TODAY IS TOO LATE (11 page)

“How is that possible?” Ishma stood and walked to him. She traced a finger over one rune, and his skin shivered. “No one in Narbor has survived more than eight, and that was ages ago.”

The way she walked, a young woman in her prime, curves and confidence, Tyrus blushed at her touch. He coughed and asked the pikeman to help him back into his armor. He tried to calm his heart, but blood warmed his cheeks.

“You have fewer scars on your back.” Ishma walked around him. “A man who takes his wounds facing his opponent.”

“The Kellai seldom retreat, your majesty.”

Tyrus felt better in his armor again. He stood taller, more composed. The Narboran court whispered, and he caught a few fragments: some thought the runes were fake; others wondered what secrets Rosh had discovered. Ishma made eye contact with him, a breach of etiquette, but she had a question on her face and he waited for her to ask it. She didn’t, and he found himself watching her for too long, aware of the rules he broke and unsure of himself.

“Are you ready to become an empress, your majesty?”

“I want to know the secret of those runes.”

Tyrus fumbled his words. He struggled with an intense need to please her and loyalty to Azmon. “Maybe the emperor will share it with you.”

“In Rosh?”

“In Rosh, your majesty.”

The clop of the horses in the woods interrupted his memories. The horses galloped faster. The beasts were excited. Maybe the dark greens of Paltiel reminded him of Narbor. Ishma’s green gowns were scandalous in Rosh, too tight, too revealing. But in less than a year they had become fashionable among the noble houses. Bare shoulders and plunging necklines invaded Rosh.

Tyrus felt the elves watching; the back of his neck itched as he thought about arrows aimed at it. Why hadn’t they struck?

He was no longer Ishma’s guardian or a great general of Rosh. He had grown from eighteen runes—unheard of back then, and rare today—to a monster with a hundred and twelve. He had become another Roshan beast, a freak, chasing a frightened girl through the woods.

What had Ishma done? The best he could offer Einin was a clean death, and he had to hide the body from his men because if he brought her back, alive or dead, Azmon would learn of Ishma’s crimes. Tyrus refused to kill Ishma even if she had committed treason. He could survive Azmon’s anger, and maybe that was the mercy Ishma wanted: Tyrus taking the brunt of Azmon’s fury instead of Einin.

The sun had risen early in the morning. What little he saw of the sky, through the leaves, looked clear and blue. The woods stilled. Tyrus could hear better than most men, runes for his senses, and the lack of sound became perceptible. Noticing the absence of a thing was always difficult, but the only sounds he heard were his men, the jingle of armor and stomping hooves. He raised a hand for them to slow, and the men drew swords.

The ride had dulled his senses, lulled him into a mindless routine. How long had the woods been this quiet? He ground his teeth at his own foolishness. Biral hunched over his horse’s neck as if an elf couldn’t thread a needle with an arrow. Tyrus scanned the woods, trying to examine every little detail. A sea of green, leaves, ferns, bushes, dozens of different kinds of plants and moss, a lush undergrowth that seemed at odds with the hot summer months.

The shadows and stillness of the woods threatened Tyrus. He couldn’t place it, but nerves crept up his neck, and a chill swirled in his stomach. Something watched them. The party had ridden to the foot of a small hill, a crop of red rock pushing through the forest floor. Tyrus saw too many places for an ambush.

The dogs sprinted forward.

“Biral?”

“I’m on it.”

“You assured me—”

“I have it. I’m on it.”

Biral chased his beasts. Tyrus cursed and tore after them—lost them in long grass—found them and lost them again as they rounded the large rock. His men trampled behind. They made too much noise but had no choice. The dogs stopped outside of a cave. Biral had control. He smiled at Tyrus before coughing away the foolish grin.

“She’s in there, Lord Marshal.”

“Fan out.”

His men formed a semicircle around the cave. They dismounted. If she wasn’t alone, the close quarters took away the advantage of his size and armor. A hundred men would be forced to march single file into whatever trap waited for them.

“I’ll volunteer, Lord Marshal.”

“No.” Tyrus drew his sword. “This is my duty. I have the most runes. When I call, come in twos. Watch the woods. I don’t want us all trapped in this thing.”

He was the strongest with the best eyes. All he needed was one of his men stumbling over the child in a dark cave. Delegating duties had been the hardest adjustment to becoming the Lord Marshal. He preferred doing things himself, especially important things, and Azmon chided him about it. He stood outside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust. After a moment, the dimness became easier to pierce. Runes for his eyes, runes for his ears, runes for his nose—he had more in common with the bone dogs than his men.

His runes offered little help. The cave twisted into the hillside, blocking his view. Barely enough room for a man his size. A clear set of tracks in the dirt on the floor. Smells—damp soil, mushrooms, and spores—an animal nested in there, but anything large would have scared off the lady.

“Lord Marshal, we found her horse.”

He ordered them to walk a perimeter with the dogs and find some evidence of more than one rider. If the elves had helped her, they would find nothing, but they wouldn’t help a lady of Rosh. He waited, and his men reported nothing.

Tyrus stretched his shoulders and crept into the cave, leading with an open gauntlet and his knife in his other hand. The close quarters limited his ability to do much. Nothing other than thrusting and grabbing. Tyrus grimaced at the narrowing cave walls. This was a dumb way to die.

Einin sat at the end of the cave, not far inside. She had ridden through the night, fighting off exhaustion that dulled her mind. Marah fussed in her arms. They both needed a break. Hiding had made sense until she realized her horse sat outside. She craved a moment of sleep. The cave offered little comfort, and she turned to leave when she heard a distant sound, like thunder, but having trailed the army for years she knew it for what it was: heavy cavalry. The emperor had sent the Imperial Guard, and she wondered how they had found her.

Einin saw nothing in the pitch-black cave. She crawled on her knees, cradling Marah with one hand and probing the darkness with another. Her fingers found wet stones, damp earth, tree roots, strings of smaller roots, clumps of dirt hanging from the strings.

Needles slithered over her fingers. She yanked back. Probably a bug, she told herself, a centipede or some disgusting thing with too many legs. She reached out again and found a wall. The cave went nowhere. Nothing to crawl into, nothing to hide from. She was only a few yards from the mouth, and desperation made her consider pulling the roots over her, even if they crawled, but they had no give. She pulled but could not loosen them from the walls.

Marah’s cry squeaked. The child was dehydrated, and her complaints sounded too loud in the small space. She tried again to feed her, anything to keep her quiet. The empress assured her that attempting to feed the child could make her produce milk—the royal court used the practice to create wet nurses from suitable women—but nothing happened. Einin was dry.

She felt foolish, another woman’s baby pushing against her chest, chomping at her nipple with nothing happening. Little Marah expected milk, fought for food, became frustrated or hungry, and clawed at her. Marah altered between trying to suckle and making a frustrated moan.

“I am sorry, princess. I’m sorry.”

Worse than being caught and returned to court, Einin had failed as a surrogate mother. She could not feed herself in the woods, let alone a princess, and the child’s complaints accused. Einin’s inability to produce milk was hurting Marah, and Einin knew it.

As the horses approached, the ground shook, and bits of soil rained down from the dark ceiling. Wild panic, the need to flee; she knew it wouldn’t work, on foot against lancers, but she didn’t care. An animal dread hammered at her heart. She must run. Had she not held a baby and feared dropping the child or shaking it too badly, she would have run. Instead, she curled up on the cave floor.

“Please, hush, princess.”

Einin feared smothering the child, but if the lancers heard her, it wouldn’t matter. The thunder had stopped for what seemed an eternity. She dared hope that they had ridden on. Then she heard the Lord Marshal barking commands.

Einin trembled at the idea that they had sent the Damned after her. The emperor must have ordered her arrest, and she would disappear the way all of the Lord Marshal’s victims disappeared. Her body would rot in this cave forever. What would her parents think? Would anyone tell them? She heard him enter the cave, armor rattling with each step, metal scraping against stone, curses, and she scuttled back into the rock, trying with aching legs to push the wall away from him.

The darkness of the cave changed, a black-on-black shape lingered before her. She heard breathing. Einin pushed harder, tried to flee. Marah cried. That shadow embodied death, black armor and brute force. She pictured his cold sword blade waiting to stab her. She had failed the empress and failed to get that far away. The shape moved slowly, shifting from side to side, searching. He waited a moment and then sighed.

Einin drew a small knife from her belt. She cradled Marah with one arm and hid the short blade under her with the other. She wanted to strike out, but the blackness had no edges, no targets to attack.

She remembered the times she had seen him in court beside the emperor. With a helm, little flesh was exposed. She wondered how many battles he had fought; how many swords and axes had tried to cut him and failed? This was the man who had beaten a Rune Blade to death with his bare hands. Her knife was about as useful as her fingernails.

“Why did the empress help you?”

Einin gaped. How could he know? “She didn’t. She passed out. And I stole the child.”

Their voices echoed in the cave. They hesitated, and when they spoke again they both whispered.

“Do not lie to me.” He growled. “What is going on?”

“The star—it’s for the princess. She has a birth rune. The empress knew the child would be killed.”

“Who helped you? Where do you ride?”

“What?”

“Don’t play games with me, girl. Which of the bone lords wants that child?”

“None of them. The bone lords kill the Reborn.”

The shadow watched her. She felt compelled to offer more details, but her training kicked in. Nobles never explain themselves. She clenched her jaw and waited. Defying that angry shadow was one of the hardest things she had done.

“Ishma sent you here, alone? You thought you could outrun the Roshan Empire, alone?”

It sounded worse when he said it. “She said we must try.”

“She sacrifices you to soothe her guilt.”

“No.”

That couldn’t possibly be true. Einin wanted to defend her mistress, but questions plagued her about the poor planning. She had asked if they might hire guards or help, and the empress said Azmon would learn of it. Ishma had answers for everything. Einin knew she was a traitor and had poison in case she was caught. Now she wondered if that had been the plan all along. Try to save the child, and failing that, kill the accomplice.

The shape shuffled. She thought he knelt.

“Show me the rune.”

“It’s too dark.”

“I can see. Show it to me.”

He could see? Einin resisted, but showing the rune couldn’t hurt. She found the wrappings and gently pulled them away from Marah. Einin saw nothing, but she knew the child was white as a sheet. Pale wrinkly skin, wisps of straw-blonde hair, and milky cataracts, Einin had never heard of a blind Reborn.

“You risk everything for a cripple?”

“I promised the empress.”

“They don’t live that long.”

“I know. But look at her chest. That star is for her. The Seven Heavens want this child to live.”

A jingle of armor; he had removed his gauntlet. A hand brushed hers as he traced the rune on the child’s chest. Einin wanted to push the hand away but chewed her lip instead.

“So that’s what Ishma is doing.”

Einin asked, “You can see the rune?”

“I can.”

“How many runes does it take, to see in the dark?”

Tyrus ignored her.

“How many do you have?”

“More than any man should.”

“How did you survive so many?”

“I’m hard to kill.”

The black shape pulled back. She heard the armor again, and it sounded like he replaced his gauntlet.

“You understand what it means?” Einin asked. “The emperor would kill her. Ishma was certain that the girl would die.”

The shadow did not move. She felt exposed. He could see in the dark, and she was almost blind. The man could snap her neck with one hand, making her knife feel small and useless. Even if she could move fast enough to stab him, which she knew she couldn’t, even if she got lucky and stabbed him in the eye or throat, a knife wouldn’t kill an Etched Man. His runes would stop the blood.