Deep Magic - First Collection

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Ah yes. Well, Tiberius the Sixth and Ninth are also here in the garden; they were laid to rest in the family catacombs. The entrance to those passages collapsed four hundred years ago, however, and the area is badly overgrown. No one could find it today . . . unless I were to show them where to look.”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s seven . . . but you still haven’t said which Tiberius you are, old ghost.”

  He met her eyes, no longer smiling. “I thought you would have guessed by now. Being a student of history. But we will make formal introductions, if you insist.”

  The old man stood up and faced her, planting his bare feet in the grass. When he drew himself up to his full height, the girl paled. It was a frightening transformation; in one breath he went from an old man in his dressing gown to a white-haired wolf, captured for eternity in the winter of his life. He was a legend, a man to be feared . . . and when he put on the grim mask of authority again, she knew him right away. She’d seen the same stern face many times in marble, and even stamped in gold.

  “Oh no.” Her voice was hushed with horror. “You must be—”

  He cut her off with the tiny formal bow of imperial courtesy. “Tiberius Marcus Severan. Also known as Tiberius Atroxus and—”

  “Tiberius the Great,” she finished. She stood up, knees shaking, and backed slowly away from him. “You’re the Tiberius who—”

  “Yes, yes,” he interrupted testily. He sat back down on the sundial, turning away from her—a weary old man once more. “No need for a catalog of my crimes. I’m sure the bloody tales have lost nothing in the telling, even in your generation.”

  “No. They certainly haven’t.” She hesitated. “I’ve known about you since I was six years old. My father told me the story when he executed my uncle Kaeso.”

  Tiberius shook his head. “Charming. Still the family ogre . . .”

  “No, no—it wasn’t like that. My father admires you. He told me that I shouldn’t be afraid to follow your example, if I have to. He says you don’t live long as emperor unless you’re willing to cut a few throats . . .”

  “Oh my. Better and better—I’ve become the patron saint of imperial fratricide.” The old man put his face in his hands, and his shoulders trembled with some suppressed emotion. “If your father follows my example, my dear, I’d step lightly in years to come. You never know when he’ll decide it’s your throat that needs cutting.”

  She waited a few moments before speaking again. “So. Is it all true? What they say about you?”

  He sighed heavily. “Probably. I don’t know exactly what you’ve heard, but you’re young yet; most of my nephew’s riper fabrications are unfit for such tender ears. For the record, however—in case you hear differently—I was never a rapist or a cannibal.”

  She stood quietly for a time, and the song of cicadas grew loud in the silence. “You’re very lucky.”

  The old man turned to look at her, incredulous. “How so?”

  “You’re here to defend yourself.” She came and sat down beside him. “You’re not at the mercy of history.”

  He sat for a long time, back bowed. “I’m not at the mercy of historians. History is another matter.”

  He was talking to himself, however. By the time he looked up again, she had gone, and the meadow grass was brown and pinched by cold, poking up in tufts from a blanket of dingy snow.

  * * *

  On a pleasant autumn evening the child returned, emerging from the trees just as the first star appeared. Fifteen years old, she was rising like bamboo. Her corona of rust-colored hair had been cut close to the scalp, and her severe uniform could not hide the march of time. The gangly child she had been was steadily retreating before the tall, vigorous woman she would become—a bittersweet sight for an old man who had first loved her as a toddler chasing butterflies.

  “Hello, Uncle.” Nervously she tugged the hem of her jacket down, then reached up to touch the two bronze tabs of rank on her collar, as if to be sure they were in place—an unconsciously military gesture. He had seen it many times in junior officers waiting for a review. “I need your help.”

  “Hello, Niece.” Sitting on the edge of a dry fountain, Tiberius looked up into her eyes. “How did you find me here?”

  She stopped, brow creased by a slight frown, and looked over her shoulder at the dark forest behind her. “I’m not sure. I wanted to see you, and—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He rose from his seat. “What help can I give you today?”

  “I’d like you to show me a way out of here.” She stepped forward eagerly. “A secret way that only ghosts know.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And what use would you make of such an egress?”

  She put her gloved hands in her jacket pockets, but not before he saw the glint of fire and gold. “Does it matter?”

  “Probably not. But I am curious. And I’m afraid it’s against my nature to give away information for free.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re a Severan, all right.”

  “Of course.” He paused for a moment. “This is not the place to escape your family, Cleona. Quite the opposite.”

  She kicked at the fallen leaves viciously, sending up a shower of purple and brown. “I’m choking to death in that palace, Uncle. I have to get out. The new security measures are driving me mad. Everywhere I go, a dozen eyes are watching me.” She flung out her open hand, encompassing the whole garden with a contemptuous gesture. “This is the only place I’m allowed to be alone—and there are still guards posted outside all the gates.”

  He nodded. “You’ve tried bribes, of course?”

  “Of every kind.”

  “Threats?”

  “Only the ones I could carry out quickly.” She shook her head. “Believe me, old man—you were not my first choice!”

  He smiled blandly. “And what pressing business do we have in the city, may I ask?”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  “Ah. A lover, then.” She was wise enough to avoid his eyes, but he saw the flicker of light beneath her lashes. “Come now, Cleona. If you hope to hide this sort of thing in the future, you’ll have to do better than that. You’re as easy to read as a child’s primer . . . even for an old ghost like me.”

  “You’re not just any old ghost, Tiberius Marcus.” Her look was sour. “No one else has guessed—I’m sure of that.”

  “Oh really? How long has this little romance been going on?”

  A wind stirred in the trees, and the rattle of dry leaves nearly drowned her soft reply. “Since the spring.”

  “Mm-hmm. And the new security measures at the palace—when did these begin?”

  “Two months ago, when I went back to the academy.” She turned and looked him in the eye. “I know what you’re going to say, but you’re wrong. My father is not the emperor you were.”

  “Perhaps not. But he is your father, which gives him a distinct advantage.” He shook his head. “If Glycon has chosen to pretend ignorance, he’s a subtler man than you believe. But rest assured, child—he knows about this little affair of yours.”

  “Impossible.”

  Tiberius did not dignify that with a response. Instead he turned and strolled down a narrow corridor of thorns, leaving the fountain behind him. Although darkness was falling, his body was still very bright, as if he were standing in the full light of day. Ash-winged moths circled his wooly head, a fluttering crown; his glow was so strong that it drew insects like a flame.

  Cleona followed close on his heels. “We were very careful,” she insisted. “We never met in public. We were never seen together. The room was—”

  He rounded on her abruptly, cutting her off. “Enough, girl. You’ll be empress someday; it’s time you learn to lie to others, not yourself.”

  Her jaw worked, biting down on her first reply, but her gaze never wavered. “Very well.” Her voice was clipped short by anger. “We’ll assume you’re right, even if you aren’t: my father knows. And making me a priso
ner in his house—that would be his subtle way of telling me he doesn’t approve?”

  “Yes. I believe you have the gist of it. He doesn’t approve, or he thinks it’s gone on long enough—it all comes to the same thing.” Tiberius turned and walked away again.

  She came after him doggedly, hissing curses as the brambles whipped her face. “It’s no use running from me, Uncle! I’m going to keep up—ow, bloody hell!—regardless of where you go.”

  Tiberius pressed his lips into a harsh line and kept moving. The path took several sharp corners as he went, through tunnels of knitted thorns. After a bewildering series of turns, a ruby-red glow began to leak through the black leaves of the hedge; there was an open space ahead. Tiberius stepped out into the clearing and nearly vanished, swallowed by a rolling fog the color of blood.

  Cleona stumbled out after him and grinned, as if she’d just beaten him at some child’s game. “Topiary maze! But it needs trimming.” Looking around her, she seemed to take in the crimson mist for the first time. “Where are we?”

  He pointed upward, where the fog swirled thick against a strangely curving ceiling, like smoke in a glass. “The Red Temple. The heart of the garden.”

  She reached out and tried to touch the canopy with her hand; the tips of her fingers disappeared, and then reappeared as she quickly pulled them back. “Strange. What is it?”

  “A sheet of energy. They called it a baldachin, in my day. Very few people had them, even then; they are relics of the First Empire.”

  “Interesting. What does it do, exactly?”

  “This one is fairly harmless—it only keeps out prying eyes,” Tiberius replied. “Light and heat pass through from above, but cannot pass through from below. It has no effect on physical objects or living things—but I always feel a tingle as I duck under it.”

  “A useful device.” She passed her hand through it again. “Why would someone waste it here, in the middle of a cemetery?”

  “To protect a very special place. One which would otherwise be visible from the air, when strangers flew over the city at night.”

  Cleona looked around her. “Most definitely. Where’s all the light coming from?”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  She walked slowly past him, moving toward the source of the red glow. There was a little shrine there, its back set against the black briars; the red light was spilling forth from its columns and walls. Moving closer, she could see a whole structure built from a radiant stone, which glowed the bright vermilion of eyelids closed against the sun.

  In the portico of the building, four caryatids served as columns, each an exquisitely lifelike image of a woman in a flowing gown. Every sculpture was of the same lady, but she had been captured in different moods: once in a laughing dance, her supple arms entwined above her head; once in reflection, a small bird perched on her finger; once with a silent word of welcome hanging on her lips; once with hands crossed over her breasts, her head bowed in grief.

  As if in a dream, Cleona climbed the steps toward the stone women; she took off one of her black leather gloves and touched the vivid cheek of the nearest with her brown hand.

  “Warm,” she breathed. “And the patterns . . .” Upon closer inspection, the shining stone was veined with milky pink and deep maroon, mottled with whorls of crimson.

  Turning, she saw that Tiberius had come up behind her. “Is it really—?”

  “Yes. Heartstone marble. Several tons of the stuff.” He pointed to her still-gloved hand, half-hidden behind her back. “I thought you might like to see it, since you wear a bit of heartstone yourself.”

  She gave him a sad smile and pulled off the second glove, letting a golden bracelet dangle freely from her wrist. “I am transparent. I should have known better than to hide anything from you, Tiberius.”

  “A gift from your lover?” The bracelet was a slender chain of gold, set with two tiny red beads; they shone brightly against the black fabric of her sleeve.

  She looked down at the pearls of pink light, touching them with her fingertips. “Yes. These little things cost him a fortune.” For a moment her face shone brighter, flushed with its own incandescent flame. “You understand the symbol?”

  Tiberius nodded gravely. “Two hearts aflame. A very eloquent gift. Has your father seen it?”

  “He might have. If his spies have found all my hiding places.” She lowered her wrist and looked at him squarely. “Why?”

  “It would explain a great deal. Consider the nature of heartstone. The rock absorbs energy from the sun during the day, storing it within; at night, it releases that energy and gives us the heat and light we prize. But what happens if the stone is always kept in a dark place, away from the light?”

  She dropped her eyes. “It doesn’t glow. It goes cold and black.”

  “It may be that your bracelet has more than one meaning. It’s a rare and precious gift—but loses its fire if you keep it hidden. Love can be the same: thriving in the open, dying in the dark.”

  “No.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were troubled. “I’m sure he never meant to say that.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t—but if I was your father, I’d worry. Is the boy from a poor family, by any chance?”

  Her lashes trembled. “Why does that matter?”

  “You said it yourself, Cleona; the bracelet cost him a fortune. Only a very rich man could afford to buy such a trinket casually. If he isn’t the spoiled son of wealthy parents—and I can see by the look on your face that he isn’t—he must have sacrificed a great deal to give you such a gift. So one must ask: what did he hope to gain?”

  Her smile was strained. “Are you the ghost of an emperor, or a monk?”

  He rolled his eyes, making no reply.

  “I’m cold. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She sat down on the steps of the shrine, drawing her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.

  He studied her carefully. After several seconds of silence, he spoke. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, Cleona.”

  She raised her eyes, glittering in the red glow. “I think you’re a horrible, suspicious old man. And that you’ve forgotten what love is . . . if you ever knew.”

  “I won’t deny it.” He walked past her, up the steps of the temple. “In life, I was the living god to four hundred billion souls. If I loved anyone, it was my people.”

  “Loved your power over them.”

  “Power.” He held the word in his mouth like old wine. “Yes. I know much more about power than love.” He paused on the top step. “If you’re cold, we can go inside.”

  “It’s sealed with a solid slab. I don’t think I’m strong enough to move it.”

  “It doesn’t take strength.” He extended his shining brown fingers toward the door. “Can you read Solari?”

  “A little. My father forced me to learn it when I was eight.” She made a face. “Don’t ask me why; I’ve always hated those old dead languages.”

  “Come here.”

  She stood and peered at the door. The inscription was so worn that it would have been invisible, if not for the ghostly light of Tiberius; his bright hand dimmed the marble, teasing it back to sleep just enough to bring out the faint shadow of the letters.

  “Read it aloud.”

  “But some of the words are gone.” She glanced at him, reluctant. “I can’t make them all out.”

  “The last line is all that matters . . . the others are only there for the sake of art.”

  Haltingly, she repeated what was still legible of the verse, fingers trailing along the lines as she struggled to pronounce the archaic words.

  “I was a child beneath her touch

  A man when breast to breast we clung,

  A spirit when her spirit looked through me

  A god when . . . our lifeblood ran . . .

  Fire within fire, desire in deity.”

  Something shifted within the wall, and the door began to slide, screaming in protest as it ground agai
nst dry bearings. Cleona slipped in before it was half-open, shrugging through the narrow crack like a cat.

  Tiberius hastily followed. Within the tomb, the red glow was much deeper and darker, the veins of stone bright as the cracks in cooling lava. It was a single room, empty except for a plain heartstone altar. On the broad platform, a shining man and woman lay sleeping, curled up nude together—the golden woman lying on her side, her head pillowed on her lover’s arm, while the man cupped her with his polished obsidian body and wound his fingers into her hair.

  Cleona bent close, her pale face underlit by the radiance of the sleepers. “They’re not breathing.” She spoke softly, as if afraid to wake them. “Who are they, Tiberius?”

  “I don’t know. The man was a Severan emperor. He wears the crest.” He pointed to the pendant hanging from the man’s neck, threaded on a heavy chain of gold.

  “She died before him,” the girl said suddenly. “He built the tomb for her, in grief. It must have taken a very long time—years to gather all the stone, years more to have it carved so perfectly—but when he finally passed, he had himself buried here beside her.” She rested her white hand on the dark tabletop, gentle and reverent. “The two of them are lying together under this—just as we see them here.”

  “Perhaps.” He was shaken by the conviction in her voice. “We can’t know. The two of them are too ancient . . . even when I was a child, none of the ghosts in the garden remembered their names.”

  She looked up suddenly, and he saw the glistening tears on her face. “Help me, Uncle. Please. I know you don’t understand, but I have to see him.” She put a hand to her chest, her voice rising in pitch like a tortured harp string being wound tighter and tighter around its peg. “I’ve never felt a pain like this—I’m dying . . .”

  “Don’t . . .” He reached for her, and she stumbled back, startled. Tiberius withdrew his hand slowly, still holding out the open palm. “Don’t cry, Cleona.” He hesitated, awkward and ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes were enormous golden coins, brimming with tears.

  “Of course you must go to him. Some feelings . . . are too strong to be denied.” He seemed to be speaking to himself. “Let me show you the way out. I never meant to torment you.”