TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “Your brother had his chance, and I grow tired of lectures.”

  Lior said, “I demand his head.”

  “I offered it. You lacked the skill to take it.” He turned to Dura. “I put him in your custody for now, but I expect a return on this investment.”

  “But he won nothing,” Lior said. “We are both alive.”

  “This farce is over.”

  “Your majesty—”

  “Be thankful the Butcher felt merciful. I grant him a stay of execution and give him to Dura for study.”

  Tyrus swallowed. He bowed his head and tried to understand what had happened. If he had listened to any of his instincts, Lior would be a corpse, and Tyrus would be right behind him. Ramiel saved his life or at least gave him the tools to save himself. The seraphim had far more trust than the shedim.

  The tension in the room changed. Tyrus heard wood tapping stone. Dura walked to him, leaned on her staff, and gestured for him to kneel. He did, and no one looked happy.

  “Do you swear fealty to me?” Dura asked.

  “Will you protect Marah?” Tyrus asked.

  “I will keep her safe.”

  The Third War of Creation began. Azmon would assault Mount Teles and begin the Last Seven Battles. The seraphim and shedim would war across creation, and everyone would die. The odds of Marah growing old enough to understand her fate were small. Ishma was probably dead already. What did any of it matter? A part of him, old and well conditioned, wanted to protect his ward, whatever the odds.

  Tyrus lowered his head. “I shall serve you in all things, my master.”

  Lior said, “Your majesty?”

  Lahar said, “You said prisoner, your majesty.”

  Samos said, “Dura—?”

  “This will be easier,” Dura said, “if I don’t have to fight him.”

  “But you cannot trust him.”

  “Then I’ll destroy him,” Dura said. “Tyrus, do you pledge allegiance to the seraphim and accept Ithuriel as your lord and protector? Do you beg him to forgive your sins?”

  “My sins are beyond forgiveness.”

  “Do you beg Ithuriel to forgive them?”

  Such a meaningless gesture. “I do.”

  “Then I accept your oath.”

  Tyrus heard the power shift in the room, shuffling feet, hands grasping weapons, and bitter mutters. Angry glares from King Samos to Dura followed. The knights seemed shocked. The current, a mob forming, a storm gathering strength, belonged to the Gadarans. Tyrus understood: first his runes, and then his sword. No one wanted a sorceress with more power.

  REBORN

  I

  Tyrus followed Dura and Klay out the door. The angry crowd behind their backs became more vocal. The noise grew louder as they approached the door, and before they left, there was an uproar. Tyrus could not imagine the bone lords objecting to Azmon with such openness. The politics, unknown families, and power plays between Dura and the priests confused him. He now trusted strangers. His foreignness felt flawed, an ignorance he was unaccustomed to.

  “Keep moving,” Dura said.

  Klay and Tyrus flanked her. They left the hall, pausing to close the doors behind them—angry fists pumped the air, and fingers jabbed at them. Dura guided them through a series of stairwells, up and up through Ironwall.

  “Where are we going?” Tyrus asked.

  “To my tower.”

  “Where are Marah and Einin?”

  “My tower. Come.”

  “Will the king change his mind?”

  “You are lucky he is a merchant first and a believer second.”

  As they mounted the narrow staircases, Tyrus checked over his shoulder. His shoulders barely fit in the cramped space, and he saw nothing, but he couldn’t stop looking. No noise. No one pursued them, at least he didn’t think so. The knights demanded that spectacle and let him walk? How did these people get anything done?

  “Why don’t the seraphim command them?”

  “Because they have a history of not listening.”

  “The shedim don’t tolerate disobedience. Those brothers would be strung up for such a display. Stabbing a prisoner in front of a king?”

  “Yet another reason the shedim will fail. They would waste those boys before they become men. I knew their father at that age, and those boys have more potential. They could be great.”

  A bright beam of sunlight washed the stairs in gold. Wind howled. They passed the doorway onto a stone rampart at the top of the world. Tyrus inhaled brisk air, took in the openness of the mountain range, the entire horizon spreading out before him. Compared to his cell, it felt too big, and the freedom tightened his chest. The space was too open, too much of a shock. He reached out to steady himself and found nothing. The rampart was yards away.

  He found himself reliving the battle with Lilith. The way the wind tore at his hair brought back terrible memorie of falling from the sky. He closed his eyes, knew he was safe, but feared if he opened them he’d see a treebranch racing towards his face. He smelled leaves and sap. The ground seemed to shift under him.

  Klay asked him, “Feels lighter, doesn’t it?”

  Tyrus clutched at the door and dared open his eyes. “What?”

  “Compared to all the stone overhead. Feels safer, like we won’t be buried alive.” Klay pointed at a parallel mountain range miles away on the horizon. “This is the top of Gadara, and that, way over there, is Teles.”

  Seeing the distance made Tyrus aware of the gaps in his memory. He remembered little of the trip and noted that brown mountains, smaller peaks, surrounded them on all sides. Dura’s tower of red stone was the tallest point in the Gadaran range, and a large structure like a lighthouse for an ocean of rock. Tyrus pitied whoever built it; they had carried red stone up a mountain and done masonry on what looked like a sheer drop. Only a sorceress would fortify a place no one wanted.

  Tyrus kept the tower door in his field of sight and blocked out the sky and wind. He staggered from the doorway. The height of the mountain range bothered him in ways that heights had never done before, but if he watched the pathway and the door he could function.

  He asked, “This is your home?”

  “I was born in Ironwall.” Dura wrapped her red robes around herself, seeking comfort from the wind. “Before I went to Sornum to teach Azmon. When I was young, I fancied myself a protector of the realm. I watched over the Paltiel Woods and the Norsil Plains.” Dura rubbed her shoulders. “I was a fool. These stairs will be the death of me.”

  Tyrus remembered the Red Towers on Sornum, hubs of sorcery that the priests and temples of other nations hated. He tried to understand the knights and priests in the courtroom and their relationships with Dura, but he didn’t know enough about this new land.

  He asked, “The king allows heretics in Gadara?”

  “There is little love between the temple and the crown,” Dura said, “and less among the clans on the steppes. Few understand the differences between our runes and theirs, and King Samos doesn’t care. He prefers results, and so do the seraphim.”

  “The priests say sorcery is the path of the shedim.”

  “It has always been a danger. Our order has guarded against it for centuries because we work closer to the Nine Hells than the priests.”

  Tyrus appraised the doors—sturdy but not built for a real assault. They were on the ground, like a residence, instead of off the ground and accessible by ladder. Knights could fight their way into the tower with ease.

  “Is Marah truly safe here?”

  Dura chuckled. “The priests have many knights, but I have as many mercenaries. They won’t risk a feud with Azmon marching on Teles.”

  Tyrus dared to look at the horizon again, and felt a wave of dizziness. He studied Mount Teles, a snowcapped peak standing above greenish-blue mountains, poking through the clouds, and somewhere at its crown stood the White Gate. Behind
that mountain, the Roshan army prepared to invade Paltiel. Hundreds of bone beasts would empty from Shinar and push toward the mountain. He closed his eyes and imagined the Imperial Guard, rank after rank of spearmen, swordsmen, and archers marching while black flyers drifted overhead. Azmon would lead hordes of bone beasts through the White Gate, if he could, and help the shedim assault the Seven Heavens.

  “I know how to kill you,” Dura said. “I’m not one of Azmon’s students, trained with cheap tricks. Most of his bone lords are sorcerers in name only. I actually know how to use the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.”

  “I understand.”

  “You take your oath seriously?”

  “I do, but does it matter? It is too late to fight back. Azmon has conquered half of Argoria and no one has the strength to stop him.”

  Dura said, “It is never too late to fight back.”

  “But Mulciber is free.”

  “We might not win, but that doesn’t mean we give up.” Dura patted his arm. “Maybe in time, we will trust each other. Meanwhile, we hold up here, and after the nobles calm down, we’ll prepare them for the beasts. Come. I’ll reintroduce you to the little one.”

  II

  Toward the top of the Red Tower, Einin sat in a rocking chair, cradling Marah. The chair was old but sturdy and creaked whenever she leaned too far back. She rocked herself more than the baby, who slept an hour at a time, ate, and cried often. Einin could not be certain but believed nightmares disturbed her sleep. Weariness dragged down Einin’s shoulders. She craved a moment alone to sleep and dream, but Marah required constant attention, and Einin could not remember the last time she did something for herself.

  The enormity of her promise to Ishma unfolded. A few months ago, her biggest concerns were gowns and feasts and helping the empress manipulate the noble houses of Rosh, and now she was a surrogate mother to a crippled child that powerful people wanted to kill. Einin felt older, as though she had packed a decade into a couple of months. Motherhood loomed before her, years of helping a blind child navigate a dangerous world.

  Howling wind tore at the tower. Einin sat near a window with a view of the plains, watching miles of brown hills before the green expanse of Paltiel and the distant mountains. If Marah did not keep her awake, the plains would. Soon the armies of Rosh would darken them, and men in black armor and beasts would come to kill them both. Einin could not pass a window without checking for monsters. Like the end of summer, they were coming.

  Marah cooed and raised her hand. Einin tensed, but the child slept. Einin caressed her face, so pale, white as old bone with wisps of hair like brittle straw. The elves said nothing could be done for her. She was nearly blind and an albino. Marah twitched—flinched—raised her hand again. Her eyes rolled in their lids. More nightmares, but what would frighten a newborn? Einin held her tightly and rocked them both.

  Dura’s staff rapped against the stairs. Despite all the ghost stories of the Red Sorceress burning Rosh to the ground, the reality was far more mundane: Dura acted like a great-grandmother who had never lost her wits. She seemed trustworthy. Strange for Rosh’s greatest enemy to protect the heir, but maybe Ishma had had real visions of the seraphim. Einin had done her part, delivered Marah to the Red Tower and found safety, either a grand coincidence or evidence of the divine. Little made sense to her anymore.

  A brief knock at the door. Dura entered, and a dark shadow followed. Behind her stood a hulking and scarred figure, the ghost of the Damned, and her first thought was that the emperor had found her. Einin clutched Marah to her chest.

  “Look out.”

  Dura paused. “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m tired. I’m sorry.” Einin’s face warmed. “She never lets me sleep.”

  Einin had held Marah too hard. She fussed, and her little face twisted in anger, preparing to unleash a furious wail. Einin flinched. She always built to it in waves, and the child kept inhaling deeper and deeper.

  Dura said, “Let me have her.”

  Tyrus stayed near the door, but his eyes drifted over the room, a flash of gold in them, the beast hiding in plain sight. All Einin could think about was the inhuman way he had butchered a dozen of his own men, taken horrible wounds, and walked away from it. By all rights, he should be dead, but he was another of the emperor’s monsters and far more dangerous because he could think and talk and blend in with real people. He had saved Einin and Marah, for which she was grateful, but she wondered why the Gadarans had spared him.

  Klay pushed through the door. With a grin, he produced an orange from his cloak. The fruit was a delicacy in both Rosh and Ironwall. Klay stole them from the kitchens.

  “You look awful,” Klay said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean, you need to sleep.”

  She took the orange and leaned into him, something she would never do in Rosh. He offered an awkward hug. No lady could be so informal with a soldier, but the Gadarans hated her, and she never left the tower. Dura and Klay were her only friends. It felt good to smell a man after a day dealing with Marah’s soiled wrappings.

  “You should get some rest. Let me watch her for a little bit.”

  “No.” She only trusted Dura with the child.

  “Bear cubs are more work, you know. They have teeth and claws. I’m sure she’ll be fine for a nap.”

  “Not now, but thank you.”

  As she spoke, she drew away from Klay. Tyrus loomed over the room although he had not moved from the door. An imposing presence, and his face, cold as stone, was impossible to read. The flicker of gold light in the eyes unnerved her. She waited for him to say something, but he stayed quiet. Did he disapprove of her familiarity with Klay?

  “What do you want?”

  Tyrus said, “To protect Marah.”

  “Why?”

  “For Ishma.”

  Einin glanced at Dura, but the old woman was playing with Marah, making silly faces and tickling the baby’s chin. Einin would not complain. Anything keeping the baby happy was a blessing. Did Dura trust Tyrus, though? He might turn against a few hired swords, but what would he do when Azmon and the shedim pounded on the gates? The Damned had a long history with the Prince of the Dawn. At the thought of monsters, she returned to the window. The plains were empty. She searched several times and found empty skies with no dark armies. They were safe—for now.

  Tyrus studied his surroundings. The building was a tower in name only. What should have been layers of stone and gravel was actually rooms and storage. Dura had disguised a house as a tower. She led them upstairs and into a small room where Tyrus caught an old smell, one he struggled to place: a child’s blankets.

  Einin seemed upset to see him, but what more could he do for her? Another battle for goodwill, he guessed, and not the kind of fighting he preferred. If you held a blade to someone’s throat, their hearts and minds followed, but that only worked on battlefields. He realized he had become domestic. Not since the early days of Azmon and Ishma’s marriage had he worried about protecting a household.

  The princess had found a strange adoptive family. Dura entertained Marah while Einin and Klay whispered to each other. Tyrus heard every word but nothing important. Einin struggled to learn Klay’s language, and Klay offered comfort in a strange land. Einin hugged him. When had they become so close, whispering like conspirators? Tyrus felt no jealousy other than shame that Klay had won her trust so easily. He had known Einin longer, and she dreaded him.

  Marah interested him more, appearing paler than he remembered, more than pale; she was bone white with milky cataracts. Even her hair, little tufts of feathery down, shone stark white. A blind Reborn, what did that mean? He had never known a cripple to live long. Not only must he protect her from Rosh, but he needed to protect her from herself. Dura clucked as she rocked the child. Marah’s cries calmed. Einin looked relieved and collapsed into the rocking chair.

  “Can I see the birth rune again?” he
asked.

  Dura peeled back the blankets, exposing Marah’s ghostly white chest. Her nipples lacked color, eyes filled with milk watched Tyrus, and he wondered how much they saw. Was he a man to her or a cloudy shadow? On her chest was a mark, white on white, skin slightly raised. Tyrus was afraid to touch her, such a small thing, fragile, and his runes made him so strong. The slightest pressure could crush her. He reached out with one finger and traced the rune.

  The room stilled. Klay, Einin, and Dura held their breaths. He pulled back and wondered why. Everyone relaxed when he stopped touching the child, and then he understood. A scowl darkened his face.

  “It’s the one rune I’ll never have,” he said. “A real rune.”

  “Of course,” Dura said.

  “How can a Reborn be blind?”

  Dura said, “It happened once before.”

  “When?”

  “Thousands of years ago, a fragment of a legend, from long ago.”

  Einin asked, “So what does it mean?”

  “Reborns are echoes of the great heroes of the past, but each child lives their own life. A birth rune means potential, nothing more.”

  Tyrus asked, “Whose is it? Which Reborn?”

  “Sometimes you never know,” Dura said. “They don’t always announce themselves, and the seraphim offer no clues.”

  Tyrus stepped back. They felt better when he wasn’t near the child, and he could build on that, keep his distance, respect their boundaries. In time, he would find other ways to earn their trust. Einin studied him. He could guard the child from outside the room. The tower was so remote that they were safe for now. He was about to back away farther, wondering if that was what she wanted, when she spoke.

  “I never thanked you. For the cave.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “It’s hard, even now…” She wrung her hands. “You were the emperor’s enforcer, and he purged so many of the nobles. When I see you, I think of the black armor and the axman cutting off heads.”