Lightbringer

by Claire Legrand

  Corien said nothing. He lifted her into his arms, held her close against his chest.

  “You need rest,” he said quietly. “True rest. We have four castings now. There is time before we need to find the others.” He brushed a kiss across her cheek, then whispered, “I’ll show you my home. A place of industry and monstrous beauty. The water is black and cold, the snow endless and clean.”

  Rielle hardly heard him. Her vision tilted, and she tipped into a rocking sea of half consciousness. Following her was Corien’s voice, and chasing that, a vision: herself robed in red, haloed with light. Stars and moons rained upon her open palms, waterfalls made from the night sky. At her feet knelt Corien, legions of angels behind him—all winged, all armored.

  You will open the Gate, he told her, and you will remake the world.

  But Rielle heard the doubt in his voice, the fear and worry.

  As she spiraled into blackness, another voice came to her from the distant ocean of her power. A voice that rumbled and quaked. A voice of many, and of one. She recognized it at once. It was the endless ancient black of Atheria’s eyes. It was the roar of her own blood as she watched her shadow-dragon lick the Archon’s cheek, ready to devour him. It was the humming snap of power in her veins when she turned fire into feathers, when she tamed oceans, when she killed, and killed, and killed again.

  It was the voice of the empirium, and it burned its cold, pitiless words into her mind like a brand she could not evade:

  this power is yours

  you are mine

  mine is yours

  take it

  take me

  I take you

  I rise

  I rise

  I RISE

  11

  Simon

  “Do you think I want to write this decree? Do you think I yearn for more death? No, my friend. But do you hear what they call us? Saint Katell the Magnificent. Saint Grimvald the Mighty. And yet we are holding together what remains of this world with only our own tired hands. I don’t know if the Gate will stand. But I know what I saw, and I know the true danger of marques just as well as you do. We cannot allow this all to happen again. The world will not survive it.”

  —Undated encoded letter from Saint Katell the Magnificent to Saint Grimvald the Mighty, stolen from the archives of the First Great Library of Quelbani

  Simon sat in a chair just outside the Emperor’s private study, pretending to read the book in his hands.

  But what truly interested him was the young woman sitting nervously across from him.

  Her name was Jessamyn, and she was a student of Invictus—the Emperor’s private regiment of human assassins, all of them ruthless, all of them devoted to the angelic cause. She had lightly freckled brown skin and a neat braid dyed bright red, which would no doubt change soon. The Lyceum, which housed the Invictus barracks and training yards, was as full of hair dyes, masks, and costumes as a playhouse.

  Simon studied her. She was picking her nails, as if sitting in the receiving room outside the Emperor’s study was a terrible bore. But Simon knew better. All Invictus operatives were the same. He saw the sheen of sweat at her hairline. He saw her nervous gaze flit to the study’s closed door, to the Emperor’s secretary at his desk, to the attendants flanking the outer doors, then back to her nails.

  She was terrified.

  As she should be.

  He smiled to himself. Corien would enjoy watching her squirm.

  “You’re the Invictus trainee, aren’t you?” Simon said. “Jessamyn, yes?”

  The girl’s expression soured, but then quickly calmed.

  Simon expected as much. Her teacher had been Varos, an assassin Corien had been fond of, who had recently been killed during the attack on Festival. By Harkan, of all people. It was a shame to lose a good assassin, but it was a comfort to know that before Varos died, he had managed to dispose of that Venteran fool.

  All of this had been in Jessamyn’s report. And in Varos’s journal, which Simon had confiscated on the Emperor’s behalf, there were many notes about Jessamyn herself—that she was desperate to prove herself to the Emperor. That she learned quickly and struck fast, and that she despised her human name.

  What Varos hadn’t known, and what Jessamyn herself still did not, was that Eliana had known her, had fought with her—or at least she had known a Jessamyn who had existed but did no longer.

  Thanks to him.

  “Yes, Jessamyn,” she said tightly. “That’s correct.”

  Simon inspected her, head to toe. “Interesting that he would want to speak with a person of so little consequence.”

  To her credit, Jessamyn only inclined her head—though Simon saw a muscle in her jaw twitch.

  “Nevertheless, I hope I can be of service to him,” she replied. “Do you know why he wants to see me?”

  “The Emperor has heard much about you and is curious. He likes to know which students the Lyceum particularly prizes. He would like to see you for himself and express his sympathy for your teacher’s death. Also, a word of advice: You shouldn’t ask questions like that.” Simon closed his book and fixed her with a cold stare. “It makes you sound like a child, not a killer.”

  From inside Corien’s study came the explosive sound of shattering glass.

  Jessamyn flew to her feet, reaching for the dagger at her hip.

  The Emperor’s black-eyed secretary jumped in his chair, and even Simon, who was used to such things, had to blink to adjust his vision, for the secretary’s body shifted and blurred, a dark aura forming about his skin.

  He bolted out of his chair. He clutched his neck, his chest and arms, and let out a strangled cry before staggering out of the receiving room and into the corridor. Slightly disgusted, Simon watched him go. It wasn’t the first time a small disruption had shaken this particular secretary. He was a strong enough angel to hold on to a human body for a time, but not strong enough to keep that hold if something distracted him. His grasp of the empirium was tenuous.

  As it was for all but the strongest angels, since the Fall of the Blood Queen.

  “Follow him,” Simon ordered the waiting attendants. “He’s losing cohesion.”

  They obeyed at once. He and Jessamyn were alone.

  “A severance?” she said quietly after a moment. “Just from being startled?”

  Simon briskly rearranged the secretary’s abandoned papers. “He’s young. I’ve seen worse.”

  “It isn’t fair.” Jessamyn faced Simon, her jaw square and her eyes bright. “They should not have to live like this, scrabbling from body to body. They are God’s chosen. They deserve better—”

  The study doors swung open.

  The Emperor stood there, leaning hard against the door. His white shirt—sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hem untucked—was soaked with blood.

  He fixed his eyes on Simon. They glittered as if cut from black glass.

  As ever, when Corien’s eyes fell upon him, Simon felt a sharp chill. It was the delight that came from being sought out again and again as the Emperor’s most trusted, his most beloved.

  It was the creeping terror that Simon would, after everything they had worked for, continue to fail him.

  “They wouldn’t shut their fucking mouths about the cruciata,” Corien spat. “I’ve kept them at bay for decades now, for centuries, and I’ll keep them at bay for decades more if I have to. But I won’t have to.”

  Simon peered past Corien into the study and caught a glimpse of the carnage. Streaks of blood painted the walls and rugs. Maimed bodies in torn black uniforms scattered the floor like debris. Simon recognized the bodies as those belonging to three angelic generals. Only yesterday, the generals had been charged with relieving others currently stationed at the northern front, the Empire’s first line of defense against anything that came through the Gate.

  Now, th
e generals’ bodies lay ruined on the floor.

  And judging by the look on Corien’s face, the angels themselves had not survived the meeting either.

  Simon chose his next words carefully. Not even he was immune to the Emperor’s wrath in moments such as this.

  “Your Excellency,” he said, “this is the Invictus trainee, Jessamyn, who was at the battle in Festival—”

  Don’t tell me things I already know, said Corien with such furious force that pain shot through Simon’s skull like a knife. It required all his strength to remain standing and to resist apologizing. Few things infuriated Corien more than apologies.

  Instead, Simon bore the agony and watched Corien’s gaze shift to Jessamyn.

  “Three of my generals have been insisting that our defenses against the cruciata are insufficient and that soon we will be overrun,” Corien began, his voice now eerily calm. “I got inside their craven minds and killed them, and then I hacked their chosen bodies to pieces.” He gestured grandly at himself. “Hence the mess. Tell me, Jessamyn, what do you think about this?”

  For a moment, Jessamyn could only stare. Then she sank to her knees and bowed her head. Her hands trembled against the floor.

  “Your Excellency, your generals were foolish to doubt you,” she said.

  “But they’re not entirely wrong, are they?” Corien knelt before her. “Look up. I want to see you. That’s better. They’re not entirely wrong, my generals. More and more cruciata have been worming their way through the Gate. We manage to kill some. Others get away.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Jessamyn managed. “That’s true.”

  Simon stepped forward. Where Corien was taking this conversation, he did not know, but he saw tiny flickers of movement on his pale face, like shadows of things that weren’t there, and the sight made him uneasy. At any moment now, the secretary could return, and the attendants. The servants could arrive with the supper meant for Corien’s private meal with Admiral Ravikant—or, worse, the admiral himself could arrive early.

  They could not see Corien like this, covered in the blood of his own soldiers, madness turning like stars in his eyes. The health of the Empire depended on their ignorance.

  Simon stepped forward, knowing with absolute certainty what would come next.

  “Your Excellency,” he began, “perhaps before supper, we should sort out your study—”

  His skull split open, admitting tongues of black fire that plunged down his throat and pulled his spine through his ribs.

  The vision was extraordinary, so detailed and violent that for a moment Simon lost himself and swayed. He groped for something with which to brace himself and found the study door.

  Seventeen years of living in this palace, and his master’s punishments could still surprise him.

  You know better, came Corien’s voice, regretful and pitying in that way Simon had learned not to trust.

  “Don’t interrupt me, Simon,” Corien said aloud. “I don’t like being interrupted.”

  Simon breathed quietly through his nose, refusing to gulp down air in front of their guest. Let her think it was a mere twinge of pain he had felt.

  He watched Corien take Jessamyn’s chin in his hand. “Tell me what you know of the cruciata,” he said.

  “They are beasts from the Deep,” she replied, her expression fierce with determination. “They were made aware of us when the angels broke free of their prison.”

  “When Rielle opened the Gate,” Corien corrected her.

  Jessamyn flushed. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “And who keeps the beasts from overrunning our world?”

  “You do, your Excellency,” she whispered. “Your mind engineered the machines that shoot them down as they enter our world.”

  “The vaecordia. The guns of God’s chosen.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “Yes, and my mind controls those machines,” Corien said, “and my mind controls the guards in this palace, and speaks to my generals in Astavar, and speaks to my commanders on the Namurian Sea, and to the adatrox patrolling the streets of Orline. My mind scours the world for the Prophet.” He smiled. “My mind is infinite. I am beyond the understanding of anyone who still lives.”

  Jessamyn’s eyes were bright with awe. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  The pain had receded enough for Simon to sense that something was wrong. He was seldom alone in his mind. Only when Corien was immersed in his deepest work, or captivated by drink or music, or shut up in his rooms, brooding on memories, did Simon feel that ancient angelic mind relax its hold on him.

  But it was happening now, as Corien knelt on the floor before this wide-eyed girl. His mind seethed against Simon’s own and then vanished, as if some shining blade had cut him free. Simon saw Corien’s shoulders sag and his smile waver, and he had a sudden vision of Corien lunging forward to rip off Jessamyn’s face with his teeth.

  “You look different, Jessamyn,” Corien murmured, leaning close to her. “You look different from what she remembered. I’d like to keep you close. I think it will hurt her to see you. And I would like to keep hurting her, until she can’t bear it.” He laughed quietly, touching Jessamyn’s face and then his. “Until I can’t bear it.”

  Then he considered her for a moment longer, his laughter quieting. “Actually, I’ve an idea. A grand idea. You see, there’s the boy. Remy.”

  Jessamyn frowned. She cut a swift glance toward Simon, then looked back to Corien. “The brother of Eliana Ferracora?”

  “Indeed. He rots in a solitary cell in the heart of Vaera Bashta. You will bring him to the Lyceum and teach him as Varos taught you.” He smiled, his gaze distant. “You will turn him cold and heartless. A killer, nothing more than a blade. And he will serve in her queensguard, and every day she resists me will be another day of looking into the eyes of the brother she has helped make into a monster.”

  Corien gripped Jessamyn’s shoulders and bowed his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Yes. Yes. And there will be no relief from this guilt. Already, she despairs at what has happened to Remy due to her actions. Soon, when she realizes what you’ve done to her brother, that torment will grow and bloom until she cracks all the way open and I can scoop out all her damnable insides.”

  He raised his gaze once more to Jessamyn. “I will break her. I will see my love again, and then all will be as it should.”

  Jessamyn’s expression was hard and eager. “Of course, your Excellency. I will do as you command.”

  Then Corien rose, swaying, his brow knotted with pain. He turned as if to return to his study, then fell hard against Simon’s chest.

  Simon caught him, helped him stand. He was muttering two words in Lissar over and over against Simon’s jacket:

  Burn them.

  Simon found Jessamyn staring from her spot on the floor. “Get out of here. If you tell anyone what you’ve seen, I’ll cut out your eyes and feed them to you.”

  Jessamyn fled at once, and after she had gone, Simon helped Corien into his study and kicked the door shut behind them. The bare floor was slick with blood, the rugs bloated with it. He avoided the body that had once belonged to General Bartamos and settled Corien in the chair nearest the quiet hearth.

  For a moment, Simon stood over him, watching him breathe. Corien gingerly touched his own temples, as if they would rupture under the weight of his hands. It was not the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last.

  And Simon knew of only one way to steady him when his mind was like this—split by rage and exhaustion, poisoned by centuries of grief. Every day, more cruciata escaped the Gate’s pull. Every day brought the world of the Deep closer to their own.

  The Empire needed a commander, not a madman.

  Simon waited until he had steadied his breathing, until he had arranged his thoughts and felt prepared for what woul
d come next. He was a slate, smooth and clean. He was a hollow vessel, ready to receive what it must.

  “You are pushing yourself too hard,” Simon said at last, keeping his voice steady. “Even you, mighty as you are, are not indestructible. Not after a thousand years of rebirth and conquest.”

  Corien laughed softly. “I told her that once. I told her that not even she was invulnerable to death. I told her so many things.”

  Simon glanced at the windows, each glowing with the yellow light of early evening. Admiral Ravikant would arrive at nightfall. The rugs needed to be removed, the furniture switched out, the floor scrubbed.

  He knelt before Corien and kissed his red knuckles, as he had done in rooms even darker and bloodier than this one.

  “And, my lord,” he said softly, “I must point out that you will have difficulty keeping your Empire loyal to you if you kill any general who comes to your office with a valid concern.”

  With those words, the air in the room changed. Simon felt Corien lift his head to stare at him, but he kept his own bowed. A thrill of fear pricked his calm. Fleetingly, he thought of that frozen Vindican plateau where Corien had first tortured his mind. He remembered waking days later in fits of agony, feeling as though his mind had been flayed and restitched a thousand times over.

  He remembered how calm Corien had been afterward, how kind—tender, even.

  “What are you saying, Simon?” Corien asked quietly. “That I am no longer fit to rule? That I should take care to temper my rightful anger, or else those I command, who would still be rotting in the Deep were it not for me, will rise up against me and somehow succeed?”

  Simon shook his head. “No, my lord. I only meant that I worry.”

  “Odd that you should say so,” Corien mused, “for I worry for you. Weeks have passed since Eliana’s arrival, and still we remain here. Your power seems reluctant.” Cool fingers, sticky and rank, cupped Simon’s cheeks. “I think it needs a little encouragement.”