Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

She raced through Elysium with no sense of where to go next, desperate to call for the Prophet. Ostia’s light had darkened, washing the city in an angry purple-red, as if every tower had been dashed with blood. The Prophet had told her that her friends would soon arrive and then they could act, they could meet at last. But when? And who?

But she asked the Prophet nothing and kept her mind firmly shut. Corien would be looking for her. Using her mind to seek the Prophet would light her up like a beacon.

Instead, she imagined her river, the cool satin currents of it carrying her swiftly into the city’s congested heart. She climbed a low wall, raced up a slowly winding staircase to one of the city’s higher levels. Cruciata streamed past her, their tails lashing, their wild calls a ravenous chorus. Some—feline, quick and yowling—darted over rooftops and up walls with ease. Shrieking flocks of raptors glided fast overhead. They dove and pounced, feasting upon anything that moved—the prisoners of Vaera Bashta, ripped from their own kills, and the citizens of Elysium in their shredded finery.

None of them touched Eliana, but she didn’t think their gratitude would last forever. She needed to find a safe hiding place before their mood changed.

Remembering the rooftop courtyard from earlier that night, she turned sharply left, then right, then up two broad flights of stained stone steps. She could have wept with relief to see the familiar narrow staircase, the apartment building with its yawning cruciata gargoyles.

Over her shoulder, she glimpsed the cruciata still flooding down from the sky. They spread fast across the city in rivers of darkness. Soon they would find the bridges, the tent cities sprawling across the rocky fields beyond.

She turned away from the sight, hands in fists as she ran. She would kill them once they had served their purpose. When the Emperor was defeated and the Empire had fallen, she would destroy any beast that still lived and close both Ostia and the Gate.

She only had to survive until then.

On the rooftop, on the terrace bordered with curling white stone, she found the ivy-draped arbor she had hidden beneath only hours before, and froze. Under the arbor, two small boys huddled in the arms of an old man and a woman plump with child.

The elder boy had his hand clamped over the younger one’s mouth. All of them stared at Eliana until she held up her hands, shook her head, and smiled. They relaxed, smiled back. The woman even scooted aside to make room for her.

Then Corien found her.

He appeared suddenly, striding across the terrace. His coat was pristine—long and black, pressed and embroidered, buttoned at his shoulder with a set of gold wings.

One of the little boys cried out. Corien snarled under his breath, flung out his arm. The next moment, everyone hiding beneath the arbor crumpled to the ground, their eyes empty.

Eliana knew it was futile to run but tried it anyway. Corien kicked her legs, sent her crashing to the roof. Her castings, dull and dark, clattered against the stone.

He grabbed her hair, wrenched her hard to her feet. She cried out, scalp stinging and eyes watering, and tried to whirl and punch him. Her exhausted mind remembered too late the knives strapped to her waist.

Corien found them first and ripped her belt from her. Arabeth skidded across the stone and into the shadows. He tossed the other knives over the side of the roof. He said nothing, which terrified her. He loved to hear himself talk, loved how he could make people squirm with his words. But even his mind-speak had vanished. His face was a beautiful white mask of fury.

He dragged her toward the steps, one hand in her hair and the other clutching a handful of her gown. The simple, primal part of her mind that knew only that she was prey pounded on her skull, begging her to scream for help. But any scream would go unnoticed in the demented arena Elysium had become, and if she screamed with her mind, Corien could find the Prophet.

She gasped for breath as he pulled her down the stairs, his iron grip sending hot spikes of pain down her spine. But she would not allow her power to rise and defend her. She could feel its anger; it had not been long since she had used it. It would be so easy, it told her, to let it out.

WE RISE

The empirium roared at her, its blazing fists punching through her veins.

“No,” she whispered, begging it to quiet. “No, no, no.”

Corien paid no attention to her, his pace relentless. She had never prayed harder in her life. A single, simple word: No. No power, no fire, no light. She pushed her entire body into the word. Her castings stayed cold in her palms.

A cloud of black bloomed before her eyes, lifting only when Corien threw her to the ground.

She blinked, the wind knocked out of her. Rielle’s flat, brass eyes stared down at her. They were back in the palace, in the gallery of her mother. Eliana lay inert as Corien swung a sword through a spun-glass rendering of Rielle, slashed an oil painting with the blade’s tip. He seized the brass statue perched on its pedestal above Eliana and flung it into the shadows. The noise was deafening, all the more so for his silence.

Eliana panted, sweat burning her eyes. She couldn’t move much, but she could see he had cleared a space around where she lay, a circle of destruction.

At last, he spoke.

“This is it, Eliana,” he said, his voice vibrating with something she couldn’t name. Appetite, or fury, or maybe exhaustion. “This is the end of our game.”

She strained to look at him. If she saw his face, would she know what he felt? She could sense nothing of him in her mind. He was keeping himself away from her.

Then his wide grin appeared. He was not alone.

Simon stood rigid at his side, Corien’s hand tight around his wrist. Simon’s lip was swollen and bloody from Corien’s backhand hours earlier. For a fleeting moment, Simon’s eyes locked with hers. Blue of ice, blue of fire. The look shook her, unraveling what was left of her fraying calm.

“Simon?” she whispered.

“Yes, Simon’s here too,” said Corien. “I assume you remember what he can do? He’s going to do it for me, here, now. I’m going to tear your goddamned power out of your veins once and for all. I’m going to batter open your mind and dig until I can twist everything you are around my fingers.”

She stared at Corien, her mouth dry, her heart beating so fast it left her buzzing. There was a twitchiness to him that she had never seen before, his face pulsing at the temple, at the corner of his upper lip.

She dared to look hard at his black eyes and wondered how many minds they held inside them—and how close they were to slipping from his grasp.

“I’ll die,” she told him. “Then you’ll have nothing.”

He crouched to stroke her cheek. “What do I care, once Simon has sent me back to her? I’ll have your mother. I can be rid of you at last.”

Frantic, she tried to rise. “You don’t want to see her. You failed her once—you lost her once. You’ll do it again.” aced through Elysium with no sense of where to go next, desperate to call for the Prophet. Ostia’s light had darkened, washing the city in an angry purple-red, as if every tower had been dashed with blood. The Prophet had told her that her friends would soon arrive and then they could act, they could meet at last. But when? And who?

But she asked the Prophet nothing and kept her mind firmly shut. Corien would be looking for her. Using her mind to seek the Prophet would light her up like a beacon.

Instead, she imagined her river, the cool satin currents of it carrying her swiftly into the city’s congested heart. She climbed a low wall, raced up a slowly winding staircase to one of the city’s higher levels. Cruciata streamed past her, their tails lashing, their wild calls a ravenous chorus. Some—feline, quick and yowling—darted over rooftops and up walls with ease. Shrieking flocks of raptors glided fast overhead. They dove and pounced, feasting upon anything that moved—the prisoners of Vaera Bashta, ripped from their own kills, and the citizens of Elysium in their shredded finery.

None of them touched Eliana, but she didn’t think their gratitude would last forever. She needed to find a safe hiding place before their mood changed.

Remembering the rooftop courtyard from earlier that night, she turned sharply left, then right, then up two broad flights of stained stone steps. She could have wept with relief to see the familiar narrow staircase, the apartment building with its yawning cruciata gargoyles.

Over her shoulder, she glimpsed the cruciata still flooding down from the sky. They spread fast across the city in rivers of darkness. Soon they would find the bridges, the tent cities sprawling across the rocky fields beyond.

She turned away from the sight, hands in fists as she ran. She would kill them once they had served their purpose. When the Emperor was defeated and the Empire had fallen, she would destroy any beast that still lived and close both Ostia and the Gate.

She only had to survive until then.

On the rooftop, on the terrace bordered with curling white stone, she found the ivy-draped arbor she had hidden beneath only hours before, and froze. Under the arbor, two small boys huddled in the arms of an old man and a woman plump with child.

The elder boy had his hand clamped over the younger one’s mouth. All of them stared at Eliana until she held up her hands, shook her head, and smiled. They relaxed, smiled back. The woman even scooted aside to make room for her.

Then Corien found her.

He appeared suddenly, striding across the terrace. His coat was pristine—long and black, pressed and embroidered, buttoned at his shoulder with a set of gold wings.

One of the little boys cried out. Corien snarled under his breath, flung out his arm. The next moment, everyone hiding beneath the arbor crumpled to the ground, their eyes empty.

Eliana knew it was futile to run but tried it anyway. Corien kicked her legs, sent her crashing to the roof. Her castings, dull and dark, clattered against the stone.

He grabbed her hair, wrenched her hard to her feet. She cried out, scalp stinging and eyes watering, and tried to whirl and punch him. Her exhausted mind remembered too late the knives strapped to her waist.

Corien found them first and ripped her belt from her. Arabeth skidded across the stone and into the shadows. He tossed the other knives over the side of the roof. He said nothing, which terrified her. He loved to hear himself talk, loved how he could make people squirm with his words. But even his mind-speak had vanished. His face was a beautiful white mask of fury.

He dragged her toward the steps, one hand in her hair and the other clutching a handful of her gown. The simple, primal part of her mind that knew only that she was prey pounded on her skull, begging her to scream for help. But any scream would go unnoticed in the demented arena Elysium had become, and if she screamed with her mind, Corien could find the Prophet.

She gasped for breath as he pulled her down the stairs, his iron grip sending hot spikes of pain down her spine. But she would not allow her power to rise and defend her. She could feel its anger; it had not been long since she had used it. It would be so easy, it told her, to let it out.

WE RISE

The empirium roared at her, its blazing fists punching through her veins.

“No,” she whispered, begging it to quiet. “No, no, no.”

Corien paid no attention to her, his pace relentless. She had never prayed harder in her life. A single, simple word: No. No power, no fire, no light. She pushed her entire body into the word. Her castings stayed cold in her palms.

A cloud of black bloomed before her eyes, lifting only when Corien threw her to the ground.

She blinked, the wind knocked out of her. Rielle’s flat, brass eyes stared down at her. They were back in the palace, in the gallery of her mother. Eliana lay inert as Corien swung a sword through a spun-glass rendering of Rielle, slashed an oil painting with the blade’s tip. He seized the brass statue perched on its pedestal above Eliana and flung it into the shadows. The noise was deafening, all the more so for his silence.

Eliana panted, sweat burning her eyes. She couldn’t move much, but she could see he had cleared a space around where she lay, a circle of destruction.

At last, he spoke.

“This is it, Eliana,” he said, his voice vibrating with something she couldn’t name. Appetite, or fury, or maybe exhaustion. “This is the end of our game.”

She strained to look at him. If she saw his face, would she know what he felt? She could sense nothing of him in her mind. He was keeping himself away from her.

Then his wide grin appeared. He was not alone.

Simon stood rigid at his side, Corien’s hand tight around his wrist. Simon’s lip was swollen and bloody from Corien’s backhand hours earlier. For a fleeting moment, Simon’s eyes locked with hers. Blue of ice, blue of fire. The look shook her, unraveling what was left of her fraying calm.

“Simon?” she whispered.

“Yes, Simon’s here too,” said Corien. “I assume you remember what he can do? He’s going to do it for me, here, now. I’m going to tear your goddamned power out of your veins once and for all. I’m going to batter open your mind and dig until I can twist everything you are around my fingers.”

She stared at Corien, her mouth dry, her heart beating so fast it left her buzzing. There was a twitchiness to him that she had never seen before, his face pulsing at the temple, at the corner of his upper lip.

She dared to look hard at his black eyes and wondered how many minds they held inside them—and how close they were to slipping from his grasp.

“I’ll die,” she told him. “Then you’ll have nothing.”

He crouched to stroke her cheek. “What do I care, once Simon has sent me back to her? I’ll have your mother. I can be rid of you at last.”

Frantic, she tried to rise. “You don’t want to see her. You failed her once—you lost her once. You’ll do it again.”