Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

She was in her rooms in Corien’s palace, but there was a new stillness to them, a thick hush, and with it came a single tentative memory.

Afraid to even think the word in case he should hear, she sent out the question nevertheless: Prophet?

I am here, answered the voice, the very same one as before. We must move quietly, Eliana. I cannot be with you for long. Not yet.

Eliana lay like a stone in her bed; the damp sheets clung to her. The morning sun drenched the room, suffusing it with heat, but if she moved, he would find her.

Where have you been? Living in Corien’s palace, his presence never far from her and her days filled with the tireless wrath of his mind, she now understood well the focus required for mind-speak. You stopped me from killing myself. You said we had things to do. Then you left me.

I know. The Prophet’s voice was neither masculine nor feminine. Soft but steady, it came to Eliana through layers of heavy silt. She sensed the Prophet was trying to hide. I am sorry for that. I had to stay away until his anger faded. I knew he would be looking for me after what happened that day.

Corien’s name rose to the top of Eliana’s thoughts on a dull wave of fear.

Careful, the Prophet cautioned. Do not think too closely of him when we speak. You may alert him to my presence if you do. If you must think of him at all, allow your thoughts to slide over the idea of him like water over rocks.

But it was too late for sliding water. A drum of panic beat against Eliana’s ears, and all she could think of was his name. Corien. His thoughts squeezing like hard fingers inside her skull. Corien. His presence invading her dreams with flashing teeth and hands slick as snakes. Corien.

He’s coming. The Prophet’s voice was already fading. I’m sorry. I will return, little one.

Eliana felt the Prophet leave like a needle sliding free of its cushion. When Corien came, it wasn’t to hurt her. Silently, he crawled into her bed, wrapped her in his arms as a lover might, curled his body around hers.

He held her for hours, crooning angelic lullabies against her neck. She resisted the urge to break away from him and fought the pull of sleep, thinking instead of a soft-water river flowing quietly across a bed of smooth gray stones. Soon, fuzzy and limp, she hardly noticed the black eyes burrowing into her skull from behind, like nesting beetles plump with eggs.

• • •

Awaken, but slowly.

Eliana opened her eyes to see her rooms washed silver with moonlight.

Will you show me your face, angel? It had been twelve days since she had last heard from the Prophet. She had made sure to keep count, a thing she had long ago given up, for each day had seemed an impossible burden.

Now, each moment buzzed with anticipation as she waited for the Prophet to return, and the endless days felt lighter.

Not yet, said the Prophet, voice full of regret. Let’s have a conversation, you and I. How long can we talk before he stirs, I wonder?

What would you like to talk about? Eliana glanced at the adatrox flanking her door. Jessamyn was not there, but she would come in the morning. How each day I live on is a torment? How worn thin I have become in body and mind? How far my power feels from me now?

I already know all of these things, said the Prophet gently. But if it would help you to tell me, please do.

Eliana breathed in silence for several minutes. She imagined her little river running soft across its stones.

Every day I imagine ending my life. She let the thought flow along the river’s calm current. You should have let me. You claim to be a friend of humans, but in fact you’ve doomed us all.

It feels cruel to beg your patience, but I beg it nevertheless. The Prophet sent a feeling upstream, where it lapped against Eliana’s toes. It was too subtle to read clearly, but it warmed Eliana, and she imagined hiding forever inside it.

What am I waiting for? What will we do?

Unfortunately, we must move slowly. We must glide through the water between us and guard against any ripples that might wake the beast lying in the depths. Do you understand?

Eliana settled carefully against her pillows, pretending sleep. And then? We move slowly, you said. Toward what?

A beat of silence, and then the Prophet’s thoughts darted swift as silver minnows into the cracks of Eliana’s mind.

A second chance.

A shiver slipped down Eliana’s body. I don’t know what you mean.

Tell me about home, the Prophet suggested. About Orline.

I cannot. It hurts me. Too much death, too much sadness.

But what about the good things? Tell me about Remy. About Harkan. Past the grief, there is light still, even if only in memory. Tell me about that light.

Eliana waited several minutes before she could form a steady thought.

When Remy was very small, she began, he was terrified of storms. I would wake to find him shivering beside me in my bed. Sometimes not even stories were enough, not even songs. One night we made a tent out of my quilt, strung it across a corner of the room with lengths of twine. Inside it, we piled blankets and pillows, his books, the shells Harkan had gathered for me when his father took him to the sea. It was a fortress, and inside it, no storm could touch us.

As Eliana spoke, she settled into the embrace of the Prophet’s presence. So unlike Corien’s—firm, but never invasive. A froth brewing gently at the edges of her mind.

Very good, said the Prophet, once Eliana fell into silence. Fifteen minutes. He is coming, but this was an excellent beginning. I will return, Eliana, when it’s safe. Trust me.

How can I? Eliana whispered.

But the Prophet had already gone.

• • •

The days between the Prophet’s visits stretched on like dark roads with no end. For weeks, they met in secret, and the carefully hidden memories of their conversations gave Eliana something to hold on to as Corien wrenched apart her thoughts, searching for a thing he could not find, trying to force from her a power she refused to touch.

Forty-five minutes. An hour. Two hours, they managed, and then three, with no interference from Corien and her guards noticing nothing, until finally, one day, the Prophet said, Good. Now we move.

• • •

The first time, Eliana crept from one side of her room to the other, then bathed on her own for the first time since arriving in Elysium. She opened the doors to her rooms, her heart pounding, and peered out into the broad shadowed corridor that ran left to right. Arched white rafters soared over gleaming marble floors lined with pale carpets.

During all of this, the adatrox remained motionless and quiet. Even Jessamyn seemed oblivious. Eliana stepped outside her rooms, barefoot, and waved her hand before Jessamyn’s face. Nothing.

The Prophet guided her to an unused sitting room not far from hers, draped in fineries and hung with gold-framed paintings of angelic glory. as in her rooms in Corien’s palace, but there was a new stillness to them, a thick hush, and with it came a single tentative memory.

Afraid to even think the word in case he should hear, she sent out the question nevertheless: Prophet?

I am here, answered the voice, the very same one as before. We must move quietly, Eliana. I cannot be with you for long. Not yet.

Eliana lay like a stone in her bed; the damp sheets clung to her. The morning sun drenched the room, suffusing it with heat, but if she moved, he would find her.

Where have you been? Living in Corien’s palace, his presence never far from her and her days filled with the tireless wrath of his mind, she now understood well the focus required for mind-speak. You stopped me from killing myself. You said we had things to do. Then you left me.

I know. The Prophet’s voice was neither masculine nor feminine. Soft but steady, it came to Eliana through layers of heavy silt. She sensed the Prophet was trying to hide. I am sorry for that. I had to stay away until his anger faded. I knew he would be looking for me after what happened that day.

Corien’s name rose to the top of Eliana’s thoughts on a dull wave of fear.

Careful, the Prophet cautioned. Do not think too closely of him when we speak. You may alert him to my presence if you do. If you must think of him at all, allow your thoughts to slide over the idea of him like water over rocks.

But it was too late for sliding water. A drum of panic beat against Eliana’s ears, and all she could think of was his name. Corien. His thoughts squeezing like hard fingers inside her skull. Corien. His presence invading her dreams with flashing teeth and hands slick as snakes. Corien.

He’s coming. The Prophet’s voice was already fading. I’m sorry. I will return, little one.

Eliana felt the Prophet leave like a needle sliding free of its cushion. When Corien came, it wasn’t to hurt her. Silently, he crawled into her bed, wrapped her in his arms as a lover might, curled his body around hers.

He held her for hours, crooning angelic lullabies against her neck. She resisted the urge to break away from him and fought the pull of sleep, thinking instead of a soft-water river flowing quietly across a bed of smooth gray stones. Soon, fuzzy and limp, she hardly noticed the black eyes burrowing into her skull from behind, like nesting beetles plump with eggs.

• • •

Awaken, but slowly.

Eliana opened her eyes to see her rooms washed silver with moonlight.

Will you show me your face, angel? It had been twelve days since she had last heard from the Prophet. She had made sure to keep count, a thing she had long ago given up, for each day had seemed an impossible burden.

Now, each moment buzzed with anticipation as she waited for the Prophet to return, and the endless days felt lighter.

Not yet, said the Prophet, voice full of regret. Let’s have a conversation, you and I. How long can we talk before he stirs, I wonder?

What would you like to talk about? Eliana glanced at the adatrox flanking her door. Jessamyn was not there, but she would come in the morning. How each day I live on is a torment? How worn thin I have become in body and mind? How far my power feels from me now?

I already know all of these things, said the Prophet gently. But if it would help you to tell me, please do.

Eliana breathed in silence for several minutes. She imagined her little river running soft across its stones.

Every day I imagine ending my life. She let the thought flow along the river’s calm current. You should have let me. You claim to be a friend of humans, but in fact you’ve doomed us all.

It feels cruel to beg your patience, but I beg it nevertheless. The Prophet sent a feeling upstream, where it lapped against Eliana’s toes. It was too subtle to read clearly, but it warmed Eliana, and she imagined hiding forever inside it.

What am I waiting for? What will we do?

Unfortunately, we must move slowly. We must glide through the water between us and guard against any ripples that might wake the beast lying in the depths. Do you understand?

Eliana settled carefully against her pillows, pretending sleep. And then? We move slowly, you said. Toward what?

A beat of silence, and then the Prophet’s thoughts darted swift as silver minnows into the cracks of Eliana’s mind.

A second chance.

A shiver slipped down Eliana’s body. I don’t know what you mean.

Tell me about home, the Prophet suggested. About Orline.

I cannot. It hurts me. Too much death, too much sadness.

But what about the good things? Tell me about Remy. About Harkan. Past the grief, there is light still, even if only in memory. Tell me about that light.

Eliana waited several minutes before she could form a steady thought.

When Remy was very small, she began, he was terrified of storms. I would wake to find him shivering beside me in my bed. Sometimes not even stories were enough, not even songs. One night we made a tent out of my quilt, strung it across a corner of the room with lengths of twine. Inside it, we piled blankets and pillows, his books, the shells Harkan had gathered for me when his father took him to the sea. It was a fortress, and inside it, no storm could touch us.

As Eliana spoke, she settled into the embrace of the Prophet’s presence. So unlike Corien’s—firm, but never invasive. A froth brewing gently at the edges of her mind.

Very good, said the Prophet, once Eliana fell into silence. Fifteen minutes. He is coming, but this was an excellent beginning. I will return, Eliana, when it’s safe. Trust me.

How can I? Eliana whispered.

But the Prophet had already gone.

• • •

The days between the Prophet’s visits stretched on like dark roads with no end. For weeks, they met in secret, and the carefully hidden memories of their conversations gave Eliana something to hold on to as Corien wrenched apart her thoughts, searching for a thing he could not find, trying to force from her a power she refused to touch.

Forty-five minutes. An hour. Two hours, they managed, and then three, with no interference from Corien and her guards noticing nothing, until finally, one day, the Prophet said, Good. Now we move.

• • •

The first time, Eliana crept from one side of her room to the other, then bathed on her own for the first time since arriving in Elysium. She opened the doors to her rooms, her heart pounding, and peered out into the broad shadowed corridor that ran left to right. Arched white rafters soared over gleaming marble floors lined with pale carpets.

During all of this, the adatrox remained motionless and quiet. Even Jessamyn seemed oblivious. Eliana stepped outside her rooms, barefoot, and waved her hand before Jessamyn’s face. Nothing.

The Prophet guided her to an unused sitting room not far from hers, draped in fineries and hung with gold-framed paintings of angelic glory.