael and I always used to escape to growing up, whenever we’d wanted to be alone.

Cai nodded in agreement.

“Quint”—he slapped him on the shoulder—“scout ahead. Make sure we don’t run across any surprises along the way to this vale of Fallon’s. Use your signal whistle if you run into trouble.”

Quint nodded and jumped down from his chariot, tossing the reins to Elka, who took his place. I climbed up behind Cai in one of the other chariots, and we started out again at a cautious pace, some of the girls riding, others jogging along behind the chariots. Kronos brought up the rear, ever watchful and armed with a small horn to alert us if we were attacked from behind. Along the way, we passed a few dwellings—small farms and craftsmen’s huts—set back from the track, all of them seemingly deserted. Of course they would be. Everyone had gone to the festival the night before. As we got closer to Durovernum, I started watching the skyline above the trees.

“There,” I said quietly, tapping Cai on the shoulder. He pulled up on the chariot reins, and we slowed. We could see smoke trails rising from beyond the tops of the oaks. More than just the cooking fires of the town, it seemed to me that there was smoke rising from what must have been campfires in the field beyond. Campfires—not bonfires. Those would have burnt out in the night.

“They beat us here,” I said, feeling my heart beat faster. Pontius Aquila was at the gates of my home.

“Here, yes.” Cai nodded. “But they haven’t taken the town, or there wouldn’t still be fires in the fields—”

“Shh!” I clapped a hand over his mouth. Something was moving through the trees directly ahead of us. Cai signaled to the others to move into the woods as he and I hid behind the thicket of a yew tree, waiting. When the bearded man burst through the thicket and stumbled onto the path, I had to grab frantically for Cai before he leaped out and ran him through.

“Olun!” I cried, rushing forward from our hiding place.

It was my father’s chief druid. And he was hurt.

His beard had been black threaded with silver when I’d climbed over the walls of Durovernum for the very last time. Now the silver threads were streaks, and the lines around his eyes were carved deep with worry or weariness. Made deeper in that moment with pain. He’d exchanged his usual robes of undyed wool for a shorter tunic and trousers, and his left arm hung swaying from his shoulder, the sleeve dyed crimson with blood from a wound just beneath his collarbone.

He stumbled forward and sank to his knees on the path.

“Olun—it’s me!” I put my hands on his chest to keep him from falling on his face. “It’s Fallon . . . I’ve come home . . .”

He looked into my eyes, and the haze of pain vanished like a mist. I saw in him the sharp intelligence he’d always had. The shrewdness and arrogance and—surprisingly—a hint of something like gratitude. Directed at me or at the gods, I wasn’t sure. But then he smiled and nodded. As if things suddenly made sense to his druiddyn mind.

“Fallon,” he said, panting for breath. “I didn’t expect it to be you. But . . . now I understand. The path . . . You will save your father from the Roman. Just like your sister, Sorcha, before you did . . .”

When I was little, Olun had prophesied that I would follow in my sister’s footsteps. I’d thought that path had ended when Sorcha had died. But Olun seemed to think it still stretched out ahead of me. Sorcha had gone into battle and rescued Virico from Caesar. Could I do the same and save him from Pontius Aquila?

“Olun,” I said. “Father—is he all right? Does he still live?”

“Aye.” The old druid nodded, sinking back onto one elbow in the dirt. “The bastards hit us at dawn . . . but Virico has never let his war band leave their swords behind for a Litha feast. They carry their blades into the field in secret.”

“What?” I gaped at him, shocked to my core that my father would order his warriors to commit such a blatant trespass against the sacred laws. Shocked as I was, I was also secretly proud.

Olun grinned at me, clearly not disapproving of my father’s decision in any way, even if it offended the gods themselves. “The old fox won’t go anywhere disadvantaged ever again. Not since seeing the inside of Caesar’s camp.”