TODAY IS TOO LATE (16 page)

No one had spoken for a while. People held their breath. Azmon gestured at one of the bone lords, provoking a flinch in the crowd.

“See to Biral’s wounds and interrogate them further, separately. I will speak to them again, later.”

Guards led the survivors from the court.

Now the nobles dared study him, and the scheming began. Tyrus’s position, second in command, was available, and he saw ambition and greed in their eyes. How soon before one of them dared seek promotion? Factions would form, promises within promises, to advance someone of power and fill his position and so on. Promotions would ripple through their ranks for weeks until equilibrium returned.

“Leave me.”

Heralds and guards stepped forward to dismiss the court. The nobles filed out while servants cleaned the floor, an unbelievable end to a day that had started so well. Fate robbed his triumph. Servants left him alone; his face seethed with worry and anger and questions. What was Tyrus doing? What could possibly inspire such a thing? A thought punched him in the stomach.

Not a thing, a person.

If anyone could turn Tyrus, it was his wife. But why send the heir away? Why would Tyrus take men with him only to kill them? What was the ultimate goal, civil war? Would they return to Rosh and raise an army against him? Not Narbor—Ishma’s people had never forgiven her, but would Narbor rally around her daughter? He doubted it but second-guessed his doubts.

Nothing made sense. Ishma could have returned to Rosh peacefully and given birth there. Maybe she turned Tyrus against him out of spite.

“Damn you, Ishma.”

Even alone, he whispered. She must have friends in the court helping her. This revelation would take weeks to unravel, but he had to find his enemies before he struck.

A herald entered. “Lady Lilith asks for an audience, Your Excellency.”

So Lilith would be the one, and sooner than he had guessed. Her ambition blinded her too much, but she was effective. Give her a task, promise a reward, and she would deliver. The results might be sloppy, might lack Tyrus’s attention to detail, but she didn’t disappoint often. He gestured for the herald to admit her.

Lilith strode forward. “Your Excellency, might I suggest—”

“Careful, Lilith. I’m in no mood for foreplay.”

“Foreplay?” She coughed. “Tyrus must be brought to justice. I know you share a history with him, but grant me this chance to prove once and for all that the Etched Men are no longer necessary. We don’t need champions anymore.”

“You think it will be so easy?”

“He is a man, and my beasts are some of the strongest in the army. He will fall like King Lael, a relic of a dead era.”

“Tyrus was my first creation.” Azmon watched her. So sure of herself—how much of it was an act? She should know Tyrus better than that. Lilith was there when they defeated the Five Nations. “Before I created the beasts, I gave him his runes. I spent years trying to create more men like him but always failed. Tyrus is unique.”

“I will defeat him, Your Excellency.”

Her creatures might overpower him if she had three or four of them, but Tyrus wouldn’t let her sit back and bark orders. He’d hide and strike. He was the kind of man who’d sacrifice himself if it meant she died first.

He said, “I want my daughter. I want the heir of my dynasty safe in my arms. Don’t forget, Lilith. Killing the Damned might make you famous, but if you do that at the expense of my family, you will be punished.”

“I will protect the heir with my life.”

Everyone promised him their lives. Did they not understand how pitiful an oath that was? So many wanted to martyr themselves. A better oath would endanger their loved ones the way his child was endangered.

“You have brothers in the court? Would you swear their lives, if you fail?”

“My… my brothers?”

“You have children as well. Sons, if I recall? House Hadoram has been blessed with boys.”

“We have,” Lilith said, “Your Excellency.”

Her reluctance betrayed much. Her family had risen to power together, much like he had risen with Tyrus. How many little schemes among them? Trusted allies were rare, and Azmon wondered what such loyalty was worth? He waited for her to react.

“I will not fail, milord. I will rescue the heir.”

“Bring two hostages to me, brothers or sons, I care not. I’ll release them when I have my daughter.”

She swallowed.

“That will be all.” He gestured at the door, and she turned to leave. Before she reached the door, he called to her. “Lilith, succeed, and I’ll name you my second.”

Her wary eyes changed, filled with desire, confidence. She bowed and left. That should be enough to start the hunt: his most talented student, collateral to control her violence, and a pretty prize. A small blessing, to be done with that; now he could focus on his treasonous wife.

He moved to a window above the smoldering ruin of the once great Shinar. The cradle of civilization, the Jewel of the West, burned. Jethlah, the Last Prophet, had built these walls, and Azmon might not be a prophet but he was powerful enough to undo their work.

Once he had thought he might be a prophet, that his birth rune might have been a part of one of the great prophets from ages past, not Alivar or Jethlah, nothing so grand, but one of the lesser prophets, a Kenet perhaps or a Jace. He could do things with the Runes of Dusk and Dawn that few sorcerers could match, and only prophets were so powerful. When the other wordly powers had contacted him and promised him more runes he assumed he spoke to the angels of the Seven Heavens. It was only later that he learned the truth, and instead of turning on them he had made the mistake of trying to learn their secrets first.

He had not wanted any of this; he had not wanted to destroy Shinar, to enter the history books as the one to break Jethlah’s Walls. Azmon should have been famous for building things, like Jethlah. So much simpler if the Shinari had surrendered, but he would rebuild it, and his new Shinar would outshine the old. Had sacking Shinar turned Tyrus against him? Why this city and not all the others? Could Tyrus guess what the shedim would do to him?

“My friend, what have you done?”

They rode through dusk, fading light and stretching shadows in the forest. Tyrus’s eyes adjusted, and to him, the night had a gray tint, as though a full moon lit the night sky. Of all the runes and strange spells carved into his body, eyesight proved the most useful. Seeing better than your opponent trumped brute force.

He whispered to himself, “What have I done?”

He should have returned with Marah, fed her, and found a way to rescue Ishma, but he had feared the child would die, and there was no sense second-guessing himself now. He realized he might have had a day or two in Shinar to save the mother and daughter. Instead, he sacrificed Ishma for Marah, and without milk, he had unknowingly sacrificed them both.

Both would die.

Ishma was smarter than this. She must have an escape plan. Marah would be a distraction, to lure Tyrus away, a diversion for Ishma to run. He tried to convince himself, but her strange behavior after the birth disturbed him. Ishma had acted desperate. If he had returned with Marah, Azmon would know of the birth rune. Escaping Shinar with the empress and a Reborn would be impossible, but he dreaded the thought that he might have pulled it off. He might have saved Ishma.

“We need a break,” Einin said. “I’m exhausted.”

“Not yet. We’re too close to Shinar.”

“I can’t ride at night. I’m not like you. Normal people need rest.”

“I’m… people.”

“I need to sleep,” Einin said. “I’ve been up for two days.”

Azmon might have etched spells into his body, but he remained a man. He had feelings: easy to forget, though, the limits of others. The last thing he needed was Einin falling from her horse. He searched for an easy place to defend.

If Tyrus had to pick one moment when he became the Damned, it would be his hundredth rune. A nice number, memorable, but anything past twenty turned him into a freak. He could have claimed fifty-two or seventy-one. But the hundredth had been different. They etched it in Rosh. In one of the largest towers, Azmon had a study filled with scrolls and implements. They strapped Tyrus to the table, and Azmon scraped the lines into his chest.

The more runes he took, the more elaborate his restraints. Azmon invented new ways to tie him down. Chains as thick as his forearms bound him to a steel slab, and Tyrus strained against them, snarling at the pain while Azmon mutilated him. Some called it art, some called it science, but either way, sharp metal tore holes in his flesh and burning sap filled them. Tyrus thought he would die. His hundredth rune: the one to finally stop his heart.

The pain lingered after the etching. Tyrus never blacked out and had not noticed the end of the procedure. Azmon loosened chains and jumped clear when Tyrus flexed. He tore free and staggered to a wall. The cool stone chilled the sweat running down his body.

“Here, drink.” Azmon held a glass of Kalduran Red, a bitter wine, to his lips. “Not too fast. Let me see your eyes. The hemorrhaging should fade soon.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve connected two matrixes. Your body will heal faster now.”

“No. Why another rune? It’s getting worse.” Azmon had covered him in ink, as if he couldn’t have pink skin below his chin. Tyrus looked like a walking scroll of sorcery. “I don’t know if I can survive another.”

“This is historic. To connect those two matrixes. It’s never been done before, do you understand? No one, not even Dura, could do that. I can use the technique on lesser men. I might take someone with six runes and give them eight, depending on which ones they already have.”

Azmon chattered on about arcane things, jargon for lines and depth and lattices and weaves. Two things about the etching were deadly: the strength of his heart and the accuracy of Azmon’s needle. It sounded like Azmon had invented a new technique for weaker subjects.

“But no one has half as many runes. What is the point?”

Azmon smiled. “You think I would risk your life for a duel with another champion? Some Hurrian or Holoni warrior?” He wiped sweat from Tyrus’s brow and offered more wine. “They are children compared to you. We have outgrown this world. I need a champion for a much bigger battlefield.”

Tyrus needed a bed and a meal. His body wanted food to heal itself. He knew he wasn’t dumb, but being around Azmon made him feel it. What did the size of a battlefield have to do with runes? Champions required little space to duel.

“Who must I fight?”

“False gods, false masters, false religions.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Sarbor.”

Tyrus gasped. No one fought the angelic host. “Which ones?”

“Both.”

“The seraphim and the shedim?”

Azmon looked pleased with himself. His eyes had a gleam to them, genius or madness, and regret hit Tyrus in the knees. Had he sworn oaths of loyalty to a madman? No one fought the Sarbor. The agents of God were untouchable.

“Dura warned against prolonged use of the arts.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Azmon scowled. “I’m perfectly sane.”

“Maybe we should take a break from all of this.”

“If I had lost control, you would be dead.” Azmon finished the wine. He gestured at maps on the wall, places Tyrus didn’t recognize. Sketches, runes, and notes peppered the room. “Most of the Runes of Dusk and Dawn are not on this world. They are kept hidden by the angelic host. They enslave us with ignorance, and I will not be a slave.”

“You want me to fight them?”

“Tyrus, they won’t surrender their secrets willingly. We must go to them and take them in the Seven Heavens and the Nine Hells.”

“But you must die to cross over.”

“That idea always felt wrong. Sorcerers do it all the time, but not physically. There is a barrier. To work spells, you must have the talent to break the barrier. To bring the sorcery into this world.”

“Heaven is for the dead.”

“Seraphim aren’t dead. Are they? They wear armor, don’t they? Why would immortals wear armor? And do you know how they travel to our world?” Azmon grabbed a scroll with markings in Holoni script. “These are Rordal’s own journals, from when we conquered Hurr. Look.”

“I can’t read this.”

“Two gates, Tyrus, a White Gate at the Top of the World and a Black Gate at the Bottom of the World. I’ve found references to them before, but this had details. This is one of the greatest secrets of creation. Oh, there are songs and legends, but Rordal claims to have seen the Black Gate. The stories are true, Tyrus. The Sarbor use gates to travel to our world.”

“So?”

“If the Sarbor can come in, why can’t we go out?”

Tyrus leaned against the wall, sank down, trying not to bend his chest. His entire front had blistered. “You want to travel to the Seven Heavens, alive?” Tyrus tried to find the words. Understanding him was hard enough; no questions came, nothing but, “Does Dura know?”

“Of course not.”

“But you have to die to cross over.” Tyrus felt like he explained death to a small child. “Everyone knows that.”

“You shouldn’t sleep here; come. We will talk about it later, when you are stronger.”