She heard cursing and grunts, peeked over her shoulder, and saw Tyrus changing horses. They had done that a few times to rest the animals while keeping their pace. He rode a new mount forward and waited.
Still no milk, and Marah hated her. Einin wondered what she was doing wrong. Ishma had a larger chest than she did, and for a moment she wondered if that was the problem. Maybe her smaller frame lacked something to make milk. Maybe fate had never intended her to be a mother. She pulled her gown up. How long could a newborn go without milk? She tried to focus on the woods, the dangers all around, but none of it meant anything if Marah starved.
“Still nothing?”
Einin shook her head.
Neither of them asked, but the question wouldn’t go away. How long could Marah last? Einin hoped Ishma’s visions were true. Why didn’t the seraphim help Marah? How far from Shinar must they go?
Tyrus sat taller in the saddle and ate dried rations. She tried to hide her astonishment. He moved with purpose again, but he was still hurt. His face had a tightness around the eyes, but he no longer looked like a man bleeding to death. Rosy skin replaced the gray hue, and the blackness under his eyes faded away. He grew stronger by the minute.
She asked, “Is it okay to eat?”
“I’m not sure, but it helps feed the runes. At least, that’s what they say. I’ve healed before without rations, but it takes longer.”
“Is it possible for you to die?”
“Of course.”
“But your wounds, I thought you were bleeding to death.”
“I might have come close this time. The runes stop it.”
“It’s… unnatural.”
She bit back the word unholy, catching herself before she said it under her breath. He must have good ears as well. With a hundred runes, he could have dozens of enhancements. The numbers and variations of changes to the body swelled in her mind. A hundred runes would make him more than human in dozens of ways. She saw that he had caught her gawking at him.
“Milady, I am the Damned.”
“They say you made a bargain with the lords of hell for your runes.”
“No. That was Azmon. But he did etch the runes into me.”
She knew he had lived longer than he should have, like the emperor, unnaturally young. Their immortality ushered in the first rebellions. People accused Azmon of forbidden rites to prolong his life. The civil war had happened when she was a child, after Azmon had made his first beasts. Tyrus could pass for a man in his thirties in low light although the scars gave his body a worn look that spoke to his years. She tried to guess his age but didn’t know where to start.
“How old are you?”
“Azmon says I shouldn’t talk about it. He says people wouldn’t understand.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He offered a strange grunt. “I’m close to seventy. How old are you?”
Einin coughed. “Twenty. Well, almost twenty. How is your stomach?”
“Better. Still bad. Even with runes, that one will leave a scar.”
“If you can’t be hurt, can you age?”
“I can be hurt.”
“But you recover so fast. What does that mean?”
“No one knows.” Tyrus sighed. “Azmon used to say the mind is different than the body. It can only take so much, regardless of how strong the flesh is. That’s why most people die when they take five or six runes.”
She tried to understand. The theory didn’t interest her as much as the emperor sharing his research with him and the way he said “Azmon” as though he spoke of a brother. Tyrus did not put the emphasis on the name that most people did. Azmon’s name was usually pronounced with gravity, like a god’s. She imagined them talking like normal people. For too long, they had been giant figures, in their robes and armor, leading Rosh. She found it impossible to think of them as friends. They were not people.
“You spoke to him often?”
“I did.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s lonely.” Tyrus became distant, talking to himself. “After the civil war, after some of his own family turned on him, there was no one he could trust anymore.”
“Except you.”
He winced, and she realized talking about loyalty was foolish. She needed to sleep. It felt like days since she had slept, and when she counted the hours giving birth and running it was stretching into the longest couple of days of her life.
The conversation died off. As they traveled farther into the forest, the trees became bigger. The dark trunks, enormous folds of bark covered in moss and vines, had replaced the smaller trees from before. She had heard stories of Ashen Elves. They said you never saw their approach. A leaf would have eyes, blink at you, and if you were Roshan, you died before you saw the rest of the creature. Green weeds covered the ground, and the trees had interlocking branches. Sunlight broke through a few branches, but shadows covered their path.
The woods offered too many places for things to hide. Aside from occasional clicks of insects or birds, she heard only the horses pushing through the brush.
“How well did you know those men? Were they your friends?”
“I don’t have friends. They served me.”
“And you killed them without warning?”
She risked angering him, but they had nothing else to talk about, and she didn’t want to think about the creatures in the woods. Tyrus ignored her. She should respect that but asked more questions instead, anything to avoid thoughts of Marah dying.
Tyrus wondered why no one challenged them. They traveled deep into the woods and they seemed abandoned. What were the elves planning? Einin had nerves in her voice. He preferred using anxiety to stay alert, to fuel his paranoia, but Einin had a bad habit of trying to distract herself. She kept asking about the men he had killed, and what it meant. He didn’t like killing anyone, found solace in not killing needlessly, and worked to forget the rest.
“It doesn’t bother you?” asked Einin.
“Someone had to die.”
“They might have let you go.”
Should he explain it to her? His men feared the emperor more than they respected him. A few were ambitious. An appeal for mercy would have been like feeding bloody meat to a pack of dogs. Yes, he butchered them. Yes, it lacked honor. But anything less, and they’d both be dead. Ordering them to return to Shinar would have invited disaster. They would double back and ambush him. Better to attack than defend. Too often, the man that struck first lived.
Her eyes accused. Tyrus had seen it before, people realizing how close they had come to dying and trying to make sense of it all. She didn’t like watching men die in her place: survivor’s guilt. He had no answers. Trying to soothe her accomplished nothing. She didn’t feel the bone lords at her back, but monsters hunted them and a flyer could spot Biral before he made it to Shinar. Azmon might not know yet, but best to assume he did. The forest blocked his view of the sun, but shadows grew longer. The woods darkened. They had not covered enough ground.
“That’s all?” Einin asked. “‘Someone had to die?’”
“Yep.”
“When did you become such a cold-blooded killer?”
“I’ve always fought. I’m good at it.”
“You must have had a childhood.”
“I remember my father beating me. I was too small to fight back.”
No need for her to know that. Bad habits picked up from guarding Ishma. He had made a mistake with the empress, bonded with his ward. With Marah, he would keep his distance—fewer distractions. As long as Einin cared for her, he would keep both of them at a distance. Guardians were not friends.
Einin said, “That’s awful. What did you do?”
“I got bigger.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s done is done.” Tyrus reined his horse. “They’ll send the beasts after us now. They
might be on our trail already. If you want to save Marah, focus on your surroundings, not me.”
She made to say something, closed her mouth, and glanced over her shoulder. “How much time do we have?”
“Not long. We’re in range of the flyers.”
“So what do we do?”
“We run if we can and fight if we must.”
Tyrus watched the words work on her. She scowled and studied their surroundings for options. He waited until she nodded. They rode on. If Biral had made it clear of the woods, he would have found scouts by now and borrowed a mount. He might be riding into Shinar at this moment. The wasted time on his back clouded Tyrus’s judgment—he had no idea how long he had been unable to stand—but he hoped Azmon learned of the betrayal around sunset.
II
The Shinari throne frustrated Azmon. In Rosh, he had a throne, modest in appearance, tailored to his frame. His father had said the chair mattered less than the man sitting in it, but the Shinari loved spectacle. Their throne boasted an excess of stones and metals, gold and silver, flourishes, with wings and twin dragonheads behind the headrest. King Lael should have melted the gaudy thing down to hire more archers. When things quieted, Azmon would have it destroyed.
He cradled the Dawn Caller, sat, and heard reports of the city being pacified. The worst looting and insurrections had passed. Aside from a few mysterious tunnels, Shinar belonged to the Roshan Empire. Azmon’s attention drifted to the windows, to the horizon, watching the sun set in a blood-red sky. Tyrus promised him results before the day ended, and he never disappointed.
Where was his daughter?
He dwelled on the kidnapping. His own child birthed and named without him. How had that happened? Ishma claimed a freakish birth, and while the physicians said it was possible, they stank of fear. He saw a familiar look on their faces, timidity, unsure of which royals to anger with the truth. Liars and schemers, and in his head, they were dead. He needed information before he struck. He mulled over his physicians, trying to pick the best one to torture.
The lords had bribed them. Azmon wanted names.
A herald slipped into the throne room. Azmon watched him weave through the crowd while one of the lords tried to take credit for conquering half of Shinar. The new breed of sorcerer liked to sit back and watch and preen around like peacocks. His own nobles reminded him of the Shinari, which made the conquest pointless. The herald approached without an acknowledgment, and Azmon knew he had news from Tyrus. Nothing else would make him so bold.
They whispered while the court waited.
“Excellency, Biral returns with bad news.”
“Where is he?”
“At the gates, on his way.”
“What news?”
“Something about the Lord Marshal, Your Excellency. Only two men returned.”
“Tyrus and Biral?”
“Biral and one of the champions. The marshal is not with them.”
“Bring me Biral at once.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
The herald hurried away without a salute. Azmon considered what it meant, other than bad news; Biral must look awful. The court whispered while Azmon watched the sun set. Where was Tyrus? Delayed by something, and he sent messengers with details. They would want flyers, reinforcements. Perhaps Dura and the last of the knights had planned this kidnapping? Leverage for a negotiation, maybe, but for what? And how had they planted a spy in his wife’s entourage?
His gaze drifted over the nobles in attendance, wondering which of them had done this. He must make examples of them. What else could he do if they dared touch his family? The urge to lash out warred with the need for more information.
A few minutes later, the herald announced the messengers. Biral strode forward, doing his best to stand tall in torn and filthy robes. He knelt before the dais. At his side knelt a champion, a man Azmon could not recall. Azmon braced for bad news, doubt creeping over him, but he couldn’t let them touch his face. To the court, he must be the all-knowing and all-powerful sorcerer.
“You bring news, Biral?”
“Excellency, Tyrus has betrayed us all. He killed our men and aided the kidnappers.”
The court swiveled heads to the emperor. He kept his face passive, calm, detached. Never let them see your reaction, his father had said. Be the stone. Let them guess your thoughts. Silence fell over the room.
Azmon said, “Try again.”
“Excellency?”
Azmon’s jaw clenched. “Lie to me again.”
Tremors shook Biral as he searched the room. He had friends here, and Azmon noted the lords, families and houses that he turned to. No one helped. None of the court would acknowledge him or speak on his behalf. Such a lonely place to kneel, before an angry emperor and an indifferent nobility—no boons, no protection, no escape. Biral’s reaction gave Azmon his measure: a pompous little man, unaccustomed to failure, and, having failed, he sought a scapegoat or a shield. Azmon knew his kind. Too many of the new nobles were like him. Azmon fought to stay calm.
“Try again, Biral.”
“Your Excellency, I don’t know what to say. He killed our men.”
A chill washed over Azmon. His hairs perked. Gooseflesh spread. His vision narrowed as part of his mind reached for sorcery, but Biral’s face stayed in view. Azmon locked onto it no differently than an archer drawing a bow while power replaced coldness.
A force dragged Biral off his knees and dangled him in the air. Invisible lashes ripped into him. His robes shredded. Blood splattered the floor. Biral screamed at first before his voice became a high-pitched, wretched wail. With a gesture, Azmon pulled the air from his lungs, silencing him, as the lashes continued.
“You bring me lies instead of my daughter? You insult my friend’s honor?” Azmon sneered and no longer cared what anyone thought. “I will get to the bottom of this.”
The Roshan conquests had stuffed his court with ambitious and devious fools. Empire had replaced the old houses of Rosh with new blood: survivors, schemers, and sorcerers with designs for the throne. The idea of Tyrus joining their ranks, his only real friend turned into another schemer, invoked a surprising fury.
He realized he had overreacted. Such violence would only turn more bone lords against him. With another gesture, the torments stopped. He released his grasp on sorcery, his heart hammered in his chest, and his vision improved.
Purple-faced, Biral thudded to the ground, gasping, clutching his throat, before heaving and vomiting. The liquid splashed the marble tile. The nobles tried to avoid attention while standing in plain view, and Azmon studied them, seeking the nervous, the guilty who might have aided Biral. He found nothing. He noticed the champion, an Etched Man who resembled a younger Tyrus, not as large but made of stronger stuff than Biral. He did not shy away from Azmon’s glare, nor did he look to the court for protection.
“You, what is your name?”
“Tamar of Rosh, Your Excellency.”
“What happened to Tyrus?”
Tamar paled but told a simple story. Tyrus went into the cave alone and came out with his sword drawn. There was no blood on the sword. He walked up to Nevid and split his skull, killed two more before they brawled, and won against impossible odds, like he had done so many times before.
Tamar met Azmon’s glare, a defiant thing to do, a breach of etiquette, but he talked as though he fought with words rather than his sword. He had nerve. He convinced. Worse, the story sounded like Tyrus: cold, brutal, and inhuman.
“And how did you escape him?”
“I ran, Your Excellency.”
“Abandoned your oaths and duties to the crown?”
“He was unstoppable, Your Excellency. I was not strong enough.”
“Tyrus runs faster than you, does he not?”
“He does.”
“Then how did you escape? Was he injured? Too injured to give chase?”
&
nbsp; Tamar hesitated.
“So rather than kill an injured man, you fled like a craven fool.”
Tamar frowned, began to speak but looked down instead. Azmon waited. He wanted to hear those words.
“I apologize, Your Excellency, but even wounded, he kept fighting. The Lord Marshal killed ten men and three beasts. I’ve never seen anything like it. We tried at first to take him down, to disarm him, but he was too strong. Then we fought for our lives. There was no way.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said nothing.”
Azmon sat back. That was Tyrus, and the man spoke true. Azmon watched Biral quiver on the floor. Even Tyrus would be hard pressed to fight a dozen Etched Men, and Azmon imagined him near death, but these idiots thought of him as a god. Tyrus betrayed his oaths after decades of service? Their last conversation had no hint of insolence. Some complaints at Lael’s execution, but Azmon couldn’t believe he would betray Rosh for a dead king.
No one had spoken for a while. People held their breath. Azmon gestured at one of the bone lords, provoking a flinch in the crowd.
“See to Biral’s wounds and interrogate them further, separately. I will speak to them again, later.”
Guards led the survivors from the court.
Now the nobles dared study him, and the scheming began. Tyrus’s position, second in command, was available, and he saw ambition and greed in their eyes. How soon before one of them dared seek promotion? Factions would form, promises within promises, to advance someone of power and fill his position and so on. Promotions would ripple through their ranks for weeks until equilibrium returned.
“Leave me.”
Heralds and guards stepped forward to dismiss the court. The nobles filed out while servants cleaned the floor, an unbelievable end to a day that had started so well. Fate robbed his triumph. Servants left him alone; his face seethed with worry and anger and questions. What was Tyrus doing? What could possibly inspire such a thing? A thought punched him in the stomach.
Not a thing, a person.
If anyone could turn Tyrus, it was his wife. But why send the heir away? Why would Tyrus take men with him only to kill them? What was the ultimate goal, civil war? Would they return to Rosh and raise an army against him? Not Narbor—Ishma’s people had never forgiven her, but would Narbor rally around her daughter? He doubted it but second-guessed his doubts.
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