Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

Corien stood, looking down upon her coldly. A madness lit his eyes. “No, Eliana. I see now the mistakes I made. I won’t make them this time.”

Then he plunged inside her. An inferno flaying open every fold of her mind, scorching clean every corner she had worked so desperately to hide. Everything he had done in her months at the palace was nothing compared to this. The pain sucked her breath from her, left her writhing soundlessly. She clawed at the slick floor, her gasps choked and hoarse. She tried to say a single word, to focus on a single image. Blue eyes, locked with her own. Instead of No, her prayer shifted.

Simon. Her mind screamed it, and every image of him her mind had ever stored away flew at her. She reached for them, tried to grab hold of one and press it close. Simon!

“Come, Simon!” Corien howled, jubilant. “How long can you stand to watch her like this? Hours? Days? Weeks? I am ageless. I am infinite. I can burn her until the world falls apart around us!”

“I will watch for however long it takes you to succeed, my lord,” came Simon’s flat voice.

“Such a loyal pup you are, such a beautiful crag of a man. But even you, ice-cold as you are, will tire of her screams. The human mind can only stand to witness so much pain.” He shoved Simon. “Put up your hands! Find me a thread, Simon! Do it!”

Simon obeyed, his arms rising stiffly.

Corien’s fingers, wedged deep in Eliana’s thoughts, twisted savagely. A scream did burst from her then. She was hidden in her thicket in that lush courtyard garden. In the Blue Room on the admiral’s ship. At the glittering masked ball in Festival, in her warm candlelit room at Willow. She was in Orline, black and lithe, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with Harkan at her side. She was in her bedroom, listening to Remy read her a story about the saints.

She was in Ioseph Ferracora’s arms, watching the sun rise, looking shyly up at the crumbling statue of the Lightbringer, noble and tireless on his winged horse.

Her scream found a word. “Simon!” Her fingers were rigid; her bones would soon pop from her skin. “Simon, please!”

“Simon, please! Simon, please!” Corien burst into wild laughter. “Can you feel the threads, Simon? Can you sense them coming? She won’t last long. I can feel her every shield cracking. Poor little Eliana.” He leaned close, shouted in her ear. “Poor little Eliana! So brave, so noble, so needlessly fucking stupid! You could have been happy, you idiot girl. You could have had everything you wanted, and instead you wriggle on the ground like a caught worm, soaked in your own piss!”

Eliana sucked down air like a child newly born, but it wasn’t enough. Her lungs were burning, her mind a shrieking white storm. Her castings began to warm; her power had tolerated this indignity for long enough. It swelled fast inside her, a boiling sea rushing for the shore.

She couldn’t clench her fingers; instead, she slammed her palms against the floor, willing her castings dark. A vision came: herself smashing her head on the tile until it split. Corien’s delight slithered inside her. He would allow her that after she had given him what he wanted. She could bash her head open to her heart’s content.

Soon, her mind would slip altogether. Her power would burst out and awaken Simon’s marque blood, and that would be the end. It would all have been for nothing.

The breath she drew rattled in her chest, an inward wail. “Simon!”

Then Corien flew back from Eliana, and his mind tore free of her. Something had come between them; some cold door of stone had shut on the reaching crawl of his fingers. He stumbled into a toppled statue, crashed inelegantly to the floor.

“It’s her,” he breathed. “She’s here.” And then laughter shook him, bubbling up until it became a cackle, shrill and beastly. Where Simon was, Eliana didn’t know. She reached feebly across the floor, hot red-black pain surging up to drown her.

Corien’s wild howl hurt her bleeding ears. “Show your face to me, you snake! Where are you? What have you done?”

And then, another voice, quiet and thin, only for Eliana to hear: Stay with us, little one. Just a little longer. Help is coming. Help is close.

The Prophet. The last two words Eliana’s mind formed before a gentle hand, a familiar tenderness, guided her into blissful oblivion.

33

Ludivine

“When alone in your bed at night, the dark all around you, horrors without and within, you may wonder: Is this all there is? War and death? Fear and despair? But this is the wrong question to ask. Instead, ask yourself: What will I do when he comes for me? At the moment of my death, when I look back upon my life, what will I see? Will I be proud of what I have done? Or ashamed of what I have not? Think carefully. I know shame you cannot imagine. I know guilt that crawls through the blood like disease.”

—The Word of the Prophet

In her private chamber at the heart of a vast underground labyrinth, Ludivine sat in her favorite chair: deep cushions of lavender velvet, polished cherrywood that gleamed red in the light. Three squat candles flickered on polished stone pedestals—one to her right, one to her left, one before her against the curving stone wall.

One for Rielle. One for Audric.

One for Eliana.

Her rooms were never without them.

An ornate sword rested in her lap, vibrating quietly. On its golden hilt, a tessellation of carved suns. On the dark leather of its tasseled sheath, an elaborate tapestry of tridents and daggers, spears and arrows, hammers and shields. Rays of sunlight and godsbeasts in flight—a chavaile, an ice-dragon, a firebird.

Ludivine shifted, making herself comfortable. Her stone halls were quiet, but they would not be for long. Once, they had been a wing of Vaera Bashta, collapsed and abandoned. Now, after decades of painstaking work, they had been rebuilt and scrubbed clean of everything except for her seven acolytes, their weapons and supplies, her vast collection of books.

The corridor outside her chamber whispered like wind through rushes as her acolytes prepared for the arrival of their guests. She made sure to keep seven with her always. She liked the number, and disguising any more minds than that would require her to divert too much attention from her efforts around the world.

Their excitement was orderly but obvious. They had prepared endlessly for this day, and Ludivine had seen to it that their minds were disciplined, but they were still human, still flimsy and volatile and bursting with contradictions. Their little flittering fears and hopes darted through her mind like tiny gold fish in a dark sea.

She saw herself through their eyes as they passed the door to her chamber. Pale and quiet, a young, sweet-faced woman sitting tall in her chair. Long golden hair twisted into a braided knot at her nape, a woolen gown of lilac and rose buttoned at her throat. The shoulders were square, the bodice a cunningly concealed breastplate. Even she had to watch her abdomen. Wounds there required more time to heal. n stood, looking down upon her coldly. A madness lit his eyes. “No, Eliana. I see now the mistakes I made. I won’t make them this time.”

Then he plunged inside her. An inferno flaying open every fold of her mind, scorching clean every corner she had worked so desperately to hide. Everything he had done in her months at the palace was nothing compared to this. The pain sucked her breath from her, left her writhing soundlessly. She clawed at the slick floor, her gasps choked and hoarse. She tried to say a single word, to focus on a single image. Blue eyes, locked with her own. Instead of No, her prayer shifted.

Simon. Her mind screamed it, and every image of him her mind had ever stored away flew at her. She reached for them, tried to grab hold of one and press it close. Simon!

“Come, Simon!” Corien howled, jubilant. “How long can you stand to watch her like this? Hours? Days? Weeks? I am ageless. I am infinite. I can burn her until the world falls apart around us!”

“I will watch for however long it takes you to succeed, my lord,” came Simon’s flat voice.

“Such a loyal pup you are, such a beautiful crag of a man. But even you, ice-cold as you are, will tire of her screams. The human mind can only stand to witness so much pain.” He shoved Simon. “Put up your hands! Find me a thread, Simon! Do it!”

Simon obeyed, his arms rising stiffly.

Corien’s fingers, wedged deep in Eliana’s thoughts, twisted savagely. A scream did burst from her then. She was hidden in her thicket in that lush courtyard garden. In the Blue Room on the admiral’s ship. At the glittering masked ball in Festival, in her warm candlelit room at Willow. She was in Orline, black and lithe, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with Harkan at her side. She was in her bedroom, listening to Remy read her a story about the saints.

She was in Ioseph Ferracora’s arms, watching the sun rise, looking shyly up at the crumbling statue of the Lightbringer, noble and tireless on his winged horse.

Her scream found a word. “Simon!” Her fingers were rigid; her bones would soon pop from her skin. “Simon, please!”

“Simon, please! Simon, please!” Corien burst into wild laughter. “Can you feel the threads, Simon? Can you sense them coming? She won’t last long. I can feel her every shield cracking. Poor little Eliana.” He leaned close, shouted in her ear. “Poor little Eliana! So brave, so noble, so needlessly fucking stupid! You could have been happy, you idiot girl. You could have had everything you wanted, and instead you wriggle on the ground like a caught worm, soaked in your own piss!”

Eliana sucked down air like a child newly born, but it wasn’t enough. Her lungs were burning, her mind a shrieking white storm. Her castings began to warm; her power had tolerated this indignity for long enough. It swelled fast inside her, a boiling sea rushing for the shore.

She couldn’t clench her fingers; instead, she slammed her palms against the floor, willing her castings dark. A vision came: herself smashing her head on the tile until it split. Corien’s delight slithered inside her. He would allow her that after she had given him what he wanted. She could bash her head open to her heart’s content.

Soon, her mind would slip altogether. Her power would burst out and awaken Simon’s marque blood, and that would be the end. It would all have been for nothing.

The breath she drew rattled in her chest, an inward wail. “Simon!”

Then Corien flew back from Eliana, and his mind tore free of her. Something had come between them; some cold door of stone had shut on the reaching crawl of his fingers. He stumbled into a toppled statue, crashed inelegantly to the floor.

“It’s her,” he breathed. “She’s here.” And then laughter shook him, bubbling up until it became a cackle, shrill and beastly. Where Simon was, Eliana didn’t know. She reached feebly across the floor, hot red-black pain surging up to drown her.

Corien’s wild howl hurt her bleeding ears. “Show your face to me, you snake! Where are you? What have you done?”

And then, another voice, quiet and thin, only for Eliana to hear: Stay with us, little one. Just a little longer. Help is coming. Help is close.

The Prophet. The last two words Eliana’s mind formed before a gentle hand, a familiar tenderness, guided her into blissful oblivion.

33

Ludivine

“When alone in your bed at night, the dark all around you, horrors without and within, you may wonder: Is this all there is? War and death? Fear and despair? But this is the wrong question to ask. Instead, ask yourself: What will I do when he comes for me? At the moment of my death, when I look back upon my life, what will I see? Will I be proud of what I have done? Or ashamed of what I have not? Think carefully. I know shame you cannot imagine. I know guilt that crawls through the blood like disease.”

—The Word of the Prophet

In her private chamber at the heart of a vast underground labyrinth, Ludivine sat in her favorite chair: deep cushions of lavender velvet, polished cherrywood that gleamed red in the light. Three squat candles flickered on polished stone pedestals—one to her right, one to her left, one before her against the curving stone wall.

One for Rielle. One for Audric.

One for Eliana.

Her rooms were never without them.

An ornate sword rested in her lap, vibrating quietly. On its golden hilt, a tessellation of carved suns. On the dark leather of its tasseled sheath, an elaborate tapestry of tridents and daggers, spears and arrows, hammers and shields. Rays of sunlight and godsbeasts in flight—a chavaile, an ice-dragon, a firebird.

Ludivine shifted, making herself comfortable. Her stone halls were quiet, but they would not be for long. Once, they had been a wing of Vaera Bashta, collapsed and abandoned. Now, after decades of painstaking work, they had been rebuilt and scrubbed clean of everything except for her seven acolytes, their weapons and supplies, her vast collection of books.

The corridor outside her chamber whispered like wind through rushes as her acolytes prepared for the arrival of their guests. She made sure to keep seven with her always. She liked the number, and disguising any more minds than that would require her to divert too much attention from her efforts around the world.

Their excitement was orderly but obvious. They had prepared endlessly for this day, and Ludivine had seen to it that their minds were disciplined, but they were still human, still flimsy and volatile and bursting with contradictions. Their little flittering fears and hopes darted through her mind like tiny gold fish in a dark sea.

She saw herself through their eyes as they passed the door to her chamber. Pale and quiet, a young, sweet-faced woman sitting tall in her chair. Long golden hair twisted into a braided knot at her nape, a woolen gown of lilac and rose buttoned at her throat. The shoulders were square, the bodice a cunningly concealed breastplate. Even she had to watch her abdomen. Wounds there required more time to heal.