She handed Dura the book. The inkwell, blotter, and quill rested on the windowsill. While Dura scratched her notes in her lap, Marah entertained herself with sorcerer’s blocks even though she had outgrown the toys a long time before.
Dura said, “It is important that you understand how your father conquered Sornum. You cannot trust the Roshan histories. Azmon etched his lies in marble.”
“I know.”
“I was there, child. There are things you must know, and we don’t have time.”
“We have plenty of time.” Marah lost interest in the blocks. She got closer to Dura and made sure to keep the woman’s face in focus with her good eye. “What is a prophet?”
“Where did you learn that word?”
“In my dreams. I know names. Jethlah, Kenet, Jace, Alivar, and Gorba Tull.”
Dura frowned.
“What are they?”
“Gorba was a false prophet. Don’t repeat his name. Prophets are more like angels and demons than sorcerers and priests. There were seven true prophets, the last of which was Jethlah. He was worshipped like a god.”
“But I don’t want to be worshipped.”
“Who said you are a prophet?”
“I am.” Marah shrugged. “I know it.”
Dura put down her pen and placed her notebook on the windowsill. Tremors ran through her hands and neck, making her chin waver as she leaned back in her chair. “We’ve spoken about lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You didn’t learn those names in a dream. The voices are talking to you again, aren’t they?”
Dura watched her for a moment, and Marah went still. They had a wordless exchange born from years of living together, each wondering how far to push the other.
Marah asked, “What are the voices?”
Dura said, “Some souls wander the mortal world before moving on to the next.”
“Ghosts?”
“More like echoes. You father could talk to them too, but he had to use sorcery first. Your talent is stronger.”
A voice whispered, That’s how the demons found him.
Marah said, “I don’t want to talk to them. Can you make them go away?”
“You must learn discipline. Let us practice your meditation.”
“But I don’t want to meditate right now.”
“In each of us, there is a child of light and a child of darkness.” Dura was giving her the lecture again. Marah had heard it dozens of times and knew each word by heart. Dura spoke of little decisions, made day by day, that took on new weight as the years passed and began to dominate a person. “Which child you choose to feed, the child of light or darkness, is the one that will grow within you.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Am I boring you?”
“Never.”
“I’m sorry to drone on about this again. I’m tired.”
“You should rest.”
Marah helped Dura rise from the chair and guided her as she shuffled to her bed. On the way, Dura used her walking stick to tap a volume on a shelf. “This will teach you about Alivar, First of the Prophets, and Jethlah, the Last of the Seven. Tell Larz to arrange a reader. One of the acolytes should be reading the histories to you anyway.”
Dura shed her robes, and Marah helped her into bed. Marah was so small she just braced against the frame while Dura leaned on her shoulder. Dura had grown lighter with each passing year. Comfortable in the bed, she let out a long sigh, and Marah covered her in blankets.
As Dura drifted off to sleep, the slight wheeze in her lungs became more pronounced. Her snore rattled with sickness.
When Marah was sure Dura was deeply asleep, she stepped closer and visualized the burning white circle again. Power infused her, and she rested her hands on Dura’s stomach. She moved them upward, probing the ribs. Dura’s soul had grown weak, or so Marah thought. Guided by instincts, she performed a rite she did not fully understand: she laid hands on her. A wave of exhaustion hit Marah in the knees. She gasped and fell face first into the mattress.
Dura also gasped but stayed asleep. Marah waited, and the wheeze vanished. She sat beside Dura and finger combed her hair. She enjoyed tracing the wrinkles of her face. Her life was etched into the little rivers of worry and happiness. Dura drifted into a deep sleep. Marah’s gifts were small—little touches of comfort to ease the night for a battered and ancient frame.
Her time is long since over. Learn to let go of the things you cannot control.
Marah squeezed her eyes shut, but the voices swirled around her. She hated being alone in the dark with them. Sometimes she fought them off, and other times they laughed at her. She would sacrifice her eyesight entirely to be alone in her own head.
Marah whispered to herself, Leave me alone.
You can’t keep her alive forever.
I can try.
V
Emperor Azmon endured a bad day with the Blight. Waves of pain left him bedridden, and the black poison slithered beneath his skin. While he grew accustomed to the agony, he struggled with losing his humanity. Each year, more of himself withered away. On bad days, when he struggled to walk, when the pain left him writhing and whimpering in his bed, time slowed to a crawl, and death seemed like a soothing balm.
He again considered killing himself and wondered why he should suffer years of torture when a sword might sever his neck in a moment. After traveling the Nine Hells and becoming intimate with the shedim, he knew to fight death. Worse torments awaited him in the afterlife.
Another wave of pain hit, and his body spasmed. He hoped he wouldn’t bite his tongue again. After the fit passed, he panted as though he had run a mile.
Decades before, Dura had lectured him about the “child of light” and the “child of darkness” that grew within all people. She warned that the child he fed would dominate him. Day by day, little choices determined his future. He should have listened. A young and arrogant fool, he schemed to dance with demons. He craved their secret powers. He imagined Mulciber cackling at his idiocy. When he’d been a child, the lectures were so many meaningless words, but they haunted him of late.
He had damned himself. Without allies or friends, he must grovel before Mulciber for forgiveness.
Azmon climbed out of bed and called for Elmar. He needed a sacrifice, and the way he spoke the word told Elmar that no goat would do. The overlords of the Nine Hells demanded souls. While Elmar fetched the offering, Azmon went through the tedious task of masking his affliction in layers of robe. He finished with the golden mask.
Elmar returned with a prisoner from the dungeons.
Avoiding eye contact, Azmon pulled sorcerer’s sand from a pouch on his belt and drew runes on the floor. He redrew them after a tremor marred his work. Satisfied, he reached within himself and imagined a gate rune. A circle of molten lava filled his mind’s eye, and he willed himself into it. An invisible hand reached for his soul, and Azmon shrugged it off. The Blight granted him that boon. His body might be dying, but his powers grew.
Azmon spoke a word of power, and the sand on the ground snapped into firm lines with the strength of steel. He forced the offering to stand on them before slitting the man’s throat. The runes drank the blood and pulsed with red light.
“Mulciber, hear my call.”
A red mist rose, swirled, and formed a face. Mulciber’s features possessed an angelic grace, beautiful yet masculine. The apparition gazed at Azmon with an indifference that did not bode well.
Azmon bowed low. “Master, I have built a stronger army, but I run out of materials for the beasts. If they will not come into Shinar, then I must break the siege. Should the demon tribes of Argoria strike at the same time—”
Mulciber chuckled. “You petition for aid?”
“A two-pronged attack could open a path to Mount Teles.”
“The tribes worship strength. They won’t rescue a failure who hides behind walls.”
“Shina
r might fall.”
“So?”
“You want the White Gate, master. I can give it to you.”
“My emperor, you will die with Shinar. Prove me wrong, and I’ll help you.”
Azmon winced and bowed lower. “Survival of the strong, master?”
“I lead three armies to war. Two are in the mortal world, and the other rages in Pandemonium. I don’t have time for failures.”
“What news from the Deep?”
“While the league is distracted with Shinar, my agents gather the demon tribes. Soon the purims will destroy the Western Defense, and the tusken will conquer the Deep Ward. The Underworld will rise up and swallow the White Gate.”
Azmon had many questions. He had no interest in being bait while others fought elsewhere, but he felt the first tremors of another attack. His hands twitched, and his thigh complained about kneeling. Azmon feared losing control of the summoning because creatures from the Nine Hells could abuse the connection.
“As you wish, master. I will defeat Dura myself.”
Azmon released the sorcery and wrestled with a wave of nausea. He dry heaved and hated himself for it. His powers had grown, but the side effects grew worse as well. Things crawled beneath his skin. He shed the wretched weight of the mask. The thing chimed as it bounced across the marble floor.
The next day, Azmon skulked in the shadows, spying on the royal court. He feared having an attack in front of the other noble houses and used Elmar as a proxy. Elmar sat on the throne in King’s Rest with the sword of House Pathros, the Dawn Caller, resting across his knees. He delivered Azmon’s edicts and listened to the nobles’ complaints all while Azmon monitored the exchange through spy holes in the south wall.
Azmon monitored Lord Olwen of House Karnaim, Lord Arlo of House Kriel, and Lord Ralin of House Porak. They were the ones to watch. The major houses had the strongest sorcerers and were dangerous if they worked together. The fools betrayed one another often, though. Azmon sowed distrust among them, but his disfiguration could not be bribed away.
Lord Arlo said, “Patrols are disappearing in the city.”
“And someone is making new beasts,” Lord Olwen said.
Elmar said, “Whoever is attacking the patrols will be dealt with. The emperor will not tolerate minor houses building private armies at the expense of the Imperial Guard.”
“This is no minor house,” Lord Olwen said. “There are too many beasts for anyone to control. What if the shedim are attacking the patrols? What if the beasts have found a way to mate?”
Elmar said, “The emperor assures everyone that the shedim are not—”
Someone shouted, “We need access to the flyers.”
A chorus of ayes agreed.
“There is no reason for all of us to stay in Shinar.”
More ayes.
Elmar said, “The emperor has reserved the flyers for supplies.”
“We demand an audience with him.”
Others echoed the sentiment.
“Few dare demand anything of House Pathros,” Elmar said, “but I will convey your commands.”
The room cooled, but angry muttering built again. Azmon headed for the throne room. Elmar was uniting the houses with a common cause, which was what Azmon fought to avoid. For years, he had used Elmar for public audiences while Azmon met with houses alone to bribe and threaten them. The strategy had become less effective as the siege continued. He entered through a side door, and the nobles whispered his arrival. Elmar stepped down. He presented the Dawn Caller, and Azmon cradled the sword’s scabbard like a scepter when he took the throne.
“Do my ears deceive me,” he said, “or do the major houses that once refused the dishonor of scouting on flyers beg to ride them now?”
Lord Olwen said, “Your Excellency, there is no reason for us to stay in this city. We can go anywhere. Let the dwarves have Shinar.”
Azmon chose not to answer. His golden mask made people uncomfortable, and he used the silence against them. While they were confused, he noted the nobles who turned to Lord Olwen for leadership. Alliances exposed themselves, but the trick was to not move his head. The slits for eyes must peer at the center of the room as though he watched everyone at once.
Lord Arlo said, “At least let us reinforce the cities along the coast. If we lose another port, the flyers won’t have anything to deliver to Shinar.”
“Until I know who is making beasts, no one may leave.” Azmon enjoyed blaming his actions on the nobles. The mask hid his smile. “I will not have them rampage, and I will not allow private armies outside Shinar.”
Lords Olwen and Arlo did not believe him. He studied their frowns, but they kept silent. Azmon relaxed a little. He feared he pushed them into a revolt, but it would wait for another day.
“Your Excellency, we should at least attack Ironwall again—punish them for their ridiculous wall.”
“No.”
Azmon had considered more raids with more flyers dropping bone beasts in cities. The last time they’d tried it, the elves revealed their pet dragon, which had single-handedly destroyed an entire raiding party. He would not provoke the dragon again.
“Your Excellency,” Lord Arlo said, “if your condition should worsen, the beasts would kill us all.”
Lord Ralin said, “Give us the runes to make our own flyers.”
A chorus agreed.
Azmon said, “I am touched at your concern for my health. Let me worry about the beasts.”
Azmon enjoyed watching them bristle until he realized how blatantly he was taunting them. The Blight had changed more than his body. He became territorial and angrier and struggled with maintaining his patience. His gloating reminded him of the way Mulciber tore apart King’s Rest to punish him. He struggled with a need to let his eyes glow—just to scare them. With too much fear, they would become unpredictable, but it tempted him nonetheless.
He drifted off in thought, studying his own dark rage. The Blight wanted to punish the sniveling fools for questioning him, but Azmon reined it in. He couldn’t waste another lord, not yet. Once, the Roshan Empire had boasted hundreds of sorcerers. A few dozen remained, but they were the most powerful—his greatest rivals.
“This is no minor house creating these beasts,” Lord Ghent said. “Only House Pathros can make so many, and only House Pathros can create ones intelligent enough to hunt the streets and hide their kills. Enough is enough.”
The room held its breath. Azmon reached for sorcery and cut down Lord Ghent with a glaring burst of lightning that left yellow afterimages in his vision. His own fury shocked him. Nobles held their ears, wide-eyed, and backed away from the throne.
Dust filled the room, cast about by the thunderclap of the spell. Azmon’s eyes glowed red, and a perverse part of him wanted another to speak out. They dare accuse me of anything? He licked his lips for more carnage.
“Anyone else want to complain?” Azmon waited. “No? Then you are dismissed.”
The nobles hurried out, and Azmon collapsed onto the throne. His hunger reminded him of Mulciber’s angelic form rotting away to reveal the monster beneath. Lord Ghent had deserved better. His strength would be missed in the coming battles. Disgusted with himself, Azmon gathered the strength to return to his room. The Blight corrupted him. The pain gnawed away at his sanity and distorted everything.
“Elmar, take the body to the cellars. I’ll be down soon to conduct the rites.”
Elmar trembled. “I fear sending my staff to the cellars. I would go myself, but I doubt I would return either. There are too many beasts beneath the palace.”
“Nothing shall touch you, I promise.”
The man’s fear made Azmon hate himself more. Elmar looked as if he’d been condemned to the gallows. Azmon fought for control, and his eyes returned to normal.
“You have nothing to fear, Elmar. You’re the only friend I have left.”
VI
Rassan left King’s Rest with the oth
er bone lords. He stood out as the only young man with a straight back and a full head of hair. The other lords were the elders of the empire. Rassan struggled to walk tall under the gaze of all the beasts. Shadows teemed with glowing red eyes. Outside, the lords headed toward their private villas. Built like fortresses, the palaces had become a safe harbor against the growing horde of monsters. On a wide street, they slowed their pace and breathed easier.
Lord Arlo said, “Ghent wasn’t wrong, and we all know it.”
Everyone nodded. They spoke lowly and glanced over their shoulders. The wreckage of the street could conceal any number of spies. Elmar was infamous for his network of informants.
Arlo said, “We should have moved months ago, before he built so many beasts.”
Rassan said, “He’s been building them for years.”
“Impossible. He’d have thousands of them.”
Rassan asked, “Has anyone bothered to count them?” The lords frowned, and he continued, “If he’s created too many, we might be able to wrestle the flyers away from his control.”
“Are you no closer to making your own?”
Rassan shook his head. His failures meant they had to kill Azmon and fight their way through a horde of monsters to reach the arena where the flyers were stabled. No one wanted to try it. Odds were the creatures would enrage and overrun the streets, and the flyers might leave in the chaos. Rassan dreaded Azmon’s ability to control beasts. If he made flyers, the emperor might take them away too.
Lord Arlo asked, “When do you see him again?”
“Whenever Elmar summons me.”
The rest sniffed at that. Rassan did not begrudge Elmar for sitting on the throne and holding court, but it had insulted many of the major houses.
Lord Olwen said, “You must make a decision, Rassan. House Hadoram either stands with Rosh or it stands with House Pathros. We cannot let him destroy the empire.”
Lord Ralin asked, “How can you consider standing with him after what he did to your brothers and sister?”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 7
