TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “Free will, Tyrus; salvation is yours to earn. Azmon was tricked by the overlords of the Nine Hells, yet he continues to murder and conquer in their name. He has sealed his fate. This is your chance to renounce the demons, your only chance, or you choose to side with them for all eternity. Protect the child. Guide her out of the shedim lands. Only then may we help you.”

  The voice faded away, and the grayness blackened, closed in on him. It felt cold, like dying, and unlike the thousands of times he had cheated death in battle, he had no opponent to fight. Hopelessness clenched his throat as he sunk into a black pool of goo. He flailed for purchase, gasped for air. Not like this. Let him face a stronger warrior. Let him die a natural death.

  He did not want to drown in the dark.

  Tyrus awoke with the word “Ishma” on his lips. A slick layer of sweat covered him. He reached for his sword, determined to protect her before he realized he was alone. His weapon, sheathed, leaned againt the cot, and he gripped the handle, ready to lash out at an attacker. His pulse, his breathing, it felt like he had been fighting, and he scanned the tent for danger. Quiet canvas walls stood there, peaceful. He blinked and fought a yawn. It felt so real, but details slipped away as he tried to remember the bizarre dream.

  “Ishma?”

  She should be near him, as though he needed to defend her—from something—but the images faded. A red tower, the Red Sorceress, a threat against the heir, he stood, sword in hand and no opponent to attack. He knew he looked foolish, but his instincts screamed danger.

  A clamor of bells shattered the night.

  He moved without thinking, heading for the tent door, sword raised, and the questions came. Who had raised the alarm? Some new resistance? A counterattack from Dura and her knights? Elmar and a few of his clerks found him before he left the tent.

  “There is no attack, but something has happened to the empress.” Elmar held his men back. “I was the one who raised the alarm, milord.”

  Tyrus gathered himself. Elmar was right to be fearful. Tyrus had hurt men before when he was excited and rushing around. His runes made pushing through a crowd a bone-breaking assault.

  “Ishma?”

  Tyrus stopped himself from saying more. The coincidence chilled him. He remembered more then: the angel’s blue glow, the heir in danger. Less than memories, and more like emotions, tinged with dread. He had failed the empress.

  “The emperor summons you and the whole court.” Elmar gestured at his assistants, who bore the plate armor. “I don’t know anything else.”

  Tyrus put on his costume again: a black-armored enforcer. A part of him wanted to sprint to the empress and avenge her but knew the bone lords would mock him for overreacting. He must be cold, distant, calculating. As the plates were fitted and buckled down they seemed to weigh more than usual. He had performed this role before, policing the nobles for the emperor, and suspected dark work needed to be done. The emperor would ask him to find whoever had hurt the empress and make them disappear, but before he made them talk. The suspicion triggered a dozen faces of other nobles who had schemed for the throne and found Tyrus’s knife instead.

  The last of his armor in place, Tyrus took a deep breath and left his tent. Azmon needed his enforcer, and Tyrus must play the part.

  IV

  Tyrus wore an ugly grimace as he marched to the throne room. He was not acting. The dream kept pulling his thoughts to Ishma, and he remembered a detail. The voice said she had betrayed the empire. Goosebumps ran down his arms. He might have to execute her.

  Everyone scuttled away from him, opening doors and giving him a wide path, refusing to make eye contact. Something bad had happened. The bone lords he found, making their way to the summons, gave him wary glances. Azmon must be furious, which meant he would give Tyrus black deeds to do.

  His officers saluted, and he nodded in return. They at least looked honest. Everyone else stank of fear, which Tyrus assumed was guilt. What had happened? He told himself that the sight of the Damned armed and angry intimidated them. Not everyone was guilty. He inspired dread, but that was his purpose: to enforce the emperor’s will.

  That dream, that soft voice in his head—filling him with doubts and regrets and nostalgia—confused him. His enemies made weapons of his own memories. The dream reminded him of the old days, before the beasts and sorcery. The loss of the old empire left him hollow as though he had buried an old friend. Rosh darkened by degrees. The monsters were worse this year than they had been ten years ago, but he didn’t notice them as much, the incremental changes, until the day came when Tyrus bore a black name and inspired fear in people who should be allies.

  He didn’t like the empire he had helped build.

  Azmon sat on Lael’s throne. At first, the emperor seemed no different than on any other day. Tyrus saw a tightness in his eyes, a tension in his shoulders. He controlled himself well, but anger ate away at the man. Tyrus ignored the cluster of black robes, bone lords and ladies, standing in a semicircle around the royal dais. He marched forward and knelt.

  “Your Excellency.”

  “Empress Ishma has had her child, alone, it would seem, and without any of the royal physicians.” Azmon’s eyes glared at the bone lords. “One of her servants is missing. As is my heir.”

  Tyrus swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. The dream had been real. The seraphim visited him and conspired against the emperor. Or the shedim schemed against him and Azmon. A bigger game loomed around him, and he had no idea what the rules were.

  “Is the empress well?” Tyrus asked.

  Azmon frowned. “She has lost blood and blacked out. The physicians are seeing to her.”

  Tyrus waited.

  “I know the Lord Marshal has more pressing concerns. Let Shinar burn. I want my child returned. Handpick your best men. This requires a delicate touch. I will be displeased if the girl finds her way into a beast’s stomach or if an accident should befall my family.”

  Azmon’s eyes drifted over the court. Tyrus could read him well and wondered the same questions: Which of these nobles had helped the servant steal the child? How could an empress give birth in secret? Where would the conspirators strike next?

  “I understand, Your Excellency. I will rescue the child.”

  He and Azmon shared a private look, a shorthand from a lifetime of friendship, a widening of eyes and pursed lips to talk without breaking etiquette. The emperor’s face said, Look at these fools. No one can help me. Tyrus agreed with a grimace.

  Lilith spoke. “Your Excellency, Tyrus is not the only one who can be delicate. No one can match my control over the beasts. Allow me to help find the heir.”

  “You are delicate?” Azmon’s glare chilled the room. “Like the way you secured the great library? Do you know how many ancient scrolls, how many ancient runes, are lost forever because of your… gentle touch?”

  Lilith paled. Tyrus stood to break the tension. Azmon was in a murderous mood, and Tyrus hoped Lilith did not press her luck a second time. He took no joy in the way she swallowed her pride and apologized to Azmon because Tyrus had no interest in hurting her. Their rivalry was simpler. She meddled with his army.

  “Lord Marshal, I want to see my child before the sun sets again.”

  “Then it shall be so.”

  “Bring this servant to us. Alive is simpler. Dead is just as good.”

  No one liked the sound of that. The court shifted and coughed. Azmon could do things to a corpse other than turn it into a monster.

  Tyrus bowed. “As you wish.”

  V

  Tyrus pushed past the doorway to the empress’s rooms. Useless people filled the space. Unlike the bone lords, who all wore black robes and carried silver rods to represent rank, these were the parrots of the court covered in silks and satins and jewels. They were the family and wives of the bone lords. Most of the nonsensical banquets and rules of etiquette were designed by these people to fill their empty hours. The gaggle of noblewomen
and physicians protested.

  Tyrus held the door open. “Out.”

  “The empress is ill.” A physician stepped forward. “I must insist that you leave, Lord Marshal.”

  Tyrus straightened his back. He towered over the room, a full head taller than any of the nobles and twice as wide. The room stilled. He had met the physician many times and always failed to remember his name—a wordy man, scrawny and annoying. He lacked rank to command the Lord Marshal.

  “Someone helped kidnap the heir of Rosh.” No one met his glare. “Out. Now. But you had better not leave the palace until I sort out what’s what.”

  The ladies in waiting hopped forward and paraded through the door. The physicians, more hesitant, followed. The threat of treason motivated even learned men.

  Alone, he pushed past the second door into the empress’s bedchamber. The number of bloody sheets stopped him, piled on the floor, sitting there with a small army of servants waiting outside the door. He knew it was late, but what was wrong with these people? He almost called the physician back to berate him. Ishma deserved better.

  “I’m decent. Not that you bothered to ask.”

  Her voice came from the four-post bed. Tyrus approached and pulled back a curtain. Candles on a nightstand cast shadows across her face, but her green eyes shimmered. She seemed pale, exhausted, an unnatural white made more prominent by thick black hair and dark lines under her eyes. Someone had dressed her and brushed her hair, but Tyrus caught the scent of old sweat and blood. She smelled like a farmhand.

  He swallowed. He wore his costume, but she did not wear hers. The Empress of Rosh stunned people when she walked into a room. Her beauty commanded an awe that rivaled his ability to inspire fear, and he felt out of place seeing her in bed. The thought of those physicians poking and prodding her after her ordeal angered him enough to grind his teeth. Why had no one drawn her a bath? Why was there no food?

  He asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Her smile brought life into a weary face. “Will the Lord Marshal wait on me?”

  “If you need me, empress.”

  “I need sleep. I’m exhausted, and no one will leave me alone.” She rubbed her eyes. “One of those idiots wants to use leeches on me, and I’m tired of arguing with him.”

  “Give me his name.”

  “I don’t think so. He means well for a stubborn old fool.”

  “As you wish.”

  The dream returned to him, a voice, ethereal, whispering to him that she committed treason. He didn’t want to believe it, but the room made no sense. She gave birth without anyone knowing? She must have bribed the physicians.

  “What happened?”

  She seemed confused. “The labor happened so fast, much faster than I thought. And I blacked out.”

  “You didn’t call for help?”

  “I did. Einin came.”

  “No one else?”

  “There was no time.”

  “Is that normal? I thought it took longer.”

  “I don’t know how long it took. Things happened too fast.”

  She told a story about Einin trying to help her, the pain being too much for her to walk, how she struggled to sit in her bed. Tyrus felt himself blushing when she described them fighting with her nightgown and the bedsheets. He coughed. She grew quiet.

  The story sounded too simple. Babies don’t pop out. He had never seen a birth but had heard enough stories of men waiting hours for their sons to be born. To say that meant accusing her of lying. Again, a memory of that voice—Ishma sent the child to Dura—that he refused to believe. If she had committed treason, he would have to hurt her, and he could never do that.

  “And when you woke, she was gone?”

  Ishma nodded. She had sad eyes. No tears. No hysterics. If Tyrus was a new father and his child was stolen, he would be furious, raving. Ishma seemed wary.

  “I apologize, empress, but Azmon is upset.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “You seem… less upset.”

  “You will rescue her. She won’t make it far.”

  Not the response he wanted to hear. Tyrus pushed down an uneasy feeling. Maybe she was not fully recovered, light-headed, or they had given her something for the pain. He found himself inventing excuses for Ishma when he should be interrogating her.

  “It’s a girl?”

  “Yes, Princess Marah Pathros of Rosh. She has white hair.”

  “She has hair?”

  “A little hair. Like a halo.”

  Tyrus looked around the room, searching for evidence, clues to act on. All he saw was a bedchamber. The mundane banter felt wrong. His instincts screamed at him, and he kept thinking about the dream. She might have done this thing alone. He doubted if the other servants knew anything.

  “Tell me of Einin.”

  The empress told a boring story, nothing special in her history other than she was a cousin of Ishma’s and from Narbor. Besides that, a minor family with a thin link to the Narboran crown, the seventh child of nine, positioned with the empress through her father’s connections with the Imperial Guard. They had no endgame he could imagine for kidnapping the heir.

  “Tyrus, Einin will not harm the baby.”

  “She has a newborn on a horse, in the middle of the night. What if the horse stumbles?”

  “Marah will be safe.”

  As she turned from him, he caught her biting her lip. She knew the child was on a horse, a lucky guess. Ishma should have asked if the palace had been searched or any of a dozen questions. She acted guilty. The dream was true. Tyrus stood straighter; cold adrenaline crept down his spine. He had an awful sensation, as if the ground gave way beneath him. How had one lady snuck a newborn past his guards? It was unthinkable.

  “Ishma, what have you done?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You need to practice that lie. It will not fool Azmon.”

  “How dare you?”

  “I have no time for games. Where did Einin take the heir?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “By choice, right? Can’t confess things you don’t know.”

  Ishma glared, and he had to admit those brilliant green eyes tore at him. The Face That Won a War, one of the few weapons that he dreaded, unmanning him. How many years had he wasted trying to find another woman with black hair and green eyes like these? In his youth, he had thought they were unique to Narbor and had scoured that kingdom for them only to find that Ishma was unique.

  “Your reasons are your own,” Tyrus said. “I will tell no one and do what I can to protect you, but that’s only possible if I rescue the heir.”

  He couldn’t say the rest—nothing but ugly consequences if the heir was harmed. Azmon would be furious, and he was the worst enemy a person could imagine. A wretched thought: if Azmon sentenced Ishma to death, Tyrus would bear witness to the execution and raise his gauntlet for the axman.

  “I used to trust you, when you were my guardian,” Ishma said, “but I don’t recognize you anymore. All runes and scars.”

  She offered pity, and that infuriated him. He fought his face to keep it calm. He was still her guardian, and still valued her life above his own.

  “How many runes has he etched into you? In this light, your eyes look like a hound’s. You are one of his creatures now. Where is my champion? What happened to Tyrus of Kelnor? You haven’t aged a day, and yet you look worn out.”

  “It has been a long war, Ishma. Multiple wars. Too many damned wars.”

  No one had called him Tyrus of Kelnor in years. How many in the new empire knew that name? Her eyes watered, leaving him cold, filled with duty. He must save the heir and keep the stink of this crime off the empress, an impossible task. He knew the future—people would die, Roshan and Narboran nobles. The names didn’t matter. Bloody examples had to be made of the conspirators, whoever they were, and some
how he must protect Ishma from it all.

  She said, “I never wanted any of this.”

  “I am still your guardian. I will protect your daughter.”

  “You’d kill her if Azmon asked you to.”

  “You think I could do that to a baby?”

  “Look at what we’ve become. We use those—abominations—to destroy paradise. My own people want to murder me. The whole world wants us dead. Tyrus, don’t you miss the old days, before the beasts?”

  Tyrus turned to leave because her words hurt. He had helped build a monstrous empire and done terrible things for Azmon. To see the loss in Ishma’s eyes was too much to bear, but there were better ways to stage a rebellion. This felt clumsy, foolish, words that had never been used to describe Ishma. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed but hesitated before trying to stand.

  He found himself beside her, offering an arm, and her eyes gave him a grateful look as though they had not talked treason. She stood and leaned into his armored chest. He was a head taller than her, and her arms reached up and around his shoulders. The hug spoke to their long friendship, her warmth kept at a distance by his armor.

  “Ishma, this is not proper.”

  “I know.”

  “If anyone should see you being so informal…”

  “Even you fear him?”

  “No, but I fear for you.” Tyrus waited for her to let go, but she didn’t. “You will anger Azmon.”

  Her hand found his cheek, brushing the stubble with her soft hand. He closed his eyes. If she smelled better, he might enjoy this moment. As with so many things, reality did not compare to his dreams.

  Ishma said, “He stopped being Azmon a long time ago. The runes turned him into something new. You feel it, don’t you? The way everything has changed?”

  “We did what we had to do to save Rosh.”

  “I don’t believe that. The dark arts corrupted him. He stopped being the Prince of the Dawn a long time ago.”

  “There are better ways to rebel. You should have left before the birth. You might have gone into hiding—”