Ruler, Rival, Exile
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Despite her anger, Ceres could see the opportunity they represented.
“If we can get over there, no one will question the fact that we’re leaving,” she said.
“We still have to get over there,” Thanos pointed out, but Ceres could see him trying to pick out a route.
The packed ships were so tight together that it was more like guiding their boat down a series of canals than true sailing. They started to pick their way through the clustered boats, using their oars, trying not to attract attention to themselves. Now that they were out of sight of those firing from the shore, no one had any reason to think that they were out of place. They could lose themselves in the great mass of Felldust’s fleet, using it as cover even as some within it hunted for them.
Ceres hefted the sword she’d pulled from Akila. It was large enough that she could barely lift it, but if the hunters came for them, they would soon find out how well she could wield it. Maybe she would even have an opportunity to give it back to its owner one day, point first through the First Stone’s heart.
But for now, they couldn’t afford a fight. It would mark them out as strangers, and bring down every boat around them on their heads. Instead, Ceres waited, feeling the tension as they slipped past the assorted landing craft, past the hulks of burnt out ships, and past boats where worse was happening. Ceres saw boats where people were being branded like cattle, saw one where two men were fighting to the death while sailors cheered them on, saw one where —
“Ceres, look,” Thanos said, pointing to a ship near them.
Ceres looked, and it was just one more example of the horror around them. A strange-looking woman, her face covered in what looked like ash, had been tied to the prow of a ship like a figurehead. Two soldiers with lashes were taking it in turns to strike at her, slowly flaying her alive.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Ceres’s father said. “We can’t fight them all.”
Ceres could understand the sentiment, but even so, she didn’t like the idea of standing by while someone was tortured.
“But that’s Jeva,” Thanos replied. He obviously caught Ceres’s look of confusion. “She led me to the Bone Folk who attacked the fleet so I could get into the city. It’s my fault that this is happening.”
That made Ceres’s heart tighten in her chest, because Thanos had only come back to the city for her.
“Even so,” her father said, “try to help and we put all of us at risk.”
Ceres heard what he was saying, but she wanted to help anyway. It seemed that Thanos was a step ahead of her.
“We have to help,” Thanos said. “I’m sorry.”
Her father reached out to grab him, but Thanos was too quick. He dove into the water, swimming for the ship, apparently ignoring the threat of whatever predators were in the water. Ceres had a moment to consider the danger of it… and then she threw herself in after him.
It was hard to swim clutching the great sword that she’d stolen, but right then she needed any weapon she could get. She plunged through the cold of the waves, hoping that the sharks were already sated from the battle, and that she wouldn’t die from whatever filth so many ships threw overboard. Her hands closed on the ropes of the moored galley, and Ceres started to climb.
It was hard. The side of the ship was slick, and the ropes would have been difficult to scramble up even if Ceres hadn’t been exhausted by days of torment at Stephania’s hands. Somehow, she managed to pull herself up onto the deck, throwing the great sword ahead of her the way a diver might have thrown a net of clams.
She came up in time to see a sailor rushing at her.
Ceres snatched up her stolen sword two-handed, thrusting and then pulling it clear. She swept it around in an arc, taking the sailor’s head from his shoulders, then looked for the next threat. Thanos was already grappling with one of the sailors who had been attacking the Bone Folk woman, so Ceres ran to his aid. She cut across the sailor’s back, and Thanos threw the dying man at the next sailor to come at them.
“You cut her free,” Ceres said. “I’ll hold them.”
She swung her blade in arcs, holding the sailors at bay while Thanos worked to free Jeva. Up close, she was even stranger looking than she had been at a distance. Her soft, dark skin had blue swirls and patterns worked into it, creeping over her shaven skull like tendrils of smoke. Fragments of bone decorated her otherwise silken clothing, while her eyes blazed with defiance at her predicament.
Ceres had no time to watch as Thanos cut her free, because she had to concentrate on keeping back the sailors. One hacked at her with an axe, swinging it overhand. Ceres stepped into the space created by his swing, cutting as she moved past him and then swinging the sword in a circle to force the others back. She thrust it through the leg of one man, then kicked high, catching him under the jaw.
“I have her,” Thanos said, and as Ceres glanced back, he had indeed freed the Bone Folk woman… who skipped past Ceres to snatch a knife from a fallen man.
She moved into the crowd of sailors like a whirlwind, cutting and killing. Ceres glanced across to Thanos, then went with her, trying to keep up with the progress of the woman they were supposed to be saving. She saw Thanos parry a sword stroke and then strike back, but Ceres had a blow of her own to deflect in that moment.
The three of them fought together, shifting places like participants in some formal dance where there never seemed to be a shortage of partners. The difference was that these partners were armed, and one misstep would mean death.
They fought hard, and Ceres shouted her defiance as they attacked her. She cut and moved and cut again, seeing Thanos fight with the square-edged strength of a nobleman, the Bone Folk woman beside him lashing out in a blur of vicious aggression.
Then the combatlords were there, and Ceres knew it was time to go.
“Over the side!” she yelled, running for the rail.
She dove, and felt the cold of the water again as she hit it. She swam, making for the boat, then hauled herself up over the side. Her father pulled her aboard, and then she helped the others one by one.
“What were you thinking?” her father asked as they reached the deck.
“I was thinking I couldn’t stand by,” Thanos replied.
Ceres wanted to argue with that, but she knew it was part of what made Thanos who he was. It was part of what she loved about him.
“Foolish,” the Bone Folk woman was saying with a smile. “Wonderfully foolish. Thank you.”
Ceres looked around at the boats nearest to them. All of them were up in arms now, many of the sailors aboard rushing for weapons. An arrow hit the water near them, then another.
“Row!” she yelled to the combatlords, but where could they row to? Already, she could see the other ships moving to intercept them. Soon, there would be no way out. It was the kind of situation where she might have used her powers before, but now she didn’t have them.
Please, Mother, she begged in the quiet of her mind, you helped me before. Help me now.
She felt her mother’s presence somewhere on the edge of her being, ephemeral and calming. She could feel her mother’s attention, looking through her, trying to work out what had happened to her.
“What have they done to you?” her mother’s voice whispered. “This is the sorcerer’s work.”
“Please,” Ceres said. “I don’t need my powers back forever, but I need help now.”
In the pause that followed, an arrow struck the deck between Ceres’s feet. It was too close by far.
“I cannot undo what has been done,” her mother said. “But I can lend you another gift, this one time. It will only be once, though. I do not think your body could stand more.”
Ceres didn’t care, so long as they escaped. Already, boats were closing in. They needed this.
“Touch the water, Ceres, and forgive me, because this will hurt.”
Ceres didn’t question it. Instead, she placed her hand on the waves, feeling the wetness flow around her skin. She braced herself…
…and she still had to fight to keep from screaming as something poured through her, shimmering out across the water, then up through the air. It seemed as though someone had drawn a gauze veil across the world.
Through it, Ceres could see archers and warriors staring in shock. She could hear them shouting in surprise, but the sounds seemed muted.
“They complain that they cannot see us,” Jeva said. “They say that it is dark magic.” She looked at Ceres with something like awe. “It seems that you are everything Thanos said you would be.”
Ceres wasn’t sure about that. Just holding this hurt more than she could believe. She wasn’t sure how long she would be able to keep it up.
“Row,” she said. “Row before it fades!”
CHAPTER THREE
In the high-roofed temple of the castle, Irrien watched impassively as the priests prepared Stephania for sacrifice. He stood unmoved while they bustled, tying her in place on the altar, securing her while she screamed and struggled.
Normally, Irrien had little time for such things. The priests were a bunch of blood-obsessed fools who seemed to think that placating death could fend it off. As if any man could hold off death except through the strength of his arm. Begging didn’t work, not to the gods, and not, as Delos’s brief ruler was finding out, to him.
“Please, Irrien, I will do anything you want! Do you want me to kneel before you? Please!”
Irrien stood like a statue, ignoring it the way he ignored the pain of his wound, while around him nobles and warriors stood watching. There was some value to be had in letting them see this, at least, just as there was value in placating the priests. Their favor was just another source of power to be taken, and Irrien was not so foolish as to ignore that.
“Don’t you desire me?” Stephania begged. “I thought you wanted me for your plaything.”
Irrien wasn’t so foolish as to ignore Stephania’s charms, either. That was part of the problem. When her hand had been on his arm, he’d felt something beyond the usual stirrings of desire he felt with beautiful slaves. He would not allow that. Could not allow that. No one would have power over him, even of the kind that came from within him.
He looked over the crowd. There were more than enough beautiful women there, Stephania’s former handmaidens kneeling in their chains. Some of them wept at the sight of what was happening to their former ruler. He would distract himself with them soon enough. For now, he needed to get rid of the threat that Stephania posed with her ability to make him feel something.
The highest of the priests came forward, the gold and silver wires in his beard jangling as he moved.
“All is ready, my lord,” he said. “We will cut the babe from its mother’s belly, and then sacrifice it on the altar in the proper fashion.”
“And your gods will find this pleasing?” Irrien asked. If the priest caught the slight note of derision there, he did not dare show it.
“Most pleasing, First Stone. Most pleasing indeed.”
Irrien nodded.
“Then it will be done the way you suggest. But I will be the one to kill the child.”
“You, First Stone?” the priest asked. He sounded surprised. “But why?”
Because it was his victory, not the priest’s. Because Irrien had been the one fighting his way through the city, while these priests had probably been safe on the ships transporting them. Because he was the one who had suffered a wound for this. Because Irrien took the deaths that were his, rather than leaving them to lesser men. He didn’t explain any of that, though. He didn’t owe ones such as these explanations.
“Because I choose to,” he said. “Do you have an objection?”
“No, First Stone, no objection.”
Irrien enjoyed the note of fear there, not for its own sake, but because it was a reminder of his power. All of this was. It was a declaration of his victory as much as it was gratitude to any gods watching. It was a way of claiming this place at the same time as he rid himself of a child who might have tried to claim his throne when it was old enough.
Because it was a reminder of his power, he stood and watched the crowd while the priests began their butchery. They stood and knelt in neat rows, the warriors, the slaves, the merchants, and those who claimed noble blood. He watched their fear, their weeping, their revulsion.
Behind him, the priests chanted, speaking in ancient tongues meant to have been given by the gods themselves. Irrien glanced back to see the highest of the priests holding a blade over Stephania’s exposed belly, poised to slice down while she fought to get away.
Irrien returned his attention to those watching. This was about them, not Stephania. He watched their horror as Stephania’s begging turned to screams behind him. He watched their reactions, seeing who was awed, who was frightened, who looked at him with silent hatred, and who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. He saw one of the handmaidens there faint at the sight of what was occurring behind him and resolved to have her punished. Another was weeping so hard that another had to hold her.
Irrien had found that watching those who served him told him more about them than any declaration of loyalty could. Silently, he marked out those among the slaves who had yet to be fully broken, those amongst the nobles who looked at him with too much jealousy. A wise man did not let his guard down, even when he had won.
Stephania’s screams became sharper for a moment, rising to a crescendo that seemed perfectly timed to match the priests’ chanting. It gave way to whimpers then, falling. Irrien doubted that she would live through this. Right then, he didn’t care. She was fulfilling her purpose in showing the world that he ruled here. Anything beyond that was unnecessary. Almost inelegant.
Somewhere in it, fresh screams joined those of Delos’s most beautiful noblewoman, her babe’s cries intertwining with hers. Irrien stepped back toward the altar, spreading his arms, drawing in the attention of those who watched.
“We came here, and the Empire was weak, so we took it. I took it. The place of the weak is to serve or to die, and I decide which.”
He turned to the altar where Stephania lay, her dress cut from her, clothed now in a mess of blood and caul as much as in silk or velvet. She was still breathing, but her breaths were ragged, and the wound was not one that a weak thing like her would survive.
Irrien caught the attention of the priests, then jerked his head at Stephania’s prostrate form.
“Dispose of that.”
They rushed to obey, carrying her away while one of the priests handed him the child as if presenting him with the greatest of gifts. Irrien stared at it. It was strange that such a tiny, fragile thing could potentially pose a threat to one such as him, but Irrien was not a man to take foolish risks. One day, this boy would have grown into a man, and Irrien had seen what happened when a man didn’t feel he had what belonged to him. He’d had to kill more than a few in his time.
He placed the child on the altar, turning back to the audience while he drew a knife.
“Watch, all of you,” he commanded. “Watch and remember what happens here. The other Stones are not here to take this victory. I am.”
He turned back to the altar, and instantly he knew that something was wrong.
There was a figure there, a young-looking man with bone-white skin, pale hair, and eyes of a deep amber that reminded Irrien of a cat’s. He wore robes, but these were pale where the priests’ were dark. He ran a finger through the blood on the altar without apparent distaste, simply with interest.
“Ah, Lady Stephania,” he said, in a voice that was even, and pleasant, and almost certainly a lie. “I offered her a chance to be my student before. She should have accepted my offer.”
“Who are you?” Irrien asked. He shifted his grip on the knife he held, moving from a grip designed to plunge down to one that was better for fighting. “Why do you dare to interrupt my victory?”
The other man spread his hands. “I don’t mean to interrupt, First Stone, but you were about to destroy something that belongs to me.”
“Something…” Irrien felt a flash of surprise as he realized what this stranger meant. “No, you are not the child’s father. That is a prince of this place.”
“I never claimed to be,” the other man said. “But I was promised the child as payment, and I am here to collect that payment.”
Irrien could feel his anger rising, his grip tightening on the knife he held. He turned to order this fool seized, and it was only as he did so that he realized that the others there weren’t moving now. They stood as if entranced.
“I suppose I should congratulate you, First Stone,” the stranger said. “I find that most men who claim to be powerful are actually quite weak willed, but you did not even notice my… small effort.”
Irrien turned back to him. He had Stephania’s child in his arms now, cradling it in a surprisingly accurate facsimile of care.
“Who are you?” Irrien demanded. “Tell me so that I can write it on your gravestone.”
The other man didn’t look up at him. “He has his mother’s eyes, don’t you think? Given his parents, I’m sure he’ll grow up strong and handsome. I’ll train him, of course. He will be a most skillful killer.”
Irrien made a sound of anger, low in his throat. “Who are you? What are you?”
The other man looked up at him then, and this time his eyes seemed to swim with depths of fire and heat.
“There are those who call me Daskalos,” he said. “But there are those who call me many other things. Sorcerer, of course. Killer of Ancient Ones. Weaver of shadows. Right now, I am a man collecting his debt. Allow me to do so and I will go in peace.”
“The mother of this child is my slave,” Irrien said. “The child is not hers to give.”
He heard the other man laugh then.
“It matters so much to you, doesn’t it?” Daskalos said. “You must win, because you must be the strongest. Perhaps that can be my lesson to you, Irrien: there is always someone stronger.”
Irrien had put up with enough from this fool, sorcerer or not. He’d met men and women who had claimed to command magic before. Some of them had even been able to do things that Irrien couldn’t explain. None of it had let them best him. Faced with magic, the best thing to do was strike first and strike hard.
He lunged forward, the knife in his hand flashing into the young man’s chest. Daskalos looked down at it, then stepped away as calmly as if Irrien had merely brushed the edge of his robes.
“Lady Stephania tried something similar when I suggested taking her child,” Daskalos said, with a hint of amusement. “I’ll tell you what I told her: there will be a price for attacking me. Perhaps I will even have the boy exact it.”
Irrien lunged again, this time going for the other man’s throat to try to shut him up. He stumbled past the altar, almost overbalancing. The sorcerer wasn’t there anymore. Irrien blinked, looking round. There was no sign of him.
“No!” Irrien bellowed. “I’ll kill you for this. I’ll hunt you down!”
“First Stone?” one of the priests said. “Is everything all right?”
Irrien struck him with his off hand, sending the man sprawling. He heard the others gasp. Apparently, they were all free from whatever spell the sorcerer had used to control them.
“Lord Irrien,” the highest of the priests said. “I must protest. To strike a priest is to invite the wrath of the gods.”
“The wrath of the gods?” Irrien repeated. He drew himself up to his full height, but apparently the old fool was too caught up in his self-righteousness to notice it.
“Do not mock it, First Stone,” the man said. “And where is the sacrifice?”
“Gone,” Irrien said. From the corner of his eye, he saw some of those there shifting in place. They at least seemed to recognize the dangerous nature of his anger.
The priest seemed too obsessed to notice. “The gods must be thanked for this victory, or there is a danger that they will not give you others. You may be the most powerful of men, but the gods – ”
Irrien pulled the other man close as he stabbed him. He’d been made to look weak by the sorcerer. He couldn’t allow the priest to do the same. Irrien bent the older man back until he lay on the altar, in almost the spot where Stephania had been.
“I have this victory because I took it,” Irrien said. “Do any of you think that you are stronger than me? Do you think that your gods will give you the strength to take what is mine? Do you?”
He looked around them in silent challenge, meeting their eyes and noting who looked away, how quickly, and how frightened they appeared when they did so. He picked out another of the priests, younger than the dead one had been.
“You, what is your name?”
“Antillion, First Stone.” Irrien could hear the fear there. Good. A man should realize who could really take his life from him.
“You are now the highest priest in Delos. You will answer to me. Do you understand?”
The young man bowed. “Yes, First Stone. Do you have commands?”
Irrien looked around, getting his temper under control. A flash of it could terrify those who needed to be cowed, but a temper that was not under control was a weakness. It encouraged dissent, and emboldened those who mistook it for stupidity.
“Clear away that as you did the first sacrifice,” Irrien answered, pointing to the dead priest. “Later, you will attend me in the royal chambers of this place.”
He walked to the kneeling slaves, picking out two of Stephania’s former handmaidens. They had much of the beauty of their now gone mistress, with a much more suitable level of fear. He drew them to their feet.
“Later,” Irrien said. On impulse, he shoved one of them in the direction of the priest. “I will not have it said that I do not respect the gods. I will not be commanded, though. Take this one and sacrifice her. I take it that will please them?”
The priest bowed low again. “Whatever pleases you, First Stone, will please the gods.”
That was a good answer. It was almost enough to soothe Irrien’s mood. His hand closed on the forearm of the other woman. She looked shocked into silence, obviously realizing how close she’d just come to death.
The other started to scream as they dragged her to the altar.
Irrien didn’t care about that. He didn’t even particularly care about the slave he dragged along in his wake as he left the room. The weak didn’t matter. What mattered was that there was a sorcerer entangled in his business. Irrien didn’t know what that meant, and it irritated him that he couldn’t see what this Daskalos intended.
It took him most of the journey to the royal chambers to convince himself that it didn’t matter. Who could fathom the ways of those who dabbled in magic? What mattered was that Irrien had his own plans for the Empire, and so far, those plans were proceeding exactly as he wanted.
What came next would be even better, although there was one sour note in that. What did this sorcerer want with the boy? What had he meant about turning him into a weapon? Somehow, just the thought of him made Irrien shudder, and Irrien hated that. He claimed to fear no man, but this Daskalos…
He feared him greatly.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thanos knew he should have been watching the horizon, but right then, all he could do was watch Ceres with a mixture of pride, love, and amazement. She stood at the prow of their small boat, her hand touching the water as they headed from the harbor into open water. Around them, the air continued to shimmer, the haze that marked their invisibility seeming to twist the light that passed through it.
One day, Thanos knew, he would marry her.
“I think that’s enough,” Thanos said to her softly. He could see the strain on her face from it. The power was obviously taking its toll.
“Just… a little… farther.”
Thanos laid a hand on her shoulder. Somewhere behind him, he heard Jeva gasp, as if the Bone Folk woman expected him to be flung back by the power. Thanos knew Ceres would never do that to him though.
“We’re clear,” he said. “There’s nobody behind us.”
He saw Ceres look around in obvious surprise as she saw the deeper water they were now rowing across. Had it taken that much concentration to hold the power in place? Either way, there was no one behind them now, just empty ocean.