Hammer of the Earth

by Susan Krinard

  Nikodemos knew him. He knew Quintus feared death as much as any other man. He knew his half brother’s loneliness. He saw through the years of childhood rejection, hard faces turned away from the imperfect child in a land where there was little sympathy for weakness. He recognized needs that Quintus refused to acknowledge, even to himself.

  “You do not wish to die,” Nikodemos said, almost gently. “You feel the value of life too keenly. But there are things you fear far more than death.”

  Quintus looked away. “You speak in riddles, Nikodemos.”

  “I think you are the riddle, young Alexandros,” Nikodemos said, using the name of his birth. “The Tiberians never accepted you, did they…even when they knew nothing of your true heritage? You fought to prove yourself their equal when you were always superior.”

  “I was…I am one of them.”

  “I wonder what they would give to have you back now? What price would they pay for the one who can kill the Stones?”

  It was a reasonable assumption from an intelligent man, but it struck Quintus like a fist in the belly. As a child, he had been ignored and sometimes reviled for his deformity, even by his own brothers. But once his hidden powers had been discovered by his adoptive people, the Tiberian rebels had held him captive, treating him as an invaluable weapon that could be used but once in a single deadly strike against the empire.

  Had Philokrates told Nikodemos of that captivity—how Quintus had escaped in defiance of his own elders’ commands? Was that why Nikodemos was so sure he could turn his half brother against his former allies?

  “They care nothing for you as a man, Alexandros,” Nikodemos said. “I would not have you waste all you could become by throwing your life away on a hopeless rebellion. Not when I can help you gain what we both desire.”

  “Mastery of the world?” Quintus asked bitterly.

  “The strength to counter Baalshillek in his ambitions—to keep him from seizing secular as well as spiritual control once all resistance has been crushed. For it will be crushed, brother.” Nikodemos took a step forward, hands open before him. “Don’t you see? The Stone God’s power was established in our father’s time because he was too weak to recognize his own folly in permitting the cult’s rise from obscurity. Now my men—my administrators, Hetairoi and generals, my loyal soldiers—hold key positions in the empire. The priests and Stonebound will destroy the old gods, and only the edifice of iron and human lives I have forged will hold steady when all else falls and the greatest battle begins.”

  The greatest battle. Nikodemos saw it as the final conflict between the empire and the Stone God, not a struggle that would topple the empire itself.

  “There is yet another thing to consider,” Nikodemos said. “Baalshillek uses his sorcery to find your barbarian friends who escaped the city. You may yet save them when they are brought back to Karchedon in chains.”

  “My friends may be more resourceful than Baalshillek believes.”

  “Perhaps. But do not underestimate the High Priest.”

  Quintus wondered if Nikodemos himself underestimated Baalshillek. He risked a great deal by confiding his plans to an enemy. He assumed that Quintus hated the High Priest and the Stone more than he despised the emperor and his troops.

  He presumed too much. He expected Quintus to accept everything he had said, without proof. Yet Nikodemos had been honest about his desire to use Quintus’s powers against Baalshillek. He preferred direct speech to subterfuge, like Quintus.

  Danae trusted this man. She claimed to love him.

  “Let me be sure I understand you,” Quintus said. “You will not return me to Baalshillek, whatever my decision. I serve you, or I die.”

  “That is your choice.” Nikodemos smiled wryly. “It is not so terrible a fate, brother. I demand your loyalty, but you won’t be my servant. Your life will have true purpose again.”

  If I turn my back on everything I believed. If I am prepared to fight this battle in a way I never imagined and become the tool of an emperor instead of the rebellion.

  But if Quintus could hold his own in Nikodemos’s court and learn the workings of the emperor’s mind, he might find the opportunity to bring down both empire and Stone God with a single blow.

  “You have no further need to prove your courage, Alexandros,” Nikodemos said. “Think on what I have told you.” He turned to go, leaving his back exposed to the chance of attack. Quintus didn’t move until the emperor had passed through the door and the guards had bolted it from the other side.

  That night he didn’t sleep. His luxurious couch might have been a bed of swords for all the comfort he took upon it, and his mind hummed like a hive of angry bees. He spent the next day pacing his room, ignoring the ample meals palace servants provided.

  At dusk Danae’s servant, Leuke, slipped in the door, followed by her mistress.

  Quintus backed away, more concerned for Danae’s position of trust with Nikodemos than for the ready swords of the guards. But the soldiers did as they had before, leaving the door slightly ajar while Danae seated herself for an interview with the prisoner. Leuke took up her position to watch and warn her mistress of any attempt at eavesdropping.

  “My lady,” Quintus said, bowing. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “My lord the emperor has sent me to discuss a certain matter with you,” Danae said loudly. “It has come to his attention that you lack the companionship befitting the son of a king.”

  For one startled, heart-stopping instant Quintus dared to believe that Nikodemos was giving Danae to him. She quickly robbed him of such childish hopes. “The emperor wishes to provide you with a woman,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I am here to ascertain the kind of female you prefer.”

  Quintus stifled a laugh and pulled a chair safely away from the table. “The emperor is most considerate,” he said. “But was it truly his idea?”

  Danae looked up. “It was mine,” she said. “But we have little time to talk. I suggested to Nikodemos that you might be more inclined to cooperate if you had all the necessities of a pleasant life to enjoy during your confinement.”

  “I thank you, but I want no such—”

  “Hear me out,” she whispered with a glance at Leuke. “I convinced Nikodemos that I could best learn what servant would suit you, and he granted me permission to visit your quarters for this purpose only. But I did not arrange it for your comfort.”

  “I am grieved, my lady.”

  Her green eyes sparkled with mingled pleading and annoyance. “I need your help, Quintus.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes.” She noted Leuke’s nod and continued in a low voice. “There is a girl…a young kitchen maid who must be hidden from the priests until we can get her out of the citadel. She is marked with a defect that would have sent her to the Stone God’s fire at birth, except that she was concealed by other servants in the kitchens. Now her secret has been exposed.”

  Quintus remembered the children Danae had saved from sacrifice in spite of the danger to herself. He had admired her courage, but he questioned her sanity now. “You wish me to hide a girl in my prison?”

  “It will not be necessary to hide her if she comes cloaked as a woman brought for your pleasure.”

  “How old is this girl?”

  “Old enough, if anyone should discover her with you. But that should not happen if we take the proper precautions. You would risk little—”

  “My position is unlikely to become more delicate than it already is,” Quintus said.

  Danae met his gaze, and her eyes warmed with concern. “I know. I have prayed daily to Isis, asking her to show you the truth. Have you decided, my friend?”

  My friend. It was a simple phrase, and yet from Danae it meant more than a casual address.

  “It is not a decision to be made lightly. If I had more proof—”

  “Perhaps I can arrange to present it,” Danae said. “Nikodemos honors your courage and loyalty, Quintus. That alone should tell you that
he is not an evil man. You are more alike than you think.”

  Quintus laughed shortly. “What do you wish me to do about the girl?”

  “Tonight I will bring her to you, disguised under a cowl and cloak. All you need do is accept her, keep her with you and cover her face if the guards enter your chamber. With Isis’s blessing, I should be able to come for her within a few days’ time.”

  “And if Nikodemos chooses to visit me again?”

  “I will make sure he does not.”

  Quintus declined to dwell on how she would accomplish that mission. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, “but I trust you have considered every other way of saving this child.”

  “I trust I have proven that I am no fool.” She rose, nodding to Leuke. “The emperor will be pleased that you accept his gift,” she said for the benefit of the guards. “Good night, Lord Alexandros.”

  She left, and the guards bolted the door. Two hours later, by the water clock in Quintus’s chamber, the door opened again and Leuke brought in a cloaked figure whose face was concealed in a deep hood. Leuke retreated before Quintus could question her.

  Quintus cursed under his breath and studied the still, silent girl before him. She was small and fragile-seeming within the enveloping cloak, and made no move to uncover herself.

  “It’s all right, girl,” Quintus said gruffly. “Danae explained why you’re here. I won’t hurt you.”

  She didn’t answer. Quintus poured a cup of wine and set it on the table. “Sit down,” he said. “Drink.”

  The girl sat, one fine-boned hand emerging to arrange the folds of her cloak to conceal any hint of the garments beneath. She ignored the cup.

  Quintus sat opposite her. “Danae must have prepared you for this,” he said, “but there was a great deal she didn’t tell me…only that you must be taken out of the palace. I’m to keep you here until she finds a way to do so. You needn’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  The girl’s voice was lower than he expected, trembling a little but otherwise clear enough. Quintus nodded. “Good,” he said. “That’s a beginning. My name is Quintus Horatius Corvinus, of Tiberia. What are you called?”

  “Briga.” She hesitated. “You are the emperor’s brother.”

  “So I am told.”

  Her head lifted at the wry humor in his words. “You are a prisoner in the palace?”

  She was bold and well-spoken for a servant, but Quintus had learned that courage and intelligence could be found in unexpected places. “They would prefer to call me a guest,” he said, “but Danae thought you would be safest in a place the priests would be least likely to look for you.”

  Briga reached for the cup but made no move to drink from it. “I’m not afraid of the priests,” she said.

  Quintus liked the girl already, and his initial annoyance vanished. “You know they’re your enemies, as they are mine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you and I must be allies.”

  “Do you mean…like friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have not had many friends,” the girl said, without self-pity or regret.

  “Did not the kitchen servants protect you from the priests?”

  “Yes. But they couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “Why not, Briga?”

  Her other hand emerged to join the first on the table, slender fingers clutching each other until the bones showed white under pale, almost transparent skin. “Danae said the priests would have killed you when you were a babe.”

  This conversation was not going at all as Quintus intended, but he had to set the girl at ease. “I was found to be…defective,” he said, remembering what Danae had said about Briga’s “secret.” “Someone sent me away before the priests took me.”

  “What was wrong with you?”

  Quintus touched his left arm without meaning to, instantly defensive. He had no need to be. Everyone at court knew of his deformity—indeed, it was proof of his identity as the younger son of the former emperor Arrhidaeos.

  Slowly he uncovered his arm, revealing the twisted muscle and flesh that reached from elbow to wrist and made a near-claw of his hand.

  “It was damaged when I touched one of the red stones,” he said.

  The girl shifted in her seat, and Quintus knew she was staring. He let her look her fill and then covered his arm again. “Is there more you need to know before you will trust me?” he asked.

  She flinched from his tone, and her hands disappeared within the folds of her wide sleeves. Then, with a reluctance Quintus recognized all too well, she pulled back her hood.

  Briga’s face was as pale and delicate as her hands…young, so painfully young, blue eyes huge under the faint tracery of straight brows and vivid red hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. She didn’t look like a servant. She might even have been pretty, save for the glaring blemish that covered her right cheek: a wine-colored stain in the shape of a three-forked flame licking the side of her nose and each corner of her eye.

  Briga stared at Quintus, daring him to comment, to show a single sign of revulsion at her terrible flaw. Her eyes were full of anger so like his own at that age…fifteen or sixteen, proud and defiant, eager for acceptance yet expecting the inevitable rejection.

  “I know it is ugly,” Briga said. “The priests would have killed me because of it.”

  Quintus pushed the wine cup toward her. “Drink,” he said.

  This time she did as he asked. She drained the cup, beads of wine the same color as her scar clinging to her lower lip. Quintus poured himself a cup and drank, as well.

  “You were born with this?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The girl moved as if to cover her face again but stopped, refusing to submit to her fear. “My mother and others in the kitchen covered it up with flour paste. Not everyone knew. Something happened….”

  “You were exposed,” he said, gentling his voice.

  “There was an accident. I didn’t mean…” She broke off again, clutching her empty cup. “It was a mistake. I didn’t know I could do it.”

  “Didn’t know you could do what, Briga?”

  The girl bit her lip and looked down at Quintus’s cup and the small measure of wine that remained in it. Quintus followed her stare, and as he watched, the liquid began to bubble. Steam curled from the cup. He snatched his hand away as the cup grew too hot to hold, and the wine boiled to nothing but a dark residue.

  “I was angry,” Briga whispered. “Thais said something about my face…I don’t remember what. And suddenly the fire came up from the ashes in the hearth, and I could feel its heat in my hands, but it didn’t burn me.” She spread her fingers in the air before her as if they were foreign objects.

  “You controlled the fire?”

  She shook her head. “It…talked to me. I could hear it, but I couldn’t make it stop.”

  Sickness gnawed at Quintus’s belly. “Did you have one of the red stones, Briga?”

  She jerked, eyes filled with reproach and pain. “The red stones are evil, like the priests.”

  Quintus closed his eyes. Not the Stone God’s fire, then. He’d seen Stonefire burn a boy to cinders, but it was no natural flame. The girl spoke of something entirely different.

  He flexed his own right hand, remembering what it had been like to destroy a priest and his red stone with one overwhelming blast of power. He was not alone in possessing abilities beyond those of ordinary men. Philokrates had once told him that all matter was composed of the four elements—Earth, Air, Fire, Water—and Quintus had seen for himself how the Ailu Cian could manipulate the element of Earth.

  Briga spoke of a similar power over natural fire. Such a girl would be of more than passing interest to the Stone priests, even if she weren’t already marked for sacrifice. Danae had forgotten to mention that slight complication.

  “Nothing like this ever happened to you before?” he asked Briga.

  “Never.”

  “Did any of the
kitchen servants go to the soldiers or the priests to report what happened?”

  “The other servants were afraid of what I did. Mother said they wouldn’t tell anyone, but I had to escape from the palace.”

  “How did Danae find out about you?”

  “My mother heard that she had helped children who were supposed to be sacrificed.” Briga flushed, turning her blemish a deeper red. “She begged the lady to take me out of the citadel.”

  And of course Danae would not have refused, no matter what the risk. “You aren’t grateful for the lady Danae’s assistance?” he asked.

  Briga bolted from her chair, fists clenched. “I could have found a way out myself. I could—”

  Someone thumped on the door. Quintus snatched at Briga, pulled her close and pressed her head into his shoulder. He buried his face in her hair just as the guard entered, bearing a tray with the evening meal.

  Quintus looked up and fixed his coldest gaze on the guard. “I was told we were not to be disturbed.”

  The soldier blinked, taken aback by the prisoner’s royally arrogant tone. “I am…forgive me, Lord Alexandros,” he stammered.

  “See that this does not happen again.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The guard bowed his way out, and Quintus released his breath.

  Briga pushed free of him, patting at her hair where he had touched it. She had the startled look of a girl who had never felt a man’s embrace, which was almost certainly true, given her young age and her lifelong need to hide her mark. But she had lived that life among slaves and could not be entirely ignorant about the relationships between men and women.

  “I didn’t intend to surprise you,” Quintus said, “but Danae must have explained the pretense under which you were brought to my chamber.”

  Briga pulled her hood halfway over her head. “Lady Danae told me—” She met Quintus’s gaze, swallowed and started again. “I am to pretend to be a woman sent to you for your pleasure.”

  “Then you do understand.”

  She took a step away from him, and he laughed. “I won’t touch you, Briga, unless it’s necessary to keep the guards from seeing your face.”

  “Am I very horrible?”