Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

Simon was nowhere to be found.

• • •

Eliana twisted her wrists against their bindings, though not to free herself, for she had determined that to be a futile task. Even if she escaped her chains, even if she somehow made it past the guards standing sentry outside her door, what then? What would she do? Dive into the middle of the sea and swim to safety, dragging Remy along behind her through the waves?

Once, not so long ago, she could have concentrated on the twin metal cages of her castings and used their solidity, the smooth anchors of the discs in her palms, to draw fire from the gas lamps lining the hallways and urge them into great bursts, scorching anyone who tried to stand against her.

But now, she could not find even a scrap of will to attempt summoning her power. Without her castings, she was a shell, scraped free of its meat and tossed into the waves. Reaching for the empirium would result only in bitter disappointment. She sensed it as surely as she smelled the tang of her own blood in the air, leaking from the wounds on her wrists.

There was an absence in her now—a great impassable void between the power lying in wait within her and the capacity of her mind to do anything more than stare blankly at the wall as Admiral Ravikant’s ship bore her ever onward across the Great Ocean, toward the eastern continent.

Toward Celdaria.

Toward the Emperor.

The chafing of her wrists’ tender flesh against the unyielding metal chains provided her with a perverse comfort there in the endless dark. A constant burning pain that reminded her where she was, that she was a prisoner, that her castings had been wrested from her. That one of her fathers was dead, his body long ago turned to ashes by his own lover’s will; that her other father was also dead, his corpse overtaken by an angel for ill use.

That one of her mothers was dead, too, by her own hand.

And the other…

The moments when she thought of Rielle were the moments in which Eliana strained against her chains with a fevered sort of hunger.

She could have killed her.

When Simon had sent her back to the Old World, to the foothills of those unfamiliar Celdarian mountains, she had encountered her mother—had locked eyes with Rielle, had breathed the same air—and she had lost focus, allowing fear to overtake her. At that most crucial moment, she had fumbled, missing the opportunity that would have solved everything and prevented all of this—this, being a prisoner aboard this immaculate ship, the scent of which sat foul and heavy upon her tongue; this, the sound of Remy’s horrified despair as he had cried out, weeping, at the sight of Ioseph’s altered, black-eyed face.

This—the moment she had turned upon the pier on the shores of Festival and seen with her own eyes the terrible sight of Simon shooting their allies one by one, barking out angelic commands that the imperial soldiers had rushed to obey.

Eliana could have stopped it all from happening. She could have, but instead she had entertained the foolish thought of peace, of conversation and understanding between her and the greatest evil the world had ever known: Rielle Courverie, born Rielle Dardenne. The Blood Queen, the Kingsbane, the Lady of Death.

Eliana could have killed her, but she had tried to talk to her instead. Talk to her. As if a creature so vile would ever have the presence of mind or the desire to talk about ending the disastrous war of her own making, still raging a thousand years past her horizon.

And who had engineered that meeting? Who had sat with her and Remy and helped Eliana craft just the right sentences to say in Old Celdarian?

Simon. She forced herself to say his name, first in her mind and then out loud, hoping that soon the sound of it, the rhythm of the syllables, would stoke in her not a hollow, numb despair but rather a rage, cold and clean.

“Simon,” she whispered. She stared into the relentless darkness. “Simon. Simon.”

She pushed hard against her bindings, rubbing, twisting.

Maybe she would hit bone, if she worked hard enough at it.

Maybe she would bleed herself dry.

• • •

One of them must have reported to him what she was doing.

Keys jangled in the lock. The door to her cell opened, and clipped bootsteps approached her. She recognized those footfalls. They tore her from a fitful sleep, and she watched in breathless horror as he crouched before her, arms resting lazily on his knees. He was in silhouette, his shape black against the lamplit corridor outside her cell, but she caught the faint gleam of his eyes.

She made herself stare at him, unblinking and unafraid, though that was a lie she was certain he could see through. Her body was weak, malnourished, and the sight of him sparked in her a rage too violent to bear. She quaked at his nearness. Her fingers twitched. She imagined clawing at him.

“Simon,” she said, and her voice, at least, emerged steady and flat, as she had intended.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he observed. “I cannot allow that.”

The sound of his voice was both familiar and utterly, horribly foreign. She had never heard it so cold, so devoid of passion, humor, anger. It held only brisk efficiency, his every word clipped and unfeeling.

“I don’t care,” she replied—a sulky child’s response, but she could manage nothing better.

“The Emperor has requested that you arrive unmarred and healthy.”

“The Emperor can go fuck himself, and you can join him.”

She looked for the man she knew in his shadowed face and saw nothing, not even a ripple of scornful amusement. He rose to his feet and stepped aside as the pair of imperial guards waiting at the door entered in silence.

“Take her to B Deck,” he ordered. “The Blue Room.”

Then Simon turned on his heel and strode away, his long, lean body moving with the same sinuous grace it always had. His departure made her wild. If she’d had the freedom to do it, if she had been sure it wouldn’t result in some awful fate for Remy, she would’ve launched herself at him, wedged her fingernails into the scarred furrows on his face, torn strips of flesh from his neck, and ripped out his throat.

Leaving her only seconds after showing himself for the first time in days? That she could not abide.

“Don’t go,” she blurted, desperate. Awful as he was, he was the only thing she knew in this terrible place. She felt that she had begun to lose pieces of herself, huddled in the dark like a kicked animal, but seeing him kneel before her, wishing viciously for his death—and to be its dealer—had awakened her.

He ignored her, striding on.

Frantic, she lunged against the guards’ grips on her elbows. “I assume the Emperor has plans for me. Won’t those proceed more quickly if I come to him informed of my situation rather than ignorant of it?”

was nowhere to be found.

• • •

Eliana twisted her wrists against their bindings, though not to free herself, for she had determined that to be a futile task. Even if she escaped her chains, even if she somehow made it past the guards standing sentry outside her door, what then? What would she do? Dive into the middle of the sea and swim to safety, dragging Remy along behind her through the waves?

Once, not so long ago, she could have concentrated on the twin metal cages of her castings and used their solidity, the smooth anchors of the discs in her palms, to draw fire from the gas lamps lining the hallways and urge them into great bursts, scorching anyone who tried to stand against her.

But now, she could not find even a scrap of will to attempt summoning her power. Without her castings, she was a shell, scraped free of its meat and tossed into the waves. Reaching for the empirium would result only in bitter disappointment. She sensed it as surely as she smelled the tang of her own blood in the air, leaking from the wounds on her wrists.

There was an absence in her now—a great impassable void between the power lying in wait within her and the capacity of her mind to do anything more than stare blankly at the wall as Admiral Ravikant’s ship bore her ever onward across the Great Ocean, toward the eastern continent.

Toward Celdaria.

Toward the Emperor.

The chafing of her wrists’ tender flesh against the unyielding metal chains provided her with a perverse comfort there in the endless dark. A constant burning pain that reminded her where she was, that she was a prisoner, that her castings had been wrested from her. That one of her fathers was dead, his body long ago turned to ashes by his own lover’s will; that her other father was also dead, his corpse overtaken by an angel for ill use.

That one of her mothers was dead, too, by her own hand.

And the other…

The moments when she thought of Rielle were the moments in which Eliana strained against her chains with a fevered sort of hunger.

She could have killed her.

When Simon had sent her back to the Old World, to the foothills of those unfamiliar Celdarian mountains, she had encountered her mother—had locked eyes with Rielle, had breathed the same air—and she had lost focus, allowing fear to overtake her. At that most crucial moment, she had fumbled, missing the opportunity that would have solved everything and prevented all of this—this, being a prisoner aboard this immaculate ship, the scent of which sat foul and heavy upon her tongue; this, the sound of Remy’s horrified despair as he had cried out, weeping, at the sight of Ioseph’s altered, black-eyed face.

This—the moment she had turned upon the pier on the shores of Festival and seen with her own eyes the terrible sight of Simon shooting their allies one by one, barking out angelic commands that the imperial soldiers had rushed to obey.

Eliana could have stopped it all from happening. She could have, but instead she had entertained the foolish thought of peace, of conversation and understanding between her and the greatest evil the world had ever known: Rielle Courverie, born Rielle Dardenne. The Blood Queen, the Kingsbane, the Lady of Death.

Eliana could have killed her, but she had tried to talk to her instead. Talk to her. As if a creature so vile would ever have the presence of mind or the desire to talk about ending the disastrous war of her own making, still raging a thousand years past her horizon.

And who had engineered that meeting? Who had sat with her and Remy and helped Eliana craft just the right sentences to say in Old Celdarian?

Simon. She forced herself to say his name, first in her mind and then out loud, hoping that soon the sound of it, the rhythm of the syllables, would stoke in her not a hollow, numb despair but rather a rage, cold and clean.

“Simon,” she whispered. She stared into the relentless darkness. “Simon. Simon.”

She pushed hard against her bindings, rubbing, twisting.

Maybe she would hit bone, if she worked hard enough at it.

Maybe she would bleed herself dry.

• • •

One of them must have reported to him what she was doing.

Keys jangled in the lock. The door to her cell opened, and clipped bootsteps approached her. She recognized those footfalls. They tore her from a fitful sleep, and she watched in breathless horror as he crouched before her, arms resting lazily on his knees. He was in silhouette, his shape black against the lamplit corridor outside her cell, but she caught the faint gleam of his eyes.

She made herself stare at him, unblinking and unafraid, though that was a lie she was certain he could see through. Her body was weak, malnourished, and the sight of him sparked in her a rage too violent to bear. She quaked at his nearness. Her fingers twitched. She imagined clawing at him.

“Simon,” she said, and her voice, at least, emerged steady and flat, as she had intended.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he observed. “I cannot allow that.”

The sound of his voice was both familiar and utterly, horribly foreign. She had never heard it so cold, so devoid of passion, humor, anger. It held only brisk efficiency, his every word clipped and unfeeling.

“I don’t care,” she replied—a sulky child’s response, but she could manage nothing better.

“The Emperor has requested that you arrive unmarred and healthy.”

“The Emperor can go fuck himself, and you can join him.”

She looked for the man she knew in his shadowed face and saw nothing, not even a ripple of scornful amusement. He rose to his feet and stepped aside as the pair of imperial guards waiting at the door entered in silence.

“Take her to B Deck,” he ordered. “The Blue Room.”

Then Simon turned on his heel and strode away, his long, lean body moving with the same sinuous grace it always had. His departure made her wild. If she’d had the freedom to do it, if she had been sure it wouldn’t result in some awful fate for Remy, she would’ve launched herself at him, wedged her fingernails into the scarred furrows on his face, torn strips of flesh from his neck, and ripped out his throat.

Leaving her only seconds after showing himself for the first time in days? That she could not abide.

“Don’t go,” she blurted, desperate. Awful as he was, he was the only thing she knew in this terrible place. She felt that she had begun to lose pieces of herself, huddled in the dark like a kicked animal, but seeing him kneel before her, wishing viciously for his death—and to be its dealer—had awakened her.

He ignored her, striding on.

Frantic, she lunged against the guards’ grips on her elbows. “I assume the Emperor has plans for me. Won’t those proceed more quickly if I come to him informed of my situation rather than ignorant of it?”