TODAY IS TOO LATE (3 page)

Lilith said, “We don’t need their scrolls.”

“Azmon wanted them.”

“They are relics of a bygone era. Irrelevant.” Lilith smoothed her robe. “If the Shinari scrolls had any power in them, they would not have been conquered. We are the new world power.”

He sighed. “Azmon wanted them.”

“Is this why you summoned me? To avoid blame for the library? I assumed we would discuss more pressing matters. I need to replace over forty beasts. I have a dozen more that are easier to replace than repair. I need materials.”

Materials had become code for bodies.

“No.”

“The nobles are not fools. You sacrificed our beasts against the walls to save your precious swordsmen. Now that we are weakened, you think to consolidate your position—”

Tyrus raised a hand. “We are still sorting the dead. The emperor wants an accounting of the battle. And navigating the caravans around the surviving beasts is difficult enough.” Horses and mules hated the monsters. They needed two armies, marching parallel, to keep the animals from panicking. “There is fighting beneath the city. We need to finish this battle before we start rebuilding.”

“The bone lords will not like that.”

“Tough.”

“You should be more careful. You are his favorite, for now, but the Etched Men are dying out. The bone lords have taken over the court and they do not like bowing before a commoner.” She watched her words work on him. “How much longer do you think the emperor will need a marshal with no talent for sorcery?”

Tyrus stood, and Lilith lowered her eyes. They played this game more frequently of late. He was a commoner by birth, but no noble had ever survived half as many etchings, yet that earned no respect from the court. Did they think the war was over? They planned their little fiefdoms? He took a calming breath.

“You threaten me?”

“Of course not, milord. I speak as a friend, Tyrus, as an
old
friend. The court has changed, and there are all these new faces. You provoke them. The days of Etched Men are numbered, and many envy your rank.”

“When we have sorted our dead from theirs, you may collect your materials. Until then, do something useful with your sorcery. Put out fires. Find the Red Sorceress. Salvage something from the library.”

Lilith locked eyes with him. She believed he had become irrelevant. Runes strengthened his eyes. In the dim light of the tent, they flashed gold, like a wolf’s, and the staring contest ended. Lilith took interest in the table of scrolls and smoothed her robe again. Her fussiness bothered Tyrus. The lords preferred clean fingernails. Labor was for their beasts.

“You are dismissed, milady.”

Lilith tilted her chin and left.

“If I may, she has a point.” Elmar sidled up to Tyrus. “A lot of things have changed in the last few years. The men no longer call it the Royal Court of Rosh. They call it the Court of Bones. Sorcerers replace everyone.”

“Court of Bones?”

“The latest battlefield promotions.”

Elmar handed him a piece of parchment with two columns, the dead and their replacements. Tyrus scanned the lists. His officers replaced by bone lords, and he knew many of them, soft people, pampered people, who had no idea what the army did. They fought from the rear, barking commands. The men wouldn’t follow them. Champions led the charge. The men with the most runes fought first.

“On whose authority?”

“The emperor’s.”

More scrolls, royal seals, and Azmon’s flourished signature for Tyrus to inspect. Why had no one told him?

“When did this happen?”

“This morning, before the executions.”

Tyrus had stood beside the emperor for hours, and he hadn’t said a word. He called for his armor again even though he hated wearing it in the heat, but until the city was pacified, he had a role to perform. The sight of the Damned in full armor had won a few battles, and Tyrus had learned how to use his black name. Clerks buckled him into his plate.

“Work on the counts. Start buying swords. I need to speak to the emperor.”

“Milord, there are also reports of a small army of knights that fled the battle.”

“How many?”

“A hundred, maybe more. The Red Sorceress was spotted with them.”

“I am so tired of that woman.” Tyrus stretched his shoulders, testing the range of motion as he wondered which reports to believe. He had known the Red Sorceress in another life, Dura Galamor, the emperor’s one-time tutor turned rival decades ago. “I’m starting to think Dura was never in Shinar.”

“She was seen on the wall.”

“An old woman in a red robe was seen.”

“The scout thought the knights escorted her from Shinar. He noted that she had multiple students with her. Five red robes, all mounted.”

The knights might leave a battle to protect Dura. She had a long history with Azmon. She had taught him the Runes of Dusk and Dawn long before he created the beasts. After he created them, Dura tried to kill him and had dedicated her life to rallying Shinar and the nations of the west against Rosh. She decried the monsters as unholy abominations from the Nine Hells. Dura had opposed them when their boats assaulted the port of Imrumm and arrived at each battle for the other cities on the march to Shinar.

“Send a message to Lady Lilith. Dispatch flyers to scout for the Red Sorceress. They won’t find her. Never have. But we should try.”

“Of course, milord.”

Tyrus walked toward the palace at the heart of Shinar. The city had a fortress, King’s Rest, within its walls, larger than any of the private villas. Tyrus could see where he wanted to go, but the maze of ramparts and buildings confused him. The streets bent around hills and threw off his sense of direction. Azmon had claimed the royal apartments. Tyrus would need to take rooms befitting his rank but put off the task—too many details to worry about.

The blue star shone brighter as the day wore on. The light pierced the smoke and dust better than the sun. Maybe the seraphim mourned Shinar. The blue light seemed sad, lamenting as it cast a ghostly halo into the drifting smoke.

A bone lady, a younger version of Lilith, patrolled the street with two hulking beasts. She wore silky black robes and carried a silver rod that resembled a stake, a large orb on one end and a tapering point on the other. The beasts flanked her. Their heavy footfalls thudded down the street. They breathed deeply, air rattling their chests. The lady saluted and gave Tyrus a wide berth.

He mulled over the best way to kill her. Not because he wanted to, but as an exercise in tactics. If Tyrus fought Rosh, he would use archers and spearmen, in teams. Arrows to kill the controllers and spears to keep the beasts at bay, similar to hunting bears with dogs. And as a bear would maul a few dogs, he would lose several spearmen to each monster. He could estimate men needed per beast, and the rest became choosing the right terrain to box in the big brutes.

Tyrus thought the bone lords must see their vulnerabilities. Would they replace him with these mindless things? Court of Bones—what idiot came up with that name?

Tyrus felt his age. He had fought beside Azmon before he had been crowned emperor, decades ago, when Rosh was a small kingdom. Runes prolonged his service in ways he had never imagined. Like the emperor, the Eternal Youth, he had stopped aging, yet another reason people called him the Damned. They thought he was another abomination, another beast. His scars had scars, and he sensed his worst defeat before him. He had lived long enough to become irrelevant.

Einin watched the empress snarl. The royal face twisted into a mask of agony as the labor pains grew worse. The empress’s fingernails tore into Einin’s hand, squeezing the bones together until they ached. Such tiny hands, yet they clawed at Einin with tremendous strength. She had never midwifed before, had no idea what to do, and winced whenever the empress groaned. Out of her depth—not yet twenty—she needed to prove she could do this. Neither of them wanted help with the birth, and as the ordeal continued, as the pain grew, Einin worried that they had made a terrible mistake. Empress Ishma sounded near death. Einin fussed with a cloth, wiping a sweaty brow.

“It’s all right,” Einin lied. “You’re doing great. Just a little longer.”

Ishma let out a low moan. Einin could tell she tried to control the noise, but there was only so much she could do. Unfortunate images would not leave her alone: the empress bleeding out, a stillborn heir, the royal family’s blood all over Einin’s gown. She would have to kill herself, knew this, and tried to push down the doubts. Whenever Ishma groaned, Einin imagined herself visiting the axman.

She felt the small vial of poison secreted in her belt. The glass bit into her hip. They had known the risks, and the empress planned contingencies, schemes within schemes, and assured Einin the putrid liquid would be gentler than Azmon’s interrogators.

“It’s all right.” The words didn’t mean anything anymore, but she hoped they comforted. “Everything will be fine.”

Moans gave way to panting. Ishma fell back into her pillows. She looked spent, raven-black hair matted with sweat, a pinkish flush in her clammy cheeks and a puffy redness around her eyes. She had spent hours struggling with waves of pain followed by brief moments of exhaustion.

Einin wiped her brow. She had no idea if this was normal or things grew dangerous. She had never bothered to learn about childbirth. The Royal Court of Rosh had a small army of physicians. But that was the problem. The empress did not want the court to know of the birth.

“Water.”

Einin lifted a glass to Ishma’s lips.

Ishma said, “I think it’s close.”

“You’re sure?”

“God, I hope so.”

Einin bit her lip at the blasphemy. The longer the birth lasted, the more informal they became. She had helped Ishma dress for banquets before, but now she held the woman’s life in her hands. Pain erased the boundaries between them. They were distant cousins and distant friends, a rigid relationship. Einin might pass as her sister, but no one would mistake the two. Ishma was the great beauty of Rosh, the Face That Won a War. Even pregnant, Ishma’s cheekbones made Einin appear common.

Ishma closed her eyes and arched her back. Her eyeballs rolled behind their lids, and she gasped as she inhaled. Einin’s hand shot out, covering Ishma’s mouth before she screamed. They fought. Ishma pulled at the hand and shook her head.

“Forgive me.”

The spasm passed. Ishma’s shoulders sank back into the blankets. Her exhausted eyes sought out Einin’s, and she nodded once.

“I will check the door. Are you all right?”

Ishma waved her away. Sweat dripped from her forearms as she covered her face and panted.

They had done what they could to muffle the noise: heavy drapes over the four-post bed, hangings on the walls, and blankets stuffed into the cracks around the door. Pillows choked the windows. The extra layers with the summer heat made the room an oven. It smelled of unwashed flesh.

Einin rested her ear against the Shinari oak. The wood was smooth and cold. She heard the scratch of her hair, the thunder of her pulse, but nothing worse. She feared squabbling noblewomen, imagining a knot of them outside the door about to barge in. So far, no one had noticed the birth, and their plan worked.

The empress cried out, and Einin about dropped to her knees. Thoughts of the poison vial filled her with dread. She lunged for Ishma.

“Empress, that’s too loud.”

A sneer twisted the royal face. “I don’t care.”

Einin clamped her hand over the empress’s mouth. A sharp pain tore into her fingers. Ishma bit her. Einin pulled her hand back. She tried to swallow her own cries.

“I can’t breathe when you do that.”

“I’m sorry. But you make too much noise.”

“It’s coming. It’s now.”

“Okay.”

“Help.”

“How?”

“Just help.”

Einin crawled into the bed to support her convulsing body. She had no idea what she was doing. Terror had been replaced with a sense of failure. She cradled the empress, powerless to stop her pain. Ishma pushed at the sheets. Einin used one hand to hold her and tried to pull away the rest of the sheets, but they stuck to the empress. She was naked, covered in sweat, and the blankets would not be kicked off.

Einin felt strange climbing into bed with her, a familiarity that broke all the rules of etiquette. They were cousins, similar in appearance as far as height and build went, but Ishma was the great beauty of Rosh, a face made famous by a thousand songs. Ishma outshone her, despite being swollen with weight from the baby. Einin would be considered young and desirable if she stepped outside Ishma’s shadow, tallish with fashionably slim shoulders and a pleasant face, but the empress made most women look plain. Einin watched her struggle and wondered why no one wrote songs about childbirth. Where were the poets to chronicle the grunting, sweaty mess?

“Let me help.”

“It’s coming. Oh, make it stop.”

The empress climbed into her arms. Her fingernails dug into Einin’s shoulders, and her groans morphed into a growl. She no longer sounded human, panting like an animal. Ishma buried her face in Einin’s arms to muffle her cries.