Nothing made sense. Ishma could have returned to Rosh peacefully and given birth there. Maybe she turned Tyrus against him out of spite.
“Damn you, Ishma.”
Even alone, he whispered. She must have friends in the court helping her. This revelation would take weeks to unravel, but he had to find his enemies before he struck.
A herald entered. “Lady Lilith asks for an audience, Your Excellency.”
So Lilith would be the one, and sooner than he had guessed. Her ambition blinded her too much, but she was effective. Give her a task, promise a reward, and she would deliver. The results might be sloppy, might lack Tyrus’s attention to detail, but she didn’t disappoint often. He gestured for the herald to admit her.
Lilith strode forward. “Your Excellency, might I suggest—”
“Careful, Lilith. I’m in no mood for foreplay.”
“Foreplay?” She coughed. “Tyrus must be brought to justice. I know you share a history with him, but grant me this chance to prove once and for all that the Etched Men are no longer necessary. We don’t need champions anymore.”
“You think it will be so easy?”
“He is a man, and my beasts are some of the strongest in the army. He will fall like King Lael, a relic of a dead era.”
“Tyrus was my first creation.” Azmon watched her. So sure of herself—how much of it was an act? She should know Tyrus better than that. Lilith was there when they defeated the Five Nations. “Before I created the beasts, I gave him his runes. I spent years trying to create more men like him but always failed. Tyrus is unique.”
“I will defeat him, Your Excellency.”
Her creatures might overpower him if she had three or four of them, but Tyrus wouldn’t let her sit back and bark orders. He’d hide and strike. He was the kind of man who’d sacrifice himself if it meant she died first.
He said, “I want my daughter. I want the heir of my dynasty safe in my arms. Don’t forget, Lilith. Killing the Damned might make you famous, but if you do that at the expense of my family, you will be punished.”
“I will protect the heir with my life.”
Everyone promised him their lives. Did they not understand how pitiful an oath that was? So many wanted to martyr themselves. A better oath would endanger their loved ones the way his child was endangered.
“You have brothers in the court? Would you swear their lives, if you fail?”
“My… my brothers?”
“You have children as well. Sons, if I recall? House Hadoram has been blessed with boys.”
“We have,” Lilith said, “Your Excellency.”
Her reluctance betrayed much. Her family had risen to power together, much like he had risen with Tyrus. How many little schemes among them? Trusted allies were rare, and Azmon wondered what such loyalty was worth? He waited for her to react.
“I will not fail, milord. I will rescue the heir.”
“Bring two hostages to me, brothers or sons, I care not. I’ll release them when I have my daughter.”
She swallowed.
“That will be all.” He gestured at the door, and she turned to leave. Before she reached the door, he called to her. “Lilith, succeed, and I’ll name you my second.”
Her wary eyes changed, filled with desire, confidence. She bowed and left. That should be enough to start the hunt: his most talented student, collateral to control her violence, and a pretty prize. A small blessing, to be done with that; now he could focus on his treasonous wife.
He moved to a window above the smoldering ruin of the once great Shinar. The cradle of civilization, the Jewel of the West, burned. Jethlah, the Last Prophet, had built these walls, and Azmon might not be a prophet but he was powerful enough to undo their work.
Once he had thought he might be a prophet, that his birth rune might have been a part of one of the great prophets from ages past, not Alivar or Jethlah, nothing so grand, but one of the lesser prophets, a Kenet perhaps or a Jace. He could do things with the Runes of Dusk and Dawn that few sorcerers could match, and only prophets were so powerful. When the other wordly powers had contacted him and promised him more runes he assumed he spoke to the angels of the Seven Heavens. It was only later that he learned the truth, and instead of turning on them he had made the mistake of trying to learn their secrets first.
He had not wanted any of this; he had not wanted to destroy Shinar, to enter the history books as the one to break Jethlah’s Walls. Azmon should have been famous for building things, like Jethlah. So much simpler if the Shinari had surrendered, but he would rebuild it, and his new Shinar would outshine the old. Had sacking Shinar turned Tyrus against him? Why this city and not all the others? Could Tyrus guess what the shedim would do to him?
“My friend, what have you done?”
III
They rode through dusk, fading light and stretching shadows in the forest. Tyrus’s eyes adjusted, and to him, the night had a gray tint, as though a full moon lit the night sky. Of all the runes and strange spells carved into his body, eyesight proved the most useful. Seeing better than your opponent trumped brute force.
He whispered to himself, “What have I done?”
He should have returned with Marah, fed her, and found a way to rescue Ishma, but he had feared the child would die, and there was no sense second-guessing himself now. He realized he might have had a day or two in Shinar to save the mother and daughter. Instead, he sacrificed Ishma for Marah, and without milk, he had unknowingly sacrificed them both.
Both would die.
Ishma was smarter than this. She must have an escape plan. Marah would be a distraction, to lure Tyrus away, a diversion for Ishma to run. He tried to convince himself, but her strange behavior after the birth disturbed him. Ishma had acted desperate. If he had returned with Marah, Azmon would know of the birth rune. Escaping Shinar with the empress and a Reborn would be impossible, but he dreaded the thought that he might have pulled it off. He might have saved Ishma.
“We need a break,” Einin said. “I’m exhausted.”
“Not yet. We’re too close to Shinar.”
“I can’t ride at night. I’m not like you. Normal people need rest.”
“I’m… people.”
“I need to sleep,” Einin said. “I’ve been up for two days.”
Azmon might have etched spells into his body, but he remained a man. He had feelings: easy to forget, though, the limits of others. The last thing he needed was Einin falling from her horse. He searched for an easy place to defend.
If Tyrus had to pick one moment when he became the Damned, it would be his hundredth rune. A nice number, memorable, but anything past twenty turned him into a freak. He could have claimed fifty-two or seventy-one. But the hundredth had been different. They etched it in Rosh. In one of the largest towers, Azmon had a study filled with scrolls and implements. They strapped Tyrus to the table, and Azmon scraped the lines into his chest.
The more runes he took, the more elaborate his restraints. Azmon invented new ways to tie him down. Chains as thick as his forearms bound him to a steel slab, and Tyrus strained against them, snarling at the pain while Azmon mutilated him. Some called it art, some called it science, but either way, sharp metal tore holes in his flesh and burning sap filled them. Tyrus thought he would die. His hundredth rune: the one to finally stop his heart.
The pain lingered after the etching. Tyrus never blacked out and had not noticed the end of the procedure. Azmon loosened chains and jumped clear when Tyrus flexed. He tore free and staggered to a wall. The cool stone chilled the sweat running down his body.
“Here, drink.” Azmon held a glass of Kalduran Red, a bitter wine, to his lips. “Not too fast. Let me see your eyes. The hemorrhaging should fade soon.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve connected two matrixes. Your body will heal faster now.”
“No. Why another rune? It’s getting wor
se.” Azmon had covered him in ink, as if he couldn’t have pink skin below his chin. Tyrus looked like a walking scroll of sorcery. “I don’t know if I can survive another.”
“This is historic. To connect those two matrixes. It’s never been done before, do you understand? No one, not even Dura, could do that. I can use the technique on lesser men. I might take someone with six runes and give them eight, depending on which ones they already have.”
Azmon chattered on about arcane things, jargon for lines and depth and lattices and weaves. Two things about the etching were deadly: the strength of his heart and the accuracy of Azmon’s needle. It sounded like Azmon had invented a new technique for weaker subjects.
“But no one has half as many runes. What is the point?”
Azmon smiled. “You think I would risk your life for a duel with another champion? Some Hurrian or Holoni warrior?” He wiped sweat from Tyrus’s brow and offered more wine. “They are children compared to you. We have outgrown this world. I need a champion for a much bigger battlefield.”
Tyrus needed a bed and a meal. His body wanted food to heal itself. He knew he wasn’t dumb, but being around Azmon made him feel it. What did the size of a battlefield have to do with runes? Champions required little space to duel.
“Who must I fight?”
“False gods, false masters, false religions.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Sarbor.”
Tyrus gasped. No one fought the angelic host. “Which ones?”
“Both.”
“The seraphim and the shedim?”
Azmon looked pleased with himself. His eyes had a gleam to them, genius or madness, and regret hit Tyrus in the knees. Had he sworn oaths of loyalty to a madman? No one fought the Sarbor. The agents of God were untouchable.
“Dura warned against prolonged use of the arts.”
“Don’t look at me like that.” Azmon scowled. “I’m perfectly sane.”
“Maybe we should take a break from all of this.”
“If I had lost control, you would be dead.” Azmon finished the wine. He gestured at maps on the wall, places Tyrus didn’t recognize. Sketches, runes, and notes peppered the room. “Most of the Runes of Dusk and Dawn are not on this world. They are kept hidden by the angelic host. They enslave us with ignorance, and I will not be a slave.”
“You want me to fight them?”
“Tyrus, they won’t surrender their secrets willingly. We must go to them and take them in the Seven Heavens and the Nine Hells.”
“But you must die to cross over.”
“That idea always felt wrong. Sorcerers do it all the time, but not physically. There is a barrier. To work spells, you must have the talent to break the barrier. To bring the sorcery into this world.”
“Heaven is for the dead.”
“Seraphim aren’t dead. Are they? They wear armor, don’t they? Why would immortals wear armor? And do you know how they travel to our world?” Azmon grabbed a scroll with markings in Holoni script. “These are Rordal’s own journals, from when we conquered Hurr. Look.”
“I can’t read this.”
“Two gates, Tyrus, a White Gate at the Top of the World and a Black Gate at the Bottom of the World. I’ve found references to them before, but this had details. This is one of the greatest secrets of creation. Oh, there are songs and legends, but Rordal claims to have seen the Black Gate. The stories are true, Tyrus. The Sarbor use gates to travel to our world.”
“So?”
“If the Sarbor can come in, why can’t we go out?”
Tyrus leaned against the wall, sank down, trying not to bend his chest. His entire front had blistered. “You want to travel to the Seven Heavens, alive?” Tyrus tried to find the words. Understanding him was hard enough; no questions came, nothing but, “Does Dura know?”
“Of course not.”
“But you have to die to cross over.” Tyrus felt like he explained death to a small child. “Everyone knows that.”
“You shouldn’t sleep here; come. We will talk about it later, when you are stronger.”
Azmon pulled him to his feet. Tyrus leaned on him, and they lurched like drunks across the room.
“Everyone knows you die first.”
Azmon asked, “And what if everyone is wrong?”
Tyrus relived the memories as hooves clumped through the brush. Something about the pain in his stomach invoked the pain of the etching, too much of his life spent broken. He should have stopped Azmon years ago, but they had made history together, the greatest sorcerer of the age and the strongest champion who had ever lived. As a young warrior, Tyrus had craved that kind of fame. He had been too foolish to see his humanity slipping away.
“Lord Marshal, if we don’t stop, I might drop Marah. I need to rest.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“All right.” Einin tested his name. “Tyrus.”
“I hear a stream. It’s close. We can rest there.”
“You hear it?”
“I hear a lot of things. Not far. Then you may rest.”
IV
Lilith wanted to skip out of the throne room. She struggled to contain her excitement, racing heart, shuddering arms, and quivering jaw. Years of service and plotting and removing rivals, all the plans, and all the hard work was over. In a few days, maybe hours, she would claim the title of Lord Marshal. She would control the Imperial Guard and stand beside Azmon as the second in command of the greatest empire in history.
Azmon intended to build his dynasty, but she had years to maneuver, learn his secrets, and kill his children. She felt like an empress. The title warmed her bones. Azmon handed the empire to her for something as trivial as killing the Damned. She smoothed her silk robes and found calm. It was too soon to celebrate.
Her euphoria faded at the sight of her brothers. They loitered in the hallway, whispering to each other. Tochen and Rimmon resembled their father and were typical of House Hadoram men: tall and fit and gray temples. No vanity runes for them. Like her, they took runes to give them power. They wore black robes with gold chains of rank.
She knew Azmon’s plan. Using them as hostages strained their alliance, but what choice did she have? Offer her sons? She must lie to her brothers. Better to be a good mother and a bad sister. Besides, she needed sons: an empress required heirs.
“What did he say?” Tochen asked.
“Has he turned on Tyrus?” Rimmon asked. “Or was that all an act?”
“Tyrus has been cast out, an enemy of the throne.”
“I knew it!” Tochen pushed Rimmon. “Finally, after all these years, and without Tyrus to defend the champions all their posts will open. They are finished.”
Lilith watched Rimmon. Of the two, he was far more devious.
Rimmon did not celebrate. “What else did he say?”
“He wants hostages, to guarantee his child’s safety.”
Tochen shrugged with an idiot’s grin.
But Rimmon glared. “Who does he want?”
“The two of you.”
Tochen sputtered.
“And you already agreed, didn’t you?” Rimmon asked. “No discussion. You put our heads on the platter.”
“He offers me the Lord Marshal’s position. How could I not agree?”
“This is a mistake,” Tochen said.
“No,” she said. “This is everything we’ve worked for. No one will speak to the emperor without going through me.”
“Tyrus didn’t have that kind of power.”
“Tyrus made many mistakes. His replacement is long overdue.”
“You keep dreaming of the throne,” Rimmon said, “yet the man is immortal. He doesn’t need you. And he doesn’t need an heir. This whole dynasty nonsense is for tradition, nothing more.”
Lilith said, “No one is immortal. No one lives forever.”
Rimmon
jabbed a finger at her, caught himself, and paced the hall. Tochen was far more vocal and too loud. His black robes spun between his siblings as he questioned everything. He acted like an angry child. Lilith glanced at the herald by the doors, who stared blankly forward but heard every word. He would sell this information to a dozen rivals. She didn’t need these headaches.
“He named us?” Tochen asked.
“He said bring me your brothers.”
“Then send Rassan.”
“And wait a month for him to cross the ocean? Think. The heir will be long gone by then. We must act now. Tonight. This hour.”
“There must be another way. Give him coin or another relative, an aunt or something.” Tochen stomped after Rimmon. “Who can we give him?”
“She is right,” Rimmon said. “He asked for us, and he must have us. Everything falls to our dear sister.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, one glaring with contempt and the other disbelief. Did they think she was some weakling? She could kill Tyrus with ease. She was the future, not some relic from Azmon’s childhood.
“They took horses. With flyers, I will catch them before dawn.”
Rimmon said, “Your sons are not old enough to replace us. You need us. Return without the heir—”
Lilith rolled her eyes. “And my fate will be no worse than yours. I don’t work against you. This is what the emperor wants.”
“I won’t do it,” Tochen said. “No. I refuse. I am no hostage.”
“Be quiet.” Rimmon hugged her—she stiffened, surprised—and he whispered, “We made no promises. Fail Azmon, and your fate will be much worse than ours. I wouldn’t want that man angry at me for all the gold in Shinar.”
“I will not fail. You have my word.”
“Come, brother, let us present ourselves to the Prince of the Dawn.”
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 13
