TODAY IS TOO LATE (34 page)

“What are you doing?” Klay asked.

“I won’t wear armor against a bare-chested man. Fair is fair.”

The audience grew louder, changing bets.

Klay whispered, “I’ve seen him practicing. He is a blade master.”

Tyrus ignored that. He counted runes as Lior shed armor, ten, and he knew them well: the boar, the bear, repeated a few times, runes of strength and endurance. The knights preferred brawn to speed, a common weakness in heavy infantry, hiding behind armor. Without armor, the prince would fight faster, but he lacked the runes to be deadly. Tyrus could kill him, fulfilling everyone’s expectations for the Butcher of Rosh. He had to do something else.

Knights approached each corner, bearing long swords. Lior swung his blade, loosened his shoulders. Klay inspected Tyrus’s blade, tapping it on the stone, and offered it hilt first to Tyrus. The warrior in him couldn’t resist the dwarven smith work. The weight of the sword, the straightness of its lines, minimalist detailing in the hilt and pommel, the weapon was a work of beauty. Too many nobles preferred gaudy blades covered in gems, but dwarves knew their craft. The plainness spoke to its utility, and simple runes strengthened the steel.

Lior and Tyrus stepped into the center of the square. Talking fell away. Everyone waited. Lior desired bloodshed—grinning as he twirled his sword—and that offended Tyrus. Killing should be a necessity, not a longing. Lior was large, but Tyrus stood taller and was much thicker in the shoulders and arms. The prince’s scar-free skin suggested innocence.

“For Shinar!”

Tyrus dodged multiple attacks, sidestepping, ducking, backpedaling. He worked the floor, kept Lior near the center, and did not allow himself to be boxed in a corner. The minute he drew blood, the Gadarans would hate him. Avoiding Lior was simple. Tyrus was at full strength and much faster.

Lior pulled back with a frustrated frown.

Tyrus waited for another strike. Did Lior sense the hopelessness? Because Tyrus did. He saw no way to win. What should he do? A glance at Dura showed that she glared, but not as hard. Tyrus had to defeat the princeling without hurting him, and not following his instincts wasn’t much of a plan.

Lior attacked again, faster and far more reckless. Tyrus passed a dozen chances to kill him. He fought down years of training, every fiber of his being, instincts screaming for blood. The prince did a ridiculous spin that Tyrus could not ignore. The minute his back turned, Tyrus jumped forward, shoved him, and sent him flying into the floor.

“Stay down, your highness.”

“Fight me, damn you.”

“You should not have insisted on this duel.”

“Coward. Fight.”

Tyrus granted his wish. For the first time, steel rang together. Tyrus did not press an attack but thwarted every jab and thrust. He looked like a man teaching a child. Lior became more incensed, and as his anger grew, his form became so sloppy that it begged for blood, but Tyrus resisted. The audience whispered their doubts. The prince could not win.

Lior lunged. Tyrus sidestepped away and behind, seizing the prince. They tangled, and Lior tried to grapple, but he lacked the bulk to be effective. Tyrus had him in a bear hug, one hand clamping his sword arm, fingers digging into the forearm until Lior cried out and his blade rattled to the floor. Lior snarled and kicked and threw his head back, attempting a reverse head-butt. Tyrus smelled the sweat in the man’s hair, felt his body heat wash over him, and registered the pain of his attacks. Pleasant little bruises compared to falling from the sky. Tyrus lifted him, squeezed to make a point—his runes were real, capable of crushing the man’s ribs with little effort—and Lior gasped. He kicked less. Tyrus threw him down. The floor clacked. Lior bounced.

“Stay down. You don’t have enough runes.”

The prince wheezed, punched the floor, and no one stopped the duel. Tyrus waited for another attack. In Rosh, this humiliation would shame them both. Tyrus might save face by offering a clean death, but he saw no way to do that without becoming the Butcher. Lior surged forward empty-handed. He punched and kicked and screamed, and Tyrus took the abuse like a wall of stone. He grew tired, caught a fist, pivoted, and threw him to the ground.

A slight twist of the wrist and the arm would snap, and Tyrus decided against that too. He shamed them both, but ignoring his instincts was his only plan.

“He is a Rune Blade,” Lahar said. “He uses sorcery against my brother.”

“I have more runes.”

“More Roshan lies. Those cannot be real. Dura, you must stop his spells.”

“There are no spells, prince.”

“He ignores the rules. The duel should be steel on steel.”

“It is,” Dura said. “He fights without sorcery.”

King Samos said, “Lord Nemuel, is he a Rune Blade?”

The elven leader spoke. “There is no sorcery here, your majesty, other than the spells etched into his flesh.”

“Impossible,” Lahar said. “Not even Father could endure so many.”

“He is not a Rune Blade,” Nemuel said. “We let him pass through Paltiel because his story is true. He guards the Reborn for Archangel Ithuriel.”

“Our priests would have told us.”

“I tried to persuade King Lael against his plan.” Nemuel bowed before King Samos. “I told him he underestimated the Roshan, but he refused to listen and fought them on the plains. The Shinari hear what they want to hear.”

“Thank you, Lord Nemuel.”

Lior asked, “What is going on?”

King Samos said, “The matter is settled, prince.”

“We are both alive; nothing is settled.”

“He granted you a duel, not a trial.”

“Then I demand a trial.”

“You had your chance.”

“Milord—”

“Silence.”

The room grew uncomfortably quiet, and Tyrus waited for the rest of it. They would overpower him and take his head. He could not fight his way out. Such a stupid way to die. He considered going down fighting, but that would probably hurt him. His best bet was to take his punishment and hope the seraphim protected him in the next life. Before the sun set, he might be back in the Nine Hells. The memory of Mulciber’s face gave him shudders.

“What will I do with him?” King Samos asked the crowd. “The Butcher doesn’t want to fight.”

Nobles chuckled politely.

“Kill him,” Lahar said. “Execute him and be done with it.”

“Your majesty,” the priestess, Bedelia, said, “he is an unholy abomination and should be destroyed.”

The king glanced at Dura.

She said, “Those runes are priceless, sire.”

“I hate the word—priceless,” Samos said. “Everything has a price. Everything is negotiable. People say dwarven steel is priceless and yet I buy it. No. Give me a price.”

“Take the yield of your mines for a year, and multiply by ten.”

Dura glanced at Tyrus. She had the right idea. If he could buy their hearts, he would too. This was the help Ramiel promised him—an invisible hand that brought about a sense of awe because the shedim were never so subtle. He watched greed chip away at the king.

“Why not study the runes after he is dead? Seems safer.”

Dura said, “He can tell me in what order they were etched. He can tell me which runes Azmon learned last, the hardest runes. He might know where Azmon found them. Such knowledge could save many lives, if we tried to use those runes.”

“Ten years… ah, but who would we sell these secrets to?”

“Why, you, your majesty.”

“Me?”

“Imagine if your soldiers with one rune had ten. Think of the army you would field against Azmon when he brings his monsters to your walls. You would be ten times as strong at a fraction of the price.”

Worried faces spread across the nobles. Tyrus had seen this before, the way runes upset the natural order, changed the power structure. It had been the same in Rosh, contributing to the civil war as much as the beasts. A commoner, like him, should have never risen to second in command, but runes made it possible. People born to power did not surrender their titles to more capable commoners, not without a fight.

Samos asked, “Can you control him?”

“Of course,” Dura said. “He knows no sorcery. But his secrets are worth the risk. My tower is more secure than your dungeons. If I cannot control him, I will destroy him.”

Lahar asked, “Is this what passes for Gadaran honor? He sacked Shinar, and you haggle over runes? What is wrong with you people?”

Samos sat up, stern eyes betraying his attempts at humor. He ruled this room, and a glance at the sheepish nobles told Tyrus everyone knew it. Such a strange people, chaotic one moment, subservient the next, he couldn’t explain it. Maybe King Samos had a nasty temper.

“Your brother had his chance, and I grow tired of lectures.”

Lior said, “I demand his head.”

“I offered it. You lacked the skill to take it.” He turned to Dura. “I put him in your custody for now, but I expect a return on this investment.”

“But he won nothing,” Lior said. “We are both alive.”

“This farce is over.”

“Your majesty—”

“Be thankful the Butcher felt merciful. I grant him a stay of execution and give him to Dura for study.”

Tyrus swallowed. He bowed his head and tried to understand what had happened. If he had listened to any of his instincts, Lior would be a corpse, and Tyrus would be right behind him. Ramiel saved his life or at least gave him the tools to save himself. The seraphim had far more trust than the shedim.

The tension in the room changed. Tyrus heard wood tapping stone. Dura walked to him, leaned on her staff, and gestured for him to kneel. He did, and no one looked happy.

“Do you swear fealty to me?” Dura asked.

“Will you protect Marah?” Tyrus asked.

“I will keep her safe.”

The Third War of Creation began. Azmon would assault Mount Teles and begin the Last Seven Battles. The seraphim and shedim would war across creation, and everyone would die. The odds of Marah growing old enough to understand her fate were small. Ishma was probably dead already. What did any of it matter? A part of him, old and well conditioned, wanted to protect his ward, whatever the odds.

Tyrus lowered his head. “I shall serve you in all things, my master.”

Lior said, “Your majesty?”

Lahar said, “You said
prisoner
, your majesty.”

Samos said, “Dura—?”

“This will be easier,” Dura said, “if I don’t have to fight him.”

“But you cannot trust him.”

“Then I’ll destroy him,” Dura said. “Tyrus, do you pledge allegiance to the seraphim and accept Ithuriel as your lord and protector? Do you beg him to forgive your sins?”

“My sins are beyond forgiveness.”

“Do you beg Ithuriel to forgive them?”

Such a meaningless gesture. “I do.”

“Then I accept your oath.”

Tyrus heard the power shift in the room, shuffling feet, hands grasping weapons, and bitter mutters. Angry glares from King Samos to Dura followed. The knights seemed shocked. The current, a mob forming, a storm gathering strength, belonged to the Gadarans. Tyrus understood: first his runes, and then his sword. No one wanted a sorceress with more power.

Tyrus followed Dura and Klay out the door. The angry crowd behind their backs became more vocal. The noise grew louder as they approached the door, and before they left, there was an uproar. Tyrus could not imagine the bone lords objecting to Azmon with such openness. The politics, unknown families, and power plays between Dura and the priests confused him. He now trusted strangers. His foreignness felt flawed, an ignorance he was unaccustomed to.

“Keep moving,” Dura said.

Klay and Tyrus flanked her. They left the hall, pausing to close the doors behind them—angry fists pumped the air, and fingers jabbed at them. Dura guided them through a series of stairwells, up and up through Ironwall.

“Where are we going?” Tyrus asked.

“To my tower.”

“Where are Marah and Einin?”

“My tower. Come.”

“Will the king change his mind?”

“You are lucky he is a merchant first and a believer second.”

As they mounted the narrow staircases, Tyrus checked over his shoulder. His shoulders barely fit in the cramped space, and he saw nothing, but he couldn’t stop looking. No noise. No one pursued them, at least he didn’t think so. The knights demanded that spectacle and let him walk? How did these people get anything done?

“Why don’t the seraphim command them?”

“Because they have a history of not listening.”

“The shedim don’t tolerate disobedience. Those brothers would be strung up for such a display. Stabbing a prisoner in front of a king?”

“Yet another reason the shedim will fail. They would waste those boys before they become men. I knew their father at that age, and those boys have more potential. They could be great.”

A bright beam of sunlight washed the stairs in gold. Wind howled. They passed the doorway onto a stone rampart at the top of the world. Tyrus inhaled brisk air, took in the openness of the mountain range, the entire horizon spreading out before him. Compared to his cell, it felt too big, and the freedom tightened his chest. The space was too open, too much of a shock. He reached out to steady himself and found nothing. The rampart was yards away.

He found himself reliving the battle with Lilith. The way the wind tore at his hair brought back terrible memorie of falling from the sky. He closed his eyes, knew he was safe, but feared if he opened them he’d see a treebranch racing towards his face. He smelled leaves and sap. The ground seemed to shift under him.

Klay asked him, “Feels lighter, doesn’t it?”

Tyrus clutched at the door and dared open his eyes. “What?”

“Compared to all the stone overhead. Feels safer, like we won’t be buried alive.” Klay pointed at a parallel mountain range miles away on the horizon. “This is the top of Gadara, and that, way over there, is Teles.”

Seeing the distance made Tyrus aware of the gaps in his memory. He remembered little of the trip and noted that brown mountains, smaller peaks, surrounded them on all sides. Dura’s tower of red stone was the tallest point in the Gadaran range, and a large structure like a lighthouse for an ocean of rock. Tyrus pitied whoever built it; they had carried red stone up a mountain and done masonry on what looked like a sheer drop. Only a sorceress would fortify a place no one wanted.

Tyrus kept the tower door in his field of sight and blocked out the sky and wind. He staggered from the doorway. The height of the mountain range bothered him in ways that heights had never done before, but if he watched the pathway and the door he could function.

He asked, “This is your home?”

“I was born in Ironwall.” Dura wrapped her red robes around herself, seeking comfort from the wind. “Before I went to Sornum to teach Azmon. When I was young, I fancied myself a protector of the realm. I watched over the Paltiel Woods and the Norsil Plains.” Dura rubbed her shoulders. “I was a fool. These stairs will be the death of me.”

Tyrus remembered the Red Towers on Sornum, hubs of sorcery that the priests and temples of other nations hated. He tried to understand the knights and priests in the courtroom and their relationships with Dura, but he didn’t know enough about this new land.

He asked, “The king allows heretics in Gadara?”

“There is little love between the temple and the crown,” Dura said, “and less among the clans on the steppes. Few understand the differences between our runes and theirs, and King Samos doesn’t care. He prefers results, and so do the seraphim.”

“The priests say sorcery is the path of the shedim.”

“It has always been a danger. Our order has guarded against it for centuries because we work closer to the Nine Hells than the priests.”

Tyrus appraised the doors—sturdy but not built for a real assault. They were on the ground, like a residence, instead of off the ground and accessible by ladder. Knights could fight their way into the tower with ease.

“Is Marah truly safe here?”

Dura chuckled. “The priests have many knights, but I have as many mercenaries. They won’t risk a feud with Azmon marching on Teles.”

Tyrus dared to look at the horizon again, and felt a wave of dizziness. He studied Mount Teles, a snowcapped peak standing above greenish-blue mountains, poking through the clouds, and somewhere at its crown stood the White Gate. Behind that mountain, the Roshan army prepared to invade Paltiel. Hundreds of bone beasts would empty from Shinar and push toward the mountain. He closed his eyes and imagined the Imperial Guard, rank after rank of spearmen, swordsmen, and archers marching while black flyers drifted overhead. Azmon would lead hordes of bone beasts through the White Gate, if he could, and help the shedim assault the Seven Heavens.

“I know how to kill you,” Dura said. “I’m not one of Azmon’s students, trained with cheap tricks. Most of his bone lords are sorcerers in name only. I actually know how to use the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.”

“I understand.”

“You take your oath seriously?”

“I do, but does it matter? It is too late to fight back. Azmon has conquered half of Argoria and no one has the strength to stop him.”

Dura said, “It is never too late to fight back.”

“But Mulciber is free.”

“We might not win, but that doesn’t mean we give up.” Dura patted his arm. “Maybe in time, we will trust each other. Meanwhile, we hold up here, and after the nobles calm down, we’ll prepare them for the beasts. Come. I’ll reintroduce you to the little one.”

Toward the top of the Red Tower, Einin sat in a rocking chair, cradling Marah. The chair was old but sturdy and creaked whenever she leaned too far back. She rocked herself more than the baby, who slept an hour at a time, ate, and cried often. Einin could not be certain but believed nightmares disturbed her sleep. Weariness dragged down Einin’s shoulders. She craved a moment alone to sleep and dream, but Marah required constant attention, and Einin could not remember the last time she did something for herself.

The enormity of her promise to Ishma unfolded. A few months ago, her biggest concerns were gowns and feasts and helping the empress manipulate the noble houses of Rosh, and now she was a surrogate mother to a crippled child that powerful people wanted to kill. Einin felt older, as though she had packed a decade into a couple of months. Motherhood loomed before her, years of helping a blind child navigate a dangerous world.

Howling wind tore at the tower. Einin sat near a window with a view of the plains, watching miles of brown hills before the green expanse of Paltiel and the distant mountains. If Marah did not keep her awake, the plains would. Soon the armies of Rosh would darken them, and men in black armor and beasts would come to kill them both. Einin could not pass a window without checking for monsters. Like the end of summer, they were coming.

Marah cooed and raised her hand. Einin tensed, but the child slept. Einin caressed her face, so pale, white as old bone with wisps of hair like brittle straw. The elves said nothing could be done for her. She was nearly blind and an albino. Marah twitched—flinched—raised her hand again. Her eyes rolled in their lids. More nightmares, but what would frighten a newborn? Einin held her tightly and rocked them both.

Dura’s staff rapped against the stairs. Despite all the ghost stories of the Red Sorceress burning Rosh to the ground, the reality was far more mundane: Dura acted like a great-grandmother who had never lost her wits. She seemed trustworthy. Strange for Rosh’s greatest enemy to protect the heir, but maybe Ishma had had real visions of the seraphim. Einin had done her part, delivered Marah to the Red Tower and found safety, either a grand coincidence or evidence of the divine. Little made sense to her anymore.

A brief knock at the door. Dura entered, and a dark shadow followed. Behind her stood a hulking and scarred figure, the ghost of the Damned, and her first thought was that the emperor had found her. Einin clutched Marah to her chest.

“Look out.”

Dura paused. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m tired. I’m sorry.” Einin’s face warmed. “She never lets me sleep.”

Einin had held Marah too hard. She fussed, and her little face twisted in anger, preparing to unleash a furious wail. Einin flinched. She always built to it in waves, and the child kept inhaling deeper and deeper.

Dura said, “Let me have her.”

Tyrus stayed near the door, but his eyes drifted over the room, a flash of gold in them, the beast hiding in plain sight. All Einin could think about was the inhuman way he had butchered a dozen of his own men, taken horrible wounds, and walked away from it. By all rights, he should be dead, but he was another of the emperor’s monsters and far more dangerous because he could think and talk and blend in with real people. He had saved Einin and Marah, for which she was grateful, but she wondered why the Gadarans had spared him.

Klay pushed through the door. With a grin, he produced an orange from his cloak. The fruit was a delicacy in both Rosh and Ironwall. Klay stole them from the kitchens.

“You look awful,” Klay said.

“Thanks.”

“I mean, you need to sleep.”

She took the orange and leaned into him, something she would never do in Rosh. He offered an awkward hug. No lady could be so informal with a soldier, but the Gadarans hated her, and she never left the tower. Dura and Klay were her only friends. It felt good to smell a man after a day dealing with Marah’s soiled wrappings.

“You should get some rest. Let me watch her for a little bit.”

“No.” She only trusted Dura with the child.

“Bear cubs are more work, you know. They have teeth and claws. I’m sure she’ll be fine for a nap.”

“Not now, but thank you.”

As she spoke, she drew away from Klay. Tyrus loomed over the room although he had not moved from the door. An imposing presence, and his face, cold as stone, was impossible to read. The flicker of gold light in the eyes unnerved her. She waited for him to say something, but he stayed quiet. Did he disapprove of her familiarity with Klay?

“What do you want?”

Tyrus said, “To protect Marah.”

“Why?”

“For Ishma.”

Einin glanced at Dura, but the old woman was playing with Marah, making silly faces and tickling the baby’s chin. Einin would not complain. Anything keeping the baby happy was a blessing. Did Dura trust Tyrus, though? He might turn against a few hired swords, but what would he do when Azmon and the shedim pounded on the gates? The Damned had a long history with the Prince of the Dawn. At the thought of monsters, she returned to the window. The plains were empty. She searched several times and found empty skies with no dark armies. They were safe—for now.

Tyrus studied his surroundings. The building was a tower in name only. What should have been layers of stone and gravel was actually rooms and storage. Dura had disguised a house as a tower. She led them upstairs and into a small room where Tyrus caught an old smell, one he struggled to place: a child’s blankets.

Einin seemed upset to see him, but what more could he do for her? Another battle for goodwill, he guessed, and not the kind of fighting he preferred. If you held a blade to someone’s throat, their hearts and minds followed, but that only worked on battlefields. He realized he had become domestic. Not since the early days of Azmon and Ishma’s marriage had he worried about protecting a household.

The princess had found a strange adoptive family. Dura entertained Marah while Einin and Klay whispered to each other. Tyrus heard every word but nothing important. Einin struggled to learn Klay’s language, and Klay offered comfort in a strange land. Einin hugged him. When had they become so close, whispering like conspirators? Tyrus felt no jealousy other than shame that Klay had won her trust so easily. He had known Einin longer, and she dreaded him.

Marah interested him more, appearing paler than he remembered, more than pale; she was bone white with milky cataracts. Even her hair, little tufts of feathery down, shone stark white. A blind Reborn, what did that mean? He had never known a cripple to live long. Not only must he protect her from Rosh, but he needed to protect her from herself. Dura clucked as she rocked the child. Marah’s cries calmed. Einin looked relieved and collapsed into the rocking chair.