TODAY IS TOO LATE (8 page)

No.

The seraphim did this, unmanned him with Ishma’s beauty and those unnatural green eyes that bore into him. He had spent so many years trying to find another woman with green eyes like that, but Ishma was unique, the Face That Won a War, and the seraphim used her as a weapon. A thought struck him, and he peered closer at the blue presence. Did they assume her likeness to confuse him further?

“No.”

“Tyrus, you do this to yourself. You remember the way things were. Your power has a high price. The shedim debt will be paid in blood. Continue down this path, and you will truly be damned.”

An image formed in the grayness. A tower of red stone perched on a tall mountain overlooking creation. An immense view stretched out from the mountains, distant plains and forests. An old woman in red robes stood on the battlements.

“Ishma’s child must be taken to Dura Galamore of the Red Tower.”

“Treason. Will stop.”

His mind swam in mud. He knew he reacted too slowly, and that created a sense of dread. Panic threatened to overwhelm him when he needed to focus. Concentrating in a dream was harder than fighting with a sword. His attention kept slipping away. He shook his head.

“The child is already gone, Tyrus. Never to return. The child must be protected. For Ishma, Tyrus, protect the child for Ishma.”

“Gone?”

He had failed Azmon. Despair replaced his longing for the old days. He had devoted a lifetime to guarding the royal family and failed them when they needed him most.

“Free will, Tyrus; salvation is yours to earn. Azmon was tricked by the overlords of the Nine Hells, yet he continues to murder and conquer in their name. He has sealed his fate. This is your chance to renounce the demons, your only chance, or you choose to side with them for all eternity. Protect the child. Guide her out of the shedim lands. Only then may we help you.”

The voice faded away, and the grayness blackened, closed in on him. It felt cold, like dying, and unlike the thousands of times he had cheated death in battle, he had no opponent to fight. Hopelessness clenched his throat as he sunk into a black pool of goo. He flailed for purchase, gasped for air.
Not like this
. Let him face a stronger warrior. Let him die a natural death.

He did not want to drown in the dark.

Tyrus awoke with the word “Ishma” on his lips. A slick layer of sweat covered him. He reached for his sword, determined to protect her before he realized he was alone. His weapon, sheathed, leaned againt the cot, and he gripped the handle, ready to lash out at an attacker. His pulse, his breathing, it felt like he had been fighting, and he scanned the tent for danger. Quiet canvas walls stood there, peaceful. He blinked and fought a yawn. It felt so real, but details slipped away as he tried to remember the bizarre dream.

“Ishma?”

She should be near him, as though he needed to defend her—from something—but the images faded. A red tower, the Red Sorceress, a threat against the heir, he stood, sword in hand and no opponent to attack. He knew he looked foolish, but his instincts screamed danger.

A clamor of bells shattered the night.

He moved without thinking, heading for the tent door, sword raised, and the questions came. Who had raised the alarm? Some new resistance? A counterattack from Dura and her knights? Elmar and a few of his clerks found him before he left the tent.

“There is no attack, but something has happened to the empress.” Elmar held his men back. “I was the one who raised the alarm, milord.”

Tyrus gathered himself. Elmar was right to be fearful. Tyrus had hurt men before when he was excited and rushing around. His runes made pushing through a crowd a bone-breaking assault.

“Ishma?”

Tyrus stopped himself from saying more. The coincidence chilled him. He remembered more then: the angel’s blue glow, the heir in danger. Less than memories, and more like emotions, tinged with dread. He had failed the empress.

“The emperor summons you and the whole court.” Elmar gestured at his assistants, who bore the plate armor. “I don’t know anything else.”

Tyrus put on his costume again: a black-armored enforcer. A part of him wanted to sprint to the empress and avenge her but knew the bone lords would mock him for overreacting. He must be cold, distant, calculating. As the plates were fitted and buckled down they seemed to weigh more than usual. He had performed this role before, policing the nobles for the emperor, and suspected dark work needed to be done. The emperor would ask him to find whoever had hurt the empress and make them disappear, but before he made them talk. The suspicion triggered a dozen faces of other nobles who had schemed for the throne and found Tyrus’s knife instead.

The last of his armor in place, Tyrus took a deep breath and left his tent. Azmon needed his enforcer, and Tyrus must play the part.

Tyrus wore an ugly grimace as he marched to the throne room. He was not acting. The dream kept pulling his thoughts to Ishma, and he remembered a detail. The voice said she had betrayed the empire. Goosebumps ran down his arms. He might have to execute her.

Everyone scuttled away from him, opening doors and giving him a wide path, refusing to make eye contact. Something bad had happened. The bone lords he found, making their way to the summons, gave him wary glances. Azmon must be furious, which meant he would give Tyrus black deeds to do.

His officers saluted, and he nodded in return. They at least looked honest. Everyone else stank of fear, which Tyrus assumed was guilt. What had happened? He told himself that the sight of the Damned armed and angry intimidated them. Not everyone was guilty. He inspired dread, but that was his purpose: to enforce the emperor’s will.

That dream, that soft voice in his head—filling him with doubts and regrets and nostalgia—confused him. His enemies made weapons of his own memories. The dream reminded him of the old days, before the beasts and sorcery. The loss of the old empire left him hollow as though he had buried an old friend. Rosh darkened by degrees. The monsters were worse this year than they had been ten years ago, but he didn’t notice them as much, the incremental changes, until the day came when Tyrus bore a black name and inspired fear in people who should be allies.

He didn’t like the empire he had helped build.

Azmon sat on Lael’s throne. At first, the emperor seemed no different than on any other day. Tyrus saw a tightness in his eyes, a tension in his shoulders. He controlled himself well, but anger ate away at the man. Tyrus ignored the cluster of black robes, bone lords and ladies, standing in a semicircle around the royal dais. He marched forward and knelt.

“Your Excellency.”

“Empress Ishma has had her child, alone, it would seem, and without any of the royal physicians.” Azmon’s eyes glared at the bone lords. “One of her servants is missing. As is
my
heir.”

Tyrus swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. The dream had been real. The seraphim visited him and conspired against the emperor. Or the shedim schemed against him and Azmon. A bigger game loomed around him, and he had no idea what the rules were.

“Is the empress well?” Tyrus asked.

Azmon frowned. “She has lost blood and blacked out. The physicians are seeing to her.”

Tyrus waited.

“I know the Lord Marshal has more pressing concerns. Let Shinar burn. I want my child returned. Handpick your best men. This requires a delicate touch. I will be displeased if the girl finds her way into a beast’s stomach or if an accident should befall my family.”

Azmon’s eyes drifted over the court. Tyrus could read him well and wondered the same questions: Which of these nobles had helped the servant steal the child? How could an empress give birth in secret? Where would the conspirators strike next?

“I understand, Your Excellency. I will rescue the child.”

He and Azmon shared a private look, a shorthand from a lifetime of friendship, a widening of eyes and pursed lips to talk without breaking etiquette. The emperor’s face said,
Look at these fools. No one can help me
. Tyrus agreed with a grimace.

Lilith spoke. “Your Excellency, Tyrus is not the only one who can be delicate. No one can match my control over the beasts. Allow me to help find the heir.”

“You are delicate?” Azmon’s glare chilled the room. “Like the way you secured the great library? Do you know how many ancient scrolls, how many ancient runes, are lost forever because of your… gentle touch?”

Lilith paled. Tyrus stood to break the tension. Azmon was in a murderous mood, and Tyrus hoped Lilith did not press her luck a second time. He took no joy in the way she swallowed her pride and apologized to Azmon because Tyrus had no interest in hurting her. Their rivalry was simpler. She meddled with his army.

“Lord Marshal, I want to see my child before the sun sets again.”

“Then it shall be so.”

“Bring this servant to us. Alive is simpler. Dead is just as good.”

No one liked the sound of that. The court shifted and coughed. Azmon could do things to a corpse other than turn it into a monster.

Tyrus bowed. “As you wish.”

Tyrus pushed past the doorway to the empress’s rooms. Useless people filled the space. Unlike the bone lords, who all wore black robes and carried silver rods to represent rank, these were the parrots of the court covered in silks and satins and jewels. They were the family and wives of the bone lords. Most of the nonsensical banquets and rules of etiquette were designed by these people to fill their empty hours. The gaggle of noblewomen and physicians protested.

Tyrus held the door open. “Out.”

“The empress is ill.” A physician stepped forward. “I must insist that you leave, Lord Marshal.”

Tyrus straightened his back. He towered over the room, a full head taller than any of the nobles and twice as wide. The room stilled. He had met the physician many times and always failed to remember his name—a wordy man, scrawny and annoying. He lacked rank to command the Lord Marshal.

“Someone helped kidnap the heir of Rosh.” No one met his glare. “Out. Now. But you had better not leave the palace until I sort out what’s what.”

The ladies in waiting hopped forward and paraded through the door. The physicians, more hesitant, followed. The threat of treason motivated even learned men.

Alone, he pushed past the second door into the empress’s bedchamber. The number of bloody sheets stopped him, piled on the floor, sitting there with a small army of servants waiting outside the door. He knew it was late, but what was wrong with these people? He almost called the physician back to berate him. Ishma deserved better.

“I’m decent. Not that you bothered to ask.”

Her voice came from the four-post bed. Tyrus approached and pulled back a curtain. Candles on a nightstand cast shadows across her face, but her green eyes shimmered. She seemed pale, exhausted, an unnatural white made more prominent by thick black hair and dark lines under her eyes. Someone had dressed her and brushed her hair, but Tyrus caught the scent of old sweat and blood. She smelled like a farmhand.

He swallowed. He wore his costume, but she did not wear hers. The Empress of Rosh stunned people when she walked into a room. Her beauty commanded an awe that rivaled his ability to inspire fear, and he felt out of place seeing her in bed. The thought of those physicians poking and prodding her after her ordeal angered him enough to grind his teeth. Why had no one drawn her a bath? Why was there no food?

He asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Her smile brought life into a weary face. “Will the Lord Marshal wait on me?”

“If you need me, empress.”

“I need sleep. I’m exhausted, and no one will leave me alone.” She rubbed her eyes. “One of those idiots wants to use leeches on me, and I’m tired of arguing with him.”

“Give me his name.”

“I don’t think so. He means well for a stubborn old fool.”

“As you wish.”

The dream returned to him, a voice, ethereal, whispering to him that she committed treason. He didn’t want to believe it, but the room made no sense. She gave birth without anyone knowing? She must have bribed the physicians.