TODAY IS TOO LATE (9 page)

“What happened?”

She seemed confused. “The labor happened so fast, much faster than I thought. And I blacked out.”

“You didn’t call for help?”

“I did. Einin came.”

“No one else?”

“There was no time.”

“Is that normal? I thought it took longer.”

“I don’t know how long it took. Things happened too fast.”

She told a story about Einin trying to help her, the pain being too much for her to walk, how she struggled to sit in her bed. Tyrus felt himself blushing when she described them fighting with her nightgown and the bedsheets. He coughed. She grew quiet.

The story sounded too simple. Babies don’t pop out. He had never seen a birth but had heard enough stories of men waiting hours for their sons to be born. To say that meant accusing her of lying. Again, a memory of that voice—Ishma sent the child to Dura—that he refused to believe. If she had committed treason, he would have to hurt her, and he could never do that.

“And when you woke, she was gone?”

Ishma nodded. She had sad eyes. No tears. No hysterics. If Tyrus was a new father and his child was stolen, he would be furious, raving. Ishma seemed wary.

“I apologize, empress, but Azmon is upset.”

“I imagine so.”

“You seem… less upset.”

“You will rescue her. She won’t make it far.”

Not the response he wanted to hear. Tyrus pushed down an uneasy feeling. Maybe she was not fully recovered, light-headed, or they had given her something for the pain. He found himself inventing excuses for Ishma when he should be interrogating her.

“It’s a girl?”

“Yes, Princess Marah Pathros of Rosh. She has white hair.”

“She has hair?”

“A little hair. Like a halo.”

Tyrus looked around the room, searching for evidence, clues to act on. All he saw was a bedchamber. The mundane banter felt wrong. His instincts screamed at him, and he kept thinking about the dream. She might have done this thing alone. He doubted if the other servants knew anything.

“Tell me of Einin.”

The empress told a boring story, nothing special in her history other than she was a cousin of Ishma’s and from Narbor. Besides that, a minor family with a thin link to the Narboran crown, the seventh child of nine, positioned with the empress through her father’s connections with the Imperial Guard. They had no endgame he could imagine for kidnapping the heir.

“Tyrus, Einin will not harm the baby.”

“She has a newborn on a horse, in the middle of the night. What if the horse stumbles?”

“Marah will be safe.”

As she turned from him, he caught her biting her lip. She knew the child was on a horse, a lucky guess. Ishma should have asked if the palace had been searched or any of a dozen questions. She acted guilty. The dream was true. Tyrus stood straighter; cold adrenaline crept down his spine. He had an awful sensation, as if the ground gave way beneath him. How had one lady snuck a newborn past his guards? It was unthinkable.

“Ishma, what have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“You need to practice that lie. It will not fool Azmon.”

“How dare you?”

“I have no time for games. Where did Einin take the heir?”

“I don’t know.”

“By choice, right? Can’t confess things you don’t know.”

Ishma glared, and he had to admit those brilliant green eyes tore at him. The Face That Won a War, one of the few weapons that he dreaded, unmanning him. How many years had he wasted trying to find another woman with black hair and green eyes like these? In his youth, he had thought they were unique to Narbor and had scoured that kingdom for them only to find that
Ishma
was unique.

“Your reasons are your own,” Tyrus said. “I will tell no one and do what I can to protect you, but that’s only possible if I rescue the heir.”

He couldn’t say the rest—nothing but ugly consequences if the heir was harmed. Azmon would be furious, and he was the worst enemy a person could imagine. A wretched thought: if Azmon sentenced Ishma to death, Tyrus would bear witness to the execution and raise his gauntlet for the axman.

“I used to trust you, when you were my guardian,” Ishma said, “but I don’t recognize you anymore. All runes and scars.”

She offered pity, and that infuriated him. He fought his face to keep it calm. He was still her guardian, and still valued her life above his own.

“How many runes has he etched into you? In this light, your eyes look like a hound’s. You are one of his creatures now. Where is my champion? What happened to Tyrus of Kelnor? You haven’t aged a day, and yet you look worn out.”

“It has been a long war, Ishma. Multiple wars. Too many damned wars.”

No one had called him Tyrus of Kelnor in years. How many in the new empire knew that name? Her eyes watered, leaving him cold, filled with duty. He must save the heir and keep the stink of this crime off the empress, an impossible task. He knew the future—people would die, Roshan and Narboran nobles. The names didn’t matter. Bloody examples had to be made of the conspirators, whoever they were, and somehow he must protect Ishma from it all.

She said, “I never wanted any of this.”

“I am still your guardian. I will protect your daughter.”

“You’d kill her if Azmon asked you to.”

“You think I could do that to a baby?”

“Look at what we’ve become. We use those—abominations—to destroy paradise. My own people want to murder me. The whole world wants us dead. Tyrus, don’t you miss the old days, before the beasts?”

Tyrus turned to leave because her words hurt. He had helped build a monstrous empire and done terrible things for Azmon. To see the loss in Ishma’s eyes was too much to bear, but there were better ways to stage a rebellion. This felt clumsy, foolish, words that had never been used to describe Ishma. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed but hesitated before trying to stand.

He found himself beside her, offering an arm, and her eyes gave him a grateful look as though they had not talked treason. She stood and leaned into his armored chest. He was a head taller than her, and her arms reached up and around his shoulders. The hug spoke to their long friendship, her warmth kept at a distance by his armor.

“Ishma, this is not proper.”

“I know.”

“If anyone should see you being so informal…”

“Even you fear him?”

“No, but I fear for you.” Tyrus waited for her to let go, but she didn’t. “You will anger Azmon.”

Her hand found his cheek, brushing the stubble with her soft hand. He closed his eyes. If she smelled better, he might enjoy this moment. As with so many things, reality did not compare to his dreams.

Ishma said, “He stopped being Azmon a long time ago. The runes turned him into something new. You feel it, don’t you? The way everything has changed?”

“We did what we had to do to save Rosh.”

“I don’t believe that. The dark arts corrupted him. He stopped being the Prince of the Dawn a long time ago.”

“There are better ways to rebel. You should have left before the birth. You might have gone into hiding—”

“His people are always watching. And I deserve him. I gave him Narbor. My own people would hang me if I returned without the army.” Her voice softened. “There was nowhere to go.”

He heard a sob and hadn’t realized she was crying. He removed a gauntlet and tried to rub her back without crushing her into his armor. With no idea what to say or do, he just stood there. He could charge a dozen men, but Ishma spoke to him like a soothsayer, and he froze.

“Haven’t you ever dreamed of running away from all of this?” she asked. “We could become normal people, travel the world without an army at our back.”

Tyrus let himself imagine such a thing, a farmstead in the mountains with kids and animals, but he knew nothing about farming. Not once in his life had he nurtured anything. The Damned destroyed things.

“Do you remember Fardur Pass?” she asked.

“Of course.”

After Narbor and Rosh negotiated the terms for the marriage, Tyrus had been sent to Narbor as a gift and escort for Ishma. He was a different man then: fewer runes, younger, but a famed champion. Rosh had been different as well, smaller. Hurrians attacked their caravan, and Tyrus managed to escape the ambush with Ishma. They spent weeks running and fighting through the Kabor Mountains. When they arrived in Rosh, Tyrus had so many wounds that he was near dead and Ishma was so filthy that she looked like an animal.

Ishma said, “I think about it all the time. What if we had taken a turn and never went to Rosh? What if—”

“The Hurrians would have run us down.”

“We could have escaped. I know it. With time to heal, you could have done anything.”

They never spoke like this. Red flags, warnings, she seemed suicidal. What had happened to her? These thoughts should never be voiced. Guardians often became close to their wards, but the feelings were forbidden. His duty to her reputation was as important as her life. He checked the closed door, more concerned for her safety than his.

“I won’t steal my friend’s wife.”

“Is that the line?”

He had become a parody of his former self. Tyrus of Kelnor had become the Damned and then the Butcher of Rosh. They could invent whatever epithets they wanted, but he was a loyal friend. Azmon had given him everything, both his rank and the trust to protect his family, and Tyrus would not betray that trust. The Butcher of Rosh still followed a few rules.

“Look at what he did with your loyalty. Look at his new empire.” She pulled back, clear-eyed. “You made oaths once, to serve me as you serve my husband.”

The change in her demeanor, the calculating voice and probing eyes, Tyrus stood straighter. His shoulders tensed as though he were about to fight. Had everything been an act? Was she deliberately trying to confuse him? He fought his temper, refusing to let her win an argument by working up his rage. She wasn’t always so hard. Twenty years ago, she was soft, naïve, but Rosh had changed her the same way it had changed him. When had she become the cold, calculating royal? He never should have brought her to Azmon. Better if Rosh had sacked Narbor.

“I am your faithful servant, empress.”

She flinched when he bowed. If they discussed oaths and service, then things should be formal. The rules gave him time to think, clear his head.

“And if I ordered you not to chase the girl?”

“I must chase her. I have my duty.”

“To my husband.”

“To your daughter.”

An awkward silence followed. He grew wary of her eyes; they could command without words, so he studied the room instead. What else could they say? Best leave before she confused him more.

“Tyrus, give the girl mercy.”

“Mercy?”

“When you see her, you will know what to do.” She bit her lip. “I will understand.”

“You tempt damnation.”

“I’m like my husband. I no longer care.”

“You’re wrong. He fears it. You haven’t seen the Underworld. You haven’t met the shedim.” Tyrus’s voice drifted away as he tried to forget the demons. “They are nightmares given flesh.”

“Then turn on them before it is too late.”

They had served the fiends for years before Tyrus knew their true nature. They gave Azmon power to defend Rosh and later conquer the world. No one would believe Tyrus—he had trouble believing it himself—but demons came in pleasing forms until they set their hooks in your flesh. They seduced you. Displease them, fail them, and the nightmares showed their true nature.

“Ishma, some sins can’t be undone.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Do you know what Azmon will do to get his child back? Do you know what he is capable of?”

“I share the man’s bed. I know him well.”

“If that were true, you would never have given the heir to Einin. That poor girl’s blood is on your hands.”

She recoiled at his words, so he stopped talking, but he wanted to say more. They let him swing the sword, but these pathetic games among the nobles condemned many to die. She sat on the bed, held her face, and tremors shook her shoulders. The emotion seemed more genuine than before.

Outside Ishma’s quarters, one of the physicians leaned against a wall. The man’s gray hair was as unbrushed as his bushy eyebrows. He fidgeted when Tyrus joined him.

“My Lord Marshal, may I see to the empress now?”

Tyrus wondered if he was the old fool with the leeches. He was torn between letting Ishma rest and letting the man care for her.

“Just a moment,” Tyrus said. “Is it possible for a child to be born this fast, with no one hearing?”

The man watched the door to Ishma’s chambers. “I do not wish to contradict the empress.”

“Is it possible, yes or no?”

“If it was her fifth or sixth child, maybe. For the first time? I’ve never seen it.”

Tyrus knew it, and Azmon would know it as well. Her story didn’t sound good. Ishma had made several poor gambles. She was either desperate or tired of living, and he hoped she did not want to die. How could he protect someone who no longer cared about her own life?

“I believe the empress,” Tyrus said. “It is important that the court also believes the empress.”

“I do not understand.”