Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

Eliana kicked and clawed at him, groped wildly for the door. She could hardly breathe; she was made of terror and nothing else, no blood, no lungs.

“I have her now,” Corien announced, breathless, shrill. “I have her, Rielle, and you can do nothing to save her!”

A shot rang out, and then another.

Eliana blinked and was released.

She fell to the floor, gasping. The impact jarred her knees. Her breaths tore ragged paths out of her throat. Her cheeks were hot and wet.

Jessamyn helped her rise. Behind her stood the others, wide-eyed. The first prisoner hid her face in Catilla’s arms, her cries pathetic and howling.

“I killed him,” Jessamyn said, gesturing at the two dead physicians behind her. “I killed them both.”

“The Emperor? Oh, God. Did you? Did you kill him?” Eliana sagged against Jessamyn, laughing through her tears. “Then I don’t have to. It’s done. It’s finished. Isn’t it finished?”

“No, Eliana.” Jessamyn frowned at her, clear-eyed and steady. “Not the Emperor. Nothing’s finished. We have to run.”

Nothing’s finished. Never had two words filled Eliana with more despair.

Shouts from down the corridor made the others turn. The prisoners cried out; one of them burst into tears.

“Can you fight?” Jessamyn snapped, shaking Eliana a little. “Or will I have to do this by myself?”

The cruelty in Jessamyn’s voice, the uncaring viciousness, tugged Eliana back to her body. Simon would have done the same. He would not have shown her a moment of compassion, not until the mission was complete.

She nodded, retrieving Arabeth and Nox from the floor. “I can fight. I will fight.”

Then she pushed past Jessamyn and the staring, huddled prisoners and led the way back into battle.

27

Ludivine

“Without fire or metal or raging waves,

Without shadows that mask or light that saves,

Without earth that shatters or wind that flies,

Still we burn, and still we rise.”

—The Revolution’s Prayer, attributed to Ziva Vitavna, considered the architect of the human revolution in Kirvaya

Something was wrong in the city of Genzhar, but Ludivine couldn’t determine what it was.

All she had been able to deduce was that something was happening in the far north, in the frozen mountain range called the Villmark, where few people lived, and the autumn nights were long and dark.

She knew there were missing children in the Kirvayan capital—elemental children, all of them—and that several people in the palace had allowed them to be abducted. Magisters. Royal advisers. Influential courtiers.

Last of all, she knew that angels were involved. She could sense their faint mental footprints, the dust of them like ash darkening her breath.

Beyond that, she knew nothing.

The scar from the blightblade was affecting her strength, her mind’s ability to focus. But this blindness went deeper than that. A veil had been drawn across her angelic sight, specifically engineered to muddy her connection to Rielle, to obstruct her view of the minds living in the capital, and Ludivine knew of only one being strong enough to fashion a barrier so thorough, so unmovable.

For the first time in years, she tried to speak to him herself.

In the dark of her room in the Obex temple, eyes closed, Ludivine steeled her resolve. She breathed in slowly through her nose and out through her mouth, ignoring the faint throb of her scarred arm, then opened her eyes.

I’m here, Corien. I’m willing to talk.

Silence answered her. She tried again.

What of the missing children? What have you done with them? Where have you taken them?

A thin curl of amusement coiled against her mind. She read the language of it at once, how droll and stupid he found it that she would ask him outright things she knew he wouldn’t answer.

He didn’t speak to her directly—she hadn’t imagined that he would—but she could nevertheless feel his disgust, the force of his hatred so immense that it pushed her from her bed to the floor, to her hands and knees. She trembled on the carpet, fighting with all her stolen human strength to keep her body upright, fighting with her angelic strength to keep Corien from carving open her mind and killing her.

Then he did speak, every word viciously articulated: At least I show Rielle what I really am, and what I really want. I don’t lie to her. Can you say the same?

After a moment that stretched on, relentless, until she had nearly blacked out, he disappeared.

And Ludivine collapsed onto the rug, tears rolling down her cheeks, because the relief of his absence was absolute, as euphoric as the moment she had escaped the Deep in his wake—and because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

She was a creature of lies, just as he was—and too much of a coward to admit it.

But she refused to waste the moment by thinking about the right or wrong of her actions. Instead, she savored the sensation of her aching chest, her tightened throat, the hot tears on her face, the taste of their salt on her lips.

She remembered—before the Deep, when she had still existed in her own, true body—how crying had often felt like a release. She remembered the pleasure of taking lovers, the satisfaction of food in her belly, the warm wash of sunlight upon her skin.

And now, how pale it all was. The unnatural crime of what she had done kept her from experiencing true sensation. From the moment she had taken this body—slipping inside it as Ludivine’s last breath had glided out—she had known she would never be happy inside it. Existing in a human body was a shadow of a life compared to what she had experienced before the Deep. The empirium had punished her for it, had punished Corien for it, and would continue punishing them for it as long as they were alive. They had lost their bodies in the Deep, and trying to remake them by taking others that did not belong to them was a misalignment, an evil beyond any measurable crime.

But where Corien would tear apart the world to seek revenge for this loss, Ludivine only wanted one thing—a simple thing, a small thing. She cared nothing for the wings she had lost, the centuries spent rotting in a void, even the fate of her kind.

After all, they were the ones who had done this. They had started the great ancient war, and that war had condemned them to the Deep.

But Ludivine was hardly more than a child, and had been even younger when the Gate was sealed shut. This war had never been hers to wage.

Her tears slowed, leaving her with a lump lodged between her collarbones. Her body felt hollow, stretched thin. She climbed to her feet, wiping her face, and dressed in her gown, her furs, her thick boots. She left the Obex temple for the long, snowy path that would take her to the city. a kicked and clawed at him, groped wildly for the door. She could hardly breathe; she was made of terror and nothing else, no blood, no lungs.

“I have her now,” Corien announced, breathless, shrill. “I have her, Rielle, and you can do nothing to save her!”

A shot rang out, and then another.

Eliana blinked and was released.

She fell to the floor, gasping. The impact jarred her knees. Her breaths tore ragged paths out of her throat. Her cheeks were hot and wet.

Jessamyn helped her rise. Behind her stood the others, wide-eyed. The first prisoner hid her face in Catilla’s arms, her cries pathetic and howling.

“I killed him,” Jessamyn said, gesturing at the two dead physicians behind her. “I killed them both.”

“The Emperor? Oh, God. Did you? Did you kill him?” Eliana sagged against Jessamyn, laughing through her tears. “Then I don’t have to. It’s done. It’s finished. Isn’t it finished?”

“No, Eliana.” Jessamyn frowned at her, clear-eyed and steady. “Not the Emperor. Nothing’s finished. We have to run.”

Nothing’s finished. Never had two words filled Eliana with more despair.

Shouts from down the corridor made the others turn. The prisoners cried out; one of them burst into tears.

“Can you fight?” Jessamyn snapped, shaking Eliana a little. “Or will I have to do this by myself?”

The cruelty in Jessamyn’s voice, the uncaring viciousness, tugged Eliana back to her body. Simon would have done the same. He would not have shown her a moment of compassion, not until the mission was complete.

She nodded, retrieving Arabeth and Nox from the floor. “I can fight. I will fight.”

Then she pushed past Jessamyn and the staring, huddled prisoners and led the way back into battle.

27

Ludivine

“Without fire or metal or raging waves,

Without shadows that mask or light that saves,

Without earth that shatters or wind that flies,

Still we burn, and still we rise.”

—The Revolution’s Prayer, attributed to Ziva Vitavna, considered the architect of the human revolution in Kirvaya

Something was wrong in the city of Genzhar, but Ludivine couldn’t determine what it was.

All she had been able to deduce was that something was happening in the far north, in the frozen mountain range called the Villmark, where few people lived, and the autumn nights were long and dark.

She knew there were missing children in the Kirvayan capital—elemental children, all of them—and that several people in the palace had allowed them to be abducted. Magisters. Royal advisers. Influential courtiers.

Last of all, she knew that angels were involved. She could sense their faint mental footprints, the dust of them like ash darkening her breath.

Beyond that, she knew nothing.

The scar from the blightblade was affecting her strength, her mind’s ability to focus. But this blindness went deeper than that. A veil had been drawn across her angelic sight, specifically engineered to muddy her connection to Rielle, to obstruct her view of the minds living in the capital, and Ludivine knew of only one being strong enough to fashion a barrier so thorough, so unmovable.

For the first time in years, she tried to speak to him herself.

In the dark of her room in the Obex temple, eyes closed, Ludivine steeled her resolve. She breathed in slowly through her nose and out through her mouth, ignoring the faint throb of her scarred arm, then opened her eyes.

I’m here, Corien. I’m willing to talk.

Silence answered her. She tried again.

What of the missing children? What have you done with them? Where have you taken them?

A thin curl of amusement coiled against her mind. She read the language of it at once, how droll and stupid he found it that she would ask him outright things she knew he wouldn’t answer.

He didn’t speak to her directly—she hadn’t imagined that he would—but she could nevertheless feel his disgust, the force of his hatred so immense that it pushed her from her bed to the floor, to her hands and knees. She trembled on the carpet, fighting with all her stolen human strength to keep her body upright, fighting with her angelic strength to keep Corien from carving open her mind and killing her.

Then he did speak, every word viciously articulated: At least I show Rielle what I really am, and what I really want. I don’t lie to her. Can you say the same?

After a moment that stretched on, relentless, until she had nearly blacked out, he disappeared.

And Ludivine collapsed onto the rug, tears rolling down her cheeks, because the relief of his absence was absolute, as euphoric as the moment she had escaped the Deep in his wake—and because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

She was a creature of lies, just as he was—and too much of a coward to admit it.

But she refused to waste the moment by thinking about the right or wrong of her actions. Instead, she savored the sensation of her aching chest, her tightened throat, the hot tears on her face, the taste of their salt on her lips.

She remembered—before the Deep, when she had still existed in her own, true body—how crying had often felt like a release. She remembered the pleasure of taking lovers, the satisfaction of food in her belly, the warm wash of sunlight upon her skin.

And now, how pale it all was. The unnatural crime of what she had done kept her from experiencing true sensation. From the moment she had taken this body—slipping inside it as Ludivine’s last breath had glided out—she had known she would never be happy inside it. Existing in a human body was a shadow of a life compared to what she had experienced before the Deep. The empirium had punished her for it, had punished Corien for it, and would continue punishing them for it as long as they were alive. They had lost their bodies in the Deep, and trying to remake them by taking others that did not belong to them was a misalignment, an evil beyond any measurable crime.

But where Corien would tear apart the world to seek revenge for this loss, Ludivine only wanted one thing—a simple thing, a small thing. She cared nothing for the wings she had lost, the centuries spent rotting in a void, even the fate of her kind.

After all, they were the ones who had done this. They had started the great ancient war, and that war had condemned them to the Deep.

But Ludivine was hardly more than a child, and had been even younger when the Gate was sealed shut. This war had never been hers to wage.

Her tears slowed, leaving her with a lump lodged between her collarbones. Her body felt hollow, stretched thin. She climbed to her feet, wiping her face, and dressed in her gown, her furs, her thick boots. She left the Obex temple for the long, snowy path that would take her to the city.