by R. T. Lowe
“Is that so?” Eusebius said skeptically, arching an eyebrow. “Then tell me why the governors have gathered here? It’s no secret—despite what you may think. The Emperor’s near death, and tomorrow we’ll learn how he intends to administer his empire upon his passing. He’s dying. And I have nothing to fear from a dying man.”
“I see.” Hosius paused. “Of course you must realize that one day your insolence will get you killed.”
“Get me killed?” Eusebius snarled. “Enough! Enough with this nonsense! I know why you’re here, and it has nothing to do with Constantine’s Manifesto or any other book. Let me hear you say it! Say it!”
“You’ve broken your oath.” Hosius’s voice was calm. When he was a younger man, he would have allowed the anger inside him to flare up and consume him. But not now. Anger only clouded the mind, and he needed every bit of mental acuity if he was going to survive this day; one mistake, one wrong move, and Eusebius would snuff out his life in an instant. Then again, Hosius was a smart man—he had taken precautions. Eusebius, on the other hand…
“You called off the search for the boy,” Hosius continued in the same wooden tone. “Every one of your Sourcerors is hiding in your Fortress instead of fulfilling their duty. Your insubordination is causing the Emperor to question your loyalty. He wants to know why, my dear governor, why?”
“They’re weary,” Eusebius said plainly.
“Weary?”
“Yes.” Eusebius regarded him defiantly with his dark eyes. “My Sourcerors have grown weary of the quest.”
“You can’t be serious.” Hosius laughed. “You think your ability to wield the Source will save you from the Drestian? Is that it? Because when he arrives, weariness will be the least of your problems.”
“Perhaps.”
“I think I know what this is all about,” Hosius said pleasantly, twisting his neck to peek out through the doorway. Outside, all was silent except for the circling birds shrieking high overhead beneath thin ribbons of stagnant clouds. “You’ve become weak. Your position, your titles and all your political power have made you soft. You actually believe you’re important—that you matter. You’ve forgotten your purpose. And now you’re scared. You’re scared to sacrifice the comforts you’ve grown accustomed to.”
“Don’t presume to tell me about sacrifice!” Eusebius bellowed, stepping away from the bust of Apollo and toward the center of the room. His movements were smooth and surprisingly graceful for a man his size. “Do you know how many years it’s been since I passed the test and learned of the Source? I’ve squandered my life searching for this boy—this Belus.” He spat out the word like a mouthful of wine that had spoiled and turned rancid. “My Sourcerors aren’t stupid. They’ve lost faith that he’ll ever be found. And I’ve come to realize that… that life is short. Time is the most precious of all gifts. And time is being wasted on this fruitless search.”
“Time?” Hosius snorted. “Time is meaningless. We may have to wait a thousand years before the Belus is born. But the boy could be among us right now. And if he is”—he pointed at Eusebius—“it’s your duty to find him.”
Eusebius grunted, and his forehead, slick with moisture, creased with lines. “As if that were an easy task. Finding one boy.” He shook his head and sniffed loudly, sneering. “It’d be easier to find a virgin in a brothel.”
“Now you must be joking.” Hosius threw his head back and laughed heartily. “You’re telling me that finding one person in all the world is a difficult task? Were you expecting it to be as simple as asking your portly bureaucrats to finish off a herd of goats in one sitting? You are familiar with the concept of duty, are you not? It’s your duty. It’s my duty. It’s the duty of the entire Order to find the boy born from a woman undefiled. You know that. If we don’t, then all is lost. Only the boy can prevent the Drestian from fulfilling his destiny.”
“So you say,” Eusebius muttered dubiously. He dropped his arms and widened his stance as if he was preparing to get knocked off balance. His combative posture wasn’t lost on Hosius. He slipped away from the dining table, giving him more space to operate. Then he cocked an ear toward the back of the room and listened, but he heard nothing. It wasn’t time. Not yet. Be patient, he said to himself. Be patient.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you that there are those who don’t share Constantine’s belief that the Order should be backing the boy,” Eusebius went on. “They believe we’re betting on the wrong chariot.”
“The Drestianites?” Just saying the word caused Hosius immense discomfort. “They’re fools who defy Constantine because they thirst for power.”
“But what if they’re right?” Beads of spittle were forming at the corners of Eusebius’s wide mouth. “You know what The Warning says! They may be defying Constantine, but that doesn’t make their interpretation of The Warning any less valid.”
“Interpretation?” Hosius said incredulously, stepping closer, keeping his eyes on Eusebius’s hands. “This isn’t a matter of interpretation. I think you’re forgetting the consequences of siding with the Drestian.”
“I’m no Drestianite,” Eusebius said, his voice rigid. “And I’m fully aware of the consequences. I’m simply telling you why some in the Order—including three of my own—have defected to join their ranks. They believe it’s only the Wisps who have cause to fear him.”
“Wisps?” Hosius asked, unfamiliar with the term.
“The Drestianites have taken to calling non-Sourcerors Wisps, presumably to account for their shorter life expectancy. I do not believe it’s intended to be complimentary.”
“Charming. But that doesn’t explain why your Sourcerors are not searching for the boy.”
“The Protectors,” Eusebius said, his face darkening. “They blame us, you know, all Sourcerors, even the Drestianites, for damaging the Source. They don’t believe it was man’s iniquities and savagery that caused it. They think tha—”
“We Sourcerors have wounded the Source by tapping into it and using it for our own selfish devices.” Hosius spoke rapidly, a habit derived from reporting to the Emperor, a man with little patience for long-winded dissertation. “They think that if they kill every last Sourceror, the Source will be healed and man will live in a state of blissful magnificence for all eternity in some lovely garden utopia. Yes, I’m familiar with the Protectors. They think we are demons birthed from some ancient evil abyss. But they are merely—what did you refer to them as?—Wisps. Are they not?”
“You’re utterly misinformed. They may be Wisps, but they’ve killed two of my Sourcerors since our last meeting. They’re no longer content to simply meddle in the Order’s affairs. They’ve begun targeting all Sourcerors, regardless of their Fortress… or their abilities.”
“That only demonstrates their recklessness,” Hosius replied, a trace of anger creeping into his voice for the first time.
“You’re still not getting it.” Eusebius’s jaw tightened in frustration. “You don’t know what we’re up against. If the Protectors stood in front of us and fought with honor, we’d have nothing to fear. But they’re cunning, resourceful and completely immoral. Nothing’s beneath these animals. They killed my people while they slept, strangling them with cords. Then they cut out their hearts. It’s said they eat them like cannibals.”
“And that frightens you?” Hosius said lightly, placing the amphora on the floor. “If the Emperor knew you were afraid of the Protectors he’d have your head.”
“He can have it!” Eusebius growled and threw his hands up to his face. “You’re boring me. The Warning bores me. The quest for the boy bores me. What’s the point of all this? The world is changing. You must understand that searching for a boy born without a father wouldn’t be viewed favorably in certain quarters. What would the church think if they discovered us? Constantine can’t protect us when he’s dead. We’re already forced to operate in secret, and it will only get harder when he’s gone.” He went silent for a spell, a scornful look passing over his fac
e. “You don’t really expect us to find this boy… do you?”
“Excellent points, governor,” Hosius said mockingly. He smiled, but his eyes remained guarded. “We should all just give up. Let’s just pretend The Warning doesn’t exist, shall we? You’re hiding from reality because you fear… what? Excommunication? Exile? The Protectors? The Drestianites? For your own safety and that of your Sourcerors? You’re a coward. The Emperor honors you, and what do you do? You cower in your Fortress like a frightened child scared of his own shadow.”
With a pair of twisting veins rippling across his temples like half-coiled snakes Eusebius shouted with primal rage: “You’ve insulted me for the last time, you sanctimonious cripple!” He raised one arm to shoulder height, his long bony fingers pointing at Hosius.
“You should carefully consider the situation,” Hosius remarked coolly, mirroring Eusebius’s posture. “You’re all alone. You brought none of your Sourcerors. That was a mistake. And here I was all these years thinking you were an intelligent man. Your whimpering, gluttonous bureaucrats can’t help you.”
“A mistake?” Eusebius snorted with laughter. “You disgust me! You’ve spent your pathetic life like a drooling dog, humping the Emperor’s leg for a bit of bone. Your master can’t protect you anymore, Hosius. Those days are over, old man. I think you’ve lived long enough.”
Eusebius glanced quickly at the dining table. It was made of elm with a large round top, and like a tripod, three sturdy legs supported it. His retinue had finished their breakfast earlier, leaving behind a tumultuous collection of terracotta cups, bowls, water pitchers and oil vials for the servants to collect and carry back to the kitchens on the eastern edge of the courtyard. With a barely perceptible wave of his hand, every object on the table shot skyward and sliced through the air, hurtling toward Hosius like a flock of murderous birds.
Hosius stood his ground, his expression unchanged, heartbeat steady. As the terracotta swarm advanced to within arm’s reach, every last piece came to an abrupt stop. It stopped, because Hosius wanted it to stop. This was easy. The Source flowed in Hosius’s veins, allowing him to do things that normal people—Wisps—could not. With a thought, he scattered the dining implements in every direction, watching with a disappointed smile (surely the governor could do better than that?) as they exploded into shards and clay powder against the walls, floor and ceiling.
Eusebius flicked his wrist. The table and the lounging couch next to it lifted off the floor and shot across the room at blinding speed.
Hosius crouched for a split second, then jumped. They passed under him, torpedoing a large amphora, smashing it like an overripe grape. The furniture crashed against the wall, splintering a painting that depicted a nude girl frolicking in a vibrant green garden. The flames in the oil lamps flickered and shuddered, then went out in swirling plumes of white smoke. Hosius remained suspended high up in the air as the wine from the shattered amphora spread across the floor.
“Very impressive.” Eusebius looked up at Hosius, his eyes filled with admiration. “It appears that I missed.”
“That’s very perceptive of you, governor. Perhaps you’re not so dense after all.”
“You’re quite nimble for an old cripple,” Eusebius hissed, his face red with anger, “but you can’t go any higher than the ceiling.” His hand twitched like he was swatting at a flying insect. The eight dining stools, heavy and made of solid bronze, sped toward Hosius like missiles.
When the projectiles were close enough for Hosius to reach out and touch, he froze them in place. Then he slowly descended from his lofty height, the stools still hovering near the ceiling. Once his feet touched the wine-puddled floor, he flicked his hand. Two of the stools flew sideways and smashed against a fresco of Alexander the Great on some ancient field of battle. The stools shattered and Alexander lost an eye and part of his head as the stone beneath the fresco crumbled to the floor, leaving a web-like divot in the wall. Another wave of Hosius’s hand and four stools jetted toward the opposite wall where they smashed into a giant gilt-framed painting of Ulysses standing proudly in a boat full of his admiring men. He slung the last two directly at Eusebius. With a casual twitch of his index finger, Eusebius diverted their path to the back of the room; they landed with a loud clatter next to the bust of Constantine.
Silence returned to the room for a brief moment, then there was the faintest of sounds, not much more than a breath of wind too light to rustle the leaves of the smallest of saplings. It came from behind the back wall. Hosius heard it, but he had been listening for it. Eusebius heard nothing. Now confident that the individual pieces of his plan were coming together like a mosaic, Hosius grew even bolder, and leveled a stinging taunt at the governor: “You should strongly consider standing down before word gets out that you were bested by an old leg-humping cripple who has seen three hundred summers.”
Eusebius smirked bitterly. “Stand down? I’m just getting started.” With his palms facing, he drew his hands close together, then pulled them apart before they touched. And then he did it again. And again. As Hosius watched—more out of curiosity than anything else—something began to form in the space between Eusebius’s hands. At first, it was just a flitter of wispy smoke. Slowly, it began to grow and take shape, the wafting streams of smoke forming into an orb-shaped cloud, black as death, and as large as a man’s head. From some place deep within the thing’s core, red lights flickered like fireflies, swirling and sparkling, then it ignited in scorching red flames.
By the time Hosius realized what he was looking at, it was too late.
Eusebius smiled with deep satisfaction, then he nodded, and it rocketed toward Hosius.
Streaming pulses of fire marked the object’s path, illuminating the room in brilliant, intermittent flashes of orange light. Eusebius stood perfectly still and focused all his energy on stopping it. It gradually slowed, but continued to creep forward, eating up the space between them. Finally, when it was within inches of his outstretched hand, it stopped, the pulsating heat burning the tips of his fingers. An icy sweat trickled down his back as he flicked his wrist. In a sudden burst, it darted straight for the bust of Apollo.
“And the trouble with firestarters,” Hosius observed, as the orb consumed the likeness of the pagan god, “is that firestarters lack control. You’re as likely to kill yourself as your adversary.” The marble bust melted, leaving nothing on the expertly-carved gold leaf pedestal but a pile of ash. With a wave of Hosius’s hand it blistered across the room straight for Eusebius. Sparks and black smoke trailed in its wake.
Now it was Eusebius’s turn to look nervous. He stared down the flaming ball, squinting hard as though he was gazing up at the sun. To Hosius’s amusement, the governor began to scream in an unexpectedly high octave. The object slowed like it was moving through wine instead of air, bobbed up and down erratically, then crept along inch by inch before finally coming to a stop.
As it hovered in front of Eusebius spitting out fiery sparks, he made the same twitchy, clapping motion as before. The cloud grew smaller and fainter in color. The flames vanished and the inky blackness became a milky-gray as it shrank to the size of an apple. It lost its shape, turning amorphous and misty, and with a loud clap, it disappeared in a puff of white smoke.
“I’ll show you control!” Eusebius growled, and pointed at the doorway. A host of amphorae stacked ten levels high and just as deep raised themselves off the floor and tore through the electrically charged air. As a fresco of Bacchus looked on (revealed for the first time by the clay swarm’s departure), Hosius swatted them away, and smashed them against the wall to his left. Eusebius pointed again. As if invisible currents were directing them, another battery of amphorae, this one even more numerous, took flight. Hosius felt no sense of urgency as he blocked their path and tossed them aside to where the table and couch once stood. Child’s play. Eusebius was getting careless. His anger was dictating his actions and fogging his senses.
It was almost time. And Eusebius was obliviou
s.
The governor jabbed a finger at the bust of Venus (already shorn off at the cheeks) and aimed it at Hosius’s head. Half a room away from its intended target, Hosius flicked it away with a subtle gesture and crashed it against the fresco of Alexander the Great. This time, Alexander lost most of his torso and one wheel of his war chariot. Eusebius should know better, Hosius thought, surprised. A few pounds of marble stood no chance of—
The amphora throttling toward Hosius was huge. A storage vessel used to fill the smaller ones, the four sets of handles were not a decorative embellishment—tipping it into a pouring position and returning it to its base required eight servants. The speed at which it traveled seemed to warp the air around it, drawing in the flames from the oil lamps, dimming the room. He calmly assessed his situation: At its current speed, and given its size and weight, it would obliterate both him and the wall to his back.
This is more like it, governor.
Hosius didn’t flinch. He fixed his gaze on the container and willed it to slow down, a task made easier by Eusebius’s roiling emotions. It lurched to an abrupt stop and tottered back and forth like a tree in a stiff breeze, then it changed direction, seeking out its sender. Wine slopped out of the wide spout, dousing sharp-edged pieces of wood partly buried under drifts of crumbled stone and clay. He glanced up to see that Eusebius was having trouble with his headdress. It had fallen over his forehead at an angle and covered up one eye. He cursed and ripped it off his head, throwing it to the floor with a piercing howl. The vessel paused, and hovered there for a few moments, unmoving. It quivered, then the top leaned forward over the base, and it wobbled its way toward Hosius. But not for long. It stopped after a few feet and went back the way it came, turning in slow circles as it did so, wine cascading down the sides. It paused again, and reversed course, only to retrace its stuttering glide a second later. As another directional turnabout appeared inevitable, the handles at the top splintered and broke, falling to the floor along with the neck. The body began to form fissures along the surface. The fissures become cracks. The cracks widened.