She had always expected this day would come. Her people had dwelt in the city for over a thousand years, living and hunting amongst the daywalker herds. Now they were few and driven into hiding. The Queen scowled, her fine-boned face transforming into a mask of hate. Pale fingernails, long and sleek, dug into the marble railing around the tower. She bent her head, concentrating, and felt power shift in the earth. She no longer had the strength of youth, but wind and air were still hers to command. Fog boiled up off the cold waters of the Propontis, spreading like a stain of ink in clear water. Within a few grains it covered the seven ships plowing south, then enveloped their masts and began to mount the massive granite seawalls. Beneath that shroud, her children fled.
She hoped that they would find safety in the west. Long ago she had made arrangements for their sanctuary, but who knew if such ancient trust would hold? The Queen turned away, drawing power back to her, letting the wind and the air and the sea resume their wonted course. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and began to descend the steps.
At the far edge of the water, where fog and mist crept towards the Asian shore, the tide of white suddenly stalled, boiling and seething. The Queen's head jerked up and she stopped, hand pressed against the crumbling wall. Something touched the fringe of her artifice. Even with her power withdrawn, she could feel an echo. Swiftly, almost without her thought, the air around her flickered and shaded to an impossible hue. She leapt back up the stairs, lighting on the railing, her feet bare on cold white stone.
In the east, at the edge of vision, lightning flickered in sullen clouds. At the edge of the water, power was working in the night. Her fog had disturbed some hidden pattern. A wind rose, and she could feel zephyrs rush across the cold waters, driving back the mist. For a moment, she considered putting forth her power to deny this. Then a strange sensation came over her, a flickering touch, riding on the wind. She knew it, recognized it, feeling memory stir. It was an old thing, something she had thought destroyed or banished. For the first time, the Queen knew the source of her dread and the strange feeling of doom filling the daywalker city.
The destroyer, she thought, feeling truly old. The Lord of the Ten Serpents.
Thunder rumbled in the east, echoing the dim flash of light in the clouds.
The Queen snarled, in defiance now and not simple rage. She was glad, lighthearted, even, knowing why she had waited. She would not flee to the west. She would wait and prepare. It would be interesting. Even the faint pain lingering in her blood seemed insignificant. How will you get over the water, I wonder?
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Off Sestus, The European Shore of the Propontis
"There are the signal flags." Odenathus shaded his eyes, looking out at the sun-hazed shore. "It is Khalid. His men are within the walls of the town."
"Good," two voices echoed as one. Odenathus turned, raising a sharp eyebrow. Both Mohammed and Zoe stared at each other, then laughed. The Palmyrene sorcerer stepped under the canvas shade covering the rear deck of the Jibril. The galley moved softly under him, rolling on the swell. Sunlight glittered on the water on all sides, broken only by the sleek, low shapes of war galleys and the round bulk of merchantmen. It was hot on the water, without even the morning's breeze. Odenathus hooked his thumbs into his belt and looked questioningly from his cousin to the lord of the Sahaba. "Well? Do we go ashore here?"
"No, not yet," spoke Zoe, Mohammed nodding in agreement. "The Romans still have a fleet-so we will keep full crews on the galleys. The troopships will unload under our sheltering wing."
"I am troubled," Mohammed said, smoothly following on her statement. "We saw many Roman ships flee our previous battle and I cannot hope storms destroyed them. Too, there are other ships in their hand. We have seen nothing of them, so I would guess the Emperor hoards them, waiting for us to present ourselves in a favorable vantage."
Zoe rubbed her right ear, thinking, then nodded as well. "We must assume our fleet will be destroyed if they bring us to battle."
"Yes." Despite the prospect, Mohammed seemed quite calm. "If all goes well, it will take another three days to unload the army. We must then move overland to Constantinople with all good speed. Shadin will command, with Khalid and his scouts in the van. We have not landed too close to the city-we will have time to forage and spy out the lay of the land. A week, perhaps, until we look upon the walls of Constantinople."
"Yes, and from good, solid land too!" Odenathus laughed. It would take a day or so for the men and the horses to find their land legs again. "And this one-well town? Do we leave a garrison?"
Mohammed's eyes glinted, catching a reflection of the mirror-bright sea. "No. A watch with a fast ship will do. They can bring us news if the enemy comes this way. Our army is not large enough to fight more than one battle at a time. There are ports closer to Constantinople to serve our needs. Perinthus has a good, deep harbor."
Odenathus nodded, turning back to stare at the shore. The hidden world was quiet. The enemy had not put forth his strength yet. The Palmyrene wondered what would happen when he did. Zoe had told him a little bit about her experiences with the power that flowed through Lord Mohammed. It seemed very dangerous.
– |The whinny of unhappy horses carried very clearly across the still water. Zoe opened her eyes and sat up, clutching a thin blanket to her chest. A series of rattles and clanks and groans followed. The Palmyrene closed her eyes and counted to ten. It did little good. The wind had dropped at sunset, leaving the Propontis very quiet. The army, despite the late hour, continued to unload onto the docks of Sestus, making an unholy racket while she was trying to sleep. Zoe pressed her palms to her eyes, then gave up. Sleep eluded her. A faint muttering sound filled the air, making her irritable and nervous. She let the blanket drop to the bed, then carefully eased up, her movements soft and quiet.
It only took a moment to pull on her pantaloons and a heavy woolen tunic she had found in the market at Caesarea. Bare feet would be best on the deck of the ship. A raven-haired ghost, she slipped out of the big cabin and padded up onto the main deck.
She breathed in, settling her mind, and let the true world open before her. In the darkness, the blue glow of the sea was bright, filled with the patterns of sleeping fish and the dark green surge of currents far below the surface of the water. Keeping her eyes away from the abyss of the sky, Zoe let her mundane perception come to the fore. A hundred yards away, the bulk of the Palmyrene lug Archelaos filled the night. Zoe smiled to herself, letting the rise and fall of her breathing and the beat of her heart center her.
Then, with a single light step to the railing, she leapt up. Cool night air rushed in her hair, flowing under her hands, and she lit, breathless and grinning, on the deck of the cargo ship. Lights twinkled on the water, reflecting ceaseless activity on the docks. The crew were sleeping. She heard nothing but snoring, loud and soft alike, aboard. The entrance to the hold drew her, a dark magnet. Zoe padded down the steps from the foredeck and then climbed down a short ladder.
Invisible in the darkness, the presence of the catafalque filled the hold. Zoe stepped close, letting her fingers find the ornamented scrollwork on the four corner posts. She shivered, feeling a deep chill in the air.
The muttering grew louder and she shook her head. A sick feeling grew in her stomach. Memories of death crowded her thoughts-the dead of her city, the acres of bones, the tumbled ruins, the shattered, smoke-blackened buildings-clutching at her with dry, twiglike fingers. Gasping, Zoe fell against the side of the catafalque, tears streaming down her cheeks. All of the pain that had filled her before the night journey with Mohammed came welling up, crushing her with its vast weight.
Daughter, listen to me.
Zoe's head jerked up, all her focus and concentration gone. It was very dark in the hold. A creaking sound echoed from the floor, coupled with the lapping sound of water against the side of the ship. The air grew cold. Zoe shuddered, afraid to move, afraid to touch anything that might be squirming close to her in
the darkness.
Listen. Listen to me. Please, Zoe, hear me. The words were faint, almost drowned out by a near-audible muttering and hissing.
The Palmyrene woman pushed herself up from the floor, sliding away from the sarcophagus lying on the wooden platform, garlanded with flowers and rare spices. It was hard to move, an effort even to raise her head. Something dragged at her, trying to crush her down to the planks. Zoe started to choke, feeling nausea well up in her, biting at her throat. She clenched her teeth, biting back on vomit. There was something hot on the right-hand side of her head. Trembling, she raised her hand, touching her hair.
Something was at her ear, a spidery web of metal whiskers and wet, chitinous surfaces. Her fingers dug at it, tangling in sharp wires and rustling, clacking mandibles. Zoe snarled, a guttural animal sound, and ripped at it. Horribly bright pain blossomed and there was a tearing sound, coupled with a gelid, wet slurp.
"Aaaah!" Zoe tore at the thing, screaming in rage. "Aaaah!"
The thing writhed, cutting her fingers. Blood welled, spilling down her neck. A bright spark guttered alight in the darkness as Zoe called in desperation upon her power. In the flickering light, she saw a staccato image of something like a huge black spider, covered with waving ebon fronds, squirming in her hand. It was wet with blood and some shining fluid. A whiplike tail lashed in the air, darting at her eyes, a triple-pronged mouth flashing at the tip.
"No!" Her scream ripped the air and was followed by a brilliant white flare of light. She hurled the thing away from her, clacking and chittering. It struck the side of the catafalque and bounced away. Flames leapt up from the dry wood, burning brightly among the dead flowers and drifts of incense and cardamom. A billow of stinging white smoke rose from the platform. Zoe crawled away, hands on the floor, heading for the ladder to the main deck. A swift, rustling sound followed her and she jumped aside, catching sight of the spider-thing leaping at her out of the darkness. This time she was ready.
Fire roared out from her hand, filling the air. The thing was caught in the blast, silhouetted for an instant before it was set alight. It shrieked, flung back against the far wall of the hold. There was a sickening crunch and then Zoe chopped her hand down, face contorted with disgust. A jagged arc of lightning lit from her clenched fist and smashed into the creature, blowing it to fragments. The wall leapt with flame and the catafalque was burning fiercely. A hissing scream rose from the platform and there was a dry, rattling sound. Zoe backed away, her shield raised, flame roaring against the wavering blue surface. The side of her head was cold and wet. She pressed a hand against her ruined ear, trying to stop the flow of blood.
The ship groaned and the shattered side of the hold suddenly buckled, letting a flood of water into the burning room. Steam hissed up, filling the chamber and billowing out of the hatchway. Zoe, surrounded by licking flames, leapt up, springing out of the hold and onto the deck of the ship. A grinding sound followed her and the decking shuddered under her feet. Water continued to pour into the hold, drowning the flames. Hand bloody, her head throbbing with pain, Zoe staggered to the railing, ignoring the panicked cries of the crew. The Jibril floated peacefully, now lit by many lanterns. There was shouting. She choked back nausea. Waves of pain washed over her. The moment of fierce energy she had summoned up was fading, leaving her weak.
Legs trembling, she climbed onto the rail. The ship listed as the hold flooded, making balance difficult. Planks and beams ground violently, snapping as the hull cracked under the pressure. Focus came, but only slowly, like a drunk weaving down a street. The entrance to the hidden world eluded her, coming and going in fits and starts. The sky flowered open into an abyss of burning lights, then grew dark again. Steeling herself to the effort, Zoe tried to shut out the pain and the weakness. Suddenly, the matrices of perception coalesced and she could see the pattern of the sea and the air.
Desperately she leapt, soaring into the sky, the rush of her passage blowing back her hair.
Something metallic wiggled in her bloody ear and she screamed in fear, smashing her palm against the side of her head. The dark surface of the water rushed up with dizzying speed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Office of the Emperor, The Bucoleon, Constantinople
A soft, insistent tapping sound filtered through the air. Martina blinked woozily, realizing she had fallen asleep at her desk. She raised her head, tasting something foul on her tongue. Across the room, beside little Heracleonas' bassinet, Arsinoe rose, gathering a gown around her dark shoulders. The maid padded to the door, then leaned against the close-grained panel, listening. "Who is there?"
There was a soft answer and the maid turned to Martina, her black eyes wide. "Mistress? It is Rufio, with two priests of Asklepius."
"Oh, what now?" The Empress rose, trying to clear the taste from her mouth. "Can't they let me sleep?" She tugged her tunic straight, then draped a woolen stole around her shoulders. A heavy krater of wine on the desk made a poor mirror, and she made a face when she saw the heavy smudges under her eyes. "Let them in."
Rufio entered quietly, sliding through the door as it opened. Two men, one large and heavyset, the other small and old, followed him. Arsinoe, looking very worried, closed the panel behind them. Martina flicked her head, pointing the maid to the bassinet. The African girl scurried to the baby.
"Well, what do you want?" Martina failed to keep scorn from her voice. The two men with Rufio were clothed in the archaic himation and chiton of their order. The taller man, his face dignified by a thick dark beard, bowed politely.
"Dear lady, Empress, we must apologize for the abuse you have suffered at the hands of some members of our order. Please know that neither myself-and I am Tarsus-nor my colleague, Hipponax, agree with or condone the insults offered you and your husband."
Both priests bowed again and Martina found her expression softening in response. Years had passed since any priest she had met in the city greeted her with such civility. "I see! You are well-spoken priests, at least. My apologies. How can I help you?"
The two men shared a glance, and then the smaller one bobbed his round head and smiled gamely. "Lady, we hoped that we would be allowed to tend to your husband. Both of us are blessed with the healing art and we were thinking…"
Tarsus followed smoothly, "…that we might do some good, for everyone."
Martina sat down in her chair, overcome by a surge of emotion. She fought back tears, motioning weakly to Rufio. "The captain of the Guard can tell you what has happened before."
"We know," Tarsus said, stepping around the desk. He knelt in front of the Empress, his light brown eyes kind and his voice gentle. "The captain told us of the previous attempts and of their failure. Please, mistress, let us try. We are loyal citizens. You must know the Emperor's sickness is like a poison in the body of the state."
"It will do no good." Martina pressed a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes. Tears seeped from between the lids, stained black and leaving a gray trail down her cheeks. "The gods have cursed him."
Tarsus stood and looked at Hipponax, a grim look on his face. "Have the other priests said this? Or do you fear such a thing?"
"The other priests," Rufio rumbled from the shadows, "have said many things. That does not mean they are true."
"My lady," Hipponax urged, "may we see him?"
"What harm can it do?" Martina waved at Rufio, her eyes still pressed tight. "Take them through the passage."
Rufio nodded, his eyes glinting in the light of the candles. "This way."
Tarsus dithered for a moment, then turned away from the Empress, Hipponax's hand on his arm. Together, they followed Rufio, who had pressed a concealed latch and opened a panel in one of the walls. The shadows swallowed all three men.
Once they were gone, Arsinoe crept up to her mistress, who was clutching the side of the chair, shaking violently. The maid laid a quilt over the small, brown-haired woman, then pressed a cup into her hand. Martina drank swiftly, spilling a thin trail of dark
red wine down her chin. The stain on her tunic spread slowly, creeping down across her breast.
– |Each time Rufio entered the Emperor's presence, the foul smell struck him as if for the first time. The guard captain wondered if there had been any change, really, since they had begun feeding Emperor Sviod's remedy. The glassy, distended skin, the puffy limbs, the hoarse, croaking breath-they all seemed the same.
Tarsus and Hipponax knelt on either side of the Emperor, knees sinking into the plush quilts covering the Imperial bed. Both men discarded their bulky himation, rendering Rufio a grim, armored clothesrack. As soon as the two priests entered the chamber, a change fell over both of them: their timidity and nervousness were gone, replaced by a swift, professional manner.
"Dropsy." Tarsus met Hipponax's eyes and the smaller man nodded in agreement. "Fluids are gathering in the limbs; the lungs are being crushed by the weight of clear humors in his chest." Tarsus gently laid back the silk sheets covering the Emperor's grotesque body. Neither man flinched at the fish-pale flesh or the bulging navel standing up like a tiny phallus. Hipponax ran his hands down the swollen legs, his fingertips close to but not touching the gray flesh.
"The motive threads in his legs may be damaged." Hipponax pulled the sheets from the Emperor's feet. "His toes are beginning to turn dark. Blood is pooling in them, perhaps stultifying. His circulation of bile and blood must be very poor."
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