Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

Inside it, shielded by the Prophet’s calm presence, her heart a frantic bird in her chest, Eliana reached for her power with deliberate intent—not letting it erupt due to anger, not allowing her fear to overtake her reason and force out her power without her permission. It was the first time she had done so since arriving in Elysium, and her mind felt clumsy as it stretched and fumbled. She concentrated on the familiar lines of her castings, slender and cool around her hands and wrists. She pushed her thoughts out along the stone floor and into the air.

A simple goal: move the air, command it to knock over the golden candlestick standing proud on its table.

Simple, and yet she could not do it. The air remained still. Her power was used to hiding and felt reluctant to emerge from that deep place into which she had shoved it. A faint hum at the back of her mind, a slow tingle along the lines of her palms—nothing more. She looked over her shoulder, mouth dry with fear, expecting Corien to come slamming through the door, but the room remained only their own.

Good, said the Prophet. Now try again. Never step out of that little river. Keep your feet cool and grounded, even as your hands begin to blaze. He cannot find you here, little one, not in these waters.

Eliana obeyed, but it was the same. Clumsy and distant, her power. Her hands itched, and there was no way to scratch them.

Quickly, now. Back to your rooms. The Prophet’s voice was urgent, but never frightened. As if they could see a hopeful future Eliana could not.

She obeyed, slipping back down the hallway and into her bed. Her blood punched through her veins even as she focused hard on the calm flow of her river. It was a more challenging exercise than anything she had ever done as the Dread—to balance the Eliana who was a prisoner steeped in pain and despair and the new Eliana, who was beginning to dip her fingers into the pool of her power once more. Its texture and rhythm—how she had missed it.

How terrified she was to awaken it again.

A film of sweat painted her skin as she settled back in her bed. What did my guards see while I was gone?

Your rooms as they should be, the Prophet replied. You, sleeping fitfully in your bed, as they would expect. Now, though, I must go. Sleep, Eliana. You will need it.

Wait. What are we working toward? What is it we’re going to do? Tell me.

Not yet, the Prophet replied after a moment. It’s not safe yet. You’re not strong enough. But you will be.

• • •

Occasionally, Corien would visit the Sunderlands, where mammoth mechanized pieces of weaponry called vaecordia kept the cruciata at bay.

Sometimes the palace would erupt in raucous revels that lasted for days. Corien would drag Eliana to them, ply her with food and drink, dance with her beneath a ceiling glittering with buzzing chandeliers until she collapsed dizzily into his arms. He drugged everything she consumed, she knew, hoping some combination of ingredients would draw out her power.

But they never did.

With each new failure, he would rage, and those were the worst days, when he would strap her to a chair and pummel her mind with his or chase her through the palace with horrific illusions that left her feeling mad and violent, her vision black, her ears buzzing as if clogged with angry bees. What she did in those moments, she never knew. She would wake later in her rooms with her throat raw, blood caked under her fingernails, and vague memories of someone begging her for mercy. She would stumble to her bathing room and scrub herself with scalding water as her guards watched, ever vigilant. And Jessamyn too, sharp-eyed and strangely restless in a way Eliana had never seen from her.

Sometimes luck would bend in her favor, and the revels would take place without her, or Corien would shut himself up in his rooms, reaching out to generals across the world or gorging himself in the mezzanine of his concert hall as the harried orchestra played furiously below.

And these were the hours when the Prophet came and Eliana practiced escape.

• • •

The corridor just outside her rooms, at first, and the little sitting room. Then the stairs at the corridor’s northern end. The music room downstairs, where Corien liked to pound away on a massive piano. A ballroom of rose, midnight blue, and ochre. The dormitories where the palace servants slept. The horrible dark gallery full of Rielle’s likenesses.

Days passed, and then weeks, and with each journey outside her rooms, Eliana’s muscles began to remember their former strength. She had not yet managed to knock over the candlestick, but she had learned much about the massive palace, its twists and turns, and was beginning to feel steadier in body as well as in mind.

Good, said the Prophet. When the day comes for you to leave this place, you will know how to do it well and will be able to defend yourself.

Eliana bit her tongue. Dozens of times, she had asked the Prophet the reason for this work, what day they were waiting for, what schemes the Prophet had designed.

But each time, the Prophet refused to answer. Not yet. Not until you’re stronger and I can be sure every new corner of your mind is well shielded from him.

How am I to know this isn’t some demented game? Eliana asked, bristling. You lead me through the palace night after night; you push me through these exercises of my mind and my power. And for what?

The Prophet sent her a gentle plea, followed by that fondness Eliana so craved, its warmth sweeter than any wine.

Please, trust me, little one, the Prophet said. I have deceived many in my life, but not you. Never you.

And Eliana had no choice but to believe this strange friend whose face she still did not know and hope she wasn’t a fool for daring, yet again, to trust someone who lived behind a mask.

• • •

Then, one night, when the Prophet’s familiar greeting came, it pulled Eliana from a dream so vivid it followed her into waking.

Like trying to recall a word only just beyond her reach, a tightness bent in her chest, pulling her onward. Her fingers tingled. If she closed her eyes, she could hear a thin black rumble, as from a nearing storm. If she opened her eyes and unfocused them, ripples of gold danced at the edges of her vision.

I know where we’ll go tonight, she said, slipping from her bed.

The Prophet’s curiosity curled. Where?

I saw it in my dream.

Will you tell me?

Look for yourself.

You know I don’t like to do that, the Prophet said gently. Not if I don’t have to.

I’ll show you, then.

Tell me first. Please. I must know where we’re going. There was a pause. I don’t want to invade your mind, Eliana. I’m not like him.

I’ll tell you if you tell me what it is we’re working toward. What plans you have for me. Where you are, and if I can come to you.

The Prophet fell silent. e it, shielded by the Prophet’s calm presence, her heart a frantic bird in her chest, Eliana reached for her power with deliberate intent—not letting it erupt due to anger, not allowing her fear to overtake her reason and force out her power without her permission. It was the first time she had done so since arriving in Elysium, and her mind felt clumsy as it stretched and fumbled. She concentrated on the familiar lines of her castings, slender and cool around her hands and wrists. She pushed her thoughts out along the stone floor and into the air.

A simple goal: move the air, command it to knock over the golden candlestick standing proud on its table.

Simple, and yet she could not do it. The air remained still. Her power was used to hiding and felt reluctant to emerge from that deep place into which she had shoved it. A faint hum at the back of her mind, a slow tingle along the lines of her palms—nothing more. She looked over her shoulder, mouth dry with fear, expecting Corien to come slamming through the door, but the room remained only their own.

Good, said the Prophet. Now try again. Never step out of that little river. Keep your feet cool and grounded, even as your hands begin to blaze. He cannot find you here, little one, not in these waters.

Eliana obeyed, but it was the same. Clumsy and distant, her power. Her hands itched, and there was no way to scratch them.

Quickly, now. Back to your rooms. The Prophet’s voice was urgent, but never frightened. As if they could see a hopeful future Eliana could not.

She obeyed, slipping back down the hallway and into her bed. Her blood punched through her veins even as she focused hard on the calm flow of her river. It was a more challenging exercise than anything she had ever done as the Dread—to balance the Eliana who was a prisoner steeped in pain and despair and the new Eliana, who was beginning to dip her fingers into the pool of her power once more. Its texture and rhythm—how she had missed it.

How terrified she was to awaken it again.

A film of sweat painted her skin as she settled back in her bed. What did my guards see while I was gone?

Your rooms as they should be, the Prophet replied. You, sleeping fitfully in your bed, as they would expect. Now, though, I must go. Sleep, Eliana. You will need it.

Wait. What are we working toward? What is it we’re going to do? Tell me.

Not yet, the Prophet replied after a moment. It’s not safe yet. You’re not strong enough. But you will be.

• • •

Occasionally, Corien would visit the Sunderlands, where mammoth mechanized pieces of weaponry called vaecordia kept the cruciata at bay.

Sometimes the palace would erupt in raucous revels that lasted for days. Corien would drag Eliana to them, ply her with food and drink, dance with her beneath a ceiling glittering with buzzing chandeliers until she collapsed dizzily into his arms. He drugged everything she consumed, she knew, hoping some combination of ingredients would draw out her power.

But they never did.

With each new failure, he would rage, and those were the worst days, when he would strap her to a chair and pummel her mind with his or chase her through the palace with horrific illusions that left her feeling mad and violent, her vision black, her ears buzzing as if clogged with angry bees. What she did in those moments, she never knew. She would wake later in her rooms with her throat raw, blood caked under her fingernails, and vague memories of someone begging her for mercy. She would stumble to her bathing room and scrub herself with scalding water as her guards watched, ever vigilant. And Jessamyn too, sharp-eyed and strangely restless in a way Eliana had never seen from her.

Sometimes luck would bend in her favor, and the revels would take place without her, or Corien would shut himself up in his rooms, reaching out to generals across the world or gorging himself in the mezzanine of his concert hall as the harried orchestra played furiously below.

And these were the hours when the Prophet came and Eliana practiced escape.

• • •

The corridor just outside her rooms, at first, and the little sitting room. Then the stairs at the corridor’s northern end. The music room downstairs, where Corien liked to pound away on a massive piano. A ballroom of rose, midnight blue, and ochre. The dormitories where the palace servants slept. The horrible dark gallery full of Rielle’s likenesses.

Days passed, and then weeks, and with each journey outside her rooms, Eliana’s muscles began to remember their former strength. She had not yet managed to knock over the candlestick, but she had learned much about the massive palace, its twists and turns, and was beginning to feel steadier in body as well as in mind.

Good, said the Prophet. When the day comes for you to leave this place, you will know how to do it well and will be able to defend yourself.

Eliana bit her tongue. Dozens of times, she had asked the Prophet the reason for this work, what day they were waiting for, what schemes the Prophet had designed.

But each time, the Prophet refused to answer. Not yet. Not until you’re stronger and I can be sure every new corner of your mind is well shielded from him.

How am I to know this isn’t some demented game? Eliana asked, bristling. You lead me through the palace night after night; you push me through these exercises of my mind and my power. And for what?

The Prophet sent her a gentle plea, followed by that fondness Eliana so craved, its warmth sweeter than any wine.

Please, trust me, little one, the Prophet said. I have deceived many in my life, but not you. Never you.

And Eliana had no choice but to believe this strange friend whose face she still did not know and hope she wasn’t a fool for daring, yet again, to trust someone who lived behind a mask.

• • •

Then, one night, when the Prophet’s familiar greeting came, it pulled Eliana from a dream so vivid it followed her into waking.

Like trying to recall a word only just beyond her reach, a tightness bent in her chest, pulling her onward. Her fingers tingled. If she closed her eyes, she could hear a thin black rumble, as from a nearing storm. If she opened her eyes and unfocused them, ripples of gold danced at the edges of her vision.

I know where we’ll go tonight, she said, slipping from her bed.

The Prophet’s curiosity curled. Where?

I saw it in my dream.

Will you tell me?

Look for yourself.

You know I don’t like to do that, the Prophet said gently. Not if I don’t have to.

I’ll show you, then.

Tell me first. Please. I must know where we’re going. There was a pause. I don’t want to invade your mind, Eliana. I’m not like him.

I’ll tell you if you tell me what it is we’re working toward. What plans you have for me. Where you are, and if I can come to you.

The Prophet fell silent.