by Callie Bates
Pantoleon pushes me away, stumbling to a stone nearby. I follow him. My heart seems to be squeezing in my chest. The year reads 268.
I can’t seem to find words. What is there to say? It’s almost ten years ago. His father could be under that stone, or any of these. Pantoleon makes a soft, choked noise. Then he says, his voice gritty, “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod. I still can’t speak. There’s a postern gate set in the wall, its latch long rusted. I don’t bother to use magic; I kick it open. It feels good to hit something. The gate creaks but submits.
We walk out into the night. Free.
We’re in a pine forest. The air smells high and clear; mountain air. Pantoleon wanders past me, staggers, almost falls. Then he does fall, collapsing to the earth, digging his fists into the soil. I drop beside him. Have we made things far worse by bringing him out?
But no—he’s smiling. Weeping, at the same time.
“I thought…” he says hoarsely. “I thought I was going to die in there.”
I find myself grinning at him. “Well, I thought you were already dead!”
We both begin to laugh. “Two dead men,” Pantoleon wheezes. “You’ve got more lives than a cat.”
I stare back at the bulk of the Ochuroma. It’s more massive than it seemed from the inside: a hulk of stone that was once a fortress. I wonder how Madiya survived it for five years. No wonder she came out less than gentle, and bent on revenge.
“We’re going to figure out the spells they used on the stones and bells,” I promise Pantoleon. “And then take this place apart brick by brick.”
He nods, resting his cheek against the earth. “That’s…what I went…back for. To my…apartment. A reference…to the sorcerer…Paladius blackmailed…into creating this place. And the bells. Stones.”
I stare at him. “You mad, brilliant bastard. That’s what you risked your life for?”
“I thought…if we knew…construction of magic…we could…destroy bells. Defeat witch hunters.”
I look down at him. Somehow, he’s still smiling, the lunatic. “Did you know about the wells?” I ask. “The ones that concentrate magic in them?”
Excitement bursts over his face. He pushes himself onto his elbows. “That’s what those references meant! I found stories about sorcerers going to wells—dying by wells. And then the wells couldn’t be used, but it didn’t lead to drought or any other consequence as far as I could tell…”
“It led to a magical drought,” I say. “They’re not necessarily water.”
He stares at me, his mouth opening. “Jahan…if those stories are true, then there are wells everywhere. All over Ida—all over Paladis.”
“And the sorcerers closed them.” I shudder a little, thinking of Mantius and Tuah. “They gave their lives to seal them off—to keep Paladius the First from using them.”
Pantoleon nods. “But you found a way to open them again—”
“One, anyway. And I think there’s one beneath the Ochuroma…”
We stare at each other, then Pantoleon actually laughs. I’m grinning, too. “Well, this will be quite a change to the empire,” I say. Pantoleon snorts. I look at him. I wish he’d waited to go back to his apartment; that he’d told me before he raced off. But here we are together, both of us alive, somehow, and I feel limp with gratitude. I squeeze his shoulder. He nods at me.
“We’ll find all of the wells,” I say. “We’ll open each damned one.”
He cracks a grin. “It’ll be a new study. I’ll specialize in sorcery. A new branch of inquiry at the university.”
I chuckle and help him up. We have a long way to go—a long night of compressing space—and neither of us is at full strength. But we will reach Aexione by morning. We will find our prince. And then, if Leontius’s abominable siblings don’t capture us, we’ll go on to Ida, to Solivetos Hill, to Elanna and the people who want change. We have an emperor to rescue, and a revolution to begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A crowd has already gathered in the Grand Court, surrounding a scaffold on which sits a single block. Common men might be hanged, but would-be emperors must be beheaded, it seems. I fight down nausea. It was hard enough seeing my friend lose his hand. I don’t think I can endure this. We’ve walked all night, compressing space, avoiding twisting our ankles in potholes. I’m so parched my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Pantoleon looks like a madman, with his dirty, rent clothes and his hair standing up in a thicket. I’m sure I appear no better. Already several people have mistaken us for beggars and tried to kick us or give us coin.
We hover outside the wrought-iron fence, watching the long line going inside. Neither Leontius nor his siblings have yet appeared; according to the conversations we’ve overheard, the execution isn’t due to happen until noon. We have perhaps three hours.
I can get us inside the palace. But I’m not sure where to find Lees, or how well he’s guarded—or, once we find him, how best to get him out. Besides that, I don’t know what’s happened to Empress Firmina, or to Elanna and Tullea at Solivetos Hill. We need information. And I’m too damned restless to wait here.
So rather than linger here with half of Aexione trying to give us bread, I tug on Pantoleon’s sleeve and start off down the Avenue of Oranges. At this hour, Aunt Cyra is surely at home.
Away from the Grand Court, the town lies quiet under a tranquil blue sky. Pantoleon limps beside me—from exhaustion, as far as I can tell, not injury—as we approach Aunt Cyra’s house. We slow outside it. Is she under watch? I don’t see any guards. But maybe the larger question is whether she’ll even still speak to me, now that I’ve revealed to the world I’m a sorcerer. Still, she’s the woman who protected me for six years, who opened her house up to me and nursed me back to health. Surely we can overcome any of our differences.
So I guide us through the front door, using a weary burst of magic to soften our footsteps as we climb to the breakfast room. Sure enough, my aunt occupies the table, her morning gown an explosion of white ruffles. She’s leaning intently over a letter.
“Good morning,” I say, and she startles upright, jostling the table.
“Jahan!” She smacks the table, making the dishes rattle. I grin, though I’m not sure whether she’s angry or pleased to see me; I don’t think she knows, either. With a sharp sigh, she calls out, “I am not to be disturbed!” To Pantoleon, she says, “Shut the door.”
He does. My aunt looks from me to him. “I suppose I should be glad you’ve returned at last, after I spent days persuading the emperor’s men that I knew nothing about your sorcery. I’m lucky Empress Firmina vouched for me.”
I wince. After everything she did for me, I left her here to endure that alone. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I don’t mean to impose…”
“Nonsense. You do mean to impose. But—” She sighs. “—I would be offended if you didn’t.” She moves toward me, as if for an embrace, then pulls back. “Darling, you smell extraordinarily foul. And so does your friend.” She peers at Pantoleon; her eyebrows rise. “It is Pantoleon Chrysales!”
“At your service.” Pantoleon bows.
“You must have come from Ida,” Aunt Cyra says. “Have you secured the city?”
“Ida, by way of the Ochuroma,” I say drily, but then I pause, her words sinking in. “What do you mean, secured the city? I’m glad you have faith in me, Auntie, but that might be taking my skills a little far…”
She’s gripping the table. “The Ochuroma? Jahan…! Do you mean to tell me you’ve arrived here not only a criminal, but an escaped prisoner?”
There doesn’t seem much point in denying it. “Well, yes.”
“I can’t believe you let yourself get caught,” she fumes. “Your sorceress has managed to take over half of Ida, and you look as if you’ve just crawled out of a hole!”
“Here I thought escaping the Ochu
roma was rather an impressive feat,” I remark. “What do you mean, my sorceress has taken over half of Ida?”
She waves her hands. “The Witch of Eren! Elanna Valtai! She made the trees walk down Solivetos Hill and surround the imperial troops. They tried to fight them. Can you imagine it—soldiers fighting trees! Needless to say, the trees won. Half the militia fled—deserted, according to Augustus Saranon. Your sorcerers have been pushing the other half back. Every tree in Ida is walking, if you believe the stories.” She pauses—my mouth seems to be hanging open—then adds, “I can’t imagine it’s good for the streets. The bricklayers will have quite a job repairing the damage those roots have done.”
I drop into the seat across from her. My head is spinning, but at the same time, I’m smiling. Elanna’s power must be returning—and perhaps she’s figured out how to harness that of Mantius’s font. I should have known the Caveadear wouldn’t just huddle on Solivetos Hill, waiting for my return. I snort a laugh. Maybe I should have handed full control over to her and Tullea long ago.
My aunt eyes me, but tactfully refrains from pointing out that my filthy trousers are ruining her silk upholstered chair. Then Pantoleon sits and her eyebrows truly fly up. But she just pours each of us a cup of coffee and pushes a fruit basket toward us.
“You didn’t know,” she remarks.
I’m still smiling, foolishly I’m sure. “No. Leontius—I thought, anyway—summoned me to Aexione.” I explain how Augustus and Phaedra seized power, and I was taken to the Ochuroma.
“Hmm.” My aunt rattles her fingers on the table. “So you’re here to save Leontius, I suppose.”
“And Captain-General Horatius, if I can.” I hesitate. I don’t know how much my aunt knows, or guesses, about Firmina and Bardas Triciphes. “Do you know what’s become of Empress Firmina?”
“She’s said to be in custody—in the Little Palace, I imagine.” My aunt looks at both of us and sighs. “I don’t suppose there’s time to have you bathe before we go?”
“Auntie,” I say, surprised, “you don’t need to put yourself in danger—”
“Oh, I know you’re perfectly capable of skulking into buildings, Jahan. But this time, I’m going to help you.” She rises. “Bring that fruit basket, and we’ll go.”
* * *
—
THE GUARDS AT the Little Palace look bored. They examine the fruit basket, now stuffed with all manner of baked goods and other delectables, but no one troubles to really look at either my face or Pantoleon’s. Aunt Cyra waits, wafting her fan, dressed now in a simple gown, a white plumed feather tucked into her hair. As she said earlier, no one truly sees footmen, even though we’re now both shaved and moderately clean. And despite my aunt’s scandalous connections—to me—it doesn’t seem to occur to the guards that she might be doing anything more than solicitously bringing the empress some food.
All the same, disquiet touches the back of my neck. We’re walking voluntarily into a heavily guarded palace. There are so many ways this could go wrong.
We’re waved inside. A guard points us up a white marble staircase to the second floor, where more guards show us through to an airy salon. Again, no one seems to actually look at us. It’s too easy. I want to elbow Pantoleon—I want to make my aunt turn around—but it’s too late to back out. We would only raise further suspicions.
The salon is empty—and this time, the empress isn’t merely trying to hide in plain sight. Pantoleon and I exchange a glance.
My aunt clears her throat. “Madam?”
A soft rustle comes from one of the other rooms facing the salon. There’s a light step. I glance quickly around. Two tall sashed windows overlook the pond. I could plunge us through them, or try to, but the guards stationed outside might very well shoot at us.
The footsteps draw closer. Firmina Triciphes emerges, her hair loose and her lips parted. “Oh, Cyra!” she cries out, running across the room to my aunt and throwing her arms about her, girlish and fragile.
My suspicions are deepening—Firmina is neither girlish nor fragile.
Sure enough, when she glances at us over Aunt Cyra’s shoulder, she catches sight of me and her eyes widen. She mouths, Go. But then she carries on, her voice bright and prattling. “This is an unexpected pleasure. You’re so kind to come. I’ve been all alone here for two days, mourning my poor dear Alakaseus.”
I check the doors. We’re alone still, but I still feel we’re being watched. I want to set down the basket and run.
“I worried for you,” Aunt Cyra begins.
But the second door clicks. My aunt falls silent. The door swings open with a tinkling of bells. I see Firmina grind her teeth, her eyes watering, just before three men step out from the other room. A witch hunter and two guards, their muskets cocked.
“Cyra Potazes,” the witch hunter says, striding toward us, and with a start I recognize him. It’s short, peremptory Quentin, the witch hunter who brought me to Ida. He looks as smug as ever. “An interesting choice of rescuer. Don’t move, Lady Cyra. You’re under arrest.”
“How dull,” my aunt drawls. “I can’t recall doing anything wrong.”
“Their Imperial Highnesses beg to differ,” Quentin says primly. He casts a pointed look at Firmina. “You can’t hide any longer behind Lady Triciphes. You sheltered Jahan Korakides. You can’t tell me you didn’t know he was a sorcerer.”
Firmina intervenes, fluttering her eyelashes. “Cyra has the most generous heart. Please don’t punish her for her kindness.”
Quentin brandishes the bell. “We’ll examine her for sorcery—and her servants, too.”
I sigh. Pantoleon is wincing at the bell’s incessant clattering. I reach into the sound, feeling for the point where the noise ends and the magic begins. I’m humming aloud, too, I realize. Everyone has turned to stare at me.
“Is your footman quite well?” Quentin asks, distaste curling his lip.
There it is. The magic leaches out of the bell. Pantoleon’s face relaxes. I reach for the muskets the guards hold and, tugging on the guards’ own power, snap the stocks. Both men exclaim in astonishment.
Quentin whirls toward them, then back to me. “Guards! Guards!”
But I’ve already muffled the room so the sound doesn’t escape, though it taxes my tired mind. I grin all the same. “Hello, Quentin.”
“Korakides?” He goes white. Then he starts ringing the bell even more frantically. “Korakides! I’ve got Jahan Korakides in here, damn it! Where is ev—”
He stops, swaying a little. Firmina is standing behind him, one hand outstretched, squeezing the air gently. He gasps. Struggles a little. But then his eyes roll up in his head and he falls to the floor. The guards, I realize, have already collapsed. Firmina just stands there, smiling.
“I didn’t really need to be rescued,” she says. “But it’s sweet of you, Jahan.”
I ignore her, dropping to my knees beside Quentin, feeling for the pulse in his neck. His face is slack, and there’s a strange panic buzzing up inside me. I can’t find a pulse. His skin is growing cold. Clammy.
I stare up at Firmina, who looks down at me with smiling innocence. “You killed him? You killed all of them?”
“I wasn’t going to. But perhaps there’s no need to be as careful as I have been.” She shrugs. “Besides, he would have done the same to us.”
So Madiya was researching it when she forced Lathiel to kill those men. Researching it for Firmina—so that she could murder without anyone knowing?
Well, I know how Alakaseus died, now.
I busy myself covering Quentin’s face with my handkerchief. I don’t want Firmina to see how badly she’s shaken me. It’s not as if I particularly liked Quentin, but this isn’t the way I wanted to see him die, not to mention the two hapless guards.
“Oh, Jahan! You’re so soft.” Firmina is smiling at me. “He didn’t feel
any pain.”
Aunt Cyra gestures at the doors; she looks a bit peaked herself. “Perhaps we should go, madam. Before anyone else discovers us…”
“Wise as ever, Cyra. Do come. We’ll go out the back.”
Pantoleon gives me a hand up. He mutters, “That’s the Idaean Rose? Seems more like the Idaean Powder Keg.”
I manage a smile. “At least she’s on our side.”
“I don’t trust her, Jahan,” he says.
I look after Firmina and my aunt, who are disappearing into the bedchamber. “It’s Madiya’s influence. Firmina and Bardas want the same things we do…”
Pantoleon is creeping not toward the bedchamber, but back to the doors we entered. Cautiously, he opens them. I hear him swallow. “Jahan.”
I already know what I’m going to see. Yet it’s still a shock to witness it: All four guards lie dead outside the salon, tumbled over one another on the marble floor. Is this how she got the power to kill the others? Did she drain all these lives to take the other lives? Who did she sacrifice for the emperor?
We ought to burn them. Bury them. But it will have to damned well wait until after we’ve freed Leontius and reclaimed Aexione from his siblings, and by then we may be known as murderers. I rub my forehead. Doesn’t Firmina understand that these are her own people?
“Well, I suppose it makes our escape easier,” I say, even though it makes me ill. Behind us, in the salon, Firmina is calling my name. “Come on.”
We retreat through to the bedchamber, following Firmina and Cyra to a balcony where a frivolous stair winds down to the pond. The empress seems entirely too calm, while my aunt is gamely pretending she witnesses casual murder every day.
“Jahan will get us to Ida,” Firmina is saying. “We’ll join the rebels—”
I interrupt, unsure I like her volunteering my powers for everyone’s use. “We need to set Leontius free first. We don’t have much time. You and Aunt Cyra can make for Ida, and we’ll join you there, as soon as we can.” If we survive this, I think, but I don’t say so aloud.
