Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

A frightening giddiness overtook her as she imagined the angels clawing at the scraps of her mind, searching for a weapon they would never find.

Fists clenched in her chains, Eliana bit her lip until it bled.

She would take her own life before she allowed her power to rise for the Emperor’s use.

They passed through a white archway, then across another stone yard and down a flight of steps into a series of tunnels. They were dark and cold and twisting, clearly designed to confound intruders, and in the close, damp air, Eliana began to feel as queasy as she had when she and Harkan had first boarded the Streganna, when the black lily’s poison sat thick in her veins.

Thinking of him—his warm, dark eyes, his arms steady around her, how he had accepted her even on her meanest days—Eliana’s eyes grew hot. She stumbled; a guard caught her elbow. It was possible, she told herself, that Harkan hadn’t died. She hadn’t seen him on the beach in Festival. Simon hadn’t shot him as he had shot so many others.

It was possible. It was a tiny, timid hope. It turned in her heart like a tender bud working hard to open, and she clutched it with every ounce of tired strength left to her.

The world around her was changing. She noticed it dully, her vision unfocused. A polished marble floor. Ceilings high and dark, glittering with painted stars—silver and gold, violet and crystalline blue. Tall windows of painted glass cast streams of colored light across a tall, narrow room. Amber and rose, turquoise and jade.

Admiral Ravikant led the way, hands clasped behind his back, his gait easy and sickeningly familiar. Her father’s steps, slightly altered. Then Simon after him, quiet but clearly comfortable, the tension missing from his shoulders. He had been pretending before, Eliana realized, and now he was not. Now he could relax. Now he was himself.

A wash of human-shaped color to her left, startlingly near, caught her eye.

She faltered, foundering in the grip of her guards.

It was a statue. A woman.

One of many.

“Come, come,” said Admiral Ravikant. His voice bounced with glee. “No dawdling.”

The guards pushed her onward, and Eliana obeyed—but she hardly noticed any of them.

Instead, she stared at the women.

It was a gallery of women, some carved out of stone, some blown from glass, others assembled from thousands of miniscule colored tiles. Women of golden brass, women fashioned from plates of steel and copper wires, women painted with splashes of color and hung from the walls.

Eliana’s skin prickled as they passed between the frozen figures. They seemed too exquisite to be real, even the grotesque ones boasting a strange sort of beauty, and there were too many of them, so many that Eliana felt unbalanced, as if the world had tilted askew. It was an obsessive collection, packing the room from wall to wall with seemingly no logic to their arrangement.

And then, passing one, Eliana stopped, jarred to a halt by a sickening realization.

She stared at the sculpture before her—a woman of glittering black stone, her limbs impossibly delicate, her proportions elongated and alien. She was on her knees, her body arched in obvious agony, her arms and head flung back and left vulnerable to the fury of the skies. Innumerable gilded flames sprang from her arms, her fingers, the ends of her streaming, wild hair. Her gown only half clothed her, its hems and collar shredded. A starburst of gold paint gleamed on her chest. Two more shone in the flat places where her eyes should have been, and two more marked her open, rigid palms.

Eliana tensed. The woman’s open mouth was also gold, the deepest visible parts of her throat painted as though bright red fire were crawling up her throat.

She was screaming.

And Eliana recognized her.

Looking around as the guards shoved her on, she recognized all of them. They were all the same woman, over and over, her features sometimes exaggerated or caricatured, but always recognizable, always familiar. Eliana had seen them herself, weeks ago, centuries ago, back in Celdaria, in those woods where Rielle had tried to kill her. In those woods where Corien had slipped inside her mind and said, What a life you have led. What interesting company you keep.

They were all Rielle. Every one of them was Rielle.

Rielle, painted in angry thick strokes of oil paint, standing alone on the edge of a cliff overlooking a red sea, the sky afire with countless stars. Rielle, a mere girl, abstract and cheerful, formed out of tangled wires splashed with garish colors, one arm reaching for a feather that hung suspended in the air.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Admiral Ravikant asked with a knowing smile. They had come to the gallery’s far side, where narrow twin doors stood locked, their bronze handles cast to resemble wings. “His Excellency is a skilled artist.”

What interesting company you keep. Corien’s words were beginning to roar, cycling through Eliana’s head in a vicious loop. What a life you have led.

Her gaze flew to Simon, her skin icing over with understanding. Had he always planned to betray her? Or was it their ill-fated, ill-planned journey to the past that had changed him? Had Corien seen Simon in her mind on that awful day—his allegiance to the Prophet, his devotion to Eliana, his fervent belief in her ability to save them all—and had that somehow changed everything? Was Simon altered when they arrived back at Willow, infected, his loyalties belonging to the Empire?

Simon had said he would not be affected by their travels through time, that as the weaver of the threads, he would be immune to any changes to the future world, as would she. But perhaps he hadn’t really known, or he’d been lying even then, eager to please her, eager to complete his mission and alter the past to save the future, hoping to somehow, miraculously, avoid the worst. Or hoping that the worst would find him.

And where was the Prophet in this new, altered future? Whoever they were, how had they let this happen?

Did the Prophet even exist?

Admiral Ravikant pushed open the doors. “And now, sadly, I must leave you. Orders are orders.” The admiral lifted Eliana’s bound hands to his lips. “We will meet again soon, Lady Eliana.” He glanced at Simon. “Commander.”

Simon inclined his head and said nothing.

Then he was gone, the angel in her father’s skin, gliding back through the gallery with the guards at his heels, and Simon was pulling the doors closed, and it was only the two of them in an enormous shadowed room—gleaming parquet floors, massive framed paintings of angels in flight, gigantic windows with the drapes pulled nearly to, allowing in only thin streams of light that cut the floor into eighths. The ceiling was high. Three levels of curtained mezzanines bordered the room on three sides. It was a room meant for dancing, for elaborate ceremonies.

And at the far end, a grand staircase coiled down from the third floor like a fat polished serpent. Eliana could not feel a breeze; the air was still. But something was moving in the shadows on the staircase—a gathering, a pull and push of darkness that shifted and curled, coalescing. ghtening giddiness overtook her as she imagined the angels clawing at the scraps of her mind, searching for a weapon they would never find.

Fists clenched in her chains, Eliana bit her lip until it bled.

She would take her own life before she allowed her power to rise for the Emperor’s use.

They passed through a white archway, then across another stone yard and down a flight of steps into a series of tunnels. They were dark and cold and twisting, clearly designed to confound intruders, and in the close, damp air, Eliana began to feel as queasy as she had when she and Harkan had first boarded the Streganna, when the black lily’s poison sat thick in her veins.

Thinking of him—his warm, dark eyes, his arms steady around her, how he had accepted her even on her meanest days—Eliana’s eyes grew hot. She stumbled; a guard caught her elbow. It was possible, she told herself, that Harkan hadn’t died. She hadn’t seen him on the beach in Festival. Simon hadn’t shot him as he had shot so many others.

It was possible. It was a tiny, timid hope. It turned in her heart like a tender bud working hard to open, and she clutched it with every ounce of tired strength left to her.

The world around her was changing. She noticed it dully, her vision unfocused. A polished marble floor. Ceilings high and dark, glittering with painted stars—silver and gold, violet and crystalline blue. Tall windows of painted glass cast streams of colored light across a tall, narrow room. Amber and rose, turquoise and jade.

Admiral Ravikant led the way, hands clasped behind his back, his gait easy and sickeningly familiar. Her father’s steps, slightly altered. Then Simon after him, quiet but clearly comfortable, the tension missing from his shoulders. He had been pretending before, Eliana realized, and now he was not. Now he could relax. Now he was himself.

A wash of human-shaped color to her left, startlingly near, caught her eye.

She faltered, foundering in the grip of her guards.

It was a statue. A woman.

One of many.

“Come, come,” said Admiral Ravikant. His voice bounced with glee. “No dawdling.”

The guards pushed her onward, and Eliana obeyed—but she hardly noticed any of them.

Instead, she stared at the women.

It was a gallery of women, some carved out of stone, some blown from glass, others assembled from thousands of miniscule colored tiles. Women of golden brass, women fashioned from plates of steel and copper wires, women painted with splashes of color and hung from the walls.

Eliana’s skin prickled as they passed between the frozen figures. They seemed too exquisite to be real, even the grotesque ones boasting a strange sort of beauty, and there were too many of them, so many that Eliana felt unbalanced, as if the world had tilted askew. It was an obsessive collection, packing the room from wall to wall with seemingly no logic to their arrangement.

And then, passing one, Eliana stopped, jarred to a halt by a sickening realization.

She stared at the sculpture before her—a woman of glittering black stone, her limbs impossibly delicate, her proportions elongated and alien. She was on her knees, her body arched in obvious agony, her arms and head flung back and left vulnerable to the fury of the skies. Innumerable gilded flames sprang from her arms, her fingers, the ends of her streaming, wild hair. Her gown only half clothed her, its hems and collar shredded. A starburst of gold paint gleamed on her chest. Two more shone in the flat places where her eyes should have been, and two more marked her open, rigid palms.

Eliana tensed. The woman’s open mouth was also gold, the deepest visible parts of her throat painted as though bright red fire were crawling up her throat.

She was screaming.

And Eliana recognized her.

Looking around as the guards shoved her on, she recognized all of them. They were all the same woman, over and over, her features sometimes exaggerated or caricatured, but always recognizable, always familiar. Eliana had seen them herself, weeks ago, centuries ago, back in Celdaria, in those woods where Rielle had tried to kill her. In those woods where Corien had slipped inside her mind and said, What a life you have led. What interesting company you keep.

They were all Rielle. Every one of them was Rielle.

Rielle, painted in angry thick strokes of oil paint, standing alone on the edge of a cliff overlooking a red sea, the sky afire with countless stars. Rielle, a mere girl, abstract and cheerful, formed out of tangled wires splashed with garish colors, one arm reaching for a feather that hung suspended in the air.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Admiral Ravikant asked with a knowing smile. They had come to the gallery’s far side, where narrow twin doors stood locked, their bronze handles cast to resemble wings. “His Excellency is a skilled artist.”

What interesting company you keep. Corien’s words were beginning to roar, cycling through Eliana’s head in a vicious loop. What a life you have led.

Her gaze flew to Simon, her skin icing over with understanding. Had he always planned to betray her? Or was it their ill-fated, ill-planned journey to the past that had changed him? Had Corien seen Simon in her mind on that awful day—his allegiance to the Prophet, his devotion to Eliana, his fervent belief in her ability to save them all—and had that somehow changed everything? Was Simon altered when they arrived back at Willow, infected, his loyalties belonging to the Empire?

Simon had said he would not be affected by their travels through time, that as the weaver of the threads, he would be immune to any changes to the future world, as would she. But perhaps he hadn’t really known, or he’d been lying even then, eager to please her, eager to complete his mission and alter the past to save the future, hoping to somehow, miraculously, avoid the worst. Or hoping that the worst would find him.

And where was the Prophet in this new, altered future? Whoever they were, how had they let this happen?

Did the Prophet even exist?

Admiral Ravikant pushed open the doors. “And now, sadly, I must leave you. Orders are orders.” The admiral lifted Eliana’s bound hands to his lips. “We will meet again soon, Lady Eliana.” He glanced at Simon. “Commander.”

Simon inclined his head and said nothing.

Then he was gone, the angel in her father’s skin, gliding back through the gallery with the guards at his heels, and Simon was pulling the doors closed, and it was only the two of them in an enormous shadowed room—gleaming parquet floors, massive framed paintings of angels in flight, gigantic windows with the drapes pulled nearly to, allowing in only thin streams of light that cut the floor into eighths. The ceiling was high. Three levels of curtained mezzanines bordered the room on three sides. It was a room meant for dancing, for elaborate ceremonies.

And at the far end, a grand staircase coiled down from the third floor like a fat polished serpent. Eliana could not feel a breeze; the air was still. But something was moving in the shadows on the staircase—a gathering, a pull and push of darkness that shifted and curled, coalescing.