Cian got to his feet. “What is the nature of this argument?”
Madele met his eyes and quickly looked away. “I do not wish to offend,” Nyx translated.
“Do they debate whether or not to kill us?” Rhenna asked bluntly.
Nyx conveyed the question. Madele blanched beneath the bronze of her skin and sat down on the woven carpet just inside the tent. “Oho,” she said. “Oho.”
“No,” Nyx said. She waited as Madele continued to speak, then passed on her words. “You fought bravely and well, warrior. Had the Imaziren known the Guardian was among you, the challenge would never have been accepted.”
“In spite of my sorcery?” Rhenna asked.
“Even so. You are one who protects the Guardian.” Madele looked almost shyly at Cian while Nyx continued to translate. “Many of us have waited for their return.”
“Return?” Cian said.
“To the land where the Guardians were born. To the land of your mothers.”
Cian crossed the tent and sat opposite Madele. “The Speaking Stones showed Ailuri,” he said. “My brothers said our ancestors imprisoned the Exalted in some forbidden wilderness, and Alexandros discovered the Stone in the South, but we have no tales of living in this country.”
Madele listened gravely and frowned. “Do you not know how the Guardians first arose from the desert?”
“We believed that our homeland lay in mountains far to the north,” Cian said.
“It is from there you have come?”
“Yes. My companions and I travel south to seek the means of defeating the Stone God.”
“You did not seek the Imaziren?”
“Only as guides in our journey. Before I came to Karchedon, my people knew nothing of yours.”
Madele’s muscles tensed, as if she would leap up and commence some furious motion to match her thoughts. “It would be best not to speak of this to others of my tribe,” she said through Nyx. “There are those who do not regard your arrival as a sign.”
“A sign of what?” Cian asked.
“That the Imaziren must rise up and fight the Stone.”
Rhenna crouched beside Cian. “It seems Nyx is not the only one with prophecies of Ailuri,” she said. “What do they want of Cian?”
Nyx repeated the question to Madele. The desert warrior grabbed the jug of water and poured herself a cup. Her hands shook.
“Our oldest stories,” she said, “speak of the war of the gods, and how the gods made warriors to fight the evil ones.”
“Like the drawings in the caves,” Rhenna said.
“The Speaking Stones,” Madele said. “They tell much, but not everything. They do not say how the gods walked among the Imaziren and chose our women above all others to bear the first Guardians.”
“Mothers of the Ailuri,” Tahvo murmured.
Cian shivered. “You believe we were created here in the desert?” he asked Madele.
“In ancient days there were many rivers and herds of great beasts in this land. The Imaziren were a simple people who lived in peace, hunting and gathering the earth’s bounty. But the good gods knew they were strong and worthy to raise those who would one day shape and guard the Stone.”
“Worthy,” Cian repeated bitterly. “Do your stories also speak of how my people abandoned their duty?”
“Wajá.” Madele met Cian’s gaze. “My tribe fought bravely in the war of the gods, and we were rewarded with great honor. All the lands that once surrounded the City were given into our keeping, including the place chosen for the binding of the evil gods. Other tribes fled to Khemet or the shores of the sea, where life was easier, but we would not abandon our kin, the Guardians who held the Stone in their keeping.”
“Where was the Stone?” Rhenna asked.
“My people traveled from amda to amda with our horses and cattle, but we did not venture into the Guardians’ domain. We did not know for many years that they had left, until the curse of the Stone was let loose upon the earth. That was when our elders declared that we would stay far from the evil ones’ empire…until the sign came again that we should fight.”
“When the Guardians returned,” Cian said.
“And now you are here. But it is not simple, after so many years. Some agree that our time of waiting is at an end. But others…”
“Others wish us gone,” Rhenna said.
And I will gladly oblige them, Cian thought. “It is not safe for us to remain here when our enemies may still be on our trail.”
“You have seen these enemies?” Madele asked.
“Not yet,” Rhenna said. “But I don’t believe they’ll give up so easily. Will your people guide us across the desert?”
Madele averted her gaze. “I do not know.”
“What must we do to convince them?” Cian asked.
“The elders will wish to speak with you, Guardian. They believe that your coming has purpose.”
Cian got up. “I already have a purpose.” He glanced at Rhenna, quenching the fury of his emotions. They would have killed you. They would have killed us all.
But he saw no malice in Madele’s eyes, only a distant hope. Hope that he had come to fulfill some unknown destiny. Nyx had already laid that claim upon him, but he was only one man, human or not, godborn or otherwise.
“These people have no claim on you,” Nyx said, cutting Madele out of the conversation. “We must continue south without delay.”
Cian dragged his hand across his face. “If they are the Stone God’s enemies, we should be allies.”
“Unless they wish to keep you,” Rhenna said.
A cold knot of memory settled in Cian’s stomach. He had always feared confinement, even when he had more freedom than any of his Shield-bound people. But then he had learned what it was to be a slave, prisoner of the barbarian Neuri, caged like a wild beast. He had been driven to near madness by the red stones, and for a brief time he had shared imprisonment with the last of the Ailuri in Karchedon.
“They won’t,” he said with a growl.
“They will be our friends,” Tahvo said. “Even with the Weapons we cannot fight alone. Many must join us.”
“The Imaziren are few,” Nyx said. “You will find stronger allies in the South.”
“Who will demand nothing in return?” Rhenna asked.
Madele got to her feet. She addressed Cian and Rhenna, bowed, and left the tent.
“She said she will help if she can,” Nyx said reluctantly. “Many of their warriors are weary of hiding from the Stone God’s soldiers. But if they believe you answer their prophecies, they may expect more than you are willing to give.” She held Cian’s gaze. “You must not let these people divert you from your purpose.”
“Enough,” Rhenna snapped. “He didn’t ask for this.”
“We seldom ask for the burdens to which we are born.”
And I have always tried to flee from mine, Cian thought. “Tahvo is right. We may need their friendship one day, and I intend to keep it if I can.”
“As long as you don’t take any foolish chances,” Rhenna said.
“No more than you.”
“Cian—”
“They search for their gods,” Tahvo said, her voice soft and detached. “They had almost stopped believing. Faith is what you bring to them, Cian. They will accept the gift.”
Tahvo had the last word. Cian, Nyx and Rhenna resumed their seats, silenced by the stifling heat and the pall of uncertainty. As the day drew to an end, women brought lamps, bread and a stew of meat and beans. Madele came for Cian at dusk. Nyx rose to follow, but the warrior blocked her way.
“She says you are to have a tent of your own, befitting your place among the Imaziren,” Nyx said, disapproval stark on her face.
Madele spoke again. “The elders have not yet reached a decision about the meaning of the Guardian’s appearance,” Nyx translated. “We will break camp at midnight and travel to the City.”
“The City of the Exalted?” Tahvo asked.
Nyx ignored her. “We must continue south. Make them understand that this is necessary, Cian.”
“Even if it is necessary to speak of your prophecies? And the Hammer?”
Madele hurried Cian out the tent before Nyx could answer. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Flickering light from a handful of fires scattered about the camp turned staring faces into golden masks of awe and doubt. Madele passed them without stopping and led Cian to a small tent set apart from the others.
The tent was furnished with skins, bright woven carpets and a plate heaped with small, dark fruits. Madele gestured for Cian to sit, then knelt and poured him a cup of sweet-smelling wine. Cian set the cup aside untouched. Madele gazed at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Cian knew she wanted something of him and searching for a way to make him understand. She asked him a question. He shrugged helplessly.
With a firm, smooth motion, Madele untied her belt and pulled her tunic over her head.
Cian bolted to his feet. Madele sat blocking the tent’s exit, her sleek and youthful body a more potent barrier than a dozen swords. He could no longer doubt what she asked, or why she had wanted him alone.
Cian sank back to his heels. She was beautiful and, yes, desirable. No male could fail to respond to such a blatant offering. Madele was too much like Rhenna in her strength and bearing, in the tautness of waist and curve of hip. Cian’s body stirred.
“You do me honor,” he said hoarsely, “but I cannot accept.”
She hesitated, reached for his hand and set his palm on her flat belly. He snatched his hand away, but not before he fully grasped her meaning.
“You want a child of the Guardians,” he said, looking everywhere but into her honest, fearless eyes. “I am not the one, Madele.” He struggled for words. “Rhenna…”
“Rhenna,” she repeated. She asked another question containing Rhenna’s name, but Cian could only shake his head.
“Rhenna,” she said again, sighing. She took up her tunic and pulled it over her head. Then she left Cian alone with his racing thoughts, aching with need for the woman he could not have.
Chapter Six
Karchedon
F ive weeks into Quintus’s seemingly endless confinement, his guards announced the arrival of the emperor himself.
Quintus nearly upset his cup of wine and the small table on which it stood. Two palace soldiers drew their swords and stood to either side of him, ready to gut him at the slightest provocation. Four other men formed a square at the door, and Nikodemos strode in.
He was smiling, clean-shaven and handsome as a young god. He glanced at Quintus’s wary face, laughed, and sprawled in the chair across the table.
“Are you so astonished at the honor of my presence, brother,” he asked, “that your tongue cannot find a suitable greeting?”
Quintus gripped the stem of his goblet as if it were the hilt of a sword. One of the guards stepped toward him. Nikodemos waved his hand, and another attendant brought him a cup, filling it to the brim.
Nikodemos drank and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Not my best,” he said, “but good enough for a rebel bastard half-brother, is it not?”
Quintus recovered and matched the emperor’s smile. “Good enough for a Tiberian,” he said.
Nikodemos laughed louder than before, and Quintus wondered if he was already drunk. But an instant after the thought had passed through his mind, the emperor lunged across the table and Quintus felt the keen edge of a dagger at his throat.
“Are you a Tiberian now, I wonder?” Nikodemos asked.
“To my last breath.”
The dagger was gone as quickly as it had found his flesh. “Foolish child,” Nikodemos said, sheathing the blade. “Have you learned nothing in all these weeks of contemplation?”
Quintus bit back his immediate reply. He had expected any number of fates since his strange reception in the emperor’s court. He hadn’t foreseen becoming the recipient of such wry and casual affection.
Affection he had certainly not earned and wanted no part of. “Why are you here, Nikodemos?”
Swords twitched. Nikodemos sighed. “Put your swords away, all of you. I didn’t come for a battle.” He cocked his head at Quintus. “If you think to insult me by using the name my father gave me, you must work a little hard, brother. I demand loyalty, not worship.”
“Then I regret to inform you that these weeks of contemplation have not altered my loyalties, son of Arrhidaeos.”
Nikodemos stared at him, leaning heavily on the table, and abruptly rose. “Out,” he addressed the guards. “Philemon, Kaj—remain outside the door until I call.”
“My lord,” Philemon protested.
“I am in no danger.” He grinned at Quintus, shifting between one emotion and the next as casually as a man blinks his eyes. He handed his sheathed dagger to Kaj. “Our Tiberian is too honorable to attack an unarmed man.”
His soldiers were too well trained to argue, but they moved to the door with reluctance. Philemon closed the door very slowly.
“There,” Nikodemos said. “Now you have no reason to mistrust me.”
Quintus was in no mood for humor. “No reason?”
“We haven’t talked as brothers, you and I.”
Quintus got up from his chair and walked to the opposite end of the room. “We had the only necessary conversation in the hall among your courtiers, Nikodemos.”
“Under formal circumstances, soon after you had just learned the truth of your parentage.”
“Nothing has changed.”
Nikodemos made an impatient gesture. “You know this cannot go on forever, young Alexandros. You have no allies here…save perhaps Hylas, who seems to find you desirable.”
And Danae, Quintus thought, but it was more hope than certainty. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, and he missed her far too much.
“Hylas amuses me,” Nikodemos said, “and you have amused me, as well. But if you continue to defy me like a petulant child while I hold Baalshillek at bay—”
“I did not seek your protection. You keep me alive for reasons of your own.”
“True enough.” Nikodemos resumed his seat and refilled his wine cup. “You are my brother.”
“If I am your kin, it’s only by an accident of birth. Why risk your master’s anger on my behalf?”
Nikodemos slammed his cup on the table. The door burst open.
“Get outside and stay there!” Nikodemos bellowed. His men retreated. He turned hot, furious eyes on Quintus. “You dare to call that creature my…” He bristled like a boar about to charge. “Do you truly believe the gods will protect you?”
Quintus felt his legs bump the low couch that served as his bed. He could retreat no farther, nor risk his pride by showing any reaction to the emperor’s impressive rage. Pride was all he had left.
“I believe in no gods,” he said steadily.
Nikodemos sent cups and wine jar flying with a sweep of his hand. He sat down, staring into the pool of spilled wine as the flush left his face.
“We are not so different, you and I,” he said. “We believe in ourselves above all else. Like our illustrious uncle.” He met Quintus’s eyes again. “You taunt me even though you know I could have you killed in an instant, just as you know I am no tool of the High Priest.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because you’re still here. Baalshillek would prefer to take you back alive. But he’ll accept you dead, if that is the only way to remove the threat you present.”
Quintus turned to gaze out the tiny window that looked down on the harbor and its swarming Stonebound occupants. “You want my loyalty, Nikodemos, yet I am as much a threat to you as to Baalshillek.”
“I know you can destroy the stones, but that does me no harm—as long as you stand at my side.”
Quintus heard the grudging words with amazement. Nikodemos spoke as if they shared a common past, common interests. As if they could be anything but enemies. Unless…
“Stand
at your side…against Baalshillek?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nikodemos scraped his chair across the tiled floor. “What I tell you now I say only because I know you hate the Stone God as much as any man on earth. Because you are my kin, and we share that hatred.” He walked to stand behind Quintus. “You have seen the evil committed by the priests in the name of their one god. I have no intention of allowing the High Priest to conquer the world and then destroy what I have built. He will try, once all lands are under the empire’s rule. You and I, my brother, can stop him.”
Quintus remembered Danae’s words: “…he is the man who will defeat the priests and the Stone God.” Now Nikodemos spoke with that same righteous sincerity, a beloved general exhorting his troops to seemingly impossible victory.
Any man would have believed the emperor in that moment, as Danae believed.
Quintus turned slowly to face his half brother. “You claim I am no threat to you,” he said. “If I am your brother, then I, too, am Arrhidaeos’s heir. Could I not take your throne as you took our father’s?”
Nikodemos froze, shocked beyond rage or laughter. “And they accused our uncle Alexandros of hubris.”
“You killed Arrhidaeos, or had him killed,” Quintus said. “You destroyed thousands of my people, allowed the Stone God to devour innocent children. And you want me to help you.”
The emperor’s smile was long in coming, and it was icy cold. “You asked me in the great hall if I would permit you to die with honor. I would grant your request if I loved my people less.”
Their gazes locked. Quintus felt the full potency of the man who had won or compelled the allegiance of so many and struck terror into the hearts of those who defied him. This was no ordinary tyrant, no sneering villain out of some Hellenic melodrama.
Nikodemos looked into Quintus’s soul and saw him for what he was—a mockery of rebellion, defiant because he had only words with which to fight. Words, and the courage he had struggled to maintain every day of his nearly unbearable isolation.
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