by Cass Morris
“Lady Alhena, please, slow down,” Sempronius said, stepping out of the line and drawing her into a nook beside two brick buildings. “What are you doing out here? You should be—”
“My sister,” she said, grabbing his tunic. “Latona. You have to find her. It has to be you. She’s in trouble. I warned her that she would be, but she didn’t listen, I should’ve known she wouldn’t listen. And— and—” She shook her head violently, like a dog with water in its ear. “Your sister.”
“My sister?” he echoed. “What could my sister have to do with—?”
“You will need her magic. There’s Fracture at work here. It took me so long to work it out, I’m sorry, I should’ve been faster, but I’m sure of it now. The splinters—Fracture magic—Oh, if only Proserpina’s messages weren’t always so symbolically rendered—” Alhena’s eyes were red-rimmed as though she had been crying, but she appeared lucid, despite her rapid speech. “Sempronius, please, I do know how I sound. Don’t think I don’t know that. But I am sure of this. I would not trouble you if I weren’t.”
Sempronius searched her face a moment longer, wondering how much she knew, what secrets her visions might have revealed. Then he nodded. “I know you wouldn’t. Walk with me. We’ll fetch my sister. Tell me everything I need to know.”
* * *
Before Latona gained the door of the warehouse, a suffocating pressure built all around her body, as though she had been wrapped tightly in heavy, damp blankets. Through it all was a drawing cold that reached into the core of her and fed on the warmth it found there. It squeezed stiff rigor into her muscles, the very force of it holding her upright—and then, just as swiftly, it was gone, and she crashed to the dirt floor.
“Don’t test me,” Pinarius said. “You haven’t the strength.”
Latona knew, however much it shamed her, that there was truth in what he said. She had been pouring out energy, her own mingled with what she had absorbed from the flames, with no thought of protecting herself. ‘Much power but little control . . . stupid,’ she chastised herself. Inattention had made her easy prey, especially to one such as him. Fracture and Spirit were inimical elements, like Water and Fire, at once dangerous and vulnerable to each other: the sheer willpower of Spirit against the fickle edge of Fracture.
She could not surrender. ‘Will not, I will not.’ Rabirus’s hopes for her conversion and potential usefulness aside, instinct told her that surrender to his pet mage would mean not capitulation but death, and so her Spirit magic flared out, attempting to shield her from Fracture’s predation. But his control was more refined, and every attempt she made, he simply drained away.
Propelled by defiance, she struggled to rise. Her palms scraped against the gravelly dirt, and she was only able to make it to her hands and knees. “You . . . are a disgrace to the gods.” She could scarcely draw breath to speak. “You . . . sully . . . their gifts.”
But Pinarius laughed. “I wear the robes of Janus, and true, he may find me wanting. But my soul answers to another.” He dangled the bronze medallion between his fingers. “Lady Discordia sets a different standard.”
Latona’s head was swimming with the effort to stay conscious. “Discordia?” she gasped. It made sense—a twisted, sickening sense.
Pinarius knelt in front of Latona. “Rabirus may have qualms about killing so fair and fine-blooded an opponent, Lady, but I assure you, I do not.” He inhaled deeply, as though catching a scent. “Your magical signature is dazzling. Coruscate. Do you have any idea how delicious it is, to break and devour a power that radiant?” Tears coursed down Latona’s cheeks, and though some were born of effort and frustration, others were plain, raw fear. “So go on. Burn as brightly as you can. I will swallow every last bit of your magic down into the void, and leave you behind, a colder corpse than most.”
Latona knew if she could not find a way to draw her powers back in, to restore the Spirit energy to her own body, she would soon be nothing but an empty husk. She tried to count her breaths, but with the spongy suffocation wrapped around her, it felt impossible. The blurriness in her eyes was turning to blackness, first in spots, then taking over her sight entirely. The last thing she saw before it claimed her was the door behind Pinarius opening and light from the street spilling in. A flicker of hope rose in her chest, but Pinarius Scaeva’s consuming void gulped it down, and she knew no more.
XLII
“Step away from her.”
If the Fracture mage was surprised to see not only Sempronius Tarren but his sister standing in the doorway to the warehouse, he managed not to show it. Sempronius’s jaw was tight with a cold rage, and Vibia shook with fury for this twisted use of Fracture’s power. “That’s Pinarius Scaeva,” Vibia whispered. “A priest of Janus.” Revulsion envenomed her words.
It was worse than Vibia would immediately realize. She would see the tangle of fissures and malicious intent, but Sempronius, touched enough by Water to see all of his opponent’s workings, could read the whole story of what had happened. Pinarius had ripped into Latona with the unforgiving force of a boar’s tusk, then used her own strength against her, drawing her essence out and pouring it into a gaping maw.
‘But that,’ Sempronius thought, ‘I might be able to do something with.’
It made sense now—the chaos in the Forum, the trap when Sempronius attempted to track it. The aspect of Fracture that this mage was using was the sort that stole from other powers, mauling the energy of the other elements. But here, in his mania to defeat Latona’s Spirit magic, the mage had misstepped. Fracture could tear open a sinkhole, but Shadow could control it.
“Vibia,” he said, hardly putting breath behind the shape of the words, “break the link.”
Vibia’s skill was nowhere near as refined as Pinarius’s, but a strong enough blast would serve the purpose. She just had to find the right point. Standing in the doorway, a place of strength for those who drew their power from edges and boundaries, Vibia groped for the point of change in the pattern—and found it echoing out of Pinarius himself, a faint and ragged fringe of panic. They had surprised him, thrown off his intentions. That was a weakness she could strike at.
Vibia sent severing energy there, pricking at his insecurity. It shook his control—a loss no Fracture mage could afford. Vibia’s interference put a crack in his confidence, and that was enough to shatter the concatenation he had built.
There was a flash of bronze-tinged light, followed by a strong wave of magical energy that staggered Sempronius and nearly knocked Vibia off her feet. Latona’s body relaxed, and Sempronius breathed a little easier.
Except now a new danger set the hairs on his arms prickling upright. Tearing apart the link between Latona, Pinarius, and the sinkhole of energy had saved Latona and dizzied the Fracture mage, but the maw did not disappear. A thoughtless, undirected devourer of energy—and of souls—spun between the mages, seeking something to latch onto. Of such things were the lemures born: haunting spirits that fed on the hearts and minds of whoever they encountered. Melancholy and madness followed in their wake.
Vibia didn’t have the strength to control it, and Pinarius was still recovering from the reeling pain of having his control shattered. So Sempronius stepped forth to confront the void, intent on snapping it shut before it could spawn any hungry ghosts.
But as soon as his own magic stretched out to touch it, his resolve faded. He felt the maw’s hunger as his own, a dark mirror of his ambition. It tasted him, his goals, his frustrations, and it offered a deal. Feeding one of them could feed both.
‘Use me,’ it seemed to whisper. ‘Play with me. Make me your own.’
What a temptation. To pocket a sinkhole like that in his own power. To shape it, summon it forth when he desired, create lemures who would feed on his enemies and sap them of their very will to stand against him. What doors that would open. What great works he could perform, with a force like this ready for the becko
ning. ‘It would be the next best thing to holding Death itself on a leash.’
Sempronius’s lips parted, but no words came. The world around him seemed to be fading to black; the walls of the warehouse, Pinarius’s staggered form, even Latona, still prostrate, and Vibia at his shoulder, all seemed to be receding. The only thing that appeared real, tangible, was the maw’s gaping whorl, calling out to him.
“How slow it will be, otherwise. The long road to victory, so many obstacles, a slog, held back by lesser men, fighting for every inch . . .” Its voice was like a nymph’s song, lulling and seductive. “And for what? You know the world you fashion will be superior. You know the people will be happier. You know it will work, so efficiently, prosperously. So why not just take it?” The darkness was like what he felt when brushing against the shades of the underworld, eerily compelling, a taste of the inevitable undertow. “Use me, use me . . . Take the power you know is your right . . . Reach out and claim what is owed you . . .”
The abyss stared at Sempronius, enticing, and Sempronius took an unconscious half-step forward.
“Brother,” Vibia hissed, and her familiar impatience snapped him back to himself.
He shook his head, clearing the haze of dark attraction. ‘No. Not that way. I will strive for the world I want, but not that way.’ And he refocused his control over the maw.
It was like grabbing a bull by the horns and attempting to steer it, but Sempronius refused to let a glorified metaphysical trench get the better of him. Raging at having lost its grip on him, the maw demanded something to feed on before it would close—so Sempronius gave it Pinarius Scaeva.
Pinarius had been staggering to his feet, but fell again, seizing in horrible jerks and spasms as his own creation devoured his energy. Beside Sempronius, Vibia flinched. It was what all Fracture mages feared, falling into a hellish void of their own making. All magic could betray you, but Fracture would do it the quickest. As Sempronius watched, Pinarius’s skin turned an ashy gray and spittle frothed at his mouth. Sempronius tried not to think that this was what the darkness had offered him, or of how good it felt to hold the reins of destruction. Finally, he moved to close it off—like tugging on pursestrings, slipping the greedy mouth closed.
* * *
Vibia could not see her brother’s workings, but she felt it when the chasm snapped shut. She drew a deep breath, her lungs feeling as though they had never known such relief. Beside her, Sempronius looked unsettled, his pupils unnaturally dilated. Deciding to give him a moment to himself, Vibia walked over to the two prone figures.
For her brother’s sake, she checked Vitellia Latona first. The woman was breathing, though shallowly. Vibia laid two fingers against her temple, checking for signs of permanent damage done by Pinarius’s vile abuse. “She should be fine,” Vibia announced over her shoulder. “She’ll probably be ill for days, but she’ll recover.” Sempronius nodded dumbly as Vibia strode over to Pinarius Scaeva. Him, she did not feel compelled to treat gently. Her dainty slippered foot kicked out to turn him onto his back, and her lip curled in disgust as she laid her fingers to his temple. “Unfortunately, he might recover as well,” she said after a moment.
“I was quite hoping . . .” Sempronius’s voice was dry and cracking.
“I know. So was I. He’s broken, but . . .” Vibia stood, wishing she could wash her hands. “His mind might put itself back together, given time and rest. You should kill him.” She folded her arms tight over her chest. She felt fragile, brittle with the effort she had expended in the past few minutes. No one knew the limits of her power better than she did. “He knows too much, now. He saw you working magic, and if you think he won’t run straight to Rabirus with that information—”
“I know.” Sempronius moved stiffly to stand over the fallen Discordian. “He remains a priest of Janus. Even if he has defiled the office, I have no wish to bring a deity’s wrath down upon my head with his death.”
“So what do you—?”
“Break his mind. Make it so he can’t remember his own name, much less what happened tonight.”
“Brother, I don’t know if I have the skill—”
“You do,” he said, stepping away from Pinarius and towards the door. “At least, you will, with help. Alhena? If you would be so good.”
Tiptoeing, Alhena crept into the building. She was white-faced and clinging to her girl’s arm, and Vibia could feel the crackle of her terror when she saw Latona on the ground. ‘Poor mite. We should not have left her out there.’ But it had been a necessity, lest she witness Sempronius’s display of power. ‘However high her regard for my brother, she could not be trusted with that.’
“Ohhh . . .” Alhena swayed uneasily as she came closer. “So that’s who it was.” Watching a tangle of thoughts play out on the younger woman’s face, Vibia felt a pang of sympathy. Life had to be hard enough, with such unusual siblings, without the burdens of Proserpina on her as well. And Vibia knew what it was to wrestle with a demanding and unpredictable element.
“Lady Alhena,” Sempronius said. “You are a mage of Time, which means, I think, you could hold some power over memory.” Her nod was uncertain. Sempronius took her gently by the arm and passed her off to Vibia. “My sister, as you know, is a mage of Fracture. I think together, you could see to it that this traitor to your arts never hurts anyone else as he hurt your sister.”
Alhena’s beatific smile was startlingly out of place, given the circumstances. “Oh yes. I think I can do that. And it would be my great pleasure.” Vibia thought she knew why. When someone wronged Sempronius, she could easily curse them with a smile on her face. Alhena, it seemed, had the same sororal instinct. Vibia approved. Vengeance could be soothing—all the more so when applied righteously.
Sempronius patted her shoulder. “Good. Can you stay here with Vibia until I send my men to bring you home and to deal with what’s left of him?”
“Certainly,” Alhena agreed.
Vibia was less compliant. “What are you—?” But she clamped her mouth shut as she watched Sempronius lift Latona up. She was still limp, her hair falling over his arm like a tangled golden waterfall. ‘And what a pretty picture that makes,’ Vibia thought sourly.
“I’m taking her to Rubellia at the Temple of Venus. Whatever Pinarius did to her, Rubellia may be able to help.”
“Not the Temple of Juno? Oh. Of course not.”
“She’ll be more . . . comfortable with Rubellia.”
Vibia nodded curtly.
“Not regretting coming to assist me, are you?”
“Of course not, brother,” Vibia said, her voice tight. “You asked it of me.” She turned away from him, kneeling down by Pinarius’s head. She splayed her fingers over his brow, calling the rupturing magic to her once again as Alhena bent down beside her. “And you know how seriously I take my duty to the family.”
* * *
When Latona came to, her first fogged thought was that her vision had not come back with her. Everything had gone so dark. It took her a moment to realize that night had fallen in the time since she had been hauled into that warehouse. Her next realization was that she was no longer in the warehouse, and only then did she notice, with as much alarm as her drowsy senses could summon, that she was being carried through the streets of Aven. “What—? Where am—?”
“Awake, are you? Good. Put your arms around my neck, if you can.”
Latona obeyed only once she was able to place the voice. “Sempronius, how did you—?”
“Your sister,” he said. “Alhena. She—”
“Had a vision,” Latona finished. “Oh, if I’d listened . . .” Her head fell into the crook of his shoulder, and only then did she realize how utterly inappropriate it was. She wriggled against him. “I can stand.”
“I doubt it.”
“If anyone sees us—”
“I’d imagine everyone has more important things
on their minds this evening.”
“The fire!” she gasped, memory flooding back to her. “Is it—?”
“More or less under control,” Sempronius said.
Latona knew she ought to make Sempronius put her down, but she felt weak as a half-drowned kitten. “So foolish . . .” she murmured. “If I hadn’t run off on my own, I wouldn’t have needed rescuing . . .”
“You saved my life not a month ago. I owed you one,” Sempronius said.
“Please . . . put me down . . . this isn’t . . .”
He did, but not before side-stepping into an alleyway between two shops. He let her drop softly, making sure her feet were firm on the ground. Even then, he found he could not release her entirely. His fingertips ghosted over her arms. She was sticky with sweat, streaked with soot, and, now, shivering in the December cold. Too, she was vulnerable—a proud Vitellian daughter who had let the glamours of confidence and unflappability drop, too exhausted to hold them up. A hunter would be poised to exploit such a display, to aim for the exposed wound. Shadow’s influence tempted him, as it so often did. Usually he mastered the impulse by reminding himself of the dark road such indulgences could lead to—roads like the one Pinarius Scaeva’s maw had just shown him. Yet with Latona, he felt not only his internal sense of honor, but an instinct to protect, to defend.
Unusual, but not unwelcome.
Latona’s head was still swimming, and it took effort just to concentrate on what was up and what was down. Sempronius’s voice penetrated the fog, though, asking, “How do you feel?”
“Dizzy,” Latona said. Her voice was thready, and her palms fell flat against his chest as she tried to steady herself. Each breath felt like a precious gift, and yet her mind still floated in strange detachment from her body. Sempronius, though, was solid, and real, and warm. Touching him reassured her that she had not, in fact, died in that warehouse.