“That’s it? But Dad, that can’t be the end of it. What about half-breeds? Can two people of different Godkin races…”
“No half-breeds,” his father said. “A man and a woman of different races can give birth to any of the four. This is because the blood has become so mixed over the years. A Feral and an Acolyte could give birth to a Sargonaut, for example.”
“What about Astros?” Milo’s brows shot up with excitement. “What kind of technology do they have up there?”
“Up there?” Max grinned at his son. “You act like it’s a real place.”
“Well,” Milo searched the room as if to find evidence to support his case. “I know I sound like a little kid, but it’s just that—with all that’s been going on with you and mom…”
“Stories,” Max said, slamming the book shut and rising from his chair. “Nothing more. What you saw me do that day in the front yard was a freak occurrence, like a mother lifting a car to save her kid from being flattened.”
Milo searched his father’s face for any sign that he was lying. But all he saw was deep concern. His father’s eyes looked to be much older than the rest of him, old enough to have seen things Milo couldn’t even begin to understand.
“You don’t mean it,” Milo said. “They’re not just stories.”
“They are.” A pained look flashed across his father’s face and disappeared a second later. He turned his attention to the window.
The moon hung over the trees like a ghostly eye. His father stared back at it, almost as if he had forgotten Milo was there. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it before any words could come out. Then, after a long pause, he said the words Milo had been dreading.
“Bedtime, kiddo. I’m serious.”
Chapter 11
Far away from the little house in Dearborn, New Jersey—in another world, one could say—a dark, sprawling castle sat in the heart of Lethargis, capital city of the Empire of Leonaryx, on the continent known as Taradyn, in the realm called Astros. The castle had been though many rulers and almost as many names. For now, it was called Castle Leon, after its current king, Corgos Leonaryx.
A riot had broken out in one of the city’s poorest sectors, a place of hard little shacks and dirt roads. The castle’s massive gates opened, and a stream of soldiers poured out, wearing purple vests over their armor and carrying metal crossbows with electrified bolts that buzzed in the rain.
Thunder flashed. The sky opened up and dropped sheets of rain. The smell of wet gutters soured the air. From one of the emperor’s towers, a heavy bell filled the night with urgent clangs.
Men shouted and women screamed as the soldiers came into the slums shooting. Children ran barefoot across the muddy streets, which were now going black as the rain put out the torches. Any new torches brought out from the shacks hissed and died. There was no electricity at this hour in compliance with a citywide measure to save energy. Mothers and fathers could not find their children in the dark.
Blood mixed with mud and ran down the gutters. Children hid in nooks and watched castle soldiers run up and down the muddy streets. They watched men and women dressed in simple cotton shirts and torn pants—people they knew, their own neighbors—fall to the street, eyes open and dead in the flashing lightning.
There had been a shortage in ration slips that week. The people were used to trading their slips for meals, used to having the emperor’s men toss sour fruit and spoiled meat and stale bread at them twice a day. Now, without the slips, they were faced with the chaos of an empty stomach and a long night.
Whenever this happened—and it happened often—the streets became battlefields.
Coscoros couldn’t hear the screams, but he could feel them in his feathers. A pleasant, tingling sensation.
He was deep inside Castle Leon, where now and then he could hear the flapping of vultbats near the ceiling, their long tails hanging down to sense the presence of moths and lightbugs. The cold, dead air made him want to wrap his wings around his body, but he resisted. A soldier would never do such a thing in public. And yet, he thought it strange that the air always felt so much colder whenever Kovax was nearby.
The two soldiers flanking him shivered. Coscoros could sense their discomfort. He led them along the red-carpeted corridor toward the castle’s library, where the low mage kept his quarters. The torches along the walls, fueled by magical energies, radiated a blue light that gave off no heat. Their morbid hiss chilled Coscoros down to the stems of his feathers. There were few things that could scare him like that, and one was low magic. He had seen its power on the battlefield, had seen those black fires swallow men whole, leaving nothing but bones and grinning skulls.
He took a deep breath and knocked three times on the massive wooden door.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” Kovax said from inside, and his voice sounded frail. “And tell those two soldiers to wait there. I can tell by your footsteps you have something urgent and private to tell me.”
Coscoros glanced back at the two soldiers. They nodded and stood guard by the entrance.
The inside of the library was well lit. Orbs of light floated around the bookshelves, and when Coscoros looked up he saw a central shaft of space surrounded by eight floors of shelves.
He turned a corner into a section containing rows of tables and a massive fireplace. When he saw Kovax, he stopped and stared. He knew he should look away in deference—Kovax was the second most powerful man in the empire, after all—but he couldn’t bring himself to avert his eyes.
A group of Acolyte nurses in white suits were tending to the low mage. They had been shorn, which meant their wings had been cut off and the stumps fused together over the spine so they could not grow back. It was a common practice in some parts of Astros and a mandatory procedure for any and all white-winged Acolyte slaves residing in Castle Leon. It gave them a strange-looking bump behind the shoulders that reminded Coscoros of a hunchback he’d seen once down in the levathon stables.
He shuddered at the thought of being shorn. Luckily for him, his wings were black.
“Ah, I see you haven’t slept,” Kovax said, smiling despite the solemn frowns on the faces of his nurses. One was fumbling with a tube running into Kovax’s arm, a tube that was dark red with his blood. She was frowning more than the others.
Coscoros bowed. “I have some—disconcerting news. It may also be good news. I’m not sure, to be honest.”
Kovax motioned for the nurses to back away. There were three of them, all middle-aged women with sad, lined faces. They glanced at Coscoros and his black wings, and he detected a hint of jealousy in their expressions.
“Give me a moment, Lieutenant.” Kovax struggled to stand up. A nurse reached out to help him, but he hissed at her and pawed at her hand. Coscoros saw Kovax’s staff leaning against the wall and went to grab it. He gave it to the low mage, who took it with obvious relief.
“There we go,” Kovax said, using the staff as a walking stick. He looked frail these days, and he wasn’t even that old. His hair was still mostly black—only a few saltings of gray overall—and despite the wrinkles on his papery face, his eyes were a vibrant, electric blue.
Coscoros took a moment to study the mage’s staff. Made of golden Hyathean metal with a red blood crystal sticking out of one end and a blue luminether crystal sticking out of the other, it was famous throughout the empire. It even had a name: “Duo.”
It was rumored that Kovax hadn’t used the red crystal in ages, however. The red ones were for collecting blood ether, but Kovax was a politician now and didn’t have to resort to the low arts any more. At least that’s what people said. They also said it was the reason he was so frail. Blood ether, like so many evil temptations, has terrible withdrawal effects.
“There’s been another riot in the Guttersmoke sector,” Kovax said as they walked, his staff tapping the floor next to him. “These people, they don’t understand how to be part of a self-sustaining system. They’re like parasites that cling to the skin and fall
off when they get too bloated. And they blame us, saying the blood is bad, the blood is bad.”
“Sir,” Coscoros said, trying to hide his interruption with a soft clearing of his throat. “We really must speak about something that occurred this evening, in the human realm.”
“Ah, yes. Earth. Where were you again? New York?”
“New Jersey.”
“Right, right. On the search for exiled demigods. I hope you were successful in finding one for my project. Or better yet, two. Hm?”
“Well, sir, that’s where I have bad news and good news.”
“Continue.”
They walked past windows that showed nothing but darkness beyond. Rain slid down the glass like ink. The lights were off in both sky and city, and to Coscoros it felt like the castle was suspended in a black cloud a thousand feet in the air.
“Sir, maybe you should sit down first,” he said.
Kovax turned and gave Coscoros a sour look. “Out with it, Acolyte. I can withstand more than you think. I may look like an old man but I could tear the wings off your shoulders with a snap of my fingers.”
Coscoros lowered his gaze. “My apologies, sir.”
“No need for that. Speak.”
“Yes, sir. I came across a family of demigods in a small town in New Jersey called Dearborn. They call themselves the Banks; Milo and Emma, and their parents, Maxwell and Alexandra.”
“Maxwell and Alexandra,” Kovax said, scowling down at the floor. His gaze snapped upward again. “Where have I heard…” His eyes widened. “You must be joking.”
Coscoros shook his head. “Maximus, son of Sargos, and Zandra, daughter of Aliara—alive. And they have a zip code, credit cards, and a mortgage. The children are twins.”
“I see why you didn’t go to my cousin first,” Kovax said, nodding. “The emperor would have no idea how to—well, that doesn’t matter now. Coscoros, you’ve performed admirably. I’m promoting you to Knight-Captain. Tell Querrigan…”
“Querrigan is dead, sir. He was using a sightstone when the Banks boy…”
“Milo.”
“Yes, sir. The boy pulled out a beacon crystal. That’s the bad news. They could escape at any time.”
“Querrigan was a fool. He should have anticipated something like that. Hopefully, you won’t be as foolish.”
“I don’t intend to be.” Coscoros breathed in, letting his chest expand with pride. He had come this far, hadn’t he? “Shall I gather a team?”
“Yes. But don’t make a move until I say the word. I’m going to take care of Maximus personally.”
Coscoros tried not to let his surprise show. Had he heard the low mage correctly? Kovax was going to confront Maximus, son of Sargos? He studied the frail old man before him and tried not to frown.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kovax said. “I’m stronger than you think.”
“Of course, sir. I’m ready for your command.”
Kovax motioned for Coscoros to follow him to the main doors. He kept his voice low, probably so the soldiers outside wouldn’t overhear. “I don’t want my cousin to know about this just yet. He may be emperor, but in matters concerning demigods and sorcery he always defers to me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I want you to gather a team. A small one. I don’t want word of this getting out. If the rebels find out Maximus and Zandra are still alive, it could cause a surge in their numbers. Right now, their morale is low and I want to keep it that way. Leave the Berserker; he’s too heavy for the carriages we’ll be using. But keep that Feral he seems to like so much—”
“Bugbrain.”
Kovax rolled his eyes. “He still goes by that name? Idiot.” He waved away the thought. “Leticia Arronyl is coming in from one of our outposts on Valestaryn.”
“Sir,” Coscoros said. “A woman?”
“Don’t underestimate her, Knight-Captain. Her attitude could kill ten men, but the poison in her stinger could kill a thousand. She won’t arrive in time for the capture, but we should have enough men already. We must act now, before they use the beacon crystal to escape. Bring your most trusted blackwingers. I’ll need their powers of flight to pull this off.”
“Yes, sir.”
They arrived at the doors leading out of the library. Coscoros noticed a change in the low mage’s appearance. The color of his skin had deepened, and his eyes burned with energy. He looked ten years younger, and he was smiling.
Coscoros grabbed the handle and was about to push the door open when Kovax stopped him with a clearing of his throat.
“Coscoros, you’ve done well. But we’ll need more than just the element of surprise. You’re going to help me kill Maximus and Zandra without alerting the rebels, but their children—I want those twins alive, understand? You succeed, and I’ll give you the grand hall of your choice, with all its incomes and staff, as well as all the human women you want. I understand you have certain”—his lips pulled back in a grimace—“appetites.”
Coscoros looked away. He remembered how the woman’s blood had tasted on top of that warehouse back in New Jersey—like a dream from which he never wanted to wake. Dark Acolytes typically went after Godkin and Humankin blood, but not Coscoros. Since completing the Dark Ritual, he preferred the blood of Earth humans. There was something about it that made him feel—filthy.
“But if you fail in any way, or if you allow word of Maximus or Zandra’s existence to get back to the rebels, I’ll have you demoted to a common featherbrain.”
“Featherbrain” was the term given to Acolyte soldiers and scouts. Coscoros had spent nearly a decade trying to rise out of that position. The pay was barely enough to eat three meals a day. His wings went cold just thinking about it.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good.” Kovax gave a contented smile and joined his hands behind his back. “Now get to it, Knight-Captain. One of these days, I might make you Knight-Marshal. Think about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coscoros stepped into the darkened corridor and listened to the double-doors close behind him with a boom. He wiped his hands across his face and took a deep breath. The two soldiers guarding the entrance watched him.
“Lieutenant,” one of them said.
“It’s ‘Knight-Captain,’ now.” He gave them a cold look. “And don’t you forget it.”
Chapter 12
Milo forced his eyes shut and tried to will himself to sleep.
He failed. Each time he’d slip into that dark pocket and feel his thoughts begin to float away, a nagging idea like a buzzing mosquito in his head would pop him back into wakefulness.
His father was a god, his mother was a god—no, that couldn’t be—Astros was home, where his family belonged—no, that was crazy…
He tossed and turned, twisting his blankets and knocking his pillows off the bed. His mind was in overdrive. His father’s drawings flashed behind his eyelids in vivid strokes and colors, especially the one of the man holding the fireball. They were speaking to him, whispering. He could almost understand, but not quite.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He got out of bed.
His father would be asleep by now, and if Milo kept quiet, he could get by his parents’ bedroom with no problem. Barefoot, he crept downstairs, holding his breath and walking on the front pads of his feet. A fierce wind had picked up outside the house and slammed into the roof like one of the one-eyed giants his father had described. He shivered, wishing he had put on a sweatshirt.
His father’s study was unlocked. Milo turned the doorknob, looking back over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed him. The hallway was empty, and all he could hear was the wind. Once inside, he walked at a quarter his normal speed to make sure he didn’t knock anything over. A bluish light fell in through the window, just enough to help him get around the furniture without tripping. He didn’t dare turn on a lamp in case his father, deciding to get up for a glass of water, should see the glow beneath the door.
&n
bsp; For the next half hour he searched for the book. It was a large volume, bigger than the encyclopedias his father kept lined up in the living room, and Milo thought it would be easy to find. He soon realized his mistake. His father must have hidden the book. He probably knew Milo would come looking for it. If that was true, his father was probably awake right now. If he caught Milo snooping around in his study, he would make him clean dishes for the next week as punishment.
Milo sighed and started toward the door. As he walked, he heard a sound coming from outside, through the window. It was faint and difficult to identify at first. Crouched behind the desk, he listened to what sounded like a girl singing in a high, wistful voice. He crept around the desk and up to the window, which gave him a view of the yard below.
At first he thought he was looking at a white statuette someone had placed on the grass. Then the statuette moved, and he realized it was Emma. What was she doing outside at this hour? Maybe she was sleepwalking?
He made sure to close the door to his father’s study, and then he tiptoed toward the back door of the house. Soon, he was outside. The grass was dewy and cold against his bare feet and a thin fog hung near the ground, giving the yard an ethereal quality, as if this were not Earth but Astros, the land of the gods his father had mentioned.
The singing grew louder, and when Milo heard the lyrics, he wondered if he had fallen asleep after all, making this a very strange dream.
His sister was singing in a language he had never heard before.
“Emma,” he said, cupping a hand around his mouth. The window to his parents’ bedroom was right above the yard.
Emma turned with the slowness of someone in a trance, a calm look on her face.
“Milo,” she said, motioning for him to come forward. “Look at this.”
“Emma, what are you doing?”
He joined his sister in the center of the yard. Her face glistened with dew, and her hair was frost-blue in the moonlight.
She made a shushing sound. “He was here a minute ago.”
Savant (The Luminether Series) Page 6
